The Unwritten Code

So now that it’s Christmas time and all the private school kids are on break, we seem to have more friends in the neighborhood with which to play. While this is wonderful, and certainly a big change from our usual homeschool group, there are drawbacks. The hard fact is that I that I have felt like the Wicked Witch of the West recently. Here’s why.

On Christmas Eve, we received some boxes from friends and family. Some were packed full of gifts and presents, and some with special treats for the kids. One in particular had some hard-to-come-by edibles that are special at our house. Namely: microwave popcorn, Kraft macaroni and cheese, and fruit snacks with absolutely no nutritional value. These came from a lifelong friend who knows exactly our hankerings on cold, blustery, Russian winter evenings.

My first mistake was to unload said boxes in front of neighborhood children and then display them neatly on the kitchen counters. My second mistake was putting them where little hands could reach them to kindly say, “can I have some?” I like sharing with my neighbors. In fact, it’s a common theme in our home especially among siblings who we should consider “neighbors.” I like bringing friends cookies, treats, breads, and the like. I do not like sharing packaged goods sent all the way from America, full of unintelligible preservatives, and wrapped in brightly colored wrappers. Don’t judge. Just try to understand.

Anyway, the other afternoon we decided to have a box of Macaroni and Cheese. We haven’t had a box of Kraft in 4 months. I just make mac and cheese the good ol’ fashion way; with noodles and cheese. Crazy I know! But this was the day after Christmas and it deserved something special.

At that time there were precisely 8 children in my home, including my own. When I said out loud, “I’m going to make macaroni” 8 hands went up with squeals of delight and “I’ll have some!”

I said no. I looked into their sweet, rosy cheeked faces and said, “I cannot share this with you today. It is a special gift from a friend. If you want macaroni, go home and ask your mother.” They put their hands down and said gloomily, “we understand.” Not to mention, all these kids have either been back to visit America for long periods of time or recently arrived in Moscow all together. My kids haven’t been stateside in 13 long months. Geesh, what a Grinch.

Anyway, I have taught my kids to never ask for coveted American items in someone else’s home. However, if another mother offers you some fruit snacks, you are welcome to accept. I’m sure there are all kinds of clauses and exceptions to this rule, but if I could post a sign on my door it would read:

Please don’t send your kids over here during the hours of when they are hungry and when they will be eating at your house.

I am trying to rectify the situation immediately. I ordered a case of mac and cheese and 64 fruit snacks from walmart online. Maybe next time the mail truck comes I can invite the kids over for an American food festival. Then again, maybe not.

Break Down

Sometimes in a woman’s life, there is this explosive need to cry and yet no outlet or appropriate reason in which to release the deluge. For whatever reason, this happened to me this week. I knew during the weekend that I should have watched some ridiculous Hallmark Christmas movie with cheesy music, crummy acting, and a predictable outcome just to lose the internal torrent. But I didn’t. And I paid for it.

As I started the week, we were dealing with an appliance situation trying to get me an American style laundry center instead of the inefficient, ridiculously slow European model I was using. It was finally delivered to our garage and then my husband and some neighbors moved the old unit out and the new unit in. This was a massive task and will literally change my life in Russia.

The very next day, I was doing lessons with the kids and for some reason, I had a melt-down. It could be from the four small voices constantly needing something or from the awareness that I was so stinking excited about a washing machine. Anyway, Number 1 needed help with a science experiment involving simple machines. They may be simple to the scientific mind, but let me tell you for a fact, there was nothing simple about these stupid plastic pulleys, yarn, and some metal washers.

Which is when the floodgates opened.

Right in the middle of lifting the movable pulley, the string fell off and I lost it. I started sobbing-not just whimpery crying. Sobbing. I apologized to the kids, went to my room for a time out, and got a grip. The rest of the day went fine and the laundry saved me so much time that I messed around with my graphic design software for two hours that afternoon.

Later in the evening, Number 2 had a nightmare and came to talk to me about it. He said, “Hey Mom, do you remember earlier today when you were sitting there---all----cryin’ over the pulleys?” I was trying to help him feel safe after his bad dream and yet I was stifling the laughter from my own ridiculous behavior.

I learned my lesson. Next time I feel the need to cry, I’ll quench the urge and make it happen. Maybe over a lever or an inclined plane.

Personality Test

After a suggestion from a friend, I took a personality test this week. It was shockingly accurate and I can't say that I loved my title. After 72 brief, though thought provoking questions, I was titled an 'Inspector': a follower of rules, an advocate of justice, and a painfully dependable person. It wasn't new information, just new to have it all compiled in one simple paragraph.

Now it is haunting me. I feel like everything I do is because of this internal inspector. Number 2 was trying to ask me a question and I said, "get to the point man!" That's so like me! Aaaahhhh! It does, however, explain why my hubby's thrilling stories are not always engaging for me. I'm just waiting for the punchline. Sometimes it's a long wait.

It's also given me some assurance that I am good at my job. If I was a sloppy, overly-merciful, pushover, I could never be happy at homeschooling my kids. Granted, I make up grade sheets for my pre-schooler, but she'll thank me later. I'm sure of it.

But God bless my husband. He is on another end of the spectrum (good ole' opposites attract) and still listens to be blather on about how I re-structured the paper file or organized the paper-clips so that they are easier to grab in a hurry. I mean, I can't tell you how many times I've needed a paper clip in a split second and been unable to grab one. Or not.

One of his pre-occupations is considering humanity and it's destiny. I have to be honest that I think about that as it relates to me. Will I be able to get paper? Will there still be deadlines for bills? Why do I love office supply stores and what if they close? The good part is that we talked about our differences and realized that a big picture person (him) needs a details person to help the big picture come to realization (me). We are a great match.

Especially living in Moscow, where most things are unpredictable, I've gotten so much better at loosening up my expectations of people and events. I feel like everything I do here has been a learning experience and maybe even a softening of my innate inspector.

I'm not sure what kind of things we'll accomplish together, but I know for a fact that we'll do it well, organized, and sometimes spontaneously.

Cashiers and Customer Service

In America, the customer's always right? Right?

In Europe, if you don't like the service, options, or policies; TOO BAD! Find a different company. See if we care.

I've gotten used to this style of living. I don't purchase anything on a whim if I know it can't be returned. Returns are rarely available. I don't complain if my food is half-cooked. I don't call a manager about the way the bus smells. It's a fact of life.

When I was in America everyone wanted to take me out to eat for my favorite foods. This sounded like a good idea when I first arrived but I realized almost immediately that there is one problem with restaurants; Waitstaff. My brother-in-law pointed out to me that I used to be one of these people. I'm sorry.

It always especially bothers me when an 18 or 19 year old kid calls me "hun" every time she stops at the table. During a meal that lasted 45 minutes, she came to the table 8 times with her high pitched perky voice asking things like, "Does the food look good? Do you think my ponytail is too tight? If I was a pie what flavor would I be?"

In Russia we hardly ever eat out. It's always too expensive, always bad service, and usually disappointing. We cook in. When we do eat out, it takes 20 minutes to find your waitress, 10 minutes to order, and then she brings the food. After that, you look around or bring your money to the counter and try to figure out how much you owe because your waitress is MIA. It's not this way in every restaurant, but many.

At the grocery store in Moscow, I must have a face that says 'dangerous' because every time I check out, the cashier calls a security guard over to stand at the end of my lane. While I feverishly unload, bag, and reload my goods, the cashier scowls at me and looks annoyed. Several times throughout the transaction she may subtotal the bill for me and point to the numbers, figuring I can't possibly have enough money to pay for all this. She's always glad when it's over.

This is how the supermarket skit played out in USA.

Cahiser: Oooh, makin' pizza tonite, huh?

Me: Yes.

Cashier: You know I was at my brother-in-law's neighbor's house, and he made pizza with spinach and garlic, have you ever heard of that?

Me: Yes, it's quite good actually.

Cashier: Well I wouldn't eat anything healthy on my pizza. That's just wrong. Are you hanging out with friends?

Me: (wishing I had chosen the less obnoxious, automatic self-serve lane). Yes.

Cashier: do you have our special store card that saves you 50% on everything so you can get bonus points and free offers and all kinds of neato stuff?

Me: No. I don't live here. Thanks anyway.

Cashier: ooooh, you're from out of town. Where ya comin' from?

You get the idea. Why can't I just pay for my stuff and leave? Maybe I am cold hearted, but I just don't want to be best friends with the cashier. I know, I know...they're just being friendly.

If you are a cashier or a server, please don't be hurt by my pondering. Americans seem to love this kind of behavior. I must have too, at one time. I know one thing for sure, I don't anymore.

Further proof today of non-customer service in Moscow. I haven't had internet for two days. When I finally reached somebody at the office, they informed me that there is a bad cable in my area which needs to be replaced. I said, "Are they replacing it?" Her diplomatic answer, "Our service department is aware of the problem." Pretty sure I won't be getting a credit on my account for this one. Oh, well. At least she didn't tell me about her day.

Eating Crow

This post has nothing to do with food. I have an old friend who would often refer to forced humility as "sharing a slice of humble-pie" or more eloquently, "eating crow." I ate crow today. It does not taste good.

My poor hubs has been slowly recovering from the travel disaster to Paris. Just yesterday I was boasting to a neighbor about my ability to take care of myself and not get in jams. I spoke too soon.

This morning I took my girls to get their hair cut, a task which gets easier all the time. After only 15 minutes at the salon and $25 later, the lovely ladies were ready to hit the road. I was excited that I had so much of my day left!

When we got to the car I unlocked the door with the key. Then, I opened the door and tossed the keys onto the passenger seat. I tried opening the back door as the front door swung shut and all the doors locked simultaneously. It's an old car. I'm not exactly sure how this all happened. But there, gleaming in the rare November sunlight, were my keys on the seat. That first bite of crow didn't go down very easily.

Number 3 complains of car sickness all the time. We are constantly having to close the back windows because she has opened them. Go figure she didn't do that today.

I looked at my watch thinking maybe I could catch the bus back home. The bus schedule I just happened to grab before I left was strategically placed between the two front seats so that I couldn't read the departure times. I'm glad I couldn't because it turns out the bus was just leaving. I hailed a cab and paid $10 to go 2 miles. The second bite of crow sat bitterly in my stomach.

So I sat at home and ate caramels until the phone rang. Somebody had an idea and I could meet them at 6pm at the Metro station. The good neighbor (the same to whom I was boasting my independence) was able to get a window open and grab the keys with a long wire. I smiled in disbelief and thankfulness.

I could blame this situation on lots of things, but I'm going to take the high road and claim that everybody does something stupid once in awhile. Fortunately for me, my tow bill cost me a plate of chocolate chip cookies and a little perspective.

My vehicle wasn't any worse for the wear really. I missed a whole day of carefully planned activities because I just didn't keep the keys in my pocket. I highly doubt if that same blunder will happen again, but don't quote me on that.

Going home

I went back to America. Alone.

I needed an R&R from my demanding Russian life. No, that's wrong. Let me clarify. I needed a vacation from being the universe to my family. They are an amazing family but I like solitude. I always have. Even if it requires 37 hours of travel. Of course it should have only been 22 hours, but delays happen and sometimes you pull up the boot straps and sleep in Detroit Metro Airport. You get the idea.

It was my first time being 'home' since I moved to Russia over a year ago. Once I landed in New York, I had a bagel with unhealthy amounts of cream cheese. I may or may not have sighed when I took a bite. When I noticed two women staring at me, I looked at them to explain. "I haven't lived in America for a year and this is my first bagel." They smiled and said, "Live it up, girl!"

When I noticed that five planes were boarding from gate 24 and all of them were late, I realized the day was going to get longer. A man from Detroit, who introduced himself as Ryan, starting small talking with me. Here's how it went.

Ryan: Are you going to Detroit?
Me: Yes, I am. And you?
Ryan: Yeah. It's home for me.
Me: Where are you coming from?
Ryan: Italy. And you?
Me: Moscow, Russia.
Ryan: Wow! Your English is really good!
Me: That's funny because I'm actually American.

If I were this guy, I would have made up some lame excuse about needing to rummage through my bag and walk away. Not him. He was brave. He stayed. In fact, he even invited me to stay at his place in Detroit where he assured me he would be a gentleman. I know Americans are nice, but creepy too maybe?

When I finally arrived at my destination, I had an hour before a hair-cut appointment with my stylist. I made it. Before I had even washed the air travel out of my hair, she cut off 11 inches of it. Yes, I donated it to Locks of Love for the second time. It grows insanely fast in Russia. We have a joke that it's because of Chernobyl.

There's more. Much, much more that I will save for a later entry. This weekend I told some friends about my first visit back to "the States" and they smiled and nodded. "You are officially an ex-pat now. Welcome." Thanks. Glad to be here.

Last big about Paris

I apologize for leaving you hanging. I was on a vacation back to America by myself and lost track of time. Blogs on that subject to follow. But for now, I want to finish recreating my memories of Paris.

My all time favorite stop in Paris was Montmartre and Sacre Coeur. I think knowing that Ernest Hemingway, Coco Chanel, Pablo Picasso and other "greats" have walked these same streets gathering inspiration for their art, stories, and paintings made the place even more magical.

As we meandered our way through the charming little alleys filled with vendors, someone called out my husband's name. I was confused at first, but we turned around to see a high school classmate standing in front of us! How in the world could we run into somebody we know in such an obscure place? What if we were just five minutes later? What if we decided to to go Sacre Coeur another day? These questions may never be answered but it was a small luxury to see a friendly American face so very far from home.

Once we got to the top of the hill, everybody was hungry. We couldn’t afford to feed a family of six at the charming little bistros along the way and so we fed them ice cream. They will attest for some time that it was the best lunch ever! It felt so easy to be a great parent in that moment.

When we arrived at Sacre Coeur, our slow moving bunch got trapped. Several African men had the kids hold out their fingers on which they tied bracelets. As they weaved and wound they kept smiling and saying, “Hakuna matata” to the kids. Soon after, big surprise, they asked for money. Since it was our second to last day in Paris, I didn’t want to use up our euros when I knew they paid pennies for their embroidery floss. In fact, Number 1 makes these bracelets for me all the time----for free! They wanted 10E, but I offered them 5. They argued and when I made it clear I wouldn’t relent, they agreed to take 5 euro and let us be on our way.

Next, we saw another African man climbing up a lamppost whilst balancing a soccer ball on a ball-point pen held by his teeth. He was truly amazing. I’m pretty sure he made a good living that sunny day.

We hung out to hear bad karaoke done by a Spaniard who was singing American songs and then lingered inside the church to hear the beginning of Sunday evening mass. It was incredible to me that a nun whose life was completely cloaked in simplicity and devotion, could have the most beautiful worldly voice I have ever heard. We stood still and enjoyed the moments in this ageless church.

Then we paid the Euros to climb to the top of the dome. I honestly think Europeans laugh at stupid tourists who pay to climb stairs. We took it step-by-step up 300 winding steps in a corridor about the size of a small closet and made it to the top of the dome. There we could see the opposite view of the city skyline complete with the Eiffel Tower and the city center. While I volunteered to take the kids to the local squatty potty, the hubs stayed up top to catch the sunset.

That evening we went to Trocadero to see the Eiffel Tower lit up at night. We fed the kids yet another loaf of bread for dinner and headed back to our hotel.

So that about sums it up for Paris. It was beautiful,friendly, and certainly as romantic as I imagined. I suppose some day if I take a crack at novel writing, I would want to be eating baguettes, drinking espresso, and walking the streets of Montmartre for inspiration. Until then, Moscow it is.

The In-between

After speaking face to face with some of my loyal readers, I realized, you have no idea if my vacation to Paris was actually any good after the travel debacle. I assure you, it was amazing. I am positive that after living in Moscow for a year, my family are better tourists in general and maybe, if I can push the envelope a little, more European.

Let me give you an example. On one particular day we did not want to pay the ridiculous metro fare for six so we told the fam we would walk. Armed with bottled waters purchased from illegal street side vendors and baguettes, we walked. We began at Notre Dame, continued on along the river Seine, saw Musee D’Orsay, Grand Palais, and stopped over at Place Concorde. Then down Champs Elysse to the Arc de Triomphe and then onward to the Eiffel Tower. This was done in one day. Total mileage on the achy feet of elementary students–5.1. No stroller.

Just before we arrived at the Tower, Number 2 needed to use the facilities. They were sparse in that part of town. If I were just an American tourist I may go running to a stranger in bold English asking for a bathroom. But I’m not. He asked if he could casually use the side of a building that was hidden by a bush. Sadly, there wasn’t even a second thought. I recently found out that Number 4 used a stump behind the playground by our house, because 50 feet was too far to walk. Like I said, European?

I’m not sure if I mentioned that we went to EuroDisney as well. Yes, four days of magic and overpriced goods made in China. If you asked me ten years ago what I thought of Disney, I would have told you, “eeeeh, it’s okay….” Somewhere, in a moment of parenting bliss, we promised Number 1 we would take our whole family to Disney before the magic died; namely when they were all single digits. Now I’m on the backside of fulfilling my kids’ dreams, I can say it was worth every Euro. We rode every coaster, every ride, went to every parade, saw every show, and posed with all the characters. I realized just how third culture my kids are when I saw we would have to wait 45 minutes to see ‘Playhouse Disney Live’ in English. Number 3 and 4 shrugged their shoulders and said, “No big deal, mom, we can watch it in French. It’ll be fun!” Meeska-Mooska-Mickey-Mouse sounded slightly different, but it was great fun!

Since I homeschool, I figured a couple days in Paris definitely counts for “field trips.” And no exhibit was greater to my kids than the famous, “Small World” ride. I felt great bursts of pride when they identified nearly every country represented, including Thailand, which Number 2 stated obviously, “which you know, of course, was called Siam before.” A+ for me.

The Louvre.

Pictures cannot describe the depth and magnitude of such a museum. We decided to go on the first Sunday of the month because admission was free. We stood in line outside the building and the guards posted a sign that read: From this point, the wait is 2.5 hours. I had some serious doubts but the lines were moving faster here than they were at Disney so maybe it wasn’t so bad. I was wrong. The lines wrapped around the outside block, down the street, inside the courtyard weaving and winding all the way. Just as hubby and I were debating what to do next, a guard on a bicycle pulled over to us. He points to the children (so very many of them for one family) and says in French, “child privilege.” He instructed us to go to the front of the line. I didn’t want this window of opportunity to close so I hustled directly to the entrance, knocking people over with my pink stroller (well maybe not really.)

When we arrived at the entrance, the guard graciously pulled aside the barrier and said, “go right ahead.” I am still amazed at this entire situation. In preparation for the sequel to this article, I will leave you hanging with an exclamatory statement --- You will never believe what happened next…

My vacation in Paris...and Munich airport.

I am going to veer from my usual conversational tone to a timeline of sorts for you to experience our days of travel to Paris. Eventually I will talk about Sacre Coeur, The Eiffel Tower, and Notre Dame, but believe me, you won’t want to miss this one.
Day of Arrival

8:20 Taxi arrived at our house to pick us up.

9:30 Arrived at Domodedovo airport with 2.5 hours before flight time. Tried to check our bags and a zipper broke on one of the pieces of luggage. Fixed it and moved through the security lines quickly.

14:22 (Munich time) Arrived in Munich with a 25 minute layover. Went through passport control.

14:27 Arrived at a second security check including shoes, camera operation, laptop, and all bags. By the time we got four kids’ shoes untied, we were running for gate G10. Arrived at the gate just in time and they agreed to board us….until my husband asked the question, “Did you grab the laptop?” Since I had no idea the laptop was not in the backpack he was carrying, how would I know it was left at security?

14:45 Retrieved laptop. Missed flight

15:00 Went to Lufthansa Service center. Writing those words feels like paying property taxes.

15:35 Waited 35 minutes to be told our new flight is leaving now and we must run to gate G81.
Ran to gate 81, at the other end the airport. Nearly passed out.

15:45 Arrived at gate 81. Denied entrance at 81 and told us to get help at the service center. Walked--- less fast back to the service center where we cut in line in front of 70 people. The lady helped us book a new flight.

16:30 Went back to gate G46. Sat and waited for everyone to board and finally got back on a plane. Uneventful flight.

18:25 Stood up to disembark. Number 3 complained of belly ache. My husband picked her up and she puked all over him, myself, herself, and the gentlemen behind us. The aisle was chunky stuff. I’ve never seen a motivated line of people waiting to get off a plane stop so suddenly. Nobody wanted to be the first to step over the puke. Tried to clean her up in the airplane bathroom because it’s so spacious while she tried to continue puking in the aisle, not the sink.

18:35 Arrived at CDG. Pushed an oversized six year old around in bent umbrella stroller. Number 4 had to walk and tote luggage. Realized we missed our train. Went to retrieve tickets and rebook. We were told, “so sorry, can’t rebook after one hour.” We were 12 minutes too late.

19:37 I put my head on the counter and started crying. She talked to the manager and pulled some strings. Finally---a break.

19:47 Tried to find the train platform. Sat relaxed because we had an hour to wait. Hubby kept thinking we were in the wrong place.

20:09 Number 3 puked again. Cleaned it up, changed my clothes on the train platform. Hey, it’s no big deal to do that in Europe. In fact, on the way to the train station, I saw a lady changing her panties by the side of the highway. Believe me, she was not young.

20:30 Saw our train pulling in, two tracks away. Picked up the puker, the luggage, hustled up two flights of stairs. Number 4 started crying, Number 1 was screaming and I was trying to catch a breath. I may workout, but carrying two 50 pound bags up two flights of stairs isn’t exactly the same thing.

20:36 Train.
Threw the luggage in, armed number 3 with a ziploc. An angel named Katy helped us find our seats and stow the luggage. By the time we sat down, we arrived to our destination. It was a high speed train that went 200 kilometers per hour.

20:47 Carried the crap, got a taxi. Arrived at hotel.

I could end this story now. But it’s not enough. We also traveled home from Paris. Some may ask, “why?” I ask this myself.

Day of Departure

7:45 We were waiting at the curb to leave extra early to avoid any delays. The taxi was late. It arrived at 7:55. No big deal.

8:00 Arrived at train station. Not our favorite option, but it was in fact faster and cheaper than any other way to get to the airport for a family of six.

9:14 Train arrived---10 minutes late. We were on the correct platform, correct car, and proper seats. Got off 10 minutes later at Terminal 2 of Charles DeGaulle Airport with luggage and kids.

9:30 Headed for the CDG Shuttle to Terminal 1.

9:35 Hubby realized he left a bag on the train. Not just any bag. The bag with two cameras and lenses, worth about $600 containing 2000 photos, ALL OF OUR PASSPORTS, his wallet and identification. We stood still and he ran down to the platform. I was still optimistic at this point—after all, we still had three hours until our plane left.

9:45 Hubby came to tell me the train station had the bag in custody but that it was at the other end of the line, one hour away. He left to retrieve it.

9:50 We waited in terminal 1 for three hours with no news.

Meanwhile, hubby was waiting for the train that was 25 minutes late heading toward the bag. Sweated the whole ride until the correct station. Arrived to retrieve bag, but was required to get his wallet out of it to visit the ATM so he could pay the 9 Euro fee for holding it for one hour. Then was told, "you may purchase your return ticket at the kiosk." Instead, he boarded the train--ticketless, and avoided the conductor all the way back to CDG. Ran off the train to find his family.

12:45 Watched our flight to Dusseldorf board. Obviously didn’t make it. I went to the Lufthansa Service Center (a recurring theme) to inquire about rebook. The lady politely told me, “your ticket is not changeable. You’ll have to re-purchase.” I started crying involuntarily as I walked away.

13:15 Continued crying until my husband arrived with the bag and passports. He is now haunted by the 4 tone train jingle which played repeatedly throughout his unwanted journey. For now, if I want to remind him of his shortcomings, all I have to do is hum the little song.

13:25 Went back to the Service Center and re-told the story. The lady whispered quietly that she could make an exception for this “special circumstance.” Needless to say, my gratitude was abundant.

13:30 Waited in the ticket line and checked our bags. Finally getting out of here!

14:15 Went through security and Number 2 was searched. Arrived at boarding gate.

15:00 Suggested my husband do some perfume shopping at the Duty Free store to begin to amend the hardships. A little retail therapy made me feel slightly better.

16:30 Boarded a flight for Munich. Ziplocs for Number 3.

18:05 Arrived in Munich. Found a shop that had beer to go (how great is that!) and gave the kids ice-cream. This is one of my mottos; “when stressed out, eat ice-cream!”

21:10 Boarded flight to Moscow. Kids slept through the whole thing and I sat next to my husband, whom I love dearly. I realized this story would be really funny later.

2:30 (Moscow time) Arrived in Moscow. Picked up bags, found cab, and drove home.

4:00 Arrived back home, but left expensive souvenirs in van. The story goes on…

Upon reflection of this nightmare, I have discovered a moral. If traveling to vacation is terrible and traveling home from vacation is terrible, then maybe next time I should just STAY ON VACATION!

Russian Mafia

I had a brand new experience last night.

Many of you may know I wear glasses. Once I tried going without them and I tripped on a flat sidewalk. It’s that bad. But last night, I wanted to show off my style and cast off my specs for a couple hours. I took my hubby’s arm and we went to a bar in town called Chicago. It’s supposed to be an “American” style bar with live music, Tex-Mex menu, and abundant seating.

We joined our house guest, a student who is studying Russian, and my husband’s co-worker, Bob, at a large table surrounded by couches. Honestly, at that moment, the evening did not seem promising.

Then many of Bob’s Russian friends started arriving. They were warm and friendly and each of them spoke English well enough to make small talk. Once the visiting was over, the sun began to set (making my vision ever so much worse) and there we were in the dark and the man at the head of the table, Ivan (pronounced EE-vahn), says with a thick accent, “Eeet eez time to play…MAHHFEEEA.”

Then he looked at us. “You know theez game?”

We didn’t, but our house guest explained it and we smiled and went along.
So here’s the idea: There are three members of the Mafia, one doctor, and the rest are citizens (grazhdanin). Each person draws from a hat a piece of paper which holds their identity. Then you go around the table explaining why you are not Mafia. Of course even the Mafia says they are not Mafia. Then everybody votes on who they think are Mafia. It can be explanations like “he moved his eyebrow when somebody looked at him.” Or, my favorite, “Sasha is always Mafia so he must be mafia now.”

My explanation: “I am not Mafia because I am bad liar. If I am Mafia, I would giggle.” This drew out a few giggles from our companions.

When people vote that you are Mafia, you die. Obviously not really, but it means you’re out of the game. Sometimes the doctor can bring you back to life, but if the Mafia finds out who the doctor is, they kill him too. It was extremely fun.

After the game, poor Nadezhda wanted to play again because she died first. And sure enough, Sasha was Mafia and he is 12 for 12. I guess statistics can go against you even with paper scraps drawn from a hat.

Then she asked about our work. I simply explained, in slow clear English, I don’t have job. I stay home with our четыре дети (cheteeri dyeti-four children). This was when I was glad I didn’t wear the glasses. The entire table began to ooh and aah that I must, in fact, be a good liar because that is impossible, "I don’t have body that has four children." I was flattered to say the least.

They asked about how long we’ve been married and about our preconceived ideas about Moscow. I told them about my son who thinks Russian women are beautiful.

Then Sergei, who had been seated next to me all evening without saying a word, spoke perfectly, “Your son, he can take Russian woman. But do not leave your girls. Russian men are bad.” This was said slightly humorously, and slightly not.

We talked about translations, people’s work, and Moscow in general. Some of them said they want to see New York City. I said, “New York City is not all of America.” Ivan said very slowly, “yeez. But there are those who say Moscow is not Russia.” That was not the first time I had heard that.

Right before we left, I got up the nerve to find my way to the restroom. I walked slowly, barely able to see anything and found the door marked ‘Ladies’ in English. I laughed when I got inside. All over the walls were pin-ups of American magazines from the prohibition era (again--bar named Chicago). I laughed out loud.

I am so happy here in my host country and yet pieces of America through Russian lenses make me feel even more welcome. I was glad I took off my lenses to see these warm, wonderful people who make up Russia. And look out! The Mafia could be anyone.

Dacha (Cottage)

Fourth of July weekend we did dacha. I can’t say we went to dacha because that is like saying I went to the store. We did dacha. Some friends of ours temporarily moved out of their 22 story building to enjoy the Russian summer in the rustic country and invited us to join. We ate shashlik (meat on a stick) the first night with all kinds of Russian salads made mostly of beets, carrots, and mayonnaise. They just can’t get enough of their mayonnaise. We even drank Kvass which tastes like sour, liquid bread. It is, after all, made of yeast.

Then we did banya which is basically an outdoor sauna. You go in until you sweat a bit, exit, and either pour cold water over your head or jump in a lake, and then go back in and do it again. They believe it aids in circulation and general health.
My friend, also a mother-of-four, and I modestly wrapped ourselves in towels as we sweat. Then we sat in the “parlor” and drank water to cool off. It was relaxing and comfortable. The men…well…men are different.

My hubby, our friend, and a neighbor we just met, stripped down to their birthday suits, walked into 240 degree Fahrenheit steam, which was so hot it felt as if the hairs in their noses were burning. After three rounds, they finished off by smacking each other with sticks that makes hell-fire seem cool. Then, finally, cold water over the heads. They got dressed and came out. We are lucky we have friends. Many people have to pay for banya.

My least favorite part of the dacha was the outhouse. It is not a port-a-jon, it is a permanent building specifically used for decades of waste. I don’t think my vocabulary contains words for the general aroma amidst that side of the yard. The kids made a clubhouse right next to it. Needless to say, I’m sure they wouldn’t get any uninvited visitors.

The next day we celebrated July 4th in typical American style with too much food cooked over a grill, cake, and beer. In a gesture of good will among countries, we offered the neighbors some of our American cuisine like burgers, potato salad, and bean dip. They accepted. A few minutes later, the friendly neighbor brought over his version of good will. A CD of the famous Russian musician Vladimir Vysotsky. I’ve posted a link here for you to get a taste. He has a fabulous ability to roll his “Rs”, unlike me.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OBLWDk8q6Tc&feature=related

With our red, white, and blue banners amidst overgrown stinging nettles, we bopped our heads to this Russian masterpiece while naked little Russian boys ran around the neighborhood.

In Short

Yesterday we saw a man at the bus stop in tennis shoes, a baseball cap, and….wait for it….and a knee-length PINK bathrobe. Not sure if his old lady kicked him out in a frenzy or if that was his outfit of choice. We’ve also heard tales of speedos and converse high-tops. Either way, it’s not uncommon for people to be scantily clad here in Moscow. My hubby and I have taken it upon ourselves to spy-cam wherever we go so we can capture some of these delicious examples of extreme lengths. We are usually successful. Sometimes, I have to pose in the picture so we can look inconspicuous.

A few weeks back we walked along Old Arbat street and saw several passers-by in skirts and daisy dukes. I think the lady in the tan skirt stopped In front of the curb because she wasn’t sure exactly how she was going to get up it without exposing her derriere. The lady in the blue toga proved that if you can’t get a skirt, no worries, simply tie a belt around the longest shirt you have and call it good! I have seen thongs riding up 60 year-old ladies backsides and squishy sides peeking out of meshy shirts. I have been told, however, that letting your bra straps hang out is a major faux pas. Who knows why?

The last guy is my favorite. Words are inadequate. That strap wrapped around his back, believe it or not, it’s a fanny pack. It had neon pink on it too. He was a street vendor so maybe he thought when he ripped people off, he could make a quick getaway. Just like the topic, I kept this entry short. Pictures are, after all, enough to prove my point.

Loving and Losing

We’ve been here almost a year.

We’ve made friends.

The time goes so fast overseas that we’ve already said goodbye to friends we made at first. Just this week #1 and #3 found some girls from France whose company they enjoy. They’ve been in Russia for ten years and guess what, this Saturday, they’re leaving----for good!

Is it better to have loved and lost than never loved at all? I’m starting to wonder.

At the same time, we’re contemplating visits home and I dread the thought of reunions that turn into departures. I can see why some ex-pats just keep to their own circles. It’s hard to open up again and love somebody for a brief amount of time. Some of the people here who were strangers at first will be lifelong friends now, but no matter what---eventually one of us will leave.

It’s like a staring contest. Who’s going to blink first?

I could be cranky because I have mild food poisoning and had to cancel afternoon tea today with my friend from Trinidad who is going home for the summer next week. Our compound is like a ghost town. All the corporate ex-pats have gone home. Unless I want to dish out $7K, I’m staying put for now.

One of my friends said it best. “Once you’ve lived abroad,” she said, “it’s like you’re ruined for America.” I get that now. My kids’ friends are from far-off countries like Vietnam, Trinidad, England, France, Singapore, Australia, China, and of course, Russia.

How can they ever go back to a farm community where everybody’s lived in the same house their grandparents built? How can I forget the interesting customs and souvenirs? How will I adjust to not kissing people’s cheeks in greeting? How will you respond when I greet you in Russian? How will we connect? I’m sorry this isn’t funny like usual, but funny isn’t always part of my day. It’s July and everyone is going home

The weather’s fine.
The kids are fine.
But time is passing.

Lawn-mowing and the Green Guys

So here in the city there are workers to whom we refer as “green guys.” The explanation for this is simple. They wear green uniforms in all four seasons. They usually work in groups and you often find them leaning up against a building having a cigarette. I caught one guy ducking from his supervisor in my front yard last week. After the manager walked away, he sat back down and had another smoke.

So anyway, these guys do all the jobs that I used to do at home. They shovel the snow in the winter, mow the lawns in the summer, and basically keep the place spruced up. But I’ve found that in our neck of the woods, so to speak, lawn-mowing isn’t a high priority. It was mid June before I called property management to get somebody out here. My explanation---I couldn’t find #4 in the grass behind our patio. Within an hour they were right out here. So I just call every other week when it seems the grass can’t be managed.

When they do get around to finally mowing, it looks like a kamikaze pilot was driving. There are never straight lines or any general direction at all. Even better is when they weed-eat and trim around the fence, but never actually mow. Or sometimes they mow a three foot path through the grass and never mow around it. Thank goodness for that path.

A couple of weeks ago, my husband had made no-bake cookies and Number #1 thought it would be a good idea to share with the workers. With her cheerful disposition, she bounded out the door with the plate in hand. She figured it was a good opportunity to practice her Russian.

Each man has his job.
One man pushes the mower.
One man empties the bag from the mower.
One man rakes the grass into a pile.
One man uses his hands to put the grass into a trash bag.
One man ties the trash bag and heaves it into the truck.
One man drives the truck.
One man works the radio in the truck.
And I can’t remember what the last man does but I am certain there were eight.

So Number #1 walks out there with our American no-bake cookies made with Jif Peanut Butter and Hershey’s Cocoa and says, “pazhalsta!” (sort of a help yourself invitation). A few of the men obliged but the man with grassy hands shook his head and tried to explain that he couldn’t possibly. Number #1 insisted, “Da! Da!” she said (yes, yes) while nodding her head. He smiled (a rarity) and took one. I haven’t had to call property management since. In fact, I think they hang around our side yard a little longer each week hoping we’ll bring out a snack.

Toi-Toi, Squatty-Potties, and other reasons to stop at Dunkin’ Donuts

It’s a necessary topic. Bathrooms. Where to find them, which ones you pay for, and how little you can spend to use a restaurant bathroom. When we first arrived, we always kept change in our pockets for the toi-toi (Hubby calls them Blue Rockets---basically a group of porta-jons in a row). Outside, a babushka charges anywhere from 15-20 rubles for one person to use it. One of the potties is actually her hut. In the winter especially, she will sit inside and smoke, read trashy magazines, or eat her lunch. Yum!

You have to take your toilet paper ahead of time and hope you’re right. The picture shows me with a few of my kids at a stop along the Moscow River. This was a special treat because she let my youngest through without paying. I was 20 rubles richer that day!

Then there are the squatty potties. Even at some of the most beautiful statues and parks, they have buildings filled with these. They also cost money. There is no concern about somebody taking too long because they are like urinals in the ground. Thus the name, squatty potty. I have three daughters. Our visits to the squatty potty are long and unpleasant. Number 3 often proclaims out loud, “It smells so terrible in here I think I’m going to throw-up!”

A few weeks ago we had some guests here. It was late at night and we were sight-seeing. We had heard about a really neat diorama in the lobby of one of the nicest hotels in Russia so we decided to walk there. After strolling past the guards in our casual get-up, we found the diorama. It was incredible! On the way out, we spotted some bathrooms. I know well enough to stop when you see one, especially if it’s free. Forget the diorama, THEY were incredible.

I’m sure I’ve mentioned that Russian women pose in front of everything and apparently, fancy restrooms are no exception. I have to admit, I took a little bit of toilet paper to show my friends because it was seriously thicker than most tablecloths I’ve seen. There were warmed, individually rolled, hand towels for each patron and the fragrance was very inviting. I lingered in there a little bit longer than necessary.

And my last example: restaurants. Last night I stopped at Dunkin Donuts with a friend on a very busy street. After we waited in line behind nine people, they told us they didn’t have smoothies, iced coffees, or anything else cold despite the 80 degrees and humidity. But, since I waited in line, I definitely deserved to use the jon. On the back of the door, the very poor English translation said, “DO NOT THROUGH YOUR PAPERS INTO THE TOILET.” I forgot to mention that some potties have little baskets right next to the can so you can toss your paper. Ick.

One last warning. If you walk into a water closet and see a member of the opposite gender, don’t sweat it. Maybe you’re jet-lagged. Or maybe you’re in a fancy, recommended restaurant in Moscow where bathrooms are co-ed. And don’t forget, janitors may walk in at any time. Guys, they’re usually female. Don’t worry, they don’t mind. You do your business and they’ll do theirs.

The Housekeeper

Russia is dusty.

In fact, our recent American visitors kept commenting on how much the dust swirls around everything---everywhere. Back home I lived next to a grain elevator. I had to dust my house every couple of weeks to keep up but it wasn’t unmanageable. Here it is unmanageable. Which leads to my dilemma. I home-school my four children and spend 4-5 hours a day in the kitchen preparing our meals. Each load of laundry, in the European washing machine, takes about 3.5 hours to complete. Needless to say, I don’t have any spare time to clean the house---or maybe I don’t want to use the little spare time I have to clean the house. That’s more honest.

Most people in our international community are well off. They drive Bentleys, send their kids to 16K per year International schools, have housekeepers, nannies, and buy virtually whatever they want. We are the oddballs. We budget for food, drive a beater van, and home-school to save money. It’s not as glamorous as it seems.

So my husband encouraged me to get someone to clean the house every so often. Most of the housekeepers/nannies are Filipino, but every time I called one of them, they didn’t come through. So my friend introduced me to a Russian woman named Svetlana. (I have changed the name for the security of the real person, but her name is as traditionally Russian as Svetlana.) She comes to clean about every 10 days and is wonderful with my children and the dust.

She arrives at 9:30 in the morning and stays until 5:10pm. She takes her time wiping the nooks and crannies that I don’t bother to notice and last week she folded 4 loads of laundry. She’s wonderful! On the days she comes, I’ve found I am a nicer person to----well, everyone. At about 1:30pm, she wants lunch so I serve her black bread, mayonnaise, meat, and cheese on an open face sandwich. Sometimes she wants tea.

One time I walked into my kitchen where she was mopping and she was wearing my “house shoes”. These are brown Dr. Scholls clogs that I only wear on the cold tile floors. I looked at her with a wondering face and she said, “I wear your shoes.”
I said, “I can see that.”
She said, “they’re nice. Very comfortable.”
I said, “I know.” And she went back to her mopping.

I don’t think I’ve ever had a complete stranger try on my shoes and then continue to wear them, but she did. She has worn them every week since. I quit wearing them after that first day, except one time when I broke a glass and I was desperate to protect my feet.

Once I was trying to explain to her that I had a friend who would like to call her about services and she didn’t understand at all. Her response “Akreel and Seleet.”
I said, “the cleaners?”
She said, “yes, please buy Akreel and Seleet.”
I said, “Okay, I will, but can my friend call you.”
She says, “Your English is confusing.”
I smiled and said, “okay.”

This past Monday, I was doubled over in pain. Initially I thought it was back pain, but as the day went on, I realized it was a re-visitation of kidney stones. Lucky me. So by Tuesday when Svetlana came, I was feeling better but still a little slow moving. It was 55 degrees outside and so I was in capris and bare feet. When she understood my pain, she rubbed my back and then pointed to my bare feet and said, “no---tsk, tsk, tsk, bad for body.”

I smiled and put some socks on to subdue her. Ironically, I felt better by the end of the day. She, of course, attributed my success to the socks. Not to the mega doses of Motrin and Vicodin I had taken. She will be here again soon. I am thankful for her help. Next time I’m thinking about walking outside with wet hair in a swimsuit just to see what happens.

If you like my mullet, I’ll hold your purse

I’ve been meaning to write about this for awhile, but now that Spring is approaching, these truths are more evident than ever. Russians are not like Americans. This, as you may know, is a vast understatement. Just to give you a few examples, the hairclips that the European gymnasts are famous for (you know, the brightly colored and glittery ones) are still worn…by everyone. You can be a 50 year old lady and get away with a pony-tail and hair clips. I think my six year old looks cute in them.

Purses are universal. Men have them, women have them. Or, as I’ve witnessed in many situations--- men carrying their ladies’ D&G bling bags across their own arms. I’m sorry, but it’s hard to take a guy seriously who is carrying a red bag with diamond studs on it. Men’s purses are more suitably colored. They are black and compact. They usually blend in with their jackets.

Jeans. I recently purchased a pair of pants that I thought were jeans. Now I ask myself, “how did that woman get into those?” all the time. The pants are so tight they look painted on. And then I discovered, they are spandex. I don’t know about you, but I have an unwritten rule about wearing spandex anywhere other than at the gym or underneath running shorts. They certainly are not a vital part of my wardrobe. The very same day I bought these as a gag to send home, I saw a lady in the Metro sporting this fashion. Yikes.

And mullets. Though I know the Mohawk has made a recent comeback, in America, I’m pretty sure mullets are reserved for weird, outdated, pictures of barn parties, and untold relatives who reside in the State Pen. I’ve seen some decently attractive guys sport the mullet, carry the purse, and wear jeans tighter than his girlfriend. Thankfully, my husband is a boot-cut, short hair kind of guy. Maybe once in awhile I’d like him to drape my bag over his arm, but only so I can laugh at him.

Church

I’m starting to wonder if my entries are at all exciting anymore, or like the culture shock I have recently experienced, are they old news? Whatever your answer may be to the rhetorical question, be prepared, this time I’m going to talk about church.

My life is very small. I wake up, homeschool my kids, feed everyone at least five times, do dozens of loads of laundry, and repeat each day. So going out on Sundays is a special treat for me. I walk away from the dishes, the chores, and hope that for a few hours, everyone’s bellies will be silenced out of reverence.

Our latest fave is located about 15 minutes away. This, in itself, is a large miracle. Thanks to some ex-pat friends, we were invited a few weeks back to a fully Russian church. I mean it. No translation, no subtitles. Just everyday people in their church. I have to admit that I like walking in without fanfare or special treatment. I like blending. Our kids love the Sunday school program where they get to practice their Russian and help other kids practice their English. Number 4’s class uses flannel-board. Remember that stuff? She repeats the entire Bible story to me after class with impeccable precision although it was told in Russian.

My favorite part is---no surprise here---the music. Sometimes they sing American worship songs, but they definitely have a Russian flair. I like mumbling bad translations in the safety of singing. I love practicing the name of Jesus or singing Hosanna in a different way. This week we took communion. Our friends were kind enough to translate the majority of the sermon for us. When the service was over, like clockwork, our stomachs were growling. My husband looked at me and said, “what time is it?” We had been in church for 2 and ½ hours. The time flew by.

When we left church, it was 55 degrees and sunny. For the first time since we’ve been here, our kids were wearing fancy church clothes and nice shoes. They skipped and hopped along the sidewalk saying, “this was the best day ever!” I agree.

Hold the Dill

In the past few weeks I’ve had the opportunity to get to know some Russians. I mean folks who were born and raised here and aren’t part of the ex-pat community. The customs and traditions I have heard or read about I was able to witness in real life.
Two weeks ago we attended a birthday party with Russian females and American males.
Through some translation and grace, we were able to communicate and learn a bit about each other. Since it is lent season, it is said that Russians go without meat, butter, and alcohol. Like American holidays, I figured this was ‘fudged’ over. Not so with some in this crowd. While we enjoyed Beef Stroganoff and Chicken Kiev, they nicely sat with plates of potatoes and greens covered in nothing else but dill.

Dill is in everything here. I haven’t done my research enough to know if it is in great abundance or if it has some medicinal advantage, but it’s in all forms of food; cheese, bread, meat, salad, vegetables, and soups. I like the flavor of dill but it definitely gets old. At the table we had an abundance of dill.

This past weekend, a Russian acquaintance to whom I had kindly remarked “let me know if you need anything” took me up on my offer. Her American friend was ill and she asked if I would go to the Russian pharmacy to get some drugs. This was a weird situation because

1) I have never set foot in Russian pharmacy
2) was this a good idea to get drugs for a Russian?
3) while asking, she made fun of her friend for having only Vitamin C and Echinacea on hand (of course common American vitamins which I have as well).

She laboriously spelled the names of the antibiotics and then pronounced them. I inadequately repeated and she kept affirming my efforts. At one point, she pronounced a word and said, “This is hard even for Russians to pronounce.” Good luck to me right? Then she proceeded to explain that it’s easy, like a Latin word. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that American kids aren’t instructed in Latin in grade school.

Anyway, my husband solved the problem by offering her a ride to the pharmacy. So today I made good old chicken and rice soup (hold the dill) and boxed brownies. I wonder if the American equivalency of dill is salt? Or maybe gravy? Hmmmm. Food for thought.

Sunday Drive

We’ve got our licenses and now we’ve got a vehicle. You may not be able to imagine how much this frees us to live our own schedules! So yesterday afternoon we took a Sunday drive. I haven’t driven at all yet (and haven’t done so since September-yikes) so my hubby took the wheel and headed out of our safely trafficked, gated community into the great unknown of foreign roadways. We weren’t going far, just down a couple of streets, but it felt like landing on the moon of successes.

On roadways in Russia, pedestrians are very common, whether there are sidewalks or not. The gypsy cab is an acceptable form of transportation and so many people walk with their hands held low (about waist-high) in hopes that they may catch a ride. Or, in our particular situation, you may encounter a runaway horse or two on your first drive out. No, you did not mis-read. As we were only about a half mile from our house, there were two saddled runaway horses coming straight at our vehicle. I braced for impact. My calm husband just put on the brakes and sat there so they could pass us. We are always surprised in Russia.

Next we went to the grocery store as a family. We’ve only done this two times here. I have become very accustomed to indifferent looks and limited personal boundaries but I had forgotten that four small children don’t understand---or frankly----appreciate these social norms. I felt like singing a new rendition of the song from Dumbo “pink elephants on parade” (what was that song about anyway?)

We emerged and proudly loaded our items into the spacious back hatch of our
vehicle. Onto another store.

The next store was smaller in comparison, but rarely busy and so we like the process a little more. However, we decided to go up the escalators and see what lies beyond. You also need to understand that every single store is really just an anchor store for several little kiosks. In this one you can get cheap toys from China in a kiosk, sewing notions, batteries, cell-phones, and of course, cigarettes. You never know what you may stumble upon.

But today was a lucky day! We found a clothing store. In fact, it is the first clothing store where there are items for the whole family and for really reasonable prices. I found women’s t-shirts for only 150py which is about $5. I have always hated clothes shopping, but I find that necessity forces me to do it. It’s almost spring and I am running very low on clothes that are appropriate beyond the confines of my kitchen.

We happily drove home anticipating the next time we will need something and will be able to get it for ourselves and maybe even offer to bring somebody else. Of course, I could always catch a ride into town on a runaway horse. Why not? It’s Russia!

March in Moscow

Spring must be near. Today I smelled track season. As I walked along the sidewalk, my mouth got dry and my lungs were filled with something I can’t even name. Outside the windows in my kitchen, icicles are surrendering to the fragrant sunshine.

I grew up on the backside of the high school in my town and you could measure each season by the sounds through the trees. In the fall it was the loudspeakers announcing the football games on Friday nights. In the winter there were sudden bursts of cheers as fans left the basketball games in the clear, frigid dark. And in the spring, it was the crack of baseball bats as well as the scores of children and teenagers outside getting a breath of fresh, clean air---free from curtains of white.

It is March in Moscow. Though it is only 24 degrees Fahrenheit and there are still feet of snow in the fields, I know Spring is coming. The trees across the lake have taken on a dark, almost midnight green instead of their native frosty silver which has adorned them since November. I’ve begun ordering bicycle tubes, rain boots, and water bottles so we can have outdoor adventures in this new land.

This will be the first time in seven years that my husband doesn’t coach baseball at our Alma Mater. I’ll admit, I’m sad about it, but it will also be the first time he has enjoyed the unfolding of this season with us as well. I’m not quite ready to get out my galoshes, but I know there will come a day when puddles enough will be inviting me to step in---the water’s fine.

Transportation

Last week we went to the Russian version of the DMV to get our drivers’ licenses. I was told to expect a long day so I did. I left my house just before lunch to catch a bus to get me to the Metro. At about 1pm, I arrived at the Embassy to catch up with my hubby and take a transport out to the boondocks to sign a form. Two weeks ago, we filed all of our paperwork and now we had to show up in person to prove our identity. Makes sense right?

We hopped into the van with three other Americans. The ride out there took 90 minutes, which is not too unusual for Moscow. We parked in front of what looked like a shack and followed our Russian translator/guide.

This brings me to discuss tile. Apparently, they are very confused in Moscow about what tile is intended for indoors and what is intended for outdoors. At many places around town, they have used indoor tile on outdoor steps and the effects are, well----slippery. One of our neighbors has a sign posted on her front porch that says, “Don’t slip on your ice.” It’s true.

So we navigated our way up some very slippery steps into a shack about the size of a closet. It was only big enough to house the metal detector we walked through and then right out the backdoor we slipped again. We walked across another clearing and came to the building where we were told to wait in line in the hallway. This was funny because there were doors about every 3 feet. So how do five Americans line up amidst all these doors? Every time we re-adjusted, somebody would open another door. It was really quite funny as we would lean against one wall, door open, lean against the other wall, and so on.

This game of Musical Wall went on for about ten minutes as we all got a chance to prove our identity and sign our licenses. Mission complete.

Back in the van, we began calculating how much time it would take to get back home via highway. We figured around 3-4 hours. The obvious choice then was the Metro. We asked our driver to stop at the nearest station so we could head home. This is seemingly commonplace; we ride the metro all the time. We hopped on board and found a seat (or bar to hold on to). What was different about this day was that there was a man who had found his happy hour specials a little early on this Wednesday afternoon.

As the train began to brake, people inched toward the door. This particular man stood up and before his feet even found the floor, gravity pulled his face downward. He did a sudden fall/slide down the aisle of the car. My husband, well meaning, reached for the man’s hand and tried to help him up. He had no idea which way was up at all. He stood up and waited a few stops before getting off.

Once we were back to our station, it was poor timing to wait for the bus that goes to our home so we decided to share a cab with some neighbors. We negotiated a cab and immediately regretted it. You know how seniors in high school drive a piece of crap car, but they’re proud because it’s theirs? That was this guy.

Anyway, as soon as we got in, he started getting after us in Russian that my husband closed the door too hard. Then, the back of the car was shaking and he attributed it to all of our weight in the back seat. His fee was 250 rubles. Our neighbors had the 200 and were asking us for 50. I had 3 10 bills and was getting out some coins. Then the driver got mad saying “I don’t want your coins.” We gave him 300 and thanked him.

When we got out of the car, I imagined if that situation had happened in the States. No way. Thankfully, my dependence on taxis is coming to an end as soon I will have my own set of hot wheels.

Another Night at the Gym

So this is just too good not to share. My husband and I workout almost every day at the facility right here in our housing development. We run a rigid circuit and I am pooped by the end of it, but I have taken breaks long enough to notice some interesting customs.

When you walk into a European workout facility, it looks very much like an American gym. There are plenty of machines, free weights, mirrors, treadmills, and the like. It’s the people who make European gyms SO much different. Here are some tips if you want to fit in.

a)Please, by no means, wear clean clothes. Wear the dirty, smelly clothes I’ve seen you in every night for the last five.

b)When you select gym clothes, choose wisely. If you don’t have workout pants, wear your swim trunks or a short-sleeved button down shirt that’s so tight your wrist-sized muscles will bulge out.

c)ALWAYS wear black socks with your tennis shoes and ALWAYS wear them up to your calves.

d)Don’t ever smile. If you smile, it may look like the workout isn’t hard enough. Even if you are a 40 year old man doing curls with 5 pound weights, this is serious.

e)When you have selected a machine to use, put your keys, a cup, or your nasty towel on it to claim it. Then walk around the room a few times to establish your ownership while people are waiting anxiously for you to be done. Sit down and do a few reps and repeat. This should last at least 25 minutes.

I will hesitantly mention the last aspect of the European gym experience. The locker room. If I go to the gym in the evening, I simply put my coat on, go home and get a shower. But if we use the pool or something, we have to use the locker-room to get dressed. As I can only share experiences from the female side, I will give you second-hand stories from the men’s locker room. On more than one occasion, I have been witness to bare bodied ladies who proceed to introduce themselves. Not just to me, but my kids as well. It’s hard to muffle the laughter when a bare-chested woman puts out her hand to say “how do you do?”

There are no stalls for getting dressed, just a big room. I’ve been told that sometimes guys sit on the benches in the buff talking on their cell phones with their legs crossed like they’re at the office. Yuck. Need I say more? I’m sure there will be more experiences as I continue to master the bench press and dead lift, but for now, this simple entertainment gets me out of the house every so often.

It's Time I Told You

The sun has been shining all day today. It makes no difference that it is 18 degrees outside---it feels like spring. Tomorrow it will be February. We are hoping to get a car very soon and so I spent the afternoon cleaning out the garage. I still had lots of boxes and wrapping left over from our shipment. I was glad I took the time to go through it because I found a lid to one of my brand new pots. I've been here for four months. I've made curtains, re-arranged furniture, and now thrown away the very last box.

It's funny because I've already considered how hard it is going to be to say goodbye. I've made friends from all over the world. Many of them will leave before me and no matter where I go next, I will take them with me.

The winter hasn't been very hard. In fact, it's been easier for me here than it was in Michigan. No propane bills to pay, no brushing snow off of an icy SUV, no lay-offs, no snow days. We are already six months into our two-year contract. The time is flying. The weeks are measured in packages, the months in paychecks, and I'm sure the years will be measured by home school curriculum.

I just started to miss home---namely, a day off. I miss coffee with my girlfriends, Bible study mornings, and yes, the grandparents. I am thankful for devices and technology yet at this exact moment, I am sick of them. I want to whisper something funny that only you can hear, roll my eyes, and bump your elbow with mine. I miss you and I thought you should know.

Denim skirt

When my commute to church was 15 minutes, 20 on a snowy day, I could dress any way I want. I would go outside and scrape off the snow from the truck in my jammies and boots and then quickly change into my Sunday best complete with heels and earrings.

It’s just not the same here.

My commute to church is 1 hour and 20 minutes and I have to dress for every occasion; sub-zero temps, the bus stop, the metro, the walk to and from the building, and of course, the service itself. So what this means for me is that someone who used to like to wear nylons and fancy jewelry every week has turned to wearing jeans, a nice sweater, and a bun for church. Suffice it to say, it’s a bit of a downer.

I know this is an individual preference because I have plenty of friends who would love to wear jeans every week to church, but not me. For me, Sundays are special occasions, equally important as date nights or social events.

Disclaimer: to all my homeschooling friends out there, the following is a flagrant generalization.

When people hear that you’re a homeschooler, they picture one of two things. First are the ones in a classic denim skirt, white tennis shoes, long straggly hair and a parade of children in stair step height walking behind. They picture a family pulling water from the well and using a wood stove for cooking. It’s primitive, but true.

The second is a hippie style version of a family with parents who don't have traditional jobs, kids who paint on the dining room walls and make up words to foster creativity. They have chosen to avoid traditional schools because they’re afraid it will put their kids in a box.

I am neither one of these, but definitely somewhere in between. A friend who was a missionary in Africa warned my sister and me before I left that when I returned, I would dress weird. I can already see this happening. You wouldn’t have caught me anywhere in the states wearing tapered jeans, but guess what, they fit inside knee-high boots and just make sense. I also sometimes wear leggings---in five degrees, because they don’t let in the breeze like jeans do.

That being said, I was insistent on wearing a skirt to church this week. I found a denim one that goes to my ankles and tried it out. It was great because I wore my purple boots underneath and no one could tell.

I was warmer this Sunday than I’ve been in a while. I had to laugh at myself as I saw the very stereotype I’ve tried to avoid walking down the streets of Moscow. I'm certainly not a fashion queen, but there's a lot to be said for feeling like you look nice and being warm a the same time. Cheers to those who invented the denim skirt.

Hairdresser

Today I took my girls to the salon to get their hair trimmed. As you know, elementary aged girls rarely look neat, especially when required to wear wool headwear everywhere they go. Even after a fresh wash, they are static ridden and frizzy. When we arrived, we sat quietly in the reception area awaiting our turn. I glanced through some magazines, all in Russian of course, and noticed something particularly interesting.

On a side-note, something I’ve noticed about Russian women is that it is almost faux pas to have a good dye job. It is better and more popular to have a very bad dye job so that your hair looks brassy and has dark roots. I can’t explain this, it just is. Anyway, while perusing some hair magazines, I came across one that was titled in English, “Hair Today.” Guess what I found. Hair from the 80s. I’m not exaggerating. The main focus of the whole thing was Princess Di and Prince Charles. It was on the top of the heap which means some ladies were actually looking at it.

When the stylist was ready for us, we walked back behind the foggy glass to the seat. No big surprise, she had brassy bleach blonde hair with dark roots. I had to chuckle to myself. My girls wanted to eliminate their layers and get straight cuts like their European friends. I thought that would like nice and neat as well.
As we sat there, watching infomercials in Russian about a handy new shower faucet, I think the stylist noticed my six year old getting restless. She grabbed the remote and changed the channel to none other than Nickelodeon, in English.

Here is an opportune time to tell you that I don’t mind Nickelodeon, but I despise one show…Dora the Explorer. “Do you want to play with me?” RIDICULOUSLY LONG PAUSE…..”Okay!”

I bet you can guess what was on. My kids were so excited, they started humming along with the “D-D-D—D-D-Dora…” I thought I might throw up.

After the haircuts were over, I went downstairs to pay the bill at the front desk. It wasn’t bad, only $30 for two little girls’ trims. Back home, I would have paid my stylist $15 plus tip for both, but the location was right and the entertainment was free.

A Hot Date

My hubby and I haven’t officially gone on a date since August. That being said, we were well overdue. Some lovely people here in our community offered to watch our kids for us so we could have a night out on the town. We waited at the bus stop at 3:30 in the afternoon with novels in hand and cash in pocket. We arrived at the metro station and hopped on board for an hour ride. We were lucky to get seats because the train got so crowded that I could barely see my date. We got off at our stop and headed up top to see what was there. Our goal was a movie theater where they would be showing an American movie in English. We arrived at the cinema a little early so we could go find some dinner.

We stepped down to the first floor and asked the concierge where there might be a bathroom. He pointed us through some doors and said “It’s across from the wardrobe.” In coats, scarves, hats, jeans, and gloves we pushed our way through what appeared to be a private party. No one was wearing heels less than four inches and the dress length was mandatory mini. We reluctantly found the restrooms with no labels as to MEN or WOMEN. So we watched and waited. Women came out of both. I told my hubby he was out of luck. We saw another couple (obviously guests of this party) who were dealing with the same problem. They quickly pointed out which room they were going to and went in. We hopped quickly behind them.

Note to self---if I can see through the stall doors, so can they.

Anyway, we headed back out to the streets to find a restaurant. We only had an hour and a half before movie time and Russian restaurants aren’t exactly known for their speedy service. So we found a McDonald's. McDonald's in itself is a science. First you have to shove your way through the line, and I mean shove! Then you have to get an English picture menu and point out what you want. They rarely manage to get it right. Then you pay for it and they shove the tray back through the crowd. This is the easy part.

Next you have to find a table. Basically this means you can sit in any unoccupied seat regardless if there are others at the table. Russians have no personal boundaries and will sit with complete strangers. We did the same. We found a table where an elderly gentlemen and his granddaughter were seated and joined them. We ate in silence and looked around at the ambiance.

After we ate, we walked about fifteen minutes in fifteen degrees back to the cinema. We were the only ones there at first but slowly, seven more Americans sat down. It was strange because for the first time, I felt out of place with Americans. I kept hoping some Russians would crowd in and sit next to me but they never did. Weird.

After the movie, which was a disappointing version of the book, we headed back to the metro station. We arrived at our destination about 45 minutes before our bus would come to pick us up so we had some time to kill. All the stores were closed so we stopped at a beverage kiosk and paid the lady for a beer. We stood at the bus stop in 15 degrees for 45 minutes, shared a beer, and talked. It was a unique date, but of course with a Russian twist. We got home just before midnight.