Therapy

MRIs have been analyzed, diagnosis is in, and physical therapy is three days a week. Sometimes when I'm in a group of people I don't know, I purposely throw out the idea that I have to go to "therapy" weekly. I always wonder, are they gutsy enough to ask me what kind of therapy or will they ask my neighbor? Probably the latter. Anyway, that's not the point. The point is I am always excited for a new adventure in Moscow.

Spring is the worst. I know you think I would say winter is the worst, but winter is exactly what it should be. Cold, dark, icy, terrible. It's the long part that never seems to agree with me. I know that spring will arrive after April 15, but the last few weeks of partly cloudy, mushy, whatever have left me completely depressed. That, and the fact that I know it begins the season of people leaving. This will be my third year saying goodbye. It's like being a fifth year senior. All of our class is moving on, yet here we are. Pity party over.

So....therapy. I am so thrilled at the idea of living in the city where I can walk anywhere that I often choose walking over any other form of transportation. The first time I walked to the medical center, it took me 25 minutes. Not bad. However, my brilliant girlfriend mentioned to me, "What about the bus?" Duh! The bus! For two years we lived where a bus wasn't always an option. Now that it is, I often forget about it. Now when I go to the doctor, I walk for five minutes, ride a bus for five minutes, then walk five more. Way less exhausting and much more simple.

The bus costs 28 rubles. Russians prefer exact change. Each day when I go I make sure I have exactly 56 rubles for bus fare. After doing this for a week, the big-wigs of public transit decided to change the rules. Now it's 50 rubles for two rides. It's actually cheaper but I wasn't aware of this change when I handed the driver my carefully counted 28 rubles. He was not impressed.

Once I arrived at the medical center. I made sure to check my coat, put on the blue booties, and check-in with the clerk. The doctor spoke only Russian so her assistant arrived to interpret and walked me down to the physical therapy department. Follow me in your mind: walk down a steep stairway, turn a sharp corner. Watch your head for the low-lying bulkhead marked with a red plastic lid stapled onto it. Turn a sharp right again. Step over a ridiculously high threshold that looks something like a door on a submarine. Now weave and wind through hallways that are littered with full-size locker cabinets sometimes walking sideways to avoid the chairs in front of the doors. And finally, here we are.

Once inside, physical therapy happens. I've successfully mastered the Russian words for pain, discomfort, and feeling better. Other than that, there isn't much to tell you about except that if you haven't had electro-therapy, you should try it.

Once I leave, I head back to the bus to go home. Yesterday the bus was hailed by a traffic cop. We stopped behind him and sat there for longer than usual. After he was finished with citing another car, he hopped on the bus. So I guess public servants ride the bus for free. No squabbles about 28 rubles for him.