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.