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.

Breaking the Silence

The metro. Recently I have become an aficionado or something like that. I have ventured out on my own with kids in tow and arrived perfectly timed at my destination. I also have walked to and from different stations and been able to navigate around my traditional path. This is a big accomplishment. Believe me.
There are some interesting things to note about the metro. The groggy masses board and depart the train with equal amounts of indifference. Some of these people have ridden these rails since childhood, back when communism was alive and well.

It’s different now to be sure. Young people sport ear phones, cell-phones, and e-books instead of the traditional bound materials. But I’ve noticed something unique about this massive public transit---its silence. Aside from the announcer who tells us at which stop we’ve arrived and where we’re headed, there is no talking. You don’t really notice when the sounds of the scraping breaks ensue, but when it stops, the silence is almost deafening.

There are, like all things, some exceptions. The kids and I witnessed a few when we were out the other day. One is the occasional giggle or screams from a small child. I get to witness this often when my three older kids tickle number 4. If you want to see a Russian smile, cause a small child to laugh or giggle. It gets them every time.

Second is the cell-phone ring. In the States you might hear a cheesy television theme song, heavy metal, or even rap on the ring. Here it is something akin to the Russian version of techno music (which surprisingly reminds me of polka). It rarely rings more than once. The guilty party is very quick to pick up and conduct their business. Although I don’t know what they’re saying, I don’t think they talk on the phone just to yak.

The third phenomenon is unique. Real musicians. Yesterday we stood feet away from a young boy playing the accordion keeping his balance on the moving vehicle. At first I thought it was a cell-phone but the volume increased and my kids’ eyes widened. He didn’t look poor or sick, but he took donations in a bag on his arm anyway. Many were happy to oblige.

A fourth unique scene is the traveling salesperson. The most frequent item is foldable shopping bags that make something cute like dangling strawberries, a triangle or whatever. These people move from car to car, wait until the doors close, and then prey on the captive audience. My favorite item was Dr. Scholl’s insoles for men. Very funny.

The last thing I want to mention is real beggars. This is heartbreaking. Usually we are decently comfortable in our seats when someone stumbles onto the train. A seat is always offered to them but they decline and then announce their needs. They hobble down the aisle asking for a kopeck or two. A woman I saw yesterday had a body that looked 80 years old. When my eyes wandered to her face, I saw that she was no older than me. It made my heart ache to look at her. Moscow isn’t exactly handicap friendly.

Despite all these social oddities, we will continue to ride the metro. We’re definitely getting the best view of the city from this angle.