Natasha and I ended up making it to Sochi. She ordered the tickets on Friday and I picked them up at the ticket office, since I was in the city center. The sign on the door said 'open 9:00-20:00 daily, no breaks,' but I entered to find someone clicking around on a computer behind a hand-lettered sign that said 'lunch, 13:00-14:00.' It was 13:30. I said hello, she told me it was lunch break, I said something along the lines of "but the door spoke no lunch," and facing the prospect me, with my strange accent and riddle-speak, plopped irritably for half an hour in the dishlike plastic chair in front of her desk, she relented and issued me the tickets.
We flew out of Домодедово, Domodedovo, where Natasha used to work at the Duty Free. From the train, she pointed out her old apartment in Domodedovo city, the customs headquarters (until recently, controlled by the Georgian mafia...deciding what enters and leaves Russia is really lucrative), and the staff parking lot where one winter she found her car missing and assumed it was stolen until the snow melted.
Figuring airports out is always harder with two people, especially when one of you is thinking "she knows what she's doing, she speaks the language" and the other one is thinking "she knows what she's doing, she travels a lot." We had had a too-leisurely coffee at one of the new cafes overlooking the tarmac (I could happily spend a day watching an airport go through its airport-motions), and ran to the gate to make final boarding (since when is it 40 minutes before the plane takes off?)
We landed in Sochi two hours later. The city's starting to see the first little tremors of Olympification (2014, in case you forgot the hoopla this summer), starting with the airport. Planes arrive in the new wing, a small and bright space-age fiberglass tennis-bubble made of little polygons. They still take off from the old wing, which is basically an exceptionally neglected and sprawling Greyhound station.
Natasha wanted to stay in one of the huge sanitoria on the Black Sea, so we spent the first couple hours wandering around those. She had heard that they were cheap and deserted and had hot springs, so both of us were all over it. The first one we went to was neo-Greek, sprawed out over acres, and creepy as hell in the dark. We didn't find anyone at reception there and managed to escape without being attacked by a cloud of vampire bats or something. The next couple places we went to were at least manned (or babushkied as the case may be), but it turns out you need a prescription just to get in the door. We were turned away by crotchety old ladies who couldn't believe we actually had the presumption to want to pay them to stay somewhere, took a marshrutka back into town, and ended up in Гостиница Москва, Hotel Moscow, the crappy behemoth in the center.
The next day we took a bus to Красная Поляна, the big ski resort in the Caucusus. The road climbs from the sea for a couple hours, past only forest, a giant braided stream, and a few bee farms here and there, until it gets to the smallish resort. (Natasha, knowing it's the winter playground of the Moscow glitterati, was surprised it wasn't cleaner and more developed. I can't imagine what it'll look like when Olympics construction begins in earnest). We tromped around for a while, enjoyed the mountain views, rented a blowup sled, managed not to harm innocent bystanders, and caught the bus back down.
The next day we caught a taxi and asked the guy to show us around the city for an hour or so (Natasha's into asking anybody and everybody for directions, where to eat, where to stay, what to do). He drove us into the nontouristy neighborhoods--steep streets lined with houses of cement, corrugated metal, and chain link, with a celebrity's dacha on the prime hilltop real estate. Most people who live there will be displaced into new apartment buildings to make way for Olympics construction. The cabby, Nikolai, took us back to the airport for our 9 pm flight back to Moscow. Natasha really liked the place and wanted to stay, mostly for the sea and the slower pace of life. I'm glad I saw it, but two days was enough.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Friday, February 8, 2008
Artichoke is interesting because he's torn. I barely see him anymore because I'm around the language school so rarely, but last night a group of us went out for one of the French teachers' birthdays. We left together because we were walking to the same metro stop. On the way, he said Kiosk beer? and I said sure, it's been a while.
His girlfriend Tanya is driving him crazy. A couple months ago, he was saying how she gets up early to iron his socks, she keeps his apartment stocked with food, she says you go to bed early I'll wash the dishes...He could feel himself becoming more childlike and dependent on her, and he said That's the way to get any man, just make him useless. I remember I had ragged on him a lot that night so decided to hold the thought of not wanting a man who could be made useless.
Things are different now. He's sick of the babying, has realized he really wants more of an ally, and is more than willing to was the goddamn dishes at night, thank you very much. He's at the end of his rope, she can't understand why, she tries to take better care of him, and it snowballs. But he can't break up with her because he's Artichoke.
After we parted ways in the metro, he texted me:
Him: "Don't be mad at me!"
Me: "why on earth would i be mad at you"
Him: "dunno"
Me: "goodnight"
Him: "whatever"
(An hour later, when I figured I could plausibly pretend to be asleep: "You're one top bird.")
The "are you mad at me, why do you hate me" thing has lasted for all ten months I've been here. It started one night in Aubergine's club, when Artichoke told me that whenever he sees me he feels guilty ("You just make me want to repent, like...you're Jesus or something." (?)) I laughed it off and said that's ludicrous, and somewhere between that and "shut up" has been my response ever since. I guess if he needs reassurance that I don't hate him, I can give it to him, although it's strange.
As we stood out of the rain by the kiosk, a couple dyevushkas in knee-high boots, shiny pants, and cropped fur coats got out of a car. He looked at them and said What is it about those sour-faced Russian girls? I did my best sour-faced-Russian-girl face, and he said no, you don't have it in you. If he's propping me up as a foil to these Russian girls, that sheds some light on the guilt.
The conversation meandered to expat life, and he said This is basically a man's city. I said Well it is and it isn't, if you're a man with certain sorts of weaknesses this place will find them and tear you apart, it's everywhere and it's sad. He looked down at beer number 6 or 7, a quiet night for him recently, and smiled a little to himself. I halfheartedly backpedaled until I saw he wasn't planning to get offended and shut down.
Things are different now. He's sick of the babying, has realized he really wants more of an ally, and is more than willing to was the goddamn dishes at night, thank you very much. He's at the end of his rope, she can't understand why, she tries to take better care of him, and it snowballs. But he can't break up with her because he's Artichoke.
After we parted ways in the metro, he texted me:
Him: "Don't be mad at me!"
Me: "why on earth would i be mad at you"
Him: "dunno"
Me: "goodnight"
Him: "whatever"
(An hour later, when I figured I could plausibly pretend to be asleep: "You're one top bird.")
The "are you mad at me, why do you hate me" thing has lasted for all ten months I've been here. It started one night in Aubergine's club, when Artichoke told me that whenever he sees me he feels guilty ("You just make me want to repent, like...you're Jesus or something." (?)) I laughed it off and said that's ludicrous, and somewhere between that and "shut up" has been my response ever since. I guess if he needs reassurance that I don't hate him, I can give it to him, although it's strange.
As we stood out of the rain by the kiosk, a couple dyevushkas in knee-high boots, shiny pants, and cropped fur coats got out of a car. He looked at them and said What is it about those sour-faced Russian girls? I did my best sour-faced-Russian-girl face, and he said no, you don't have it in you. If he's propping me up as a foil to these Russian girls, that sheds some light on the guilt.
Monday, February 4, 2008
Day Date Flight Status Class City Time
Mon 10MAR DELTA 31 OK U LV MOSCOW 1110A
AR NYC-KENNEDY 245P
Mon 10MAR DELTA 5364* OK U LV NYC KENNEDY 620P
AR WAS-R REAGAN 802P
Hoo boy. I actually bought a return flight too, because for some reason round trip on Delta to DC is $600 and one way is $2500. Go figure. Hope they don't get after me for being a no-show on the return flight. Couldn't find anywhere on the website that said they would.
Spinach? Early dinner at JFK, March 10?
Mon 10MAR DELTA 31 OK U LV MOSCOW 1110A
AR NYC-KENNEDY 245P
Mon 10MAR DELTA 5364* OK U LV NYC KENNEDY 620P
AR WAS-R REAGAN 802P
Hoo boy. I actually bought a return flight too, because for some reason round trip on Delta to DC is $600 and one way is $2500. Go figure. Hope they don't get after me for being a no-show on the return flight. Couldn't find anywhere on the website that said they would.
Spinach? Early dinner at JFK, March 10?
On Friday I left for Владимир (Vladimir), a smallish city about 3 hours outside Moscow where one of my college friends is teaching. I bought my train ticket at half past noon, but the train didn't leave until two, so I thought great I can have a leisurely lunch somewhere. Bad move. I got back to the station at quarter til, and the train was completely full. I walked the length of a couple cars, asking people next to empty seats, "можно?," and invariably got in response something whose letters sounded like "закрыто" and whose tone was unmistakably "fuck off." Soon I gave up and stood with my back against the window and my backpack balanced on my boots, off the muddy floor.
The heating in Russian trains (binary I bet), isn't made for the recent mild winters. Half an hour after we left, I was roasting. I didn't open the window for fear of the wrath of the babushki (cold air makes you sick, no matter how hot you are), so had to content myself with trying to absorb the coolness of the glass through my back. An hour and a half in, I finally got a seat.
Vladimir bears little resemblance to Moscow. The entire main street is walkable in 15 minutes. People are out strolling on the streets enjoying each other's company, not running to get somewhere or boozing by the kiosk. The restaurants are smaller, have more character, and are about half the price. Onion-domed churches (with snow sculptures out front...my favorite was a maze, which would be especially cool if you were 3 feet tall and couldn't see over the walls) look down on the frozen river.
The foreigner-celebrity effect, diluted by Moscow's growing worldliness and cosmopolitan(aity?), is full-on in Vladimir. My friend's enjoying it, and is frank about the draw of general ego-flattery. (I can't feel flattered when I see my reflection in people's eyes and it looks like Clinton or Hollywood or Mickey D's and not like me, but power to her if she's not that cynical). She's been there for a year and a half, and is thinking of staying for another academic year, but like a lot of twentysomething Americans here is being pressured by her parents to come home and get serious.
She's fairly integrated into life there. She speaks good Russian, plus she's helped build her small language school into somewhat of a community fixture. Part of me wonders if I should have chosen somewhere smaller and more personable, but while I was making the choice the megalopolis seemed the only way to go. There's safety in the variety of a city when you don't know what you're getting into.
The heating in Russian trains (binary I bet), isn't made for the recent mild winters. Half an hour after we left, I was roasting. I didn't open the window for fear of the wrath of the babushki (cold air makes you sick, no matter how hot you are), so had to content myself with trying to absorb the coolness of the glass through my back. An hour and a half in, I finally got a seat.
Vladimir bears little resemblance to Moscow. The entire main street is walkable in 15 minutes. People are out strolling on the streets enjoying each other's company, not running to get somewhere or boozing by the kiosk. The restaurants are smaller, have more character, and are about half the price. Onion-domed churches (with snow sculptures out front...my favorite was a maze, which would be especially cool if you were 3 feet tall and couldn't see over the walls) look down on the frozen river.
The foreigner-celebrity effect, diluted by Moscow's growing worldliness and cosmopolitan(aity?), is full-on in Vladimir. My friend's enjoying it, and is frank about the draw of general ego-flattery. (I can't feel flattered when I see my reflection in people's eyes and it looks like Clinton or Hollywood or Mickey D's and not like me, but power to her if she's not that cynical). She's been there for a year and a half, and is thinking of staying for another academic year, but like a lot of twentysomething Americans here is being pressured by her parents to come home and get serious.
She's fairly integrated into life there. She speaks good Russian, plus she's helped build her small language school into somewhat of a community fixture. Part of me wonders if I should have chosen somewhere smaller and more personable, but while I was making the choice the megalopolis seemed the only way to go. There's safety in the variety of a city when you don't know what you're getting into.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
I saw Lenin today. What's left of him, anyway. I left Роман and Катя's, and it was only noon so I headed down the gray line to the mausoleum in Red Square. I was kind of hungry, so I bought a ham-and-cheese pastry in the переход to Александровский Сад (Alexandrovsky Garden, just outside the Kremlin). The more I mulled over what I was about to see, the more I regretted the pastry.
Through an outdoor metal detector (my phone was checked carefully for any trace of a camera), around winding cordoned-off pathway next to the Kremlin wall, past a militsia man at every turn, into the squat stone building marked ЛЕНИН, then down a steep darkened staircase.
I had heard that the guards don't like it if you stop moving, so I ambled slowly past the glass case. I was a third of the way around before I reminded myself to really look at it, because it's counterintuitive just to stare at this person lying there. I was alone (except for 3 guards) for about a minute, then two other men came in. They stopped walking, so I did too.
The body's one step up from those life-size models of paleolithic people you see at the natural history museum, and only because it's recognizable as Lenin. It's the color of maple sugar candy and has a plasticky luster. His trademark mustache is subtly painted on, and his nose is preternaturally perky (think Michael Jackson, but more triangular in profile). His ears are the least reconstucted-looking--they're shriveled and a little sunken, both into his head and down towards the floor. He's wearing a black suit, swathed in red satin, and like everyone legendary is tinier than you'd expect.
A few seconds after we stopped one of the guards told us to "передите!" (I think), so the three of us finished our circuit around the case and climbed the stairs back into daylight.
Through an outdoor metal detector (my phone was checked carefully for any trace of a camera), around winding cordoned-off pathway next to the Kremlin wall, past a militsia man at every turn, into the squat stone building marked ЛЕНИН, then down a steep darkened staircase.
I had heard that the guards don't like it if you stop moving, so I ambled slowly past the glass case. I was a third of the way around before I reminded myself to really look at it, because it's counterintuitive just to stare at this person lying there. I was alone (except for 3 guards) for about a minute, then two other men came in. They stopped walking, so I did too.
The body's one step up from those life-size models of paleolithic people you see at the natural history museum, and only because it's recognizable as Lenin. It's the color of maple sugar candy and has a plasticky luster. His trademark mustache is subtly painted on, and his nose is preternaturally perky (think Michael Jackson, but more triangular in profile). His ears are the least reconstucted-looking--they're shriveled and a little sunken, both into his head and down towards the floor. He's wearing a black suit, swathed in red satin, and like everyone legendary is tinier than you'd expect.
A few seconds after we stopped one of the guards told us to "передите!" (I think), so the three of us finished our circuit around the case and climbed the stairs back into daylight.
Monday, January 28, 2008
Five more weeks. About the same distance away as the beginning of my Italy trip. It's going to fly. My weekends are already pretty much full--next weekend I'm visiting my college friend who's teaching a few hours away in Владимир (Vladimir), then Natasha and I are going to Сочи (Sochi, the site of the 2014 winter olympics) because we found cheap tickets on Aeroflot, then we're having sort of a going-away party for me and another American who's leaving, then I'm going to Kiev to see Seeded Grapes, then it's March and I'm heading out. I wish time would slow down a little, not that I'd want to extend my stay here much longer.
I feel like I've reached some sort of point of diminishing returns, where I've learned most of what I can without committing myself to staying for the long haul and letting it change me in ways that I'm not sure I want. A real go at repatriation would be a long road of carving out a place for myself and becoming either more Russian in my outlook or miserable. Some expats can stay and not become either, but I don't think I could. For some reason all the people I'm thinking of (my two editors for example) aren't ones I'd want to emulate. Maybe being a little unhinged helps you stay happily in your own detatched bubble. Maybe I'm confusing cause and effect.
Incidentally I've stopped getting hit on. Наташа says she notices that too, with herself. Sometimes you exude a liveliness and openness and interest in everything that makes people want to talk to you, and sometimes you don't. I'm not lamenting that at all, it's just something I've noticed as the reality of being in a place but not of it, and the struggle of communication, starts to wear down my receptivity and I turn inward a little more.
I'm torn between the desires to see everything and do everything I possibly can, and to sit at home and stare a wall and try to process it all while I'm still here. When I'm home, I listen to Dire Straits' 'Brothers in Arms' over and over. Not sure why, though I do like the line 'we have just one world, but we live in different ones.'
I feel like I've reached some sort of point of diminishing returns, where I've learned most of what I can without committing myself to staying for the long haul and letting it change me in ways that I'm not sure I want. A real go at repatriation would be a long road of carving out a place for myself and becoming either more Russian in my outlook or miserable. Some expats can stay and not become either, but I don't think I could. For some reason all the people I'm thinking of (my two editors for example) aren't ones I'd want to emulate. Maybe being a little unhinged helps you stay happily in your own detatched bubble. Maybe I'm confusing cause and effect.
Incidentally I've stopped getting hit on. Наташа says she notices that too, with herself. Sometimes you exude a liveliness and openness and interest in everything that makes people want to talk to you, and sometimes you don't. I'm not lamenting that at all, it's just something I've noticed as the reality of being in a place but not of it, and the struggle of communication, starts to wear down my receptivity and I turn inward a little more.
I'm torn between the desires to see everything and do everything I possibly can, and to sit at home and stare a wall and try to process it all while I'm still here. When I'm home, I listen to Dire Straits' 'Brothers in Arms' over and over. Not sure why, though I do like the line 'we have just one world, but we live in different ones.'
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Андрей (Andrei) came back from Чечня (Chechnya) with the uncanny ability to stare at a point three feet in front of his face regardless of chaos around him. He and Natasha were slowly breaking up in November when I moved in. Slowly, at least, until he disappeared for a couple weeks, as Наташа (Natasha) says he does sometimes.
She packed up his things and hitchhiked to the militsia (police) quarters where he lives. (When I've talked about hailing cabs before, what I really meant was hitchhiking. About a fifth of the cars on the road at any given time will pull over and take you where you want to go for few dollars, if it's not too far out of their way). The guy who stopped was young and good-looking with a really nice car, and he waited for Наташа when she dropped off the parcel of Андрей's things. She said Андрей's friends at the station connected the dots too much and nodded their heads and looked at the floor when she asked them to make sure he got the parcel.
He called her again last week, after ignoring all her calls and text messages to see if he got his things. He came over last week on one of the nights I was teaching late, and Наташа cooked him a dinner of meatballs with onions and bread. For some reason he said he couldn't look at food, and Natasha's ulcers have forced her onto a month-long diet of basically yogurt and oatmeal, so I had a pretty nice dinner when I got back.
He's a little younger than me, which makes him 7 or 8 years younger than Наташа. I've only really met him once, when I came to Наташа's for the first time. Obviously she had no idea who would walk in her door and wanted someone else around (she's lived with a girl who used to pilfer stuff and flounce around in her underwear when her boyfriend was over, she's been stalked from prison by a guy who somehow got her picture from an ex (when he was released, he camped out near the entrance of her apartment, forcing her to take a few days off work and hide), she used to rent an apartment from a woman who was sure she was a prostitute (and eventually kicked her out) because of her Ukranian accent and miniskirt, she lived for a month in the office of the Domodedovo airport's duty free shop...when I wrote and said hi I'm Rhubarb I saw your ad for a flatmate I'm 23 and American and cats are fine by me can we meet, she remained prepared for anything).
Андрей seemed mild and genuinely kind when I met him, but he speaks minimal English so our conversation was limited to my Russian. Наташа describes him as ascetic, never buying new clothes if the old ones will do and only eating about once a day. He's in Moscow alone, like a lot of young people, having grown up a couple days away by train. He had an uncle he was close to, but since he died there's no one outside the militsia he really listens to or looks up to. His salary is barely enough to live on, but he gets occasional handouts from the older, more established officers as is the tradition. (It's also a tradition for these guys to hit up Moscow's huge population of unregistered foreigners for bribes...when Наташа still had a Ukranian passport, it was basically a constant tax for her. Once she was even dragged into a room and told to dance, but luckily she has nerves of steel and knows how not to take bullshit).
Андрей showed up again yesterday. Наташа made him dinner, then he passed out in front of the tv and left this morning (I didn't see him, because I got home from Holly's Australia Day party at 2 and left again to teach at 8). Наташа thinks he genuinely wants to be friends, plus the police station isn't the most pleasant place to spend all his time. He's not expressive enough to tell her any of this, but he did ask if he could come around to hang out more often.
The cuffs on his jacket are frayed, and she told him he has to get a new one. She jokes that she's the mother for her ex-boyfriends, but it's barely a joke. The situation feels strange to me, but I think she's strong enough that she's gotten past the point where it would be rough on her emotionally and can just see him as someone who really needs someone.
She packed up his things and hitchhiked to the militsia (police) quarters where he lives. (When I've talked about hailing cabs before, what I really meant was hitchhiking. About a fifth of the cars on the road at any given time will pull over and take you where you want to go for few dollars, if it's not too far out of their way). The guy who stopped was young and good-looking with a really nice car, and he waited for Наташа when she dropped off the parcel of Андрей's things. She said Андрей's friends at the station connected the dots too much and nodded their heads and looked at the floor when she asked them to make sure he got the parcel.
He called her again last week, after ignoring all her calls and text messages to see if he got his things. He came over last week on one of the nights I was teaching late, and Наташа cooked him a dinner of meatballs with onions and bread. For some reason he said he couldn't look at food, and Natasha's ulcers have forced her onto a month-long diet of basically yogurt and oatmeal, so I had a pretty nice dinner when I got back.
He's a little younger than me, which makes him 7 or 8 years younger than Наташа. I've only really met him once, when I came to Наташа's for the first time. Obviously she had no idea who would walk in her door and wanted someone else around (she's lived with a girl who used to pilfer stuff and flounce around in her underwear when her boyfriend was over, she's been stalked from prison by a guy who somehow got her picture from an ex (when he was released, he camped out near the entrance of her apartment, forcing her to take a few days off work and hide), she used to rent an apartment from a woman who was sure she was a prostitute (and eventually kicked her out) because of her Ukranian accent and miniskirt, she lived for a month in the office of the Domodedovo airport's duty free shop...when I wrote and said hi I'm Rhubarb I saw your ad for a flatmate I'm 23 and American and cats are fine by me can we meet, she remained prepared for anything).
Андрей seemed mild and genuinely kind when I met him, but he speaks minimal English so our conversation was limited to my Russian. Наташа describes him as ascetic, never buying new clothes if the old ones will do and only eating about once a day. He's in Moscow alone, like a lot of young people, having grown up a couple days away by train. He had an uncle he was close to, but since he died there's no one outside the militsia he really listens to or looks up to. His salary is barely enough to live on, but he gets occasional handouts from the older, more established officers as is the tradition. (It's also a tradition for these guys to hit up Moscow's huge population of unregistered foreigners for bribes...when Наташа still had a Ukranian passport, it was basically a constant tax for her. Once she was even dragged into a room and told to dance, but luckily she has nerves of steel and knows how not to take bullshit).
Андрей showed up again yesterday. Наташа made him dinner, then he passed out in front of the tv and left this morning (I didn't see him, because I got home from Holly's Australia Day party at 2 and left again to teach at 8). Наташа thinks he genuinely wants to be friends, plus the police station isn't the most pleasant place to spend all his time. He's not expressive enough to tell her any of this, but he did ask if he could come around to hang out more often.
The cuffs on his jacket are frayed, and she told him he has to get a new one. She jokes that she's the mother for her ex-boyfriends, but it's barely a joke. The situation feels strange to me, but I think she's strong enough that she's gotten past the point where it would be rough on her emotionally and can just see him as someone who really needs someone.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)