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I’ve written before about the importance of getting thank you notes off promptly. “Don’t let the sun go down, thrice” I nag Velvet.
It seems, however, that I’ve been remiss about writing the thank you note I owe Steve Jobs, who died yesterday. I picked up the news about it on the latest of my Apple gadgets, my long-lusted for and now irreplaceable iPad, which, yes, turns out to be a tool as well as a toy. I was saddened, as so many were, by a brilliant life cut short. Trawling through the news, the testimonials and the reflections from all over the world this morning in my iMac as I drank my coffee, I thought I might as well write the thank you note anyway and add my thoughts to the many out there.
So, thank you Steve, for creating products that made my life as an expat at once easier and richer. The iPod helped me connect to the 2008 Presidential election through the miracle of podcasts, which are now an ingrained part of my daily routine. In a city with limited access to English language books, the iPod makes it possible for me to download and listen to everything from the memoirs of Winston Churchill to the last summer’s epic slog through all five of George R.R. Martin’s “The Song of Fire and Ice,” books. When my daughter Velvet was having trouble with reading and the printed word, iTunes helped her discover Anne of Green Gables, Harry Potter, and Princess Mia of Genovia. I always have a book going: when I cook, when I drive, when I fly, when I exercise, or just when I’m paying bills or cleaning the house. They still seem like a miracle to me. When I was about 8, I saw a TV adaptation of “The Martian Chronicles.” In the opening scene, a Martian sat on a rock and the narrator said, “The Martian was listening to his book.” I remember thinking, “Wow, listening to a book…that would be something else.” And, as soon as I finish writing and editing this, I’ll turn on my book while I load this post up on to the software. I still find it miraculous. Thank you, Steve, for knocking down barriers of distance, customs, and political borders and bringing Slate and Rachel Maddow, Melvyn Bragg and Garrison Keillor, Jane Austen and George R.R. Martin to me in Russia.
When I finally plucked up the courage to leave the formal economy and take a stab at being a writer, I made the symbolic shift from a PC to a Mac Book and just seeing it made me think – “yeah, I’m in the creative biz now.” I do what I love and it doesn’t matter if I have a work permit or my visa runs out – I just open my Mac Book and do it. I can edit photos, publish articles, work on my book, start a new blog, or redesign an existing one. Thanks, Steve for helping me do what I love.
My parents are finishing up a trip to the Low Countries. We gave them an iPad before they left and thanks to it, they’ve looked up information, found restaurants, consulted maps, checked their e-mails, and sent us almost daily updates about what they’ve been doing, seeing, and how they are enjoying their trip. “Nothing short of miraculous,” says my mother. Thanks for that, Steve.
When the subject of Apple versus PC comes up, my stock comment is, “I am everything Steve Jobs would have me be: got sucked in with the iPod, migrated to the Mac Book, lusted for the iPhone and iPad, infected my family of origin and my nuclear family…” I hope I was everything he would have had me be, because he certainly made my life richer, my horizons wider, and my possibilities ever expanding.
Спасибо, Steve!
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Sad day, isn't it Readers? What are your memories of Apple products? Hit the comment button below to leave your thoughts on Jobs and his life and work.
With the news about Vladimir Putin running for president (ending, as the international press called it, "months of uncertainty" -- poppycock! I was always certain!) Russia now officially joins the US in gearing up for a presidential election in 2012. The difference between the two political processes brings out the contrast between my native country and my sometimes-if-they-give-me-a-180-day-visa adopted country. And while I love getting caught up in the hoop-la and intricate minute-by-minute politico.com approach of the American model, the minimalist/clutter-buster in me finds much to admire in the streamlined approach of the 35-minute Russian electoral cycle, where they waste no time on extraneous stuff like:
1. Candidate-branded bumper stickers, lawn signs, baseball hats etc. Branded items are for winners only, and since the electoral cycle is so very short, and, of course, no one in Russia actually has a lawn (that the public can see anyway), what’s the point?
2. Philadelphia Cheese Steaks: Ever since Boris Yeltsin’s ill-advised boozy boogie on the tarmac became the primary perestroika image, Russia’s leaders have avoided anything overtly physically sloppy or messy. Food consumed on national television is limited to the traditional bread dipped in salt, which is much easier on the tie and shirt collection.
3. A hit television series, lasting the through two presidential terms, which details the inner workings of a fictitious Presidential Administration, in which the actor playing the fictitious president enjoys an actual political approval rating significantly higher than that of the real sitting president. Puh-leeze. There is enough confusion over who is really running the country, without putting Martin Sheen into the mix.
4. C-SPAN: “God is too high, and the Tsar too far away,” runs an old peasant saying, and that’s the way the current Kremlin crowd intends to keep it. No need for raw uncut sausage factory detail, the sitting Russian government is hard at work, a message that is reinforced each night on the news. The scene: ornate inner Kremlin office. Minister X perches uncomfortably across from glossy reproduction Baroque desk from either the Prime Minister or the President (because, as we know, they are interchangeable,) torso bent over arms stacked one on top of each other, hands touching opposite elbows, listing slightly from side to side in the classic “Russian bureaucrat slump.” He mumbles his set piece, which includes at least one set of statistics, peeking out from under his bushy eyebrows nervously at the boss, who learns back in the contemplative, but slightly condescending manner of a headmaster who has had to call this particularly errant 7th grader in just once too often, finally nodding and saying “Yes, that’s right.” Flashbulbs pop. “Dancing on Ice” follows after the break.
5. Jon Stewart and Tina Fey.
6. Debates.
7. The long-drawn out Primary process. Are we on ludes, or is the football season just too short?
8. The wife of a national candidate showing off her bare upper arms. Russian political wives and children keep subterranean profiles, in a tradition going back to the Tsarevich Alexei and hemophilia thing. Russia’s first ladies only ever really come out in public during State Visits to meet The Queen (and can you blame them?) However, whoever is advising them on what they should wear to that particular social event needs to be shot. J. Crew catalog – over here, please!
9. The clergy having an opinion. And expressing it. Uphill work for Russia, since the clergy only speak Old Church Slavonic, a 13th Century dialect which no one but them understands. Picture Jeremiah Wright and Billy Graham communicating in Demotic Greek. (So likely.)
10. Sexual scandals. Russians are genuinely baffled by the Anglo-American prevalence to sexual scandals like the Monica Lewinsky “episode” toppling the political careers of powerful men. What is wrong with us? HRH (my “handsome Russian husband”) could not make head or tail of the Senator Larry Craig foot tapping scandal, no matter how many times Velvet and I explained it to him. The data went in, but his brain refused to fuse it together. He couldn’t link “gay” with “senator;” or “senator” and “at” with “public airport bathroom.” “Public airport bathroom” and “gay overtures” didn’t make sense as a pair, and he kept going back to “senator” and “public airport” as a dubious match, and was finally defeated by “gay senator” and “reinstatement.” Total data scramble. Tech support please.
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A much edited version of this piece appeared this month in Russia Beyond The Headlines.
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Hey there readers! Can you think of any other differences between Russian and American political campaigns? What's political campaigning like where you live?
If you are a Russia watcher (and if you aren’t, why on earth are you reading this blog?) you will be up to speed about the big announcement over the weekend that Putin will be running for president of Russia in 2012. I don’t know about you, but I personally did not need to hold on to anything solid. As my friend Beth Knobel put it succinctly in the Huff Post in the one “must read” article on the topic:“The news that Vladimir Putin will seek a new term as Russian president is about as surprising as Nicole "Snooki" Polizzi announcing that she's going for another round of spray tanning.”
This made me wonder if the Brighton Beach sylphs from Russian Dolls were at all surprised/shocked/disappointed/jaded, or, indeed, even aware of the news that Putin will most likely be in power until 2024, until I told myself to stop being so silly. They can’t even spell “Putin,” let alone form an opinion about him, and quite right too. Not knowing nor indeed caring about who is running Russia is why their melancholy parents have been scrubbing floors for the past 25 years, so their progeny can focus all their attention on lip liner, Botox and getting a reservation at Rasputin for New Year’s.
I spent about 30 seconds feeling a little bit sorry for Dmitry “Lamest Duck Ever” Medvedev, if only because I think his tough cookie wife Mrs. Medvedeva is probably giving him a helluva time, but then I dismissed that as overly sentimental. HRH is always accusing me of being naïve about politics, and I daresay he’s right. It’s a shame, though, because I thought Medvedev was cute. I met him once for about 32 seconds during his halcyon days as First Deputy Prime Minister, when all he did was drive around and give money away. He seemed a nice guy, and he was very complimentary about some logistical duck tape I'd used strategically (sorry, I really can't say more) so I was pleased when he got his promotion. I liked his iPad-toting style, even though it sometimes seemed like he had neglected to download the latest update of the app-for-that on what was actually going on in Russia, like that time Moscow was literally burning up and he announced he was rebranding the militia to be the politisia (which has not made one iota of difference.) I thought the Twitter thing was engaging, though he continuously refused to follow me. Let’s face it, though, nice though he was (note that we are all already using the past tense about him) he looked way too much like another nobbled-at-the-post loser Russian leader, Nicholas II (complete with strident, excessively religious wife and a son always kept in the shadows) to be in any way reassuring...
See what I mean?
I wasn’t going to stop following Medvedev on Twitter, though, because that seemed excessively harsh, but then I took a break from writing to check out the latest news and was really horrified to learn about the rank silliness with Alexei Kudrin, the I-guess-Former-but-probably-not-for-long-Finance Minister. Kudrin, who is a real geek, but knows how much oil there is in a barrel, had publically announced he would not serve under Medvedev as Prime Minister. Medvedev publically encouraged Kudrin to resign now, and Kudrin (nah-nah-nah nah-nah) said he’d have to consult with Vladimir Putin (the current-but-not-for-long) prime minister. What is this, people, the 8th grade? Even the Russian Dolls crowd are not this petty.
So, I am, like, totally un-following Medvedev. And I’m not alone.
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Priveyt Readers!
Have you stopped following Medvedev? Have you unfriended him? Do you think Alexei Kudrin makes Amanda Seyfried in "Mean Girls" look nice? Do you think the Russian election will be interesting? Or does Rick Perry seem appealing in contrast? Let's find out ! Hit the comment below and let rip! And stay tuned for more exciting Russian Dolls news, coming right up!
HRH, (my “Horrible Russian Husband”) has some friends who are high up in government circles, and then he has an even larger number who would like you to think they are. Gena Varyenkov falls into the latter group. He spends a lot of time trying to convince everyone that he is privy to all kinds of explosive insider information when, in actual fact, he works for the State Lottery. Conversation with Gena is always uphill work, since he is allergic to opposing views. The last time I tried was in 1999 when he flatly refused to even discuss the notion that an anchovy is a fish. After that, I gave up.
Gena’s latest conspiracy theory is that the mind-bogglingly inconvenient sidewalk renovation currently going on in Moscow is actually a clever anti-revolutionary measure by that cagy crowd in the Kremlin. “Last year they engineered the heat wave and the smoke,” Gena revealed, “so everyone left the city. This year, it’s the sidewalks being torn up. No one can move around the city, so no protests are possible. By the time they finish, it will be too cold for protest marches. No one revolts during cold weather.”
“With the possible exception of the Bolsheviks in February and October of 1917,” I quipped.
HRH and Gena ignored me.
“What worries me,” said HRH, “is that those bricks they are using for the new sidewalks are the perfect weapon for the proletariat, should they ever decide to rise up.”
If, or indeed, when Russia’s next revolution comes, it will most likely be nicknamed “The Curb Revolution,” because the origins of discontent might well be traced back to the sidewalk debacle that has Muscovites well and truly pissed off.
One upside of the renovation is that this has been a great summer to start the Dukan Diet – the new no-carbs miracle diet that helped Kate Middleton slim down before her April nuptials. Why? Because for most of the summer, it has been physically impossible to get to my favorite bread shop, thanks to the simultaneous carving up of over 4 million cubic meters of Moscow sidewalks ordered by the capital’s new mayor, Sergei Sobyanin. Overnight, the existing asphalt sidewalks were hacked to pieces, and Moscow suddenly looked even more like Poland in the early hours of September 1, 1939 than it already had. Swarms of dusky guest workers up from the south started to lay the (really ugly) brick tiles slated to replace the hacked-to-pieces asphalt, getting into heated arguments with beefy security guards over access to the entrances they guard. It’s never been easy to be a pedestrian in Moscow, but this summer, it’s been impossible. To score a simple baguette or pastry, I’ve had to pick my way through a narrow path perilously close to the traffic whizzing by on the Garden Ring, and then negotiate a rickety wooden plank, placed precariously over two hunks of old asphalt to reach the bakery door.
Like the Dukan Diet, the sidewalk controversy has a lot of meat on it. Sobyanin, a rank outsider, hails from Khanti Mansi, and spent most of his career on the wrong side of the Urals, so when he became Mayor of Moscow it was like appointing Clint Bundtson from Lake Woebegone, MI to be the mayor of New Orleans. Since the mayor of Moscow is Presidential appointment rather than elected position, Sobyanin has no legal or political responsibility to seek the opinion of Moscow’s 15 million citizens as to how they feel $145.4 million dollars from the city’s coffers should be spent. Sobyanin, who until the sidewalk thing got going, was best known for cancelling gay pride events and registering his shock and the amount of “Non Parisian skin colors” on a visit to France, clearly did not waste any valuable time or energy finding out.
When Muscovites learned that Sobyanin’s wife Irina, known as “Ira Bardura” or “Ira the Curber” owns a successful sidewalk tile/brick and curbing company, and that during Sobyanin’s tenure as governor of Tyumen Region, all of the sidewalks in Tyumen got a tiled facelift, you could almost hear the collective groans as heads were shaken from Khimki to Southern Butova. Though there was no direct evidence to link the Moscow tiles with Mrs. Sobyanin’s company, the memory of former mayor Yuri Luzhkov’s construction mogul wife, Elena Baturina was on the mind of everyone. Nikolai Klimeniuk, writing in “Snob” put it succinctly: “I don’t want to hear that those tiles are all because of the mayor’s wife. We’ve already had one married mayor.” Tales of Ira Bardura began to fly around Moscow, including the wild rumor that the curbs of Tyumen were all lined in solid marble.
Three days later, Gena had a new different explanation, which I wasn’t sure he understood was actually a popular joke around town (which Tolya our driver had recounted to me that afternoon): “Luzhkov told Sobyanin that the streets of Moscow are paved with gold,” Gena confided conspiratorially. “So Sobyanin is looking for it.”
Proletarians of the world…over to you!
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A version of this post first appeared in Russia Beyond The Headlines.
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Photo by the author. All rights reserved.
Hello There Readers!
How's your summer been? Have you found it difficult to get from A to B in Moscow? Do you think Mrs. Sobyanin's company is behind Curbgate, or do you think that we're all just been so so so unfair! Weigh in by hitting the comment button below!
Here’s a confession. My daughter Velvet and I are addicted to bad reality TV shows, which is out of character for us both. I’m meant to be the brainy intellectual/witty writer type, and she is supposed to be the outdoorsy/horsey type. We hide it well, but catch us on a rainy Friday evening, chances are we are curled up on the squishy sofa working out way through back episodes of “Jerseylicious,” “SuperNanny” or my personal favorite, “Clean House.”
Which is why we were both so excited for the launch of Lifetime’s new reality series, “Russian Dolls,” which chronicles the lives of a number of Russian émigrés to New York’s Brighton Beach. We mixed up some cocktails (gin and olives for me, ginger ale and pomegranate liqueur for Velvet) and settled in.
Readers…. what a letdown! The Gatsby this ain't. Not that I didn’t know that if there is anything worse than a vapid dyev in stilettos, it’s a vapid dyev in stilettos who has been air lifted to NYC or Laaaaaaaaaaannnndon, but “Russian Dolls” hits an all time new low. Even this writer, who spends a fairly hefty portion of her working hours poking fun at contemporary Russian culture, was horrified:
Most of this week’s episode centered around Anastasia (which is pronounced by all and sundry like the cartoon Princess: Anna-STAY-ZH-ah instead of Anna-stass-ee-ah) and her mother Ida talking over salat Olivier (and who gave that particular culinary disaster an entry visa to the USA I’d like to know?)
“What you want say to me?” asks Ida about Anastasia’s possible career moves,
“Speech, Ma…I’m doing speech,” pouts Anastasia, running her acrylic nails through her ironed hair.
“The counselor, she thinks I should do law.”
“And how you repay loans?” wails Ida.
“Ma! Just leave me alone,” explodes Anastasia.
Mad Men it ain't.
Then there were the nervous jitters of 47-year old Renata (who looked like she was addicted to Valium) getting ready to belt out Alla Pugacheva hits at the opening of Brighton Beach’s newest club “1001 Nights,” under the Svengali-esque coaching of her husband Boris. Next week, we will be meeting Sveta who is, according to the voice over, “Biggest Bitch in Brighton,” (which has to be saying a whole bunch) while she launches a jewelry line.
“This is embarrassing,” confessed Velvet, “These are like my people.”
Not if I can help it…they’re not.
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И так Readers,
Did you see “Russian Dolls?” if so, what did you think? Do we need to get up a petition to Hillary Clinton? Could Vladimir Putin express his disapproval and get it off the air? Does it bear any resemblance to émigré life in America?
I taped a New Yorker cartoon to my Handsome Russian Husband’s (HRH) side of the mirror the other day. The cartoon depicted a classic sophisticated couple seated in a well-appointed living room. The caption read “You’d know that about me if you followed me on Twitter.” This was my somewhat desperate attempt to send to two subtle messages his way: 1.) I’d like him to once and a while read my blog (which I know he never ever does because I’ve deliberately planted stuff in there, which would outrage him if he did) and 2.) I’d actually like to see more of him in general since he works from 7 a.m. to 11 pm at his Big Important Job at the Difficult Start-Up in An Important Industry.
Twitter has been on HRH’s mind lately. He doesn’t follow anyone on Twitter, he has no friends on Facebook, and he deeply regrets his one foray on to the Russian version of “Classmates.com” odnoklassniki.ru (which is responsible for one in four marriages breaking up in Russia) since it clogs up his e mail and he gets inundated with requests for jobs at The Difficult Start-Up from people he hasn’t seen since 5th Grade. He thinks Tumblrs are for beer at the end of a long hard day, and Hoot Suite is something owls do. In the Social Networking terms, he’s North Korea.
Twitter, though, is something he thinks may be in his future.
“You have to teach me to Tveeter,” he remarked one evening.
“Tweet,” I corrected.
“What?” he asked.
“I Tweet, you tweet, he/she tweets,” I conjugated.
“I don’t Tveeter,” he said, ignoring me. “You have to teach me.”
“Why do you want to tweet?” I asked. HRH’s Difficult Start Up at the Important Industry doesn’t seem to lend itself to being buzzed. Quite the opposite.
“I’m getting an iPad,” HRH explained, “So I have to Tveeter, right?”
“That is the outside of enough!” I fumed. I yearn for an iPad, and I resist purchasing one with ever fiber of my being. Tool, not toy, I told Velvet, our 13 year old who feels her life will be ruined until we let her upgrade her current iPhone3 to an iPhone 4. “What will you do with an iPad?” I yelled. “You don’t even know how to Google!”
“I am Russian.” Said HRH haughtily. “I Yandex.”
“But you don’t need to tweet,” I argued.
“I think I do,” said HRH, “Dmitry Medvedev has an iPad…and he tweets.”
The fog cleared. For the last six months or so, President Medvedev has been pictured at Cabinet Minister pow wows tenderly caressing his tablet and gently scrolling through his power point presentations on his iPad, while all the Soviet era Ministers scribble in their cheesy leatherette A5 notebooks with things like Gazprom embossed on them. You could follow one role model (young, hip, liberal) or the other (old school, conservative, safe.) Putin, it occurred to me, never writes anything down, and certainly didn’t toggle or scroll any device when he spoke publically.
“Yes,” I said, “Medvedev does, though he still refuses to follow me, even though I follow him. But an iPad is one thing, and Twitter is a completely different thing. The two things are mutually exclusive.”
“Are you sure?” asked HRH. “What is Tveeter anyway?”
“It’s like this,” I explained, “You condense something you want to say into 140 characters and you send it out to your followers.”
“What’s a character?” asked HRH.
“And then,” I said, “you can build your follower group by adding hashtags to key words, and everyone who is following that hashtag will see your tweet.
“I still don’t get it,” said HRH “Can’t I just send an e mail?”
We continued in this vein for some time, covering trending, re-tweets, following Friday and other salient aspects of Twitter. HRH said the whole thing sounded like a huge waste of time.
“Darling,” I finally said, exasperated, “I don’t think you are a natural born Tweeter. Your primary method of communication is to yell at people on your mobile phone. With Twitter, you need to have followers. Where are you going to get followers, anyway? From that Red Director crowd you hang out with?”
HRH considered this.
“I have subordinates,” he argued.
“Would they follow you?” I asked.
“They’d better!” he said.
“So you don’t need to Tweet,” I finished with a flourish, “but if you got me an iPad as well, we could Face Time while you are at work.”
“I told you,” HRH said angrily, “I’m not going on that site again. It’s responsible for one in four break up of marriages in Russia.”
“Yes,” I said, “but there’s an app for that.”
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This piece first appeared in The Washington Post on June 29, 2011. Once an online version of that story (chance will be a fine thing) appears on the web site, I will post a link.
The cartoon pictured above was pulled down off the bathroom wall after I ripped it out of The New Yorker where it first appeared. Obviously a little water logged.
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Hey Readers!
Do you have an iPad? do you love it? What do you use your iPad for? Tool or Toy? I want to know! Hit the comment button and leave some ideas!
Back by popular demand, the Expat Lexicon continues with ten more essential words you need to know when setting your course for Russia:
Breeze: (сквозняк)
Fatal in this part of the world, which is the reason that all the windows are painted shut. Air moving freely from one part of an enclosed space to another is simply not tolerated. Which explains the dirty looks you get when you open the air vents on the TU-154 that has been sitting on the tarmac for 45 minutes. Not to be confused with the other dirty looks you got when you checked in. I enjoyed last summer’s heat wave immensely if only for the refreshing opportunity to say, “I told you so!” to all the Russians who complained to me that they would sell their salo for a fan.
Babushka:
not to be confused with “head scarf,” babushka is a generic term for grandmother, but its dimunative “babuliya” can be used in a semi-condescending way to refer to a female person of age, who, more often than not is charging way too much for cucumbers or wants your seat on the metro. Babushkas are omnipotent and omniscient, as was (needlessly) brought home to me at a recent social event when I was trapped between two of them. They held forth all afternoon across me on the minor points of Orthodox saints in a one-upmanship that would have made veterans of the Curia weep.
Birthday (день рождения):
absolutely sacrosanct in Russia, necessitating a lengthy phone call or personal visit to the person in question, a flashy gift, an enormous stiff bouquet of flowers, and a lengthy, unwieldy, largely insincere toast. Though occasionally, you can get a really nice present. Because Russia is a hierarchical society (what…you thought the Communism thing made a dent?) the more important the person, the more flashy the gift, the more exotic the blooms, and you might just have to get Deep Purple to pen the tribute. Interestingly, Thank You notes are never considered necessary.
Business Trip (командировка):
not to be confused with the ubiquitous “Business Lanch,” the Business Trip is an important rite of passage for any budding bureaucrat (see below). In a stubborn refusal to ignore recent innovations such as the plastic credit/debit card, Russian companies issue you Business Trip Expenses (Командировочные расходы) after a cumbersome execution of a document known as An Advance Accounting Report, in which all of your “kommanderovichniye” are calculated to the last kopek and bear no relation to Real World Expenses. You know you have advanced from the mailroom when you stop picking up these slim envelopes from Olga in the Accounting Department. Anything for a quiet life.
Billionaire (миллиардер):
An extremely well-compensated senior manager of Russian state assets. A profession closed to almost all readers of “Dividing My Time.”
Blat (блат…and don’t get sloppy with the vowels in this word!):
The venerable Oxford English/Russian dictionary defines this as 1.) crime, 2.( pull, protection, influence. Often used in the dative case with the preposition “Po” as in “Po blatu” or “Through connections. Blat is the real hard currency of Russia.
Braindrain:
A thing that happens to a country when it chooses to hold large sporting events instead of providing real job opportunities and a social safety net to its diminishing population. They go get dental hygenist jobs in the UAE. Many Russia watchers consider this phenomenon to be at work today in Russia as a “Silent Third Wave” slips out of the country.
Bureaucrat (чиновник):
A popular form of employment in the Russian Federation. Requirements: a faux leatherette folder, a cheesy A5 Diary from a large state organization, a grey suit, 2 grey shirts, a cheesy Turkish tie. Annoying manner of speech which over-utilizes the passive voice and third person to refer to oneself. Patience. Applications available until March 2012 by Twitter @MedvedevRussia. For more information, see “The Overcoat” by N. Gogol.
Balcony (балкон):
1.) n. a highly accurate socio-economic barometer in The Former Soviet Union, 2.) A storage unit, 3.) a place to smoke even though the people you work for ask you not to, 4.) something to aggressively glass in.
Banya (баня):
A wood-lined room heated to unnatural temperatures in which naked men (and, if the Lady Lawyer with the Dirty Book is to be believed, sometimes women) wear silly felt hats and beat one another with dried branches for brief periods between lengthy drinking bouts. Considered by many to be Russia’s national sport. Features in the Russian equivalent of “Go to #$%^” which is “Idi v banu!” or “Go to the Sauna!”
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This post is part of the new Expat Lexicon.
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So Readers,
Any other thoughts on “B” words, mindful, as ever, that Dividing My Time is a family-friendly blog. Hit the comment button below and see what you can come up with!
Dividing my time is more complicated than it sounds.
I’m back in Moscow, and I’ve spent the last few days doing what I always do after a lengthy absence: removing every single garment and (carefully labeled) plastic container from my closet, which for some reason is covered in about an inch of dust. If you ever wondered why luxury handbags come with those soft bags, now you know: to keep the dust off. Then I had to empty the fridge and do whatever it is I do do to rid it of the sour smell that comes from what I call “HRH food.” I put all the half-wrapped salami slices into sealed containers, I throw away the rotting radishes, and I banish all the food my mother-in-law imports as soon as I leave: jam, German pickles (yuck!) and synthetic faux creamer.
Having replaced batteries in absolutely everything from my computer mouse to my Sonic-care toothbrush, downloaded software updates for my sluggish MacBook, completely reconfigured my To-doist.com (never underestimate the empowerment of a good to-do list), I read Raisa the cleaning lady the riot act about not throwing out any ice while I’m here, and finally feel ready to get back to writing.
I’ve been on an enforced writing sabbatical since HRH came to Northampton for a week’s holiday from the Difficult Start Up at the Important Industry right before my departure to Moscow (a schedule line up I won’t be repeating any time soon) during which, he declared, he wanted to do absolutely nothing. Except buy some new suits. And watch Velvet in a Very Serious Horse Show she attended in utter upstate New York. HRH forgot his driver’s license, which meant I did all of the driving involved. And this pleased neither one of us. HRH loves to drive in the United States, which he likens to playing a not-too-demanding video game. Since we acquired Serena, our dulcet-toned GPS, we never worry about getting lost, and since my Dad (the car Tsar) generously arranged for and continues to underwrite an E-Z Pass, we are almost never stuck in traffic.
The E-Z Pass reigns as one of HRH’s top favorite things about America (along with Cape Cod Potato chips and the Hampshire Regional YMCA). Being Russian, he likens waiting in line for anything as a sign of weakness, and waiting in line to pay for using a road completely unacceptable. Each time we shoot through the E-Z Pass lane, leaving the other drivers to creep and crawl through the “CASH” Lane, HRH gives a grunt of approval. I certainly found it handy as I pushed pedal to metal on the New York Thruway in order to make it to one of Velvet’s early morning jump offs.
Perhaps it was the E-Z Pass, or maybe it was the smooth execution of the Valet Parking I surprised him with at the Natick Mall, but HRH got it into his head that he needed to order a VIP Meet & Great at Domodedevo Airport for his return journey back to Moscow. He also very generously determined that I should have the same treatment for my return three days later. I did not demur. When you’ve checked in three large duffle bags full of harmless kitchen essentials such as a vertical chicken roaster, and innocuous white substances such as 500 packets of Splenda and baking powder, the thought is always there that some Customs’ Official recovering from a long night, might just take it into his head to decide that the former is a sex toy and the latter a controlled substance.
I was thrilled, therefore, to casually stroll off the aircraft as my fellow passengers pushed and shoved, and did that thing that is not quite a run, but is a lot more than a walk, in a desperate effort to get to the front of the endless passport control queue (which is now even longer as we wait for the printer to print out the registration card). Savoring the moment, I approached the bored-looking female with pockmarked skin and an inexpertly hemmed uniform skirt, holding up the “VIP-ЗАЛ” sign.
“Hello there,” I said brightly, “I’m your client!”
She regarded me with a massive amount of disinterest.
“Identify yourself,” she grunted.
She seemed surprised, but resigned when I produced the right documentation and she motioned me to follow her.
Does anything say “You’re back in Russia” like the echoing “clack clack clack” of a female airport employee’s rickety heels on the tile floor? We forged our way through the steamy departure lounge, full of Russians in tracksuit bottoms and tank tops heading off for package holidays in Turkey and Egypt. Through a door, down a corridor, up a flight of stairs, down another corridor and up an additional flight of stairs I lugged my rollaboard full of cameras, computers, my Duty free swag (three bottles of PIMMS) and enough cooking magazines to last me two months. We finally pushed through the final set of doors to the VIP Lounge.
I won’t belabor the point describing it, except to say I think that rattan, as a decorative motif in a climate such as Russia's is a mistake, and that, at the prices they charge for the service, a cash bar seems tacky, but as the Russians say, “It’s a sin to complain.”
Well, maybe just one complaint then…
It is nice to sit in a rattan chair and wait for someone to collect your three large duffle bags full of Splenda and vertical chicken roasters for you, but having to lug them up those two flights of stairs then through the entire arrivals hall, down the one tiny working elevator to get to the car which is parked in the dedicated VIP Parking space…that makes me long for my E-Z Pass.
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Priveyt Readers!
Have you experienced a VIP service in Russia? VIP Sushi perhaps? Or VIP Banya? What's your experience been? Hit the comment button below and tell us about it!
I was taken aback last month when a reader wrote to ask me if bacon-flavored vodka is as popular in Russia as it is in her part of the world: the Southern United States.
Bacon vodka? Really?
I’ve never been a big vodka fan, which is probably the reason I am still alive after twenty years in Russia, where vodka is a way of life. I’m more of a gin or chardonnay gal, but the idea of bacon-flavored vodka, and what a basic Internet research revealed to be its unquestioned popularity, forced me to take another look at vodka and experiment with its seemingly endless possibilities. Flavor infusion has helped vodka and me hit the reset button!
Since the Poles first brought vodka to Russia in the 8th Century, the clear, strong, largely flavorless beverage has been the liquor of choice to accompany both the lavish banquets of the Tsars as well as the simple fare of Russian peasants. In the 18th Century, Catherine the Great granted distillery rights to select members of the aristocracy, who vied with one another to produce the purest and most sophisticated brands of vodka, as well as flavored versions which, as Moscow’s Vodka Museum points out used, “all the letters of the alphabet…cherry and pear, blackberry and acorn, caraway seed and dill, bird cherry and sage!”
Vodka, then, is a blank culinary canvas on which the creative cook can paint almost any flavor by infusing fruit, vegetables, herbs, spices and yes, even bacon. Infusion is a simple process which combines a flavor component with any liquid at a specific temperature for anywhere from four hours to four weeks (depending on the properties of the component.) Vodka is particularly suited to infusion because of its odorless clarity and high alcohol percentage.
Summer is the perfect time to start experimenting with flavored vodka, particularly in Russia where vodka is always cheap, and the bounty of summer floods the market with fresh berries and pungent fresh herbs. Flavored vodka is not only delicious on its own: chilled in a simple shot glass, or as the basis of imaginative mixed drinks; but it also adds wonderful flavor to soups, risotto, stews, and makes a marvelous marinade to meats, poultry, and fish, and are a great accompaniment to traditional Russian summer staple of shashlik.
Here are some of my favorite infused vodkas, and the foods they match to perfection!
Ginger-Infused Vodka:
This is ideal for mixed drinks, a marinade for fish and chicken, or on its own to accompany Asian food. I serve this with sushi and spring roles for an innovative, light appetizer.
Ingredients:
One large knob of fresh ginger (10-12 centimeters long) peeled and sliced very thin.
750 ml of plain, unflavored vodka
Instructions:
1. Wash and sterilize a one liter bottle or jar with a non-metal lid.
2. Using the back of a spoon or the smooth end of a meat tenderizer, gently crush the ginger slices to release their essential oils.
3. Combine the ginger slices and vodka in the jar or bottle, shaking lightly to combine.
4. Place the mixture in the freezer for 5 days.
5. Remove the mixture from the freezer and allow the mixture to come to room temperature.
6. Sieve the mixture through a coffee filter or fine mesh colander.
Thyme-Infused Vodka:
This vodka infusion pairs wonderfully with lamb chops, poultry, and grilled vegetables. Combined with extra virgin olive oil, the vodka does well as both as a dipping sauce or marinade, or drizzle it over goat cheese, to add a wonderfully fresh flavor component.
This recipe works well for almost any fresh herb. Try tarragon, dill or basil!
Ingredients:
One bunch of fresh thyme
750 ml of plain, unflavored vodka.
Instructions:
1. Carefully remove the thyme buds from the stems. Wash in a salad spinner and pat dry on paper towels.
2. Wash and sterilize a glass jar with a tight, non-metal lid.
3. Gently crush the dry thyme buds in a clean mortar and pestle and place in the bottom of the jar.
4. Pour vodka over the thyme buds and gently shake to combine.
5. Cover with lid and place in a dark location at room temperature (no warmer than 20°C). Allow to steep for up to three days; periodically shaking to ensure the vodka absorbs the thyme flavor.
6. Strain vodka through a coffee filter or fine wire mesh with cheesecloth.
Lime and Coriander Infused Vodka:
I combined these two flavors, which go wonderfully together, for a delicious pairing for Middle Eastern meze: hummus, baba ganouch, and tabouli!
Ingredients:
Zest of one lime (be careful to remove only the green rind and not the inner white part of the rind.
5-Tbl of lightly toasted coriander seeds, crushed in a mortar and pestle
750 ml of plain, unflavored vodka
Instructions:
1. Combine lime zest and coriander in the bottom of a sterilized glass jar or bottle with a non-metal top.
2. Add vodka and shake gently to combine.
3. Let the mixture steep for four days in a dark area at room temperature (not warmer than 20°C). Do not steep for more or the lime rind will make the vodka bitter.
4. Shake lightly periodically.
5. Strain the mixture through a coffee filter or a fine wire mesh with a piece of cheesecloth.
6. Return the mixture to the dark location to age for approximately 30 days.
7. Serve chilled.
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This article was first published in French under the title "La vodka se reinvente pour les gourmets," in La Russie d'Aujourd'hui on June 15, 2011. A link to that original article may be found here.
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Privyet Readers!
Want to know the secret to bacon vodka? You know you do! Leave a comment below and I’ll send it right along, along with some creative ideas on how to use it (and not abuse it!) Don’t knock it ‘til you try it – it makes a mean Bloody Mary, and has a truly phenomenal flavor!
There is no question about it – it’s summertime!
Temperatures are hovering around 90°F, I’ve got my gas mask ready for the peat bog fires, and Velvet is at a marathon seven-day horse show that is literary called “Horseshows in The Sun” or HITS. I’m bugging my nuclear family about sunscreen. True to form, they are ignoring me.
When it gets this hot, there is only one thing for it and that is PIMMS, which, together with excellent men’s tailoring is Britain’s lasting gift to world culture. This delightful gin-based liquor is mixed with fresh fruit (apples, limes, oranges, peaches, mint, cucumber, and strawberries) and topped up with what the Brits call Fizzy Lemonade and Yanks call 7UP. It’s a big part of things like the Regatta at Henley. I spent a good deal of the mid eighties in a pleasant PIMMS haze and I can tell you now, there are worse ways to spend time.
PIMMS is hard to run to ground in Moscow, which is why everyone including me prefers to fly British Airways and not with the octogenarian mean flight attendants of a leading American flag carrier, nor, indeed, with those clowns at Russia’s national carrier. No, a nice two-hour layover at Heathrow’s Terminal 5 gives you enough time to stock up on life’s essentials:
1. As many bottles of PIMMS as you can carry.
2. Ditto Jo Malone
3. Ditto English language magazines.
That’s why God invented those Longchamps bags, right?
PIMMS always reminds me of one of the top three most awkward events I’ve ever attended, which, when you’ve lived in Moscow for 17 years is saying a lot. It was a Christmas party held out in one of the Gated Communities by one of HRH’s silly, wildly over-compensated bosses and his pretentious Russian wife. It was one of those ill-conceived expat attempts to be egalitarian in Russia, which always go horribly wrong. The silly boss, wildly over-compensated boss was from the Antipodes if you get my meaning, and his Russian wife (who was so much smarter than he it wasn’t even funny) was incredibly pretentious. It was December and there was a raging blizzard. We struggled out to the Gated Community with the entire staff, including the drivers (and you know your in Russia when a company hires drivers for the drivers) and got to their house for drinks before we had to wrap up and struggle over to some restaurant where we had to have Japanese food. The Russian wife had set out a range of hor d’oeuvres on the coffee table, which baffled the drivers and their silent scared wives. After the Russian wife explained to us what Brie and smoked salmon was, she then served us all PIMMS, complete with strawberries (at the time I am speaking of, strawberries cost about 12 dollars a piece) and cucumber and mint, and even an ice cube or two.
I could not for the life of me figure out what the hell they thought they were doing. Until I remembered that Christmas in the Antipodes is a summer event.
But it was still silly.
So, mix yourself up a PIMMS and relax…wherever you are in the world!!!
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Hey Readers!
What's your most awkward event ever? Did it involve PIMMS? Have you ever been to an ill-conceived expat attempt to be egalitarian? Tell us about it, won't you, by hitting the comment button below. And put on some sunscreen!!!