Dividing My Time

Always Winter, Never Christmas

 

“Meet me at the Diner for lunch,” said Joe Kelly over the phone  “I need to ask you something.”

I was happy to take a break from writing and oblige: lunch with Joe is always a treat.  A former linebacker from Ohio, he fills the strategically positioned hexagonal booth at the Starlight Diner with his effusive bonhomie most afternoons, massaging his iPhone and running his business between a cheeseburger and jovial encounters with his many friends.

“So,” he said after I slid into the booth next to him, “here is what I want to know – what is it like to spend New Year’s in Russia?”

“Armageddon,” I responded automatically. “You aren’t really considering staying here, are you?”

“I might be,” said Joe, talking a restorative sip of his Diet Pepsi.  “Tanya would like to go to her mother’s dacha, and she’s made it clear she’d like me to stay.”

Tanya, Joe’s longtime girlfriend is the original tough cookie -- like a titanium chip cookie.  If Tanya wanted a Russian New Year’s, she was likely to get it.

“Spending New Year’s in Russia,” I said, shaking the ketchup bottle vigorously, “is very much like working for a Russian company:  most expats try it once, and then give it up because it's way too dysfunctional and the food is terrible.”

“Tell me what you really think,” said Joe mournfully, dropping his head in his hands.

“I spent New Year’s in Russia once,” I said, “and almost got divorced as a result.”

“Seriously?” he asked.

“Seriously,” I said snitching one of his French fries and pointing it at him for emphasis, “It’s like Narnia – ‘always winter and never Christmas.’   No stockings, no carols, no wassail, no eight tiny reindeer – none of that.  Christmas, when it happens is in January and it is no big deal.   Do you really want to sit here on December 25th while the civilized world sips Bloody Mary’s and egg nog and opens presents, and you are at work where some beefy accountant called Olga makes you do your expense report --?”

“Jen,” said Joe carefully as I was in mid-harangue, “I am self-employed, that wouldn’t be my experience.”

“-- And then when you finally get to December 31st, you have to spend the entire day with your mother-in-law cleaning the entire apartment while she makes herring under a fur coat.”

“Is that the one with potatoes and carrots?”

“No, Joe,” I responded sternly, “herring under a fur coat is the one made from layers of beets, chopped hardboiled eggs, pickled herring, potatoes, glued together with polyester mayonnaise, all topped with grated cheese.”

“Yuck,” said Joe.

“Yuck doesn’t even crack the surface, my friend.  And then, when your husband finally – finally -- comes home after an afternoon of racketing around Moscow congratulating government ministers and police chiefs – he falls senseless onto the couch for about four hours until its time to get up and turn on the TV. And what’s on TV?  Russian variety musical shows, that’s what – hours and hours of cheesy Russian rock stars singing horrible music.”

“Well, Tanya doesn’t know any police chiefs,” said Joe grasping at straws.

“Not that you know of,” I cautioned, “but come New Year’s Eve, she’ll unearth some.  And then, just when you’ve had about enough, the horrible sister will arrive: the most self-centered narcissist in the galaxy, not lift a finger to help, and proceed take a four-hour nap.  And then you will begin to get why everyone is taking all these four hour naps around 9:30 pm, because you aren’t going to eat anything until 11 pm, and when you do eat, it will be herring under a fur coat and sweet champagne, and trust me – those two aren’t a culinary match made in heaven.”

“What happens at midnight?” asked Joe.

“Ah well,” I said, “the big dénouement is that President of Russia comes on and makes a five minute toast.”

“That’s it?”

I racked my brain.  “I think so,” I said, “Yes, that’s all, but you know I’m not sure.  I was so knackered from it all that I fell fast asleep at 12:01.”

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This article first appeared in Russia Beyond The Headlines on December 14, 2010 online.

Hey Readers!

Do you stay in Russia during what passes for Christmas and then through New Year? What’s been your experience?  Or do you sensibly flee?  Where to?

If you felt in synch with this post, try a few more like it:

Day of the Teachers and Workers of Nursery and Pre-Schools/День воспитателя и всех дошкольных работников: Moscow Moms and Pioneer Parents

Day of the Furniture Makers/День мебельщика: Let’s Hear it For The Swedes!

Hide and Seek

Hey Readers, a gentle reminder in this season of giving: Dividing My Time has been nominated  in two categories (Best Travel Blog and Best Humor Blog) in the 2010 Blogger's Choice Awards!  If you enjoy Dividing My Time, please consider voting by clicking on the icons to the right of this column, or by following this easy link  and this one too.  It’s quick, easy, doesn’t cost anything, and its really all I want for Christmas!  Thank you!

 

Day of the Traffic Cops (Day of the GIBDD) /День ГАИ (День ГИБДД МВД РФ): A Hypothetical Reenactment

“They have a Day?  Isn’t every day, like, their day?

~ My Very Funny Friend Ian

Get out your  wallet champagne!  Today is Traffic Cop Day!  Which is why the traffic cops, known by their old name “Gaishniki” are all dressed up in their special white shirts.   These are the fine men (mostly men) of Russia’s Department for The Provision of Road Safety.  If you get pulled over, be sure to offer them up hearty congratulations on their “profpraznik.” It can’t hurt. Unlikely to help.

So very much has been written about Russia’s nefarious traffic cops, and since I was slammed this week in a five page harangue by a lunatic septuagenarian Russian writer who took such violent exception to my views on Russian dachas, I hesitate to offer my own thoughts on the subject, but what the hell…

There he is, our hero of the day, the Gaishnik standing at an intersection, arms casually folded, propped up against a telephone pole, watching the traffic snarl up with a profoundly detached expression, as he enjoys a smoke, hawks and spits, or indulges in an unhurried chat on the phone.  “Christ,” you think “my tax rubles at work.”  HRH tells me to drop it, because, in his experience, when they try and get involved, like if a traffic light has been broken for four days in a row, things go rapidly downhill. A Gaishnik will leap to action quickly enough, however, if the call comes through that “Someone Important is on the Move.”  He straightens his spine, hurls his half-smoked cigarette into the nearest on-coming windshield, pockets his mobile, and wades bravely into the tangle of cars, blocking off all access at the intersection by bravely taking up a defensive stance in the middle of the five lanes, legs spread, hands on hips, the brave defenders of Stalingrad and Borodino come to life again, ready to salute smartly as the motorcade whizzes by.    

Gaishniki are the scourge of Russian drivers, who, like over-disciplined children, have developed a reckless disregard for speed limits and traffic regulations that makes Ben Hur’s chariot race look like a tricycle race for the five-and-under set. These two disparate elements co-exist, co-depend and enable one another until the road situation in Russia is beyond rehab or any one of the twelve steps.

    If corrupt minor officialdom has a face, it is a Gaishnik:  ruddy complexion, squinty-eyed, stocky build, and medium height. You can tell they are not the sharpest knives in the drawer.   They exude a bizarre combination of smug self-satisfaction and a menacing demeanor, which makes you think that asking them if you can turn left on Alabianaya Street is possibly not the best idea.    They wear slate grey uniforms: in the winter padded snow pants and heavy parkas, with matching fur hats, thick gloves and Storm Trooper boots.   In the summer, they look slightly less menacing, in military tunics and peaked police caps.  They are instantly recognizable by their emblematic pozhaluysta (please) sticks. As in “please” pull over.  Pozhaluysta sticks are roughly 20 inches long, painted in white and black stripes, and hang from a well-worn leather strap.   At Gaishnik Prep School, it seems to me, the mandatory curriculum includes complicated majorette-type twirling routines with the sticks.  They really are very accomplished at these intricate swings, twirls and twists.   I think this is a key skill set for climbing up the Gaishnik Greasy Pole:  if you are any good at it, you get posted to some plumb intersection where the traffic rules change hourly.   You enjoy rapid promotion.   Mind you, they don’t lack for practice, and keeping fit for the All-Gaishnik Semi-Annual Pozhaluysta Stick Twirling Jamboree must help to kill time between motorists nabs.   Pozhaluysta sticks are meant to direct traffic, but the true purpose is to act like one massive middle or, if you like, index finger.  A Gaishnik seeks out his victim – a hapless transgressor of some obscure traffic rule, or, if you are a foreigner, some completely made up traffic rule – swings his pozhaluysta stick up, executes a quick flip, and then plunges it down like a dagger right in the direction of your windshield.  As you acknowledge, he swings it around 180-degrees, then snaps his wrist adroitly to point to the side of the road, motioning you to pull out of traffic, and prepare for battle.

    I’m not saying this ever happens to me, but if it did, my heart would plummet to my accelerator foot.   I am not great at these encounters: this is not my core skill set.    I might roll down the window of my slick imported planet-punishing SUV, with the Obama ’08 sticker, a set up that could earn me an immediate 15% increase in whatever fine is coming down the pipeline, in addition, that is, to the pre-existing 5% surcharge for being a female of the species behind the wheel.  It would not occur to me that I might get off without a fine, which is why a lot of people (not necessarily me) keep a stash of crisp 1000-ruble notes hidden between the pages of their copy of “Rules of Automotive Conduct of the Russian Federation” in the glove compartment. Not that I do that kind of thing.

 

    Should, hypothetically, this kind of thing happen, the Gaishnik would whip through his compulsory polite routine: a curt salute, his name and rank rattled off at lightening speed, in a tone that doesn’t fill one with confidence that he feels himself to be a servant of the public.  Having established his unquestioned supremacy, he asks to see one’s documents.   Then, not that this has ever happened to me, one might hand over the car’s registration card, Certificate of Roadworthiness, HRH’s power of attorney giving one permission to drive the car, one’s license and, what will earn one a further increase in whatever fee is surely heading one’s way: one’s blue American passport.   Not having the documents is not an option – it’s not like trying to get out of gym by forgetting your shorts.  Not having the full set of documents means that they will confiscate the car instantly.   The Gaishnik would then make a thorough investigation of the documents, checking them once, checking them twice, because there might well be a juicy little bonus stream if any of them is outdated, incorrectly stamped, or in any way defective.  He would take even more time with the American passport, because, let’s be honest, he can’t read anything but Certificates of Roadworthiness in Cyrillic Sovietese.   He flips through the pages to find something written in Cyrillic he can understand.  Finally, he looks up and greets one, using the charmingly outdated “Citizen” as a salutation.  Responding With Charm is Plan A.  Tears are Plan B, and calling HRH is the strategy of last resort, one hopes never to have to fall back on.

    “Citizen,” might the Gaishnik say, in a manner suggesting he is personally deeply offended,  “you have broken law number blitherblather of the Rules of Automotive Conduct of the Russian Federation.”  (said at lightening speed, making one unlikely to refer to one’s really-not-all-that-well-thumbed copy of “Rules of Automotive Conduct of the Russian Federation”).

    At this point in the proceedings, my audacious buddy Joe Kelly would launch into a complicated and eloquent argument in his best pidgeon Russian.  He’d actually exit the vehicle  (enough to scare anyone who doesn’t know him well) and start to re-enact the scenario, trying (and failing) to prove that he’s in the right.    I’ve noticed that men like HRH and Joe often exit the vehicle to discuss their transgressions with the Gaishniki, but girls tend to stay in the car.    This would suit me fine.  I enjoy being a girl. 

    “Oh dear,” I would say.  “How shall we proceed?”

    For all my time in this emerging market, I am neither an accomplished, nor a thrifty briber. Joe might argue, haggle or negotiate at this point, but I would not.  Why? It costs more, but it saves time. Should the Gaishnik  write me up a summons, I would pretend to be very frightened, and ponder, out loud, what my husband might say when he finds out, or bite my lip and say I’m running late for picking my three children up at kindergarten, and might there possibly be a way to settle this thing quickly and simply?  I think psychologists call this mirroring: sensing what the Gaishnik wants, and becoming it.  Should this happens (and I’m not saying it does) I would become the helpless female.   He, in turn, would make a production of sighing deeply, glancing surreptitiously to the left and to the right, as if checking to see if a non-existent senior officer is looking on, then tell me it is a massive exception, because he is an incredibly nice guy, but he’d let me streamline my penalty, by paying him directly. He might quote an (outrageous) figure, which I might (I’m not saying this has ever happened) pay promptly, in the crisp notes, already prepared, out of the “Rules of Automotive Conduct of the Russian Federation” and gratefully hightail it of there as soon as possible. 

    Not that any of this ever happens.

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This post is part of The Stunt

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Hi There, Readers:

Let’s hear your GAI stories: come on: I know you have them! And, if you hate dachas, this would be an excellent time for you to chime in on your support, as I really was quite brutally lambasted.  So, please, comment!  And, if you want to stick around, enjoy a few more posts like this one:

Russians En Route

Day of the Army Automobile Corps/День военного автомобилиста: The Right of Way

Firefighters' Day/ День пожарной охраны: A Profession That Still Makes House Calls

Russia Day /День России: No, It’s Not Independence Day

Russia also declared its independence. This was approved by the Supreme Soviet, and you know and remember that there was the Declaration on the Independence of Russia. 

~ Boris Yeltsin 

Today is Russia Day!  

 
 At a gathering at my home in Moscow on Friday, I was not surprised that a survey of Russians polled (HRH and Joe’s very clever girlfriend Tanya) had absolutely no idea what Russia Day is in aid of, even though today marks the 20th anniversary of the original Russia Day.  Ask them about Border Guard Day, or Victory Day, and they are letter perfect, but Russia Day?  But this is why nation building – to say nothing of being a groundbreaking chronicler of Russian holidays -- is such uphill work.

So, as a public service message, here is the skinny on Russia Day:  Russia Day marks the moment on June 12, 1990 when (and pay attention, because this is slightly tricky) the Russian parliament declared Russian sovereignty over Russia.  And if that sounds like a bunch of people who don’t have enough to do getting together to have a party, it actually was a significant moment for the newly-minted Russian Federation, which had been the Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic (RSFSR), the largest of the 15 Republics that made up The Soviet Union.   Declaring State Sovereignty over this body made the Russian Federation a new nation, independent of the other 14.   While the name of the country would be ratified later in 1991 (we’ll come to this in December), Russia Day marked the true moment of the birth of a nation.

But you can see why people like HRH (44% of Russians actually, according to a recent poll) remain confused about the holiday and refer to June 12th as “Independence Day.”   This is understandable if you are French or American and you look at the color scheme and the choice of a summer date, as well as the fireworks in the evening.  Reminds you vaguely of some other holidays celebrating that kind of thing around this time…though sadly the menu isn’t as wonderful.  

“But,” asks Dee Dee Jansson, who hasn’t been here that long, “independence from whom?”

“That’s easy,” I say, using my favorite joke that never gets old, “independence from Georgia, Armenia, the Baltics, Ukraine, Moldova, Belarus, and the Stans.”

 Being a fairly young holiday, Russia Day does not have a lot of engrained traditions, beyond the classic “Red Day on the Calendar” playbook:  streets blocked off to cars, metal detectors in Red Square, cheesy bands playing in the squares to small exhausted looking children half-heartedly clutching Russian tricolors.  As Russia Day falls this year on a Saturday, needless to say, we get Monday off, so most everyone I knew took advantage of this by either leaving Russia altogether (preferable) or going to the dacha, which I think they will regret as the forecast suggests violent thunderstorms that will very possibly be made worse by the cloud seeding that happens on days like this.   A handful of  journalists took the opportunity to craft some well-written opinion pieces like this one by Vladimir Milov, which I recommend, while the gang in power handed out some prizes for poetry, music, and science.  Cheesy loud concert in Red Square followed by fireworks.  Lather, rinse, repeat.

Now, if we could just introduce some fried chicken, cole slaw and potato salad into the mix somehow…

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This post is part of The Stunt

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Hey Readers!

Happy Russia Day!  What did you get up to?  What would be your ideal Russia Day menu? Don’t you think it should feature red, white, and blue martinis of some kind?  Any suggestions?

Thanks as always for stopping by, and I’d love to hear your thoughts in the form of a comment, which you can leave by clicking the comment button below.  

Or, stick around and enjoy a few more posts like this one:

May Day / День труда: A Day of Solidarity

St. George’s Day /День святого Георгия Победоносца: Cry God For Vovka, Russia and St. George!

Day of the Black Sea Fleet /День Черноморского флота: The Boys Who Brought You The Battleship Potemkin!

All Russia Library Day/ Всероссийский день библиотек (День библиотекаря): The Call Number Girls

My library was Dukedom large enough.

~ The Tempest, William Shakespeare

  My buddy Joe Kelly is what Yiddish speakers call a mensch – a great guy who seems to have an innate sense when to turn up..  In May of 2005, I was single-handedly unpacking and shelving my book collection in our new flat in Moscow.  I had been itching to get this done, and so had spent much of the day, unpacking and stacking boxes with careful labels announcing, “Fiction Buchan – Dickens,” or “Dan Brown Studies,” and “Queen Marie of Rumania bios.”  When Joe showed up, looking for a clean bathroom, a cold drink, and a nap on my new couch, he found me more than ready to take a break.We sipped our ginger lemonades, feet up on piles of books, as we surveyed the stacks on the floor and partially filled shelves, which stretched across the length of two rooms.

“Want me to help you throw these up onto the shelves?” asked Joe.

“No,” I said, shaking my head, “Thanks…but I have to figure out where to start each section…that will take me a while.”

“Dude,” said Joe laughing, “what do you mean…section?”

“You know,” I explained, “like biography, early church history, interior design, fiction, foreign fiction –“

“Jenny B!” exclaimed Joe, laughing his head off, “you really catalog your books…like according to what, the Dewey Decimal system?”

I was confused. 

“Don’t you?” I asked.

Joe is still dining out on this…he calls me the Call Number Girl, and because he’s Joe, it’s funny.

Today is All Russian Library Day! From Kaliningrad to Nakhodka, we are celebrating Russian libraries and librarians!  Be sure to take a moment and stop off at your neighborhood public library and thank the librarians for all they do to make our lives richer, fuller, and happier.

That, of course, could be a problem if you live anywhere between Kaliningrad and Nakhodka, because you might not be able to get into the library.  Not unless you have a special access pass (which is very different from a card) like the one Lyudmila, the gutsy husband-hunting heroine of “Moscow Doesn’t Believe In Tears,” finagles in order to spend a Sunday afternoon in in search of a likely-looking graduate student in Moscow’s Lenin Library.

“What are you going for?” asks her more practical and studious friend, Katya, “surely not the books?”

“Well,” says Lyudmila, “you see…there is a cigarette break room.”

It goes without saying that there isn’t the Library culture in Russia that exists in the West.  There are libraries, to be sure, but you don’t get taken to them in a stroller for Story Hour as a toddler, or exhaust the Young Adult section by the time you are 13.  You don’t inhale Victoria Holt or become riveted by Nicholas & Alexandra.  They don’t offer free Internet access, and aren’t staffed by nice people who talk to you as they check out your books about the latest Rachel Cusk.  They certainly don’t hunt down an out of print copy of “My Ordeal” by Queen Marie of Rumania for you. You can’t check out a DVD of “My Man Godfrey” when you are feeling blue or a 30 hour engrossing Book On Tape for a long car drive…in fact you don’t check out anything, you stay in and read stuff there.  You don’t volunteer to go to an endless series of what are known in my family as “regularly scheduled emergency meetings of the Library Board,” on cold January nights.

There are no real libraries in Russia.    Not that I could find.  Not that satisfied my insatiable desire for books.  There is the Library of Foreign Literature which doesn’t smell super, but is a place where you can go and sit and read Jane Eyre or a three-month old Time Magazine if you are that desperate, but you have to bring six copies of your passport and leave your first born as hostage.

I took three books with me to Russia in 1992, and I read them until the spines cracked and the pages were waterlogged.  When Saint Steve came out with the iPod and I could download audio books, I thought I’d died and gone to Heaven.   English books were like gold in Moscow:  every trip to London included a long session at Hatchard’s or a slow trawl up Charring Cross Road.  You had to know someone really really well to lend them a book, and Russian drivers criss-crossed Moscow to deliver and return the precious commodities to book club members.  Today, my own library in Moscow to me seems nothing short of miraculous: Over 2000 volumes: impressive lit in the public areas of the flat, comfort lit downstairs in the privacy of the bedroom.  Each one, a triumph over logistics.  Each one, a friend.  Each one painstakingly trawled for in used book shops or online to satisfy the completist in me:  my childhood favorites added to Velvet’s shelves: Laura and Mary, Heidi, and Frodo joined the five sisters from All-Of-A-Kind-Family, and made room for newcomers Princess Mia, Harry, Ron and Hermione.

 As Velvet got older, she would ask for new stories and I’d pull Lizzie Bennett, Linda Radlett and Fanny Logan, Patrick Dennis or Scout down from the shelf.  

My books keep me company and make me feel safe.  It isn’t too much of a stretch to say they keep me sane.

After we closed on the new house in Northampton, title documents in hand, HRH suggested we head off for a long celebratory lunch at our favorite French restaurant, Bistro Le Gras.

“One stop to make first,” I said, climbing into the car.

“Where?” asked HRH, puzzled.

“The Forbes Public Library,” I said, “I want a library card.”

Happy Library Day to librarians – wannabe or otherwise – throughout all of Russia and the world!

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This post is part of The Stunt.

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Dear Reader:

Let's shout it out for the Librarians!!!!! Leave a tribute by clicking on the comment button below, and don't forget to say "Thank You" to the people who make your library possible!  Consider becoming a member of your own local public library, volunteer for story hour, or just browse the shelves.  Or, if you're in Moscow, come and see my Library....if you are very good, I'll lend you a book!