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.”
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.
-------------------------------------------------------- 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?
Today is Russia's National Carrier’s Day! Regular readers of this blog will know that I won’t be making a special trip over to Azbukha for something to hoist up in a toast to that crowd! I have written lots and lots about my happy time there as an employee: my first foray into working for a Russian company.
I could tell you that the National Carrier was founded in 1923, that they are a member of the Sky Team (and who, do we want to know, was asleep at that particular wheel?), and so on, but really, since they still owe me about $28,000 USD (I’ll accept that in rubles BTW), I will spare you the PR talking points. Google them if you are perishing to find out, and be sure to search for the story on how they failed to get in enough de-icer fluid over Christmas, bringing Moscow airports to a virtual standstill for several days. Classic National Carrier.
What I thought I would do instead, then, is celebrate the day by providing another helpful public service message to expats considering a career with a Russian company. In troubled times like these, a call from Yuliya the perky headhunter, promising a “really huge salary” and “shares” or the magic acronym “IPO” can be very appealing, I realize, but here are some helpful hints on what to look out for during the inevitable slippery downward slope to what I call “The Red Handshake.”
You’ve had your initial chummy chat with Yuliya the perky headhunter, and you’ve gotten the green light to go ahead and continue the interview process with large, unwieldy Russian company, providing essential services such as transportation, utilities, oil and gas, telephony, or financial services. Don’t avoid these essential next steps:
1.Try to determine if this is a daughter company, or (God help you) a “trading house” (торговый дом) or subsidiary (дочерняя компания) of the large unwieldy Russian company. These are always failures, and are more often than not sort of window dressing for something far more nefarious going on in the background that they won’t tell you about, since your enthusiasm is part of the design of the window dressing. You are, as it were, the main decorative motif. Here’s what will happen next:
a.Your first interview is with a somewhat enthusiastic, 40-something Westernized Russian (he has an iPhone, but asks you to call him Igor Konstantinovich). He knows absolutely nothing about your industry beyond the fact that the large, unwieldy Russian company has “great potential. He will reveal that he went to school with, and/or is a next-door dacha neighbor to the oligarch who runs the unwieldy Russian company.
He is going to be in charge.
b.Despite the fact that the large unwieldy Russian company has a sprawling corporate headquarters in downtown Moscow, the Torgovoi Dom’s office will be at another location, yet to be determined.
c.Igor Konstantinovich knows nothing about international health insurance.
If you find yourself in that situation – my advice is to flee. Don’t take it any further. Don’t give up your day job. Don’t even bother (and those who know me well know this is anathema to me) to write Igor Konstantinovich a thank-you letter.
If, however, you sense that your hire is for the actual large, unwieldy Russian company and that the strategic merger, IPO, or potential swallow of seven other minor market players is bona fide and you think you have the balls to pursue it, then be sure to:
1.Get the very best “English Law” lawyer(or if you prefer, solicitor) you can afford. If you can’t afford a lawyer, mortgage your house, pawn your engagement ring, and hire out your children as baristas. Send in the lawyer to discuss all the teeny tiny details of the employment contract with the large, unwieldy Russian company. Have him/her (but, really, in this situation, much better him) copied on all e mails, have him present at all meetings, and have him sit on the final papers for at least three days longer than feels comfortable. This is a prudent investment in your future.
2.Be anal about the details in your work contract. Get Shyster Lawyer to hammer out a “Golden Parachute” clause for you of at least one year’s salary, bonus, and benefits. Since this does not exist in Russian law, make sure your contract is made according to English Law. You should also include everything down to the number of paper clips you think you need, the stipulation that you always fly business class wherever you go (because, trust me: Moscow – Khabarovsk overnight via economy class on the National Carrier is not why you signed up for this job), and all the teeny tiny terms and conditions. Don’t let the large, unwieldy Russian company hurry you into starting to work before the contract is signed, and don’t fall for the one where they tell you the legal entity being created to employ you is not yet registered. Make several copies of the contract, have them notarized by a Russian notary and put them in a safe deposit box at a bank outside Russia.
3.Clarify your reporting status. I personally don’t think it’s worth the hassle if you aren’t going to report to the oligarch in question, but it’s up to you. Get it in writing, and, if possible, I recommend a clause whereby your Golden Parachute kicks in if your direct report suddenly morphs from the hapless, but enthusiastic Igor Konstantinovich into Olga Quelque Chose. It’s been known to happen.
4.Insist upon a site visit to your potential place of work. This is to ensure that:
a.There is an actual building, and not some soon-to-be disclosed location that is still being negotiated.
b.You are going to have an actual office, including a door that shuts. This should also, ideally, include a large desk with a huge long table that juts out from it at a right angle. Yes, like a penis…exactly so. The rule is simple: the longer that table is, the more important you are. Be specific on the details of your office’s interior design—that’s what real men in Russia do.
c.Make sure your office is within a 10-minute leisurely stroll to that of your direct report. You don’t want to have to put your tray table in an upright position before you meet face-to-face with your direct report. Large country, Russia.
d.You have a bi-lingual secretary. I know, you think your Middlebury Russian is kick-ass, and it may well be, but you need at least one secretary to not only sift through, but more importantly, issue, the sheer tonnage of deeply silly Russian inter-office memos (Sluzhebnieye Zapiski), or Orders (Prikazi) or ACTS (aktiy) without which nothing—including buying all those paperclips -- ever gets done in Russia.
5.Begin to cultivate a gruff demeanor. Shed your charming Western manners, and practice saying things like “Idi soo-dah!” (come here!) as you would to a large and slightly out of control Doberman pincher. Practice looking down your nose. Learn to sneer.
And so to work! The paychecks roll in, the projects develop. It goes well, until…the cracks begin to appear. Things don’t seem quite the same somehow. What’s going on, you wonder? Could it be the “Red Handshake?” That slow water torture large, unwieldy Russian companies like yours use to force foreign managers to quit, rather than paying them the “golden parachute” sum. It could well be. Here are some signs to watch out for:
1.The large, unwieldy Russian company goes through a major re-shuffle of its fleet of cars while you are skiing at Chamonix. Upon your return, you learn that your Audi Six has turned into a Ford Focus.
2.You aren’t invited (read ordered) to as many management meetings as you once were. You assume they’ve been reduced in number, until you encounter some new rule or regulation that was made at one you didn’t attend. It turns out that in fact, the number of meetings has in fact tripled.
3.The merger, buy-out, or IPO for which you were hired, and by which you assume you will make the requisite $10mn every expat expects to make in Russia, is delayed, de-railed, or somehow is no longer the strategic priority it once was. You find this out from the foreign legal team you hired to lead the deal, which has, without your knowledge, been fired.
4.The entire management team except you moves to a new office space. They take your bi-lingual secretary with them.
What can I say? Condolences. Can’t say I didn’t warn you. What do you do now?
1.Do not quit. Report to work every day. They can’t rescind your security pass. Read War & Peace if you must behind your office door (see, door comes in handy) but make a point of showing up in the lunch canteen. Be present. Remember that a hundred years is a drop in the bucket to this crowd. Play the waiting game.
2.Call that shyster lawyer I told you to hire from a secure phone and use the pre-arranged coded signal to prepare for proceedings against them for non-payment of salary.
3.Hide your corporate laptop at home and be vague about it when they come round to ask for it back. While you and I know that a laptop cannot begin to cost the same as your unpaid salary, for the bureaucrats who run the company, mislaid company property is a far more serious blunder.
4.Chalk it up to experience.
With any luck, you’ll get 20%-50% of your proposed golden parachute. At least you won’t end up like me -- $30K in the hole from my happy time with the National Carrier!
What's your favorite National Carrier story? Do you know a good nickname for the National Carrier? I'd love to compile the ultimate list. Please contribute by clicking on the COMMENT button below! And once you've done that, stick around and enjoy some more snarky posts:
Vodka is tasteless going down, but it is memorable coming up.
~Garrison Keillor
Happy Birthday Russian vodka! On this day, in 1865, renowned chemist Dmitry Mendeleev (last seen writing the lyrics to a Tom Leher ditty), defended his doctoral dissertation, “On Combining Water and Alcohol,” in which he began the exploration of the ratios, concentration and weights of various concentrations, which would lead to the publication, in 1894, of Mendeleev’s state standards for vodka production. Mendeleev’s 40% has remained the standard by which Russian vodka is produced to this day.
It may come as a surprise to readers to learn that vodka is not Russia at all. Unless those readers are Polish or Lithuanian (and in the era we are looking at this was more or less the same thing) in which case they will nod their heads vigorously and agree that, indeed, vodka is just another one of those things, like onion domes, snow, oil, and fur that the copy cat nation has stolen from other cultures and made their own.
Vodka can be traced as far back as 8th Century Poland, where it was more commonly used as medicine. Multiple sources credit ambassadors from Genoa for bringing the first hard spirits to Russia the 14th Century to the court of Prince Dmitry Donskoi. They called it aquae vitae, or “water of life” and although it was considerably lower in alcholic content than 40%, it was much stronger than mead or beer, which made up the liquor cabinets of the 14th Century boyars. Having just seen off the Tartar Mongols, the Russians were ready for a stiff drink, and took to aquae vitae like ducks to water.
Russia’s rulers kept close control over the distillation and distribution of vodka, which remained a state monopoly until the 18th Century, when 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, producing 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!”
Prohibition has reared its ugly head more than once in Russia, though in each case, legislation designed to curb alcoholism only fanned the flames, since addicts turned to illegal hooch to satisfy their cravings. Prohibition issued as a patriotic measure in 1914 by the Imperial Duma was only repealed in 1925 by the Soviet Government; and the roller coaster years of perestroika and the Wild 90s were made even more miserable by Gorbachev’s unpopular move to limit the production of liquor.
I am not, myself, a big vodka fan, and this is probably the reason I am still alive and well on this earth since it costs less than Windex here in Russia and is often used for much the same purpose. In fact, vodka is used in all kinds of original ways in Russia, and here are just a few:
Medicinal:
Vodka has always been considered a cure-all for anything that might be wrong with you. When vodka was first introduced to Russia, it was largely used for this purpose, which may be why Russians all drink “To your health!” when they start to knock it back.
Got the runs? Or the opposite? The cure is the same: Take a shot of vodka with a heaping teaspoon of salt and, strange as this may seem, it acts like a kind of intestinal cement. I was forced to try it on (I kid you not) The Road To Samarkand and it gets the plumbing sorted out in record time. Throw away your Imodium.
Vodka, rubbed on the chest and back of an infant is the quickest way to bring down a fever, if you don’t mind your two year old smelling like the inside of Kazan railway station, that is.
Vodka, mixed with pickle juice or a delicate mixture of tomato juice, horseradish, Tabasco, celery salt, and Worcestershire sauce (depending on your ethnic origin) is a good way to vanquish the excesses of the previous evening!
Housekeeping:
My cleaning lady looks askance every time I wave the vinegar bottle at her as eco-friendly, cost effective cleaning agent. She prefers Mr. Proper (a Slavic cousin of Mr. Clean) but if that’s not available, she’s got the vodka bottle out quicker than you can say “Stolichnaya” to get rid of mold on chrome, smears on glass, or any stubborn residue or stickiness. It’s cheaper than Mr. Proper and smells much much much better.
In a recent post, I advocated taking all the dubious cheesily branded vodka bottles you received for New Year’s, and pouring them into the hole where the windshield wiper goes: lots more effective on those -30 degree mornings (the kind where your contact lenses begin to stiffen) and, as any Russian will tell you, it’s a lot more “ekologitcheskiy chisto,” (ecologically clean). Like that’s ever bothered them.
Finally, I have seen with my own eyes just how effective Russian vodka can be as a de-icing agent.
If, however, you are not that creative, then you can always fall back on vodka’s culinary charms. If you are a man, that is. Vodka is not really a tipple for girls in Russia since it is taken straight, no chaser, out of a shot glass. You order vodka by the grams here: 50 grams is a small shot, 100 is a double, and the barman measures it out from the bottle into your shot glass. Ideally vodka is somewhat chilled, but that’s by no means a deal breaker. Like tequila, there is a ritual to taking a vodka shot: get your vodka poured and hoisted, take a massive sniff of some black bread, exhale vigorously, knock back the vodka, then grab a pickle, a piece of dried fish, or, if there is nothing salty to hand, the bread you just stuck up your left nostril and bite into it. Lather, rinse, and repeat.
Vodka today is still a thriving business in Russia and a favorite take-home souvenir of foreign tourists, many of whom seem baffled that, once opened, the half-liter bottles cannot then be re-capped. If asked, a Russian looks bemused and wonders why on earth you would need to re-cap a bottle of vodka?
Do you have a favorite vodka story? How do you take your vodka? With tonic and a twist, or a black bread chaser? Ever try the dried fish? Let us know by uncapping your bottle and clicking the comment button below!
If you enjoyed this post, stick around and enjoy more like it:
Today is Old New Year. That’s right – Old New Year. Old in the sense of “what used to be.” As the leading (read only) chronicler of Russian public and professional holidays, I’ve explained the 13-day discrepancy between some Russian holidays, but for those of you just joining Dividing My Time, here is my authorized version of just how this discrepancy came about.
Old New Year is the final push to the finishing line of my Christmas marathon, which begins around December 10th, around about the time my friend Gail guilts me into buying a gazillion tickets to the Moscow Oratorio’s annual performance of Handel’s “Messiah,” and ends – deo gratis – tomorrow. And not before time!
While the Valentine’s Day décor goes up in the West at approximately 2 pm on Christmas Day, the Russians drag it out until the last gasp. Today, at Goodman’s Steak House where Tancy and Tanya and I got together for a girly lunch, they still had Ella Fitzgerald singing “Sleigh Bells Ringing” full blast, which made me want to throw my 9 oz New York steak across a room filled with plump businessmen having catch up lunches with their secretaries. Readers, it’s time to pack up Christmas and be done with it. Lent is just around the corner.
In this spirit of de-cluttering and de-Christmasing, I attacked HRH’s staggering range of Corporate Gifts with all the relentless zeal of my new heroine, Clutter Buster to the Elites, Barbara Reich.
Corporate gifts, like birthday gifts, in Russia have a culture uniquely their own, which has a lot more to do with the giver, rather than the giftee. Sometimes, when I can’t sleep, I run through some of the more outrageous ones I’ve encountered in my day. The list was long as it was, but this year, it got a stunning new addition that no one could see coming down the shosse.
I’ve written before about clutter busting in Russia (and gotten my hand nicely slapped for it) but at this rolling time of the year, as Dickens would say, there is a very real danger that one could end up buried under all this…seasonal bounty. So, with that in mind, I offer, below, a practical guide for wives, trailing spouses and secretaries as to what you can expect to receive, and more importantly, what you should do with it.
1.Shiny carrier bags with the logo of the giver emblazoned on the front:
Disposition: empty these of their contents, being sure to remove the business cards stapled to them so you can remember to thank the giver. Write the contents of the carrier bag on the back of the business card. Collate with rubber band to give to your minigarch. HRH tends to not take this any further, but I figure this is his business.
When the carrier bags are emptied, flatten them out and give them to your cleaning lady. She will be over the moon and use them as you or I would use a tote bag for the remainder of the calendar year. On no account should you use them to “re-gift” an item, because you won’t get any of the credit. Duh…
2. Booze:
Booze at New Year’s is a wonderful barometer of how well you are doing professionally: the higher you go up the corporate ladder, the better the quality of the booze swag. Russians, despite all the patriotic rhetoric you hear these days, are serious snobs about their alcohol, preferring the imported to the domestic. So, if you got a wooden case of three bottles of really nice French red wine, you are doing well. If you got one bottle of Super Sladkoye (sweet) Shampanskoye, not so much.
Disposition: Consume (in the case of the good wine, cognac, and scotch) or (in the case of the Super Sladkoye Shampanskoye or the Cough Syrup Cranberry Liqueur) re-gift down the social scale to those who will appreciate it. The exception to this rule is vodka, which often comes in a witty custom-branded bottle with the firm’s logo on it. Keep this and pour it into the hole in your car where the windshield wiper fluid goes and you’ll be all set.
3.Banya accessories:
Newcomers to Russia are often surprised to find they’ve been given dried branches, felt caps, wooden buckets, a small wall thermometer, or a long-handled ladle as presents, but in no way should this be perceived as an insult or a slur. Quite the opposite, these gifts indicate that the giver perceives you or your minigarch as a bit of a lad, one of the boys, and an all around good egg.
Disposition: If you have a sauna, then stick them in and put them to work. If you don’t, hand them over to your driver, who will think that you think he is a bit of a lad. No bad thing.
4-7: The paper products/A5 junky diaries:
No Russian company worth its salt will go one year without producing an A5 diary, calendar, or outdated business card holder of some kind. During my time at the The Firm, I tried to get rid of them, but no dice. These can range from tasteful real leather blank books (and as you can see from the photo, some companies are wising up and producing A4 or letter-sized diaries) to the really heinous faux-suede stuff. As for the business card holders – another reason why, if you ask me (and no one ever ever does) Russia will never join the WTO – everyone knows you need a Rolodex to keep those in any kind of order.
Disposition: Cull vigorously, keeping the A4 ones for yourself. Gift the A5 ones to the Accounting and Security Departments, who can’t seem to live without this kind of thing, and the faux suede ones to your driver.
8. PR-shicki get creative:
Sometimes the PR-schiki get creative and you end of with some one-off items. These can be clever (a boxed set of really good Soviet classic movies) or tasteful (a silver-plated USB charger – my own idea one year), or downright silly like Christmas tree ornaments. Who the hell wants a Christmas Tree ornament from ROSGOS something or other?
Disposition: Think carefully about how you might use this on a day-to-day basis and act accordingly. Re-gift if you possibly can, though you will have to do it down the social scale, since all of these items will be aggressively branded.
9. The inexplicable:
Sometimes you just can’t fathom the mindset of the person in charge of this kind of thing. I mean, who in their right mind gives a grown man and potential minigarch what can only be described as a doll? A shiny, expensive doll, to be sure, but a doll nonetheless. I can only think that in this case, the empty-headed, long-legged secretary of the Top Guy was allowed a free hand.
Disposition: I give this kind of thing to my mother-in-law.
I don’t know if you tuned in to Larry King Live last night, but he had a real chin wag with Putin and I don’t mind telling you that my blood ran cold despite the Tanqueray I was putting into it, but one did not have to be Zbigniew Brzezinski, nor indeed that guy from WikiLeaks (don’t you just ADORE the Batman and Robin thing?) to figure out that the news on the FIFA front was going to tip in Russia’s favor, which of course it did today. I’m not a huge soccer fan, and normally I don’t give a toss (pun intended) about where or when the World Cup happens so what I want to know today is what are the FIFA people on and where can I get some of it? What can they be thinking?
What I can't shake is the image of Prince William as the Winkelvoss twins, with Putin in the Zuckerberg role during the negotiations. Everyone looks the part, and the plot bears out...
All in all, its been quite a week in the news for Russia. Regular readers of this blog will know that I don’t usually delve into Russian politics: I’ve got other fish to fry and there are plenty of superb journalists, pundits, and bloggers out there who do cover these things, and cover them well, so I thought I would highlight some of my colleagues on the Wikileaks, Putin and the King, the World Cup and all that stuff.
But first, thanks to my friend Katya who posted this hysterical video to Facebook and thus brought my attention to it, let’s set the scene, by watching Boris Badinov Vitaly Murko, Minister of Sport and Tourism make a speech in English concerning Russia's 2018 World Cup bid:
From the ridiculous, then, to the sublime and Al-Jazeeera's Laurence Lee covering the FIFA bid process last summer, delving into the machinations behind the bid and the controversy over the bribe allegation. Be sure to check out Mr. Alexei "Smoothy" Sorokin who is in charge of Russia’s World Cup Bid. Classic 2nd generation if you know what I mean:
The Moscow Times provides fair, balanced and boring combined reports from AP and that crowd, featuring a very disturbing picture of Mr. Shuvalov who, if you ask me (and as regular readers know, no one ever ever ever does) will be President of Russia before too long.
What’s your take on the World Cup thingy? Do you think the World Cup and the WikiLeaks are connected? Talk it up by hitting the comment button below, and stay tuned for Day of the Lawyers coming right up.
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Today is Recruiter’s Day! Since 2001, Russia and a few of the other CIS countries celebrate all things Headhunting on September 20th.
Headhunting, executive recruitment, or whatever you call it was virtually unknown in Russia until 1991, when an article in the national broadsheet, Izvestia wrote about how Western Head hunting firms worked. For much of the population of Russia, the idea that you go to a neutral (and in many cases unknown) third party to find a job or employees still seems highly suspect. Goes against the grain somehow. It took HRH, my "horrible Russian husband" a long long time before he felt comfortable about a perfect stranger calling him up to tell him he was a leader in his field (which HRH. being a Russian guy, already knew) and to gauge his interest in looking at a possible new job in a different company.
Here is a distillation of a common exchange circa 1996:
“Ohhhh…that sounds exciting,” I said. “Be sure to wear your red tie.”
He looked at me, surprised.
“And a white shirt,” I continued, “always better to wear a white shirt.”
“Do you think I should go?” he asked astonished.
“You should always take the meeting,” I said firmly, quoting my friend and leading headhunter Teri Lindebeg, who founded a ridiculously successful agency in Russia. “Always, always, always take the meeting.”
HRH didn’t seem convinced. “But if I go,” he hypothesized, “my current employer will find out.”
HRH was brought up in that fine Soviet tradition captured best in a pithy bon mot from Josef Stalin: “In the Soviet army it takes more courage to retreat than advance.”
“So much the better!” I enthused, “that way, they get scared you might leave, and then you can have the ‘how much will you pay me to stay’” conversation."
That was appealing; HRH decided to probe a little bit deeper.
“And if they find me a job?” He would hone in, “What will I have to pay them?”
“But that’s the beauty of the whole thing,” I said triumphantly, “You don’t pay them anything. Your new employer does.”
HRH raised a quizzical eyebrow at me.
“I don’t have to pay anything?”
“No nothing – you are the commodity for the headhunting firm, and the new employer pays them to find you.”
“I think you must have something backwards,” said HRH. “That’s not how it works.”
Here's how it works in the world HRH grew up in: if you wanted a job, you made some phone calls to someone who knew someone, who might put in a good word for you. Executive jobs with great income streams might require a “business sauna” where all the parties met up at a sauna, got naked and beat one another with branches to seal the deal. You know the kind of thing. Once the “Prikaz” or order had been signed sealed and the new job secured, discreet reimbursement would take place up and down the food chain. The prime motivator was always the employee, or the parent of an employee. Not the employer.
It took some time and some input from some of my (male) friends, before HRH felt comfortable putting on his red tie, tucking two copies of his (brilliantly written if I do say so myself) CV in his briefcase and sally forth to conquer new worlds. But once he got into it, he was hooked. It was like sponge painting. He always, always, always took the meeting. It became a sort of security blanket he carried with him at all times: like having a casserole in the freezer, or a Swiss bank account. As long as HRH had some headhunters who took an interest, he could put up with the bi-polar egomaniacal lunatic who owned one of the companies he worked for. He could smile beatifically at the Red Directors and the minor officials at another. He could tolerate one really very mediocre financial hack from New Zealand who was the boss of him in an industry the hack knew less than nothing about.
So today, I for one will raise a glass of better-than-average chardonnay today to thank all of Russia's (and London too for that matter) headhunters for making my life just a teeny bit nicer…
Author’s Note: Teri Lindeberg’s blog Work360.ru about Russian staffing, workplace issues, and cross-cultural companies is highly recommended! Here is a link to a (slightly tongue-in-cheek) piece I wrote for her about what not to eat at a business lunch, lest you make an idiot of yourself!
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Hey there readers!
What is your experience with Headhunting? Have you been a hunt-ee? Are you a hunter? What’s it like? Let me know by leaving a comment below. And, if you liked this post, stick around and enjoy some others like it:
The Chuds, the Slavs, and the Krivichians then said to the people of Rus:
“Our whole land is great and rich, but there is no order in it…Come and rule and reign over us.”
~ The Primary Chronicle of Russia
Today is the Day of Friendship and Unity of the Slavic Peoples, and I thought, as another of my totally unsolicited public service gestures, I would offer you a brief guide to how you can tell if you are a Slavic person. This is not as simple as it used to be. Once upon a time, all the Slavic people lived behind the Iron Curtain, but today, some of them live in the European Union, some would like to, and some won’t admit they really want to. Very Confusing.
Over half of Europe’s physical territory is covered by Slavic people, which are broken down geographically and linguistically into West Slavic (including including Czechs, Moravians, Poles, Silesians, Slovaks and Sorbs), East Slavic (including Belarusians, Russians and Ukrainians), and South Slavic (including Bosniaks, Bulgarians, Croats, Macedonians, Montenegrins, Serbs and Slovenes). But, as anyone who has tried to check into a hotel in London, or ridden a taxi in New York lately knows, the Slavs have become a migrant people. So how do you know?
You might be a Slav if…
1. You believe in your God-given right to a 70% discount on natural gas.
2. You are sure that more is more in the nail varnish, eau de cologne, and make-up department.
3. Fur, animal skins, and leather are fine by you.
4. Sometime during the period December 24th and January 7th, your bathtub is full of a large salted fish.
5. You know more than one way to cook cabbage.
6. “Cash reserves” and “retirement account” refer to the space between your mattress and bedspring.
7. You believe that Kosovo is an immutable part of Serbia.
8. You are still trying to understand how Barack Obama beat John McCain in the 2008 American Presidential Election.
9. You consider ice in drinks to be a pre-curser to fatal diseases.
10. “Job Security” is another nickname for Uncle Pavel.
11. Your cheekbones are wider than your shoulders.
12. A large bouquet of flowers is a default position.
13. You are getting the most hits from male American oil-rig workers on match.com.
14. You prefer your champagne sweet and your vodka warm.
15. Your immediate forbears had more than 3 tons of root vegetables in their cellar.
16. You are working as a waiter, construction worker, or chambermaid in any of the capitals of Western Europe.
17. “Stalinist” to you means a better type of domicile or architecture.
18. You are convinced that Bohemian crystal is the perfect gift for any occasion.
19. “Olympic Gold Medal” is a synonmyn for “new apartment.”
20. Beer is your beverage of choice in the morning.
Today is Light Industry Workers Day! And in Russia, that means one thing: a trip to the City of Brides: Ivanovo.
Ivanovo is the center of Russia’s textile industry, the brightest star in Russia’s shimmering light industry firmament, though to be honest, after the loss of the –stans in the 1990s, cheap cotton has been harder to come by, so the firmament is a tad dusty. Ivanovo, whose coat of arms features a woman sitting at a spinning wheel, is known as “The City of Brides,” because the textile mills attracted women workers in large numbers. Ivanovo’s women are also known to be slightly forward and aggressive, so it came as no surprise to me during one of those innocuous Internet searches to find, guess what? An on-line Russian bride site called City-Of-Brides.com, and frankly I was riveted by the site’s opening parlay, which I must just repeat here in its original:
Russian women it is unique essences. They put family above al. They are always ready to offer the outstanding career to be with the husband and children. If you will give her a little attention, love and care, if you will show her that you appreciate her as the wife and the mistress of the house, will admire with her beauty and wit, she will be true to you to the death.
As long as we are making fun of badly-translated Russian into English, I thought this classic press release on Russia’s textile industry should not be missed -- I’ve highlighted the most magnificent examples so you won’t. It just proves, once again, that Google Translate is not always a boon to mankind.
Russia Textile Industry Should Be Made Competitive - Medvedev
Itar-Tass
President-elect Dmitry Medvedev said Russia's textile industry should be brought to a new level and made competitive on the world market. He met in the Kremlin on the Ivanovo region's governor Mikhail Men on Thursday.
"Regrettably, we had a failure and collapse of the textile industry in the nineties, and we all but lost it. It is necessary to do all we can to bring the sector to a qualitatively new level in order it is competitive. This is an important state and regional task," Medvedev said. He said the nearest meeting of the State Council presidium would be dedicated to the innovation policy.
The Ivanovo region has its own investment potential, Medvedev said. "It may be not be seen so well, but something has been already done in this area." The governor said the Ivanovo region's investment project is its textile industry.
"The textile industry provides 25 percent of regional products and over 25 percent of the regional budget. About 50 factories at which about 50,000 people work operate in our region," Men said.
However, competition from China, Turkey, Pakistan and India is growing. "We are looking for ways out of this situation. Jointly with the Ministry of Economic Development and Trade,we have selected on a competitive basis the best world specialists in the textile industry, who have proposed switching to artificial fiber and chemical thread. The main problem lies that at present we depend on imported raw materials, on cotton from Uzbekistan and Tajikistan," Men said.
He said the Ivanovo region's programmes developed together with the Ministry of Economic Development and Trade would allow changing an assortment of products and manufacturing not only textiles, but also upholstery for car seats.
Medvedev asked what decisions are necessary for "this sector beginning to work". "In our view, the first and foremost thing is support from the Investment Fund for development of the infrastructure of the Ivanovo textile cluster. In the nearest time the Ministry of Economic Development and Trde shall report where federal money of the Investment Fun should be invested and how to attract Western investors in the light industry," Men answered. "That is, investments from the Investment Fund are necessary in order to 'draw' Russian and foreign investors?" Medvedev asked. "This can be called the establishment of business parks. I would ask for your support, because this is a most serious investment project that could give a start to new development of the Ivanovo region," Men said.
What really is sad, though is the knowledge that Russia could have been a contender in providing a world-wide brand, but the UGG people got there first. I did a quick trip through my apartment and the only thing I could say with any certainty that was made in Russia (apart from HRH’s sauna implements) was a pair of felt boots called valenki. These are traditional felted wool boots that Russians wear in extremely cold weather. In recent years, enterprising craftspeople have begun to tart them up, add rubber soles and decorative appliqué motifs, but I fear the train has left the station, since every Russian woman from Velvet to Babushka wants a pair of purple UGG boots.
We’ll just have to work on world domination in some other sector. Like fur hats.
Sigh.
Happy Day of the Workers of Light Industry to All!
Do you have a pair of UGG Boots? What color are they? Are you interested in a pair of Valenki? Do you think Valenki might be a fantastic give-away? I keep seeing all these give-away things on sites…are they the way to true world domination of the blogosphere? If you know, please leave a comment and let me know, or stick around and enjoy some other posts like this one:
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…
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:
“Oh really?” he says, mildly interested, “Publish anything?”
“Oh yes,” I say, “I write a monthly humor column, and I’m working on a book about Russia, and,” I pause for effect, “I have a blog, which is about the funny side of life in Russia.”
“Do you like, make any money from the blog thing?” he asks.
God, how mercantile, I think.
“Do I monetize, you mean?” I query, tilting my head to one side and using the singsong, quizzical, and annoyingly gravelly voice well-educated women five to seven years younger than myself seem to these days. “Put ads on it you mean?” I note with satisfaction: my jargon has momentarily trumped his condescension. He nods. “Oh no,” I say, shaking my head gravely, as if he has offered me something toxic like cigarettes or a ride on a Harley without a helmet, “No, I don’t do that.”
“What’s the point, then?” he asks genuinely perplexed.
I dial up the gravel several notches, and babble about keeping the space pure, creating trust with my readership (all six of them including Aunt Debbie), and drop in some other sound bytes I read in “Typepad for Dummies” about monetizing. His eyes begin to wander about the room, and pretty soon, he knocks back the rest of his glass in a gulp and mutters something about getting more to drink and beats a hasty retreat.
Cards on the table: I can’t monetize, because, if I did, my blog would be immediately and irrevocably overrun with semi-pornographic ads for Russian and Ukrainian women looking for Western husbands. Sites called creepily racist things like “Vanilla Love,” would establish permanent resident alien status on the extreme right hand side of my blog, flashing garish neon blue messages: “Hot Ukrainian girls are waiting for you!” or “Russian babes want you!”
This isn’t the message I’m trying to convey. I spend a lot of time researching various things for a part of the blog which covers all of Russia’s professional and public holidays, and doesn’t matter what I Google or Bing: “Siberian dumplings,” or “Baltic Fleet,” or “Peter the Great,” there, alongside the search results is a column of scantily-clad live blond Barbie dolls called things like “Snezhena,” which I’m pretty sure isn’t even a name. Surely, I won’t be taken seriously as a blogger or a writer if I allow this kind of cyber hoi polloi onto my “platform.”
And yet… If I were, hypothetically, willing to go down the monetization route, it occurs to me that I could make a fortune, although I cannot believe this Russian bride industry is still going strong twenty-five years after perestroika. Are there still Western men of sub-human intelligence who are stupid enough to be taken in by: “Hello, my name is Masha and I have not found my soul mate yet,” or “I’m Nadia, I’m 19 and I’m a student.” I thought they all cycled through the system a decade ago: 60-something expat men making asses of themselves by marrying the first 20-something guided missile they meet at work; or oil rig employees too cheap or lazy to get on a plane themselves, sending off for 19-year old Nadia, and then astonished when 37-year old Lena plods down the jet way, with her 72 year-old mother, Svetlana and 11-year old son Ruslan in tow; and, on a somewhat later flight, 51 year-old Vlad.
Googling “Russian meteorologists” today, there was so much resulting “Vanilla Love” that I started to seriously re-examine my whole approach. Should I face facts, give up the high road, and turn the blog into a “portal” rather than a “platform?” If I’m honest, most of the traffic I get is from people looking to save a failed Beef Stroganoff, which would be great if I were a food blogger. But I’m not. Could I offer advice to these silly men? Could I sell them my unique, patented insight into the personality of a Russian woman based on her first name? “Olga,” for example: very scary. Could I blow the lid off the “Snezhena hoax? Should I de-gravel my voice and start making some real cash? $14.99 a month, I could charge, or 12 months for only $99.99. I could get a PayPal button!
Or would I just get people looking for cheap vanilla extract?
If I were a rich man, dah-dah-deedle deedle deedle deedle deedle dum…
~ Tevye from Fiddler on the Roof
Today is the Day of the Russian Entrepreneur, which I guess is sort of like dressing for the job you want, rather than the job you have.
I fear I will disappoint my loyal readers today (both of you) since I am really hitting a wall on this one. I can’t think of anything to tell you about Russian Entrepreneurs…because I’m not sure there are any. There is an association of Russian Entrepreneurs, but it is staffed by government flunkies. I know several people who have started and (more to the point) sold successful businesses in Russia…but they are all foreigners. Nowadays, everyone wants to either work for the government or for a foreign company. No one seems to want to start a business, and, you can't because the paperwork is so complicated. Even HRH, who started off with a kiosk selling cigarettes and beer, has decamped to higher ground.
I was having a very interesting conversation on just this very topic with the father of one of Velvet's classmates last week. He noted that Poland seemed to have done very well after the Fall of the Wall.
"Well," I said, "that's the whole Roman Catholic thing."
He was riveted. We talked between Hayden concerti and acapella singing groups about how the countries with an Orthodox Christian heritage don't have any tradition or understanding of an individual's sense of his own place in the world, or an ingrained conviction that you can, and should better yourself. Think about it: Poland, Slovenia, Hungary, Czech Republic, Slovakia, The Baltics and so on are all predominantly either Roman Catholic or Lutherans. They are doing well, whereas Russia, Serbia, Belarus, Ukraine and Romania, the Orthodox counties, are still struggling to implement positive change 20 years after the Wall came down.
I wracked my brain while writing this post, and as I was on a train with no wifi, I couldn’t turn to my friends in cyber space for any inspiration. I wanted to come up with a shining example of 100% Russian entrepreneurial success that:
1. Wasn’t linked to either the wild 90s acquisition of former Soviet industries like Norilsk Nickel or Severstal.
2. Was not in someway connected with a foreign manager, foreign investment, or foreign know-how.
3. Is not a government or semi-government company
4. Is still a viable business…by which I mean the CEO is not in financial exile in London.
Not easy.
There is this Russian Silicon Valley getting up and running: the pet project of Blogger-In-chief Dmitry Medvedev and Ashton Kucher, but until that begins to bear fruit…we’ll just have to have a modest celebration today.
Thank you for stopping by Dividing My Time. I'm sorry today was not as sparkling as usual. It makes you think, though, doesn't it....why I couldn't come up with anything. Do you know some Russian entrepreneurs? Like real ones, not the ones who run your cab company.
Arabians learn Arabian with the speed of summer lightening
And the Hebrews learn it backwards, which is absolutely frightening
~ My Fair Lady (Lerner and Lowe)
Today is the Day of the Philologists, and before you give up and click over to The Daily Beast, I’ll tell you what philology is: the study of a language, including grammar, history, and literary tradition. Just like I surprised you when I said I knew a lot of military translators, you may be interested to learn that I also know a ton of philologists, and in actual fact, they are the same crowd. Philology is what the military translators were actually studying at their various Departments of Philology, which they universally refer to as “Phil Fac,” making the abbreviation for “Faculty” rhyme with “truck.” So witty.
Russians place a high premium on learning foreign languages, or making their children do so, which you have to applaud, especially as the US is so awful about this. Every very well-educated Russian my age has read Galsworthy and Faulkner in the original, and every well-educated Russian Velvet’s age has read The Twighlight books and Harry Potter in the original. And, as we know, HRH is starting a book club. Our godson, George, whom some of you met on the Day of the Divers, studies at a Chinese immersion school in Moscow. I think this is very visionary of his parents, although his mother worries occasionally that the algebra isn’t up to much at the Chinese school, but we shout her down. George also takes English, which he polished up last summer at American summer school. We gave him a little Moleskin notebook, just like Auntie Mame gives to Patrick, saying, “Every time you hear a word you don’t understand, you write it down and Auntie Mame will explain it to you.” George’s notebook from July 20, 2009, reads: road kill, sick! (Used as a positive interjection), awesome (also a used as a positive interjection, which I finally had to ask him to stop using), gnarly, grodey (which no one knew how to spell) Vitamin Water, and lurid (which I used to describe the large bottle of Windex-colored Vitamin Water he was interested in acquiring). George’s mother is sending him to China this summer, and I can’t say I blame her.
Some Russians, of course, don’t ever bother to learn any foreign languages, even if they decide to permanently distance themselves physically from the Slavic-speaking world. This can work as there are parts of the US and UK where this kind of thing is not only tolerated but downright encouraged. I was surprised, however, to discover one such Russian in Monterey California, which I don’t think of as an entrenched Russian Diaspora community. The Russian was one of those bleached blond women called Natasha who ensnare and marry foreign men who aren’t, let’s face it, the sharpest tacks in the box. I normally give that crowd a very wide berth, but my brother-in-law’s Mom, whom we call Tutu, had taught Natasha’s daughter (yes, she was one of those bleached blond women called Natasha who marry foreigners AND get the foreigner to adopt her kid AND get the foreigner to pay for a private school) who had briefly been at Velvet’s school in Moscow, where mother and daughter were in the holding tank before the fiancée visa came through. Tutu had put this together somehow, saying that she knew a Russian girl called Velvet and bingo…one degree of separation.
Tutu is the nicest woman in the world (so typical – my sister gets the nice mother-in-law, the cool sister-in-law, their fun accompanying spouses and so on...NOT FAIR!!) and when we were out in Monterey visiting, she very kindly suggested we all get together with Natasha and her daughter, and went to what has to have been a lot of trouble to set it up. Tutu meant well, and since I only have one brother-in-law, and he only has one mother, I had Firm Words with Velvet, advised HRH to develop a conference SKYPE prontissimo, so that, alas, he was unable to join us and I girded my loins for a long afternoon.
Natasha arrived in skinny jeans, mirrored sunglasses, a baby blue Lexus convertible (“Oh my,” said Tutu) with a GPS system and not one single solitary word of English, even though she’d been in the United States for two years, married, it turned out, to a Japanese-American peach farmer. (“Oh my,” said Tutu.) “Ellen,” her daughter, who I sensed as “Elena” had aspired, but failed to crack into Velvet’s inner circle while at the school, had impressively achieved almost accent-less fluency in English. She and I shared the burden of translating between Tutu and Natasha.
Natasha had naturally assumed we would spend the afternoon at a shopping mall, but Tutu is made of sterner stuff than her 4’2” frame and incredibly nice disposition would suggest. We went to the Monterey Aquarium with her Membership Guest Passes. As “Ellen” and Velvet played with the interactive expos, Tutu and Natasha carried on a lively discussion, through the medium of me, about California Real Estate. The one exchange needing no help from me was this:
“And you live in….Carmel?” asked Tutu.
“Carmel Vall-EH,” Natasha quickly corrected.
“Oh My,” said Tutu.
Most of the Russians I encounter these days speak very good English. If I could offer one tiny piece of unsolicited advice it would be this: to listen to your 9th grade English teacher, Mariya Ivanovna, when she tries to instill in you the dulcet tones of British English instead of the over-the-top American drawl you want to acquire. Apart from the sound of a matrioshka doll being forced open, a Russian speaking American English is the single most annoying noise I can think of. HRH and I refer to this kind of 30-something smart-alack Russian as a “Waaaaaaaaaaaaallllllll yew Naaaaawuh,” since they begin every sentence with this unfortunate phrase.
Since today is Philologists’ Day, I feel it is not amiss to offer a mini lecture to aspiring English speakers in Russia on how you can avoid some of the more annoying pitfalls in your quest to showcase your English to native speakers:
1. Don’t start every single solitary sentence with the phrase “Frankly speaking.” Had I not had doubts about your “frankness,” I now begin to develop them.
2. Regarding articles such as “the” and “a:” when in doubt, include them, don’t exclude them, and this also goes for the verb “to be” in its present tense. I realize you have neither of these things in your language, but when you articulate what you think are full sentences like, “This Moscow Metro,” or “you make me gin tonic,” it sounds funny.
3. “Do I disturb you?” is not an acceptable salutation in English in person or on the telephone. Don’t push your luck: of course you disturb me!! You disturb me deeply: you don’t believe in iced drinks, you have a couple of very scary political skeletons in your national closet and, way way way too many holidays. Way too many.
4. Mariya Ivanovna was right: use the English you learned in school. Think (if you are over 35) Maggie Smith not Sarah Palin or (if you are under 35) Emma Watson, not Kim Kardashian. Don’t say “Raaaaaaaaaaaaasha” to refer to your country, or “Mos-COW,” or, “MAAAAAAAAAA-scow” to refer the capital of your country.
5. Spend an afternoon focusing on the subtle differences between the English words “comfortable,” and “convenient,” which are the same in Russian, but mean different things in English. This will avoid unfortunate consequences in future when you are trying to secure that crucial date with the not-too-bright foreigner. Saying, “we meet with you 6pm…is it comfortable for you?” could possibly get you in trouble, though, of course, might just help you slide into home plate.
6. Don’t start a sentence with “I want to say you,” Apart from being wildly and unacceptably grammatically incorrect, it is just a waste of my time and yours. No wonder nothing gets done around here.
7. Finally, eye contact. You don’t need any vocabulary or grammar for this one. Just eye contact. Occasionally. Every now and then.
Happy Philologists’ Day to lovers of language everywhere!
What language are you studying, and why? Do you love it? Do you agree with me that you should never ever start a sentence with"Frankly Speaking?" If you are Ian W-M, did you notice that I got, "Oh My" into this post a few times. Quite right too. Whatever your thoughts, please do express them, by leaving a comment below! Can't wait to see what you say!
Today is Victory Day!! I usually put the entire name of the holiday in the title of the post, but this one doesn't fit. Once again, post-perestroika political correctness at work: День воинской славы России — День Победы советского народа в Великой Отечественной войне 1941—1945 годов (1945) which translates as Day of Russia’s Military Glory – The Day of Victory of the Soviet People in The Great Patriotic War 1941 – 1945.
What can I say about Victory Day that hasn’t already been said? As you know, May 9th of course commemorates the glorious moment in 1945 (choreographed by Stalin with the tacit agreement of Roosevelt and Churchill, who no doubt just wanted the whole thing to end one way or the other) when the Soviet Army triumphantly marched into a vanquished Berlin.
World War II, or “The Great Patriotic War,” as any Russian schoolchild will tell you, was a conflict primarily fought in the Eastern European theater of war: starring the Russians as the Good Guys and featuring the Nazis as the Bad Guys. As guide books say : while many millions of brave and patriotic Russians perished, the Soviet Forces ultimately triumphed over the powers of Fascism, and peaceful productivity was restored to the peaceful-loving Soviet people. Footnote: there were, perhaps, other skirmishes taking place on the periphery of this major conflict such as a minor air battle over the English Channel, and some unpleasantness in the Pacific, but they do not cover this in national curriculum of Russia, even in elite officer-training military academies such as the one HRH attended. As I have written before, HRH was baffled and unable to identify D-Day as an historical event during a screening of “Saving Private Ryan.” I rashly suggested that D-Day had been the turning point in World War II, with dire consequences.
On May 9th, there is a huge parade through Red Square. Huge ostentatious military parades complete with goose-stepping have rather gone out of fashion, so Moscow's parade is one of just a handful of opportunities left on the planet to experience this live. I recommend it, if only to see the bizarre moment when Very Senior Military Guy tries to remain standing in the 1950's style convertible car at the beginning of the parade, as the car clatters over the uneven cobblestones of Red Square. Velvet feels, and I must say I agree with her, that there is really no excuse for this sort of thing: Very Senior Military Guys should be on horseback, like Field Marshall Zhukhov who led the first May 9th parade astride a pure white charger, and here is his statue just outside Red Square:
In case your local TV station didn't cover the parade in as much detail as you'd hoped, here is a link to the 2009 parade.
We always watch the parade at home with Bloody Mary's and smoked salmon, and avoid going out on the streets since you can hardly move thanks to crowd control brought to you by the Ivan The Terrible School of Civil Defense. After the parade, the veterans march down from the Belorussian Railway Station to the Bolshoi Theatre and have a big piss up. Rather nice fireworks later in the evening. Barack isn’t coming, which is a blow, although my Very Good Friend The Famous Newscaster interviewed him the other day and he wished all the Russians well. There is this issue of Moscow's pint-sized mayor seeding the clouds to ensure good weather which is true. No one believes it, but its true: helicopters fly up the sky and put something in the clouds and they go away for the day, ensuring bright, hot sunshine on the day, and cold, cloudy, clammy weather for the next week after. The estimated cost of this, according to Moscow News: 45 million rubles, and that never seems like a lot in Monopoly money does it: but is actually $1,474,208.58 USD or £996,858.62 Pounds Sterling. Seriously.
May 9th this year happens to coincide with Mother's Day in the USA, but I'm not expecting HRH to remember to send floral tributes my way (he recently learned how to purchase floral tributes on the Internet and send them places...was astonished by the technology) since he is hosting a small gathering in our apartment, so everyone can enjoy the five second moment when you see the fighter planes come from Tyushino Airport at the speed of sound right towards our large living room window. Then you see the same thing on the TV and then you see red, white and blue smoke from the opposite window as they make their way over Red Sq. Prime real estate.
Since all my clever readers know about World War II (if not, see Cliff Notes in Paragraph 2), in lieu of a history lesson, I'll tell you a very funny story about what happened to our family on May 9, 2005 in Malta:
Sometimes, if I want to make HRH rein it in, I need only cock my eyebrow and say, “Darling, let’s not forget Malta 2005 now, shall we?” He nods, shudders, puts down the shot glass and, tail between his legs, moves to fizzy water for an hour or so.
Malta was my choice for our annual May Holiday getaway. I had always had a hankering for Malta, which I vaguely wanted to test drive as a possible second home for when we struck it rich. On paper, it seemed to combine a number of things which are high up on my list: Italian culture, British history, a glamorous Order (with a capital “O”) of Knights, stone architecture, the San Antonio palace connected with Marie of Romania etc. It seemed like a win-win travel destination for the whole family, offering Velvet and HRH the opportunity to sun and swim while I poked around Valetta. The food, I felt sure, would be heavenly Mediterranean.
Disappointment ensued. Not the stabbing kind of disappointment that motivates you to pen an outraged letter to the New York Times; rather a dull sinking feeling that pervades you like soy sauce spilled on a white cotton T-shirt, that this travel destination is not the travel destination of your dreams. Yes, the ornate hotel was nice and comfortable, and sure, Valetta offered up some of its interesting history, but the sea was cold, the beach rocky, and the “charming” port town of St. Julian was full of brassy British expats, loud sunburnt German holiday makers, and shifty looking Eastern European youths from the myriad Maltese language schools. The blocks of flats looked depressing, the drink of choice was Belgian lager, and the plat du jour tended to be lasagna and chips. As I poked through Valetta’s streets with the growing awareness that even Dan Brown couldn’t conjure up an ancient Maltese secret, at the hotel, HRH and Velvet fell into a nodding acquaintance with a group of disgruntled Russian tourists from Perm, fellow refugees from the cold sea, they pulled deck chairs around the hotel pool and shared their general disappointment in the entire experience.
This cordial entente continued until the evening of May 9th, arguably the most important holiday in Russia. Returning to the hotel after yet another fruitless foray out into St. Julian to find something more appetizing than lasagna and chips, we found about sixteen of the Permites had taken the liberty of rearranging the hotel lobby’s furniture into a stereo-typical festive Russian living room configuration: couches pulled up around two coffee tables. They motioned to us to join them, and have a Victory toast.
It seemed vastly ill mannered on the 60th anniversary of Russia’s unqualified victory over Nazism to flee, although this was my immediate gut reaction. Since nothing as major as the 60th anniversary of the end of the Great Patriotic War could possibly be put to bed in a mere half an hour – I braced myself for a lengthy session in the trenches. We squeezed onto one of the couches. An elegant Maltese waiter immediately approached to ask what I wanted to drink, and I mentioned a local wine I’d tried and liked. HRH ordered a cognac and we secured Velvet a Fanta.
“Lissssssssen,” Arkady, the ringleader, hissed at us knowledgably. “No need to pay those bar prices…just order juice, look see what we have!” He motioned us to look between his legs, which I felt might not be completely appropriate for 8-year Velvet, but I followed his eyes to the bottle of Duty Free Chivas under the table.
This under-the-table tactic was one I knew well: having successfully employed it frequently, off-duty, during my misspent youth as a tour guide in the late 1980s in Eastern Europe. It’s a good trick, if somewhat obvious, and yet somehow, as a full paying guest in the “oughts” it seemed somehow awkwardly out of place.
“Um…” I began, but HRH gave me a no nonsense warning look, and I just smiled. Arkady deftly topped up eleven orange juices with Chivas and we hoisted our collective glasses to victory: “Za Pobediy!”
This all-too-familiar ritual was repeated about six or seven more times. I was getting woozy, and I could see Velvet was on the verge of collapse from the gassy combination of stodgy lasagna and chips and three large Fantas. I cast a few pleading glances at HRH across the coffee table, but he ignored me, deep in a conversation about the 900 Day Siege of Leningrad with an older men who’s face was borscht red with sun and drink. We drank to the Soviet Army a number of times, and Arkady was kind enough to indicate, that, of course, America had had a role in World War II, so a toast was drunk to me, which I tried to acknowledge gracefully.
A discreet cough.
“Madame,” said the suave waiter in English. “Madame, may I speak with you?”
“Of course,” I said, welcoming the interference, but wary about the conversation I felt sure would ensue. I awkwardly extracted myself from between Sveta and Aniuta, who were on either side of me, and went to join the waiter a discreet distance from the group. My tour guide days had made me feel an intense solidarity with hotel staff, and I smiled encouragingly.
“Madame, I realize your friends are guests of our hotel, and as such are most welcome in the lobby bar. They are, we recognize, celebrating a national holiday, but we cannot allow them to continue to top up their drinks from under the table. There are a number of hotels and hostels where this kind of thing is permitted – even encouraged -- but this is not one of them. It is not our custom to allow such things.”
I sighed; feeling much as I imagined Roosevelt must have done at the Yalta Conference.
“I understand,” I said, “and I will try to get them to move the party elsewhere, but I fear these things are –“
“We know, Madame…we have many Russian guests. If you could explain that they are very welcome to order their drinks from the bar, I’d be most grateful.”
He had the impeccable manners to hand me a complimentary glass of wine and we exchanged watery smiles.
I returned to the couches and explained, as sweetly as I could, that the guerilla tactics with the Chivas under the table had been outed, and I thought it best that they repaired to someone’s room to continue the party.
Arkady shook his head and, thumbs tilted at right angles to his body, pounded his upturned wrists in the universal gesture of Russian emphasis.
“Urodiy!” he spat out, “Italian Axis Power BASTARDS! But what can you expect…all these other countries can’t stand it that we won the war…and look at it now…EU money while we…”
“Besieged,” I whispered, miserably, but with the confidence of one with a complete tour of the Valetta History Museum under her belt, which I (correctly) conjectured Arkady wasn’t, “Malta. Under siege by the Germans from 1940-1942. British Naval Base. Allied forces all the way.”
Abject silence ensued, as seventeen pairs of eyes squinted in suspicion and an effort to focus vision. The suave waiter gave me a big smile and a nod of acknowledgment.
“I think Velvet and I are going to say good-night now, she seems very tired. Once again, congratulations on victory in The Great Patriotic War.” I beat a hasty retreat, dragging Velvet, now on a sugar high, behind me.
HRH lurched in around 9:00 the next morning as I was trying to decide whether to go to breakfast or call the Maltese police first, while simultaneously trying to reassure Velvet that Papa had just stayed awake with the nice people we’d met the night before. HRH stood in the doorjamb, swaying back and forth. I felt a rush of relief that he was alive, which is all that matters in moments like this.
“Vraaaaaaagggg-eeeeee…” he drawled, in is his standard morning-after condemnation and accusation of the external forces – or “enemies”, which have forced him, unwillingly, into a drunken stupor the previous evening.
“Allies, surely.” I quipped as he fell senseless onto the bed.
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Happy Victory Day to everyone...where ever in the world you may be!
The phrase “In defeat unbeatable: in victory, unbearable,” is attributed to Sir Winston Churchill, who used it in reference to Lord Montgomery, not The Russian Federation.
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Dear Reader:
Happy Victory Day! Unless, of course, you don’t celebrate Victory Day, and there are those who don’t. There are those who already celebrated it yesterday, but anyway. What’s your take on seeding the clouds? Do you think I was right to get Velvet out of the Maltese lobby? Did you think the waiter was being churlish? Thanks for making it through a long story…but hopefully a funny one. You can tell me to “edit edit edit” which is what my Mom always says to my Dad, by clicking the comment button below and leaving me your thoughts! Stay with me as we set sail (hint hint) for next week’s exciting line up of Russian professional holidays!
Do men who have got all their marbles go swimming in lakes with their clothes on? ~P.G. Wodehouse
Today is The Day of the Divers – the SCUBA folks -- not the ones off the diving board. Alexander III, who made his own children sleep on army cots, bathe in cold water, and sometimes made them wait so long to be served a meal that Nicholas II ate the wax in his crucifix, founded the world’s first deep sea-diving school in Kronstadt on May 5, 1882, which today is part of the Naval Engineering Academy of St. Petersburg. Kronstadt is an island near St. Petersburg with numerous associations with the Russian Revolution, and I think it is fair to say that the water temperature never gets what you and I would call tepid.
I am not a SCUBA enthusiast myself. If you ask me, one is just asking for a solid week of Neti-Potting after a few hours, and I didn’t care for the distinctly amphibious look of the feet of the guy who taught HRH and Velvet and me a few years ago. It is very expensive, and I feel I don't look my super best in the kit. However, HRH’s godson, George, really IS into diving. At only fifteen, he is already PADI certified and goes diving whenever he can. Oddly enough, May 5th is also George’s birthday, so do click on the comment button below and leave a comment for George to wish him Happy Birthday AND Happy Diver's Day – because he will be checking to see that you did!!!
Russian Diver, George is 15 today
George is not unusual in his passion for a sport that his hometown (Moscow) can’t really support or accommodate.
A while ago, a glamorous American journalist called Dinah rang me up from Prague in a panic: having had a few too many pints of beer with an editor in a downtown bar called "The Scarlett O'Hara" she had insinuated that she knew rather more about Really Tacky New Russians than she actually did. She’d scored a 1500-word gig, intimated that this was not all she had scored, and thus was suffering from a horrible hangover, some guilt, and severe writer's block. Dinah needed sound bytes and she needed them fast. We covered the cost of a bottle of cheap and cheerful chardonnay from Australia ($37 USD), that famous story when the BA plane was delayed by 75 minutes while flight attendants tried to fit 10 (ten!!!!) Jimmy Choo shopping bags into the overhead compartment while their owner, a human Barbie doll, talked non-stop on her diamond-studded Nokia to someone called “Ksiusha,” at which point Dinah took another swig of Alka-Seltzer and said:
“What do Really Tacky New Russians in Moscow like to do for…ummmmmmmm…sports?”
I knew this one.
“Really Tacky New Russians in Moscow like to find the most impossibly exclusive, completely unavailable sports with the most complicated and gut-wrenchingly expensive kit possible.”
“Such as?” asked Dinah.
“Golf, downhill skiing and yachting.”
There was a long pause.
“But…” began Dinah.
“That’s right,” I said, “Moscow is flat, landlocked, and you can only play golf for two months of the year.”
“Unbelievable,” said Dinah.
“Actually, what is unbelievable is that some idiot bankers have started to play polo.”
There was a sound as if Alka Seltzer was going down the wrong tube.
“You made that up, Jennifer,” she accused.
I don’t often snort, but I snorted then said:
“How could anyone possibly make up something like that?"
Do you think I made the polo players up? More fool you….I didn’t. Did you ever think you'd see something as silly as this in the middle of a financial melt down? No, you're right. It would be funnier if those clowns from Citi were supporting it.
Do you like to SCUBA? Did you see that otherwise so-so film with Jennifer Aniston when the French guy comes down the beach asking, “Are you for scuba??” and makes off with Debra Messing?
But more importantly: Please please please leave a comment wishing George a Happy Birthday. Seriously, he’s a great kid, is nice to his little sister, I'm concerned that HRH didn't get him the iPad he wanted, and he can sing "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" in Chinese." I kid you not.
"I cannot forecast to you the action of Russia. It is a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma; but perhaps there is a key…”
Sir Winston Churchill
Where would we be without our code crackers? Dan Brown, for one, would just be a geek in a turtleneck. Cryptography is as old as time, in fact, it seems to me that it has to be about the 5th oldest profession (after the Oldest Profession**, hunter/gatherer, housewife, and marriage counselor) out there. I was interested to learn by literally stumbling on this tidbit of information on a Russian government web site (!) that the Kama Sutra lists cryptography as one of the 64 essential arts for a cultured person, along with carpentry, tattooing, and, of course, cooking.
**Before you ask, as my buddy Joe Kelly did, no there isn’t a Day of the Sex Worker. Sorry about that.
The history of Russia’s code crackers is interesting, if short. Peter The Great (1672 – 1725) who was into big ideas, like creating a crackerjack navy for a land-locked country, realized that a world class autocracy could not function without some secret code, and the Petrine (as we Russian history buffs smugly but correctly call this period) reforms and campaigns made extensive use of coded messages and ciphers.
Fast forward two hundred years and things are virtually unchanged from Peter’s time.
From about 1850, Russia’s rulers dealt with a sharp uptick in violent revolutionary activity at home. In 1881, Alexander II was assassinated minutes from the Winter Palace by members of the revolutionary group “Narodnaya Volya” or Peoples’ Will, and after that the secret police, or Okhrana, the forerunner of the KGB, was beefed up and more attention paid to creating and cracking more complicated ciphers, such as the particularly successful Nihilst code. Go ahead, click it! It will show you how to say "Blow up the Winter Palace" in code!!!
The Revolution of 1917 split Russia in two: the “Reds” those loyal to the Revolution and “White” monarchists fought for control until 1921. The Whites got most of the cryptologists and cryptanalysts, making it necessary for the fledgling USSR to start all over again.
After this, the trail leads to the FSB (current incarnation of the KGB) website. The Cryptographic Service is part of that crowd. From there, the trail goes cold.
As well it should.
My theory about the relative late start and lax attention to cryptography during large swathes of Russian history, for what it’s worth, is this: I think Russians more often than not think they talk in code already…and of course they do. With an alphabet that makes a normal person feel they’ve developed instant dyslexia, Russians can, and do, use their truly foul curse words in the lobby of posh hotels in New York and Paris, confident that no one (except the bellboys) understands a word they are saying.
This, however, is erroneous, as I can attest from my days as a tour guide. Once, I was doing what is called a "Fam" or Familiarization Tour (you may know it better as "boondoggle") for travel agents in Eastern Europe. The National Guide was Serbian, the driver was Slovenian, the Czech guide we were dropping off at the border spoke Slovak and Czech, and I spoke Russian. We got to the Czech/Polish border and, I kid you not, this really happened, everyone spoke his or her language and we understood one another perfectly.
Velvet and I often lapse into Russian over here in the USA if we need to communicate sensitive info. For example, when my vegetarian nieces dig into the tofu, pea pod, and tempeh salad their mother has provided as the children’s’ meal, I cock an eyebrow and say to her in Russian:
“If you eat some of that, after dinner I will take you to that red restaurant with the golden arches for the largest item on the menu and their very good potatoes”
Which is code for: “Eat a little and then I’ll get you a Big Mac and fries.”
Congratulations to all the employees at the Cryptographic Service of The Russian Federation!
Thanks for sticking with me on this double-holiday day! I sincerely appreciate you visiting Dividing My Time, and I'd love to know how you and your family talk in code! Click on the comment button below and leave me a message (in code or not!) And if you haven't done it yet, be sure to visit the other people we are honoring today, the divers and wish my personal favorite PADI-certified diver, George a happy 15th birthday and Happy Divers Day (lucky him to be born on the day of his favorite holiday!!)
Today is May 1st, which is a big deal in a number of cultures and countries for various reasons.Foremost is the coming of Spring, as celebrated by the Romans at the Festival of Flora, the Celts at Beltane, and the good old Germans at Walpurgisnacht (I once went to a memorable Walpurgisnacht celebration in Bristol, England, and haven’t been able to face sweet dessert wine since).
In the “Former Socialist” or “New Capitalist” world, May Day is associated with solidarity of the working classes, and in the USSR, May 1st used to be known as "Day of Solidarity of the Workers." What the Russians won’t tell you, though Wikipedia and I will, is that this was actually dreamed up by…the Australians. Go and figure. Which is interesting, since May 1st for them doesn’t designate the coming of Spring at all, but nevertheless, in 1856, they came up with the idea of a universal holiday for the working classes.
On the other side of the world on May 1, 1886 in Chicago, at a three-day-strike at a factory got out of hand and police fired on the crowd of striking workers, resulting in twelve deaths and world-wide outrage and subsequent sympathy for the plight of the working people. May 1st became a day of solidarity with the cause of workers’ rights, and gained a solid foothold in Europe. Russian workers first held demonstrations in 1891 in St. Petersburg, and after the Russian Revolution of 1917, the holiday was firmly entrenched as the national day of celebration of the workers’ state, with massive parades through the streets of major cities.
Northampton celebrates the beginning of May too... in its own particular way, which also has to do with solidarity. This is known simply as "Pride" and it was getting going this evening on main street, under the benevolent protection of Noho's four cops. This is a regional celebration, it seems, which was brought home to me today when Velvet called from school to say she was sorry that she had not called me in the morning, but they were observing a morning of silence, "...you know in solidarity with people don't live in as understanding a community as ours."
I said I thought that was just great, and then suggested she might not want to go into a lot of detail about that to HRH.
Sadly, I will miss my opportunity to show solidarity with people who live in the most understanding of communities, in downtown Northampton, because, needless to say, I am going to a horse show.
In Russia, May 1st kicks off a series of holidays bundled up together as “The May Holidays,” which actually just include May 1st and May 9th (Victory Day), but the Russian Government in its infinite wisdom massages the calendar so that these two holidays run into one another and Russians end up with most of May off, although they usually have to work an eight day work week to compensate for it. You can read about it in my inaugural humor column. The one that got me in to so much trouble with Olga Quelque Chose
All this free time, combined with fairly reliably good weather, mean one thing for any Russian worth his salt pork: it’s time to head to the dacha! I hate dachas. I'll explain why tomorrow.
So off you go, Russia, to your shashlik and your dachas, Noho - enjoy Pride. I'm going to be in solidarity with the other Pony Moms.
Thank you for stopping by and reading this post. Although I know my Russian audience will be firing up the kostor and too busy, I'd love it if everyone else could let me know what you thought about this post by clicking on the comment button below. Tell me, how are you going to spend May 1st?
Today I’m the featured blogger on Blogtrotting! This is very exciting and it is my pleasure to welcome you to my blog and the country where I spend a lot of my time: The Russian Federation. This post will give you a little bit of the skinny on me and Russia, as well as Me & Russia: a long-term, somewhat choppy relationship, which for better or worse, and richer or poorer, is set to last a lifetime. I've left a few breadcrumbs to follow to some classic posts via links, and I hope you'll stay a while and browse.
I’m an American who fell in love with Russian language, history, and culture when I was a bored 13 year-old and read Robert Massie's “Nicholas and Alexandra.” After The Wall came down, I majored in 19th Century Russian Studies, graduated, and set sail for Russia just in time for the main act of perestroika. To my extreme shock and horror, Russia in 1989 looked nothing like “Nicholas and Alexandra." You could have knocked me over with a feather. I almost left, but it was all too compelling to give up. So, here I am, 17 years later.
In 1992, I settled down in Moscow with the man who would become HRH (which, in addition to meaning “His Royal Highness” can also mean, depending on my mood, “Horrible” or “Handsome” Russian Husband.”) After a suitable interval, we were joined by our daughter, Velvet, who, at the age of six months made it abundantly clear to us that her life would be dedicated spending as much time with horses as possible. To better facilitate this, we’ve sent her to school in rural Massachusetts and we now divide our time between Northampton, MA and Moscow, and when people ask me what I do, I tell them, I'm a Pony Mom. We have many frequent flyer miles, but not enough to fly through volcanic ash.
“How do you like living here?” Russians ask me all the time. “It’s never dull,” I tell them, and it isn’t. Everything you try to do takes strategic planning, on-the-ground know-how, and sheer guts. What for example, would you do if confronted with this situation?
Or this one?
Or indeed, this one?
Though I am pretty sure you would know what to do in this situation...
“What has been the best thing about living in Russia for seventeen years?” asked an American lawyer.
“Smoked salmon,” I replied promptly.
“What can’t you get in Russia?” people often ask. The answer used to be everything from A-Z, so much so that I would play that game “I packed my grandmother’s trunk…” when I couldn’t fall asleep. Today, it’s just zip lock bags and Eileen Fisher. Yes, I’ve seen a lot of changes.
My blog is about finding the funnier side of life in Russia, which isn’t always easy, but incredibly satisfying when you do. Even the Russian TV Guide is funny. I found a guy so desperate to find a girlfriend that he dressed up in absurd clothing and was photographed in a truly tacky 18th century palace. You don’t see that every day, but you can see him here.
I have a thing about the Uniformed in Russia. I also am on a mission to chart all of Russia’s professional holidays, which include everything from the Day of the Cosmonauts to Customs’ Workers Day (and how I am going to find anything nice to say about them, I don’t know...stay tuned!).
Moscow is a huge sprawling city that has very beautiful parts of it, like the Moscow Kremlin, and some really awful parts of it, like the raw open wounds of chaotic construction all over the city. It’s a brusque, businesslike place, where traffic is often gridlocked and the weather is often grey. Moscow doesn’t welcome you with open arms, but you can find a lot of interesting things if you are willing to look. I take a lot of pictures in Moscow of the things I see – mainly the things that stand out at me as very ironic, very funny, very sad, or very typical of the Russian approach to life, which is often a combination of all of the above. I hope you enjoy having a look around.
I love to cook, and living in Russia, oddly enough made me a good one. I prefer to shop at the Farmers' Markets, which isn't for the faint of heart, but the best place to get fresh produce, meat and fish.
It is hard being a photographer in Russia, because very few people want to have their pictures taken, especially people in uniform, which is why I really treasure these shots:
Moscow cityscapes:
The women who made Hitler cry...
A man who helped...
And the most enduring image of them all...with the ubiquitous crane...
Author's Notes:
Photos by Jennifer Eremeeva, with sincere thanks to the administration of Dorogomilovskaya Market for allowing me to take pictures of the farmer's market.
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Dear Reader: I close my posts by thanking readers for stopping by, and telling them how much I value their feedback about Dividing My Time. If you would like to leave a comment, please feel free to click the comment button below. This is especially true today, when I look forward to welcoming new readers! I would also like to thank Blogtrotting for their interest in featuring this post: Большое вам спасибо: Russian for Thank you very much!
HRH cannot get through the week without purchasing “7 Days,” Russia’s equivalent of “TV Guide,” but not to find out when “Dancing On Ice,” will be, but rather to read his horoscope – or “goroscope” as the Russians pronounce it. This is one of those little character hiccups that forever endears him to me, along with the fact that he can never admit that he’s done something wrong. Since we had three weddings, HRH is much overburdened with remembering three different anniversaries. A week ago, I was so busy with Velvet and various service providers, that I only recalled the third when I was lying in bed sipping a well-deserved glass of wine, watching “Inspector Lynley.”
“Darling,” I texted him over in Moscow, “Did we both forget that today was our anniversary?”
In the morning, much refreshed, I rolled over to find this message on my iPhone:
“I love you!! Call me!”
HRH, if pressed, will tell you he doesn’t believe in God, the goodness of his fellow men, health insurance, and certainly not that Barack Obama is going to change the world for better. But he does believe with all the fervor of an original disciple what “7 Days” tells him is going to happen the upcoming week. For the week of the 8th of March, “International Women’s’ Day,” that one day of the year when Russian men give themselves over to housework and fawning over the females in their lives, “7 Days” predicted:
You have a calm week ahead of you. Now you are more inclined to compromise than to assert your independence. These thoughts will allow you to focus on your personal life. In additon, a new diet, exercise and spiritual practice will bring you happiness and have a good affect.
I was hardly impressed. You don’t have to be Deepak Chopra to come to those conclusions.
Interspersed with television timetables are articles about cheesy Russian celebrities and their wildly decorated homes, which is why I would never go a week without “7 Days.” I want to get them all bound in leather covers, so we can preserve this delicious slice of Russian culture. I want to say “7 Days” is a cross between…but then, I can’t really think of two things that could ever define the perimeters of “7 Days.” It is inspired by “OK” magazine, that smutty and pimply younger sibling of “Hello!” but “7 Days” goes much further in its sheer awfulness. You have to wonder what ordinary people in Russia think when they see “7 Days.”
Here, for example, are the hardworking Russian Olympians, making sure they get enough protein before the big day:
Does everyone see the high-heeled sneakers in this one?????
One of Russia's leading singers, Larisa Dolina claims to have gone hoarse during the Vancover Games, supporting the Russian team but it must have been worth it to have had this snazzy poster made out of one of the most enduring images of the Second World War...it is the kind of thing that would be considered in poor taste if we did it to the famous "Rodina Mat'" but seemingly okay if a celebrity does it!
In this photo, we have that ultimate paragon of good sportsmanship, Evgeny Pluschenko, playing fuze hockey...clearly the sport of "real men."
Bonus snap: clock the rock star making a gesture of international sporting solidarity!
"7 Days" as a rule sticks closer to home, showcasing tender love stories between people I have never heard of, but who's interior design I would not want to miss. Case in point, cover girl Olga Fillipova and her boyfriend Vladimir Vdovinchenkov: he's been married three times officially and their marriage plans are not firmed up yet, but they have been living together for seven years in their very interesting interior:
"7 Days" is also up to speed on the fashion end of things, like the extensive photo shoot of Dana Borisova, of whom the magazine gushed: "...one of the most noticeable blonds of our TV....many people thinks such graces never have any problems: any dress on a lovely figure looks great! But Dana thinks this is a false belief. She's convinced by her own example, that to dress with taste, you need to spend a lot of time and energy.
Here is Dana, surrounded by some of her favorite accessories. The caption tells us that Dana "first seriously thought about her own style when she came to NTV..."
"Own style" is putting it on a bit thick: Dana's accessories are the Alpha to Omega of any Russian devushka: Burberry, Hermes Birkin in electric blue, Vuitton in a pattern that isn't going to last, and no, I don't know what the purple crocodile thing is...do you?
No edition of "7 Days" is ever complete without a dacha spread. Here aging rock star Vladimir Politov kicks back with a few friends and enjoys the outdoor life, hunting bears, wolves, and something green and furry with which those chairs are covered!
"Be vewy vewy quiet...they're hunting rabbits..."
"The most difficult thing about hunting, is the sitting around and waiting. For hours you can't smoke, you can't move, you can't even cough, in case you scare the animals."
"We just hurled money to the right and to the left: on clothes, on girls, on gifts. We thought it would always be like that..."
I know I announced a hiatus from making fun of Russian authorities, but...this is way too good not to share.
Authorities released some pictures of a revamped set of uniforms for Russia's policemen and women.
You'll agree, they are cutting edge. They make the militia much more approachable, don't they? You'd be immediately inclined to ask any one of these public servants for help, right? It's this kind of bold move, decisive action, and sweeping reform that is going to drag Russia into the 21st Century, make no mistake.
Vote for your favorite version! Leave a comment and let me know which design is your favorite!
There hasn’t been much news since I delivered Babushka and Dedushka into the dubious hands of Delta Air Lines at 4 am en route to their Caribbean cruise, Babushka complete with a three new Eileen Fisher ensembles (which I suspect she has secretly relegated to the “HRH takes back to Moscow pile,” and Dedushka clearly not using his Christmas presents I thought would be so useful: a TUMI document organizer and travel case, each with flaps, and separate zippered compartments and straps, and Velcro and convenient passport-sized slots and the whole nine yards. I know this had been relegated to the “HRH takes back to Moscow pile,” as he was at a loss to locate one single thing during check-in. This was stressful, as I had the car parked in the HANDICAPPED ONLY section of the POSITIVELY NO PARKING AREA of the curbside check-in. A large TSA/Harrison Ford wannabe told me, “Ma’am, you are going to have to move your vehicle,” and I told him I was very sorry, but there was no way I could leave my elderly, non-English speaking, generally clueless, Russian in-laws en route to Miami on their own at curbside. I pleaded with him to make the not-so-difficult leap of imagination that they were handicapped. “Five minutes.” He said and lumbered off.
“Where is your goddamn document holder?” I screamed, stamping my foot. I sensed Babushka was up for a little female solidarity, but as usual, she was the one methodically going through the enormous, cumbrous, completely inappropriate faux Dolce and Gabana overnight bag they think is the ultimate in hand luggage. She found the document in question and took charge, clasping it to her bosom, pushing Dedushka aside and stepping up to the check-in counter with the DNA that made Hitler and Napoleon gnash their teeth. I stood in awe, and mused, on my way back to Northampton, that if people like Babushka weren’t forced all the time to pretend that people like Dedushka are really in charge, the world would be a much more efficient place.
In any case, the sheet rock guy was right, and all the starm and drang of Christmas and New Year’s seems like a long time ago, now that HRH and I are ensconced in the lovely Sugar Mill (not it’s real name) in beautiful St. Croix. And no news from the Royal Caribbean crowd, as I assured HRH, probably means good news. I mean, if Haitian pirates had captured them, we’d hear from the pirates, right?
On the way down, as I dozed in the plane, I was mildly musing about Russians abroad, which is the theme of the chapter I’m currently working on. Since HRH first went on our honeymoon on a similar Royal Caribbean cruise we’ve been running into his compatriots in every corner of the globe. I should pause here to note that Dedushka is a great one for brand loyalty: he once booked his daughter into the same hotel, in the same resort town, on the same island as HRH and me: where we were attempting to have that “first vacation after small baby,” thing. Not that his daughter thought anything of it, since the world really does revolve around her. So Dedushka opted for a preference for Royal Caribbean.
The Sugar Mill (which is delightfully free of any global hotel chain association) is a lovely old Sugar Plantation that has been turned into a golf and hotel resort. HRH and I discovered four years ago, and liked it so much that we folded it into our solidifying annual schedule. I ask HRH every now and then if he wants to try another place, but he doggedly insists that he likes The Sugar Mill, and I agree. It is incredibly laid back – no boom boxes or naval peircings, no discos or Jell-O shots, just a quiet, laid back crowd, sleeping on the beach, reading Wolf Hall or Vanity Fair, coming back from a satisfyingly energetic round of golf, or splashing about in the Grotto pool with their small children. We usually hit it after American schools resume, so the property is half empty, and even quieter than usual, which makes the minor logistical responsibilities such as booking a table for dinner overlooking the ocean and the twinkling lights of Christiansted a synch.
Or so we thought.
I had booked the table overlooking the ocean and the twinkling lights from Northampton the previous weekend. But when we got to the restaurant and announced our last names, there was massive confusion. Were we are party of 3? No, we assured them, party of 2. It seemed we’d already been seated. We assured them we had not been. After a certain amount of fluster, the maitre d’ took control and led us to a just-vacated and hastily tidied table overlooking the ocean. As he pulled out my chair, and wafts of the conversation from the next table drifted over me, I solved the mystery of the snatched table: raspy immigrant Russian, tones born in the South of Russia and honed in the outskirts of Chicago and Brooklyn. I exchanged amused glances with HRH, who raised his eyebrows and confined his speech to English for the remainder of the evening. Was he recalling the 9th of May, 2005 in Malta, when he got sucked into a group of Russian tourists from Voronezh with 3 bottles of Chivas under the table and a continuous order for orange juice on top, who insisted he stay with them to celebrate the 60th anniversary of the end of World War II, prompting a two day hangover and a vow never to drink Chivas ever again?
Perhaps it was a reluctance to agree to, or even engage in the stream of abuse about The Sugar Mill’s food, and service, and general shabbiness that was Topic A at the table that should have been ours.
About the Author
Veteran American expatriate, calling Moscow home for the last 17 years, I’m also a photographer, historian, cook, and humor columnist: always trying to find the funnier side of life in Russia as I manage a family consisting of HRH, my “Horrible Russian Husband,” and Velvet, my 12 year old, who thinks she’s a horse. I’m finishing up my first book, and divide my time between Moscow, Russia and Northampton MA: and the only thing they have in common is a complete lack of parking spaces.
Contact Me: [email protected]
"Jennifer Eremeeva’s blog Dividing My Time is certainly not another English Russia. Instead Jennifer – who has been living in Moscow for 17 years – posts wry observations about day to day life in Moscow."
Daily Hampshire Gazette
"wry and funny observations on life in Russia...Eremeeva also shares her tongue-in cheek take on what she encounters stateside."
Cool Cucumbers in a Pretty Pickle The sizzling hot spy scandal makes me wonder if I could pull of being a Russian...if only in the kitchen, where I attempt pickles!
Cool Cucumbers in a Pretty Pickle The sizzling hot spy scandal makes me wonder if I could pull of being a Russian...if only in the kitchen, where I attempt pickles!
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