As excitement over this month’s Royal Wedding reaches fever pitch, it seems appropriate for Russia to seriously consider a strategic return to monarchy. There are those who will feel that this is an incredibly complicated and possibly prohibitively expensive move, but it is clear to me that monarchy is not only readily affordable for Russia but, properly constituted, could go a long way to mitigating a number of Russia’s current issues. Sure, it’s expensive, but surely not as expensive as the Sochi Olympics and in every way imaginable a far superior long-term investment. I won’t reveal which of the candidates I think should wear the Cap of Monomakh (not in this month’s column anyway), but I will pose this question: what is a Stabilization Fund for if not to create stability, and the best way to do that is to get a crowd I’m calling “The Imperials” back to work as Heads of State in Russia.
Here’s why:
1. Russia Already Functions Like a Monarchy: It’s hard to impose hereditary monarchy on countries that are used to hundreds of years of representational government, but, happily, Russia doesn’t have that problem. The mindset is in place and dare one say it, primed, for a seamless return to Tsar Alexander III’s trifecta of “Autocracy, Orthodoxy, and Nationalism.” The Church, traditionally a stalwart prop of monarchy, would be the first to sign up and lend the new monarch their not inconsiderable influence and support to get the populace on board. It’s a no brainer.
2. Russia Has the Equipment: Russia has all it needs in terms of regalia: crowns, orbs, scepters, thrones, carriages, palaces, crown jewels, and a coat of arms. No additional expense necessary. None of what the “prschiki” in Russia call, “rebrendinguh.” Everything is sitting tucked up in the Diamond Fund, no doubt more than ready for an airing. The existing real estate just needs minor renovations such as indoor plumbing and it will be all set for the Imperials to move right in.
3. Monarchy Is Great Public Relations: It goes without saying that the Imperials would do wonders for Russia’s PR, both at home and abroad. At home, they could handle things like charitable causes: visit factories, schools, and open sports events. This would free up the people who run the government to run it, and not phaff about on Channel 1. Abroad, the Imperials could spearhead things like bids for (more) major global sporting events. Or, better still, they could just have the occasional wedding at home, which would mean Russia wouldn’t need any major sporting events in the first place. Monarchy, of course, is to tourism what honey is to flies, so more money from that. And let’s face it while the KGB/FSB is an admirable school of management for many aspects of government, PR isn’t one of them. Finally, I for one feel that Russia deserves something a little bit more up market in terms of a cultural ambassador than Roman Abramovich or Xenia Sobchak.
4. More Home Games: The Court/The Season: An acute problem with Russian society today is that everyone wants to go and have his or her fun elsewhere. Monarchy could change all that. The Imperials would foster and encourage fun at home, by creating a social calendar of events in Russia and thereby an axis around which the socially ambitious would revolve. They could make unlikely backwaters fashionable, just as Prince Albert did for Scotland. Imagine boating week in Volgograd, winter sports in Krasnodar, and the elk-shooting season in Omsk. The Imperials would make it chic to stay home, just as HM The Queen does. All those billions of rubles that normally go to Courchevel and St. Tropez flowing into the domestic coffers to say nothing of the more middle class Middletonski wannabes trawling for Russian Grand Dukes.
5. Raising the Taste and Quality Bar: Royalty has an excellent track record at fusing class and brass and the Imperials could be put to very good use disseminating this new mindset in Russia, which today is rather more inclined towards the unfortunate twinning of brash and cash. The Imperials would lower the heels and get the jewelry off the men: two consummations devoutly to be wished. Imperial Warrants could motivate production of high quality goods such as Faberge Eggs, which are so much prettier than cloud computing.
6. A Shot in the Arm To the Military: Monarchy is always a boon for the military, the only profession considered suitable for the male members of any Imperial dynasty. Once the Imperials take over, the army will become a competitive profession as smart regiments such as the Semenyovsky and Preobrazhensky are reconstituted. Families will stop paying money to keep their sons out, and start paying money to get their sons in. Total rehabilitation.
7. Solves the Nagging Belarus Problem: Belarus would be immediately incorporated into the newly constituted Russian Empire and the Heir to the Russian throne would be titled the Tsarevich and Grand Duke of Minsk.
If they hurry, the Imperials could get some seats in the Abbey this month. What better time to say, as the Chuds, the Krivichians, and Slavs did to the people of Varangian Rus in 860 A.D.: “Our whole land is great and rich, but there is no order in it. Come to rule and reign over us.”
-------------------------------------------
A version of this article first appeared in "Russia Beyond the Headlines" on April 20, 2011 and an online version of this can be found here.
-------------------------------------------
Hey there readers! What's your take on monarchy in Russia? Good idea? Terrible idea? What are your plans for Friday's nuptials? Are you a "stay up all night and have Coronation Chicken for breakfast" type or "what wedding?" grinch? I bet you can guess which your intrepid blogger is! Enjoy the day!
As you spend February 23rd (Men's Day), so shall you spend 8th of March (Women's Day).
~HRH (and a lot of other Russian men I know.)
A friend, who is perhaps not the brightest bulb on the tanning bed, has just figured out the double entendre humor I use in referring to my “Handsome Russian Husband” as “HRH.”
“You know,” she said, “That can also stand for ‘His Royal Highness’. Like Prince William.”
Really?
The moniker HRH is eminently applicable to Russian men, who are all brought up by their mothers believing that they are, indeed, royal scions and therefore above such plebian and unmanly concerns like housework. In Russia, they are still teaching Home Ec to the girls and Shop to the boys, with no reform in sight – and certainly not regarding the impending gender-specific public holidays. In place of one messy, gender-neutral love fest on February 14th, Russians are suiting up for the very separate Men’s Day (February 23rd) and its companion piece, International Women’s Day (March 8th.)
I’m a Russian historian, so I like to delve into the origin of national holidays. Men’s Day is very interesting. Its full, and characteristically overblown, name is “The Day of the Defenders of the Motherland,” and it celebrates the 1918 rout of Kaiser Wilhelm’s forces by the just-that-day-drafted Red Army. The name eventually morphed from “Red Army Day,” to “Day of the Soviet Army and Navy,” and in 1995, as part of a re-branding campaign to drop “Red” from everything, ended up as “Day of the Defenders of the Motherland.” In HRH’s family, we take the 23rd of February very seriously indeed, since we are a military family: HRH and Dedushka both served as officers in the Red Army – as did Great Uncle Boris, and several others, dating right back to that Red Letter Day in 1918. Interestingly, this list also includes several gutsy great aunts and great-great grandmothers, who served, with distinction, in the Red Army as border patrol guards, field medical officers, and behind-the-lines guerilla fighters in Occupied Ukraine. Nevertheless, February 23rd remains devoted exclusively to the men of Russia, who, ipso facto, are all obliged to defend the Motherland as part of their mandatory military service.
On its current web site, the Russian Consulate in Houston, TX offers helpful guidance on the celebration of Men’s Day: “On this day,” it says, “the entire masculine population - from boys to old men - receive special greetings and presents. Women have a wonderful opportunity to convey their warmest and kindest feelings to the loved ones and to indulge them with sings (sic) of attention and affection.”
HRH, in mufti, is not a force to be reckoned with on the domestic front, although he does open wine bottles, which, along with driving a car, is what well-brought up Russian men consider “man’s work.” I once begged him to empty the dishwasher. He sighed deeply, went to the sink, and stood, his back to me.
“Darling,” I said quietly.
“What – “ he barked, turning around to glare at me.
“Just that, the dishwasher, you know, is the appliance on your left.”
HRH and Dedushka won’t be emptying anything except a bottle of premium whiskey this week – as we women convey our warmest and kindest feelings. I’ve bought HRH a new super sonic corkscrew, Babushka has the sweet Sovietskoye Champanskoye warming up in the vegetable steamer, and Velvet is on dishwasher duty, so we are all set to indulge our Defenders with the royal attention and affection they deserve.
This post first appeared as an article in Russia Beyond The Headlines on February 10, 2010.
--------------------------------------------
Hey there readers!
This may well have been the post that started me down the rocky road of profprazniks. Did you have a nice men's day? I decided to put all my chips on one number and spent a large part of Tuesday night making bliniy and all kinds of good stuff. Then everyone got sick. So now the house is full of food. Any Defenders out there still looking for a good meal?
Today is Naval Navigator Day in Russia! On this day, in 1701 Peter The Great founded the School of Mathematical and Navigational Studies in Moscow to educate a new breed of naval navigators to support his growing navy. The naval navigators used to celebrate on both the vernal and autumnal equinoxes, which, in addition to allowing twice the amount of fun, makes sense since those are the days when navigation is a relative doddle because the sun rises and sets due east and west. In 1997, however, the Russian government (having as usual, nothing better to do) decreed that we should fete the navigators on January 25th. It has occurred to me that this may be an attempt to counter-balance the complete disorientation of all of Russia’s students by noon, since today is also their day.
It’s good to know that there are some men out there who do take the time to think about directions, because most of the ones I know think it is a big waste of time and a somewhat unmanly pursuit, the exception that proves this rule being my father, a.k.a “Lightfoot the Pathfinder” who still believes he’s more accurate and accomplished a navigator than Serena the GPS system.
Men and directions always remind me of that very funny (and clean) joke about the three wise men and Christmas. What if they had been three wise women?
1.They would have stopped to ask for directions.
2.They would have been on time.
3.They would have prepared the stable.
4.They would have helped deliver the baby.
5.They would have made a casserole.
6.And they would have brought useful gifts.
HRH certainly never wastes any time Map Questing anything, despite the fact that his work takes him to all kinds of horrifically complicated places like Profsoyuznaya or that place where the Sberbank complex looks like the Death Star—you know the one. At this point in his career, HRH is very much a back seat passenger, content to let his fleet of drivers figure it out while he barks monosyllabic grunts into his mobile like good minigarchs should. On the very rare occasions that we set sail for some event or other without a driver, the following conversation ensues:
Me: Where are we going?
HRH: To Sergei Bychiuk’s new country house.
Me: And where is that?
HRH: outside Moscow…out Volokalamskoye way.
Me: is that all you know?
HRH (exasperated) Petrovna!
Me: Okay..okay. Whatever.
At the end of Volokalamskoye Shosse, after the scarred earth confusion of the border between Moscow and the Moscow Region where the asphalt turns into dirt/slush, HRH pulls over and extracts his mobile phone.
HRH: Seriozh….privet…okay, I’ve crossed the bridge at the 8 kilometer sign….now what? (Indistinguishable grunts from the other end)…korochiye…straight to the 4-kilometer sign….then left, then right…what? A water tower? On the left or the right? On the right, then what? Okay, I’ll call you from the water tower.
Me: Could you not get your friends to send you a Google Map link or something?
HRH: Petrovna, Sergei’s country house is not going to be on a Google Map link.
Me: Sweetheart, Kim Il Jong’s house is on a Google Map.
HRH: Sergei wouldn’t understand that kind of request.
Me: What you mean is that he doesn’t know how to turn on the computer.
HRH: There’s the water tower.
The water tower, miraculously, turns up, but just as it appears, the bars on HRH’s mobile phone disappear completely, to be replaced by “No Service.” HRH lets off a stream of obscenities under his breath. I refrain from saying “I told you so.” We sit in silence for a moment surveying the landscape.
Me: Do you know the name of the cottage settlement where Sergei’s house is?
HRH: It’s something out of a book.
Me: A book?
HRH: Forest something…about stealing from the rich.
Me: Are you telling me Sergei Biychuik lives in a forest settlement devoted to stealing from the rich?
HRH: Robin Good!
Me: It’s called Robin Good?
HRH: No, no, the forest in Robin Good…what’s it called?
Me: You can't mean “Sherwood Forest.” There is a cottage settlement called that on the wrong end of Volokalamskoye Shosse?
HRH: (slaps the steering wheel) That’s what I said, Sherwood Forest…that’s what it’s called!
Me: (consulting the Road Atlas I’ve smuggled into the car) There is no Sherwood Forest in the index.
HRH: Of course there isn’t! It’s…like private.
Me: Don’t you yell at me. My friends all live at normal places like Pokrovsky Hills or Romanov Pereulok…or Arbat Street or something that is on the map.
(Tense silence)
Me: What you have to do is go up and ask at that kiosk (indicating the only structure visible in the lunar landscape: a rickety construction with a faded banner proclaiming “SAUSAGES”) where Sherwood Forest is. They are sure to know something.
HRH: (mutters Russian curse words.)
Me: (fumbling with the door handle) Look – I ‘ll go and ask, I don’t mind.
HRH: (bellowing) STAY IN THE CAR!!!
Generally, of course, what happens at this juncture is that some retainer or other is dispatched in a Toyota Land Cruiser from Sergei Biychiuk’s house to lead us deep into Sherwood Forest.
Are you or someone you live with directionally challenged? What’s your favorite story about getting lost? Do you think every male child should be issued with a GPS system?
Today is Ground Forces day in Russia! Since 2006, the guys in the trenches are front and center each October 1st.
Not being hugely up on military tactics, I thought I would instead devote today’s post to the issue of mandatory military service in Russia, which is something I know a bit more about, primarily because most of my Russian friends are beginning to grapple with this issue as their children approach the age of 18. I say children – but of course I mean, their male children, since mandatory military service is only for men, not women. All Russian male citizens must serve in the army for 12 months sometime betwen the ages of 18 and 27, unless they have a legitimate reason not to. While changing one's gender might be seen as going to extremes to avoid conscription, this is Russia, and there are many things to keep the bands of military recruiters out on the streets, trying to round up all the available candidates.
Military service in Russia was recently reduced from two years to 12 months, but that hasn’t done much to swell the ranks. It remains, for many, a brutal first step in to the world of adulthood, with notoriously violent bullying and hazing, called dedovshchina (from the Russian word for Grandfather) of new conscripts by more seasoned soldiers. I can’t think the food is up to much either, so all in all, it isn’t an ideal “Be All That You Can Be,” situation. Russia is also actively engaged in military conflict down in the south of the country, so, for those who are not bullied to death, there is a very real concern that they might have to deploy to an active combat zone.
If you ask a 40-something woman what her 18-year old son is up to, she might well respond, “Oh, he’s hiding from the army.” This might well be accompanied by either a welling up of tears in her eyes (in which case, get ready to be asked for a loan) or a disgusted “tsk-tsk” noise and a Slavic shrug. Both mean that the golden boy in question has failed to line of any of the acceptable legal exemptions from mandatory military service. These are, in order of social acceptability: university or graduate education, which entitles you to either postpone your tour of duty, or take the option of becoming an officer for two years, which used to be a fast-track method to securing the lowest rung on the property ladder, but is less so today. If you have two or more children (and don’t laugh this off: the winters are very long, and cold and dark in a lot of Russia) this constitutes a permanent exemption. The most popular excuse, however, and the one which is easiest to arrange if the recruit in question is not the brightest bulb on the sun tanning bed, is to obtain a medical exemption. This is where the loan your 40-something friend will be asking for comes in. If there is actually nothing wrong with you, then you have to purchase an ailment. Doctor’s certificates testifying to a medical condition making it impossible to serve can be obtained for roughly $5,000.
A fourth option exists for those who cannot scrape together the money for a fake student ID or a medical certificate, and that is to join the murky ranks of the semi-legal strata of Russian society. In the early days of perestroika, many parents sequestered their military-aged sons at remote dachas, or sent them in to the interior regions of Russia to hide out on farms or with distant cousins. This is a dismal existence: always looking over your shoulder on public transportation to avoid detection, never being able to stay at your home address, many legitimate forms of work unavailable to you because you haven't completed your military service.
Russia’s elite make sure their children are either full time students, or that they reside abroad at the family’s house in Kensington. And, I can’t say I blame them. I think if I had a son, I would do everything I could to keep him out of mandatory military service.
HRH, however, disagrees with me – violently. He says the whole system means D students and petty criminals staff the Army at the lowest levels. He thinks everyone should serve (which he did, from the ages of 17 - 24 first as a military cadet, and later as a serving officer). So, it is a good thing we only have a daughter (though Velvet would love to be an Hussar). HRH disapproves of hiding from the Army. He thinks it is a sissy sort of a thing to do, and he gets very exasperated when he hears about people who are actively engaged in it. Tolya, our driver, who did his 2 years, agrees: “Everyone should serve,” he says simply, “well, unless they are unable, in which case, they shouldn't. But if you can...you should. It makes a man out of you.”
Happy Ground Forces Day to all of Russia’s boys currently in the process of becoming men.
I do not want to finish this post without mentioning the excellent organizations of soldiers' mothers who are lobbying to improve conditions for military conscripts in Russia. The Union of the Committees of Soldiers' Mothers of Russia does excellent work, and you can read more about another group in an excellent article by Tatianna Shabaeva here.
What is your take on Russia’s mandatory military service? Are you a veteran of military service, or are you perhaps serving at the moment? What’s it like? Leave me a comment and let me know. Thank you very much for stopping by and reading this post. I have some other posts about other branches of Russia’s military you might enjoy:
Today marks the sixth anniversary of what many people call Russia’s 9/11: the terrible three-day hostage crisis at School Number One in Beslan, North Ossetian. Armed militants from Ingushetia and Chechnya captured over 1,100 parents and children inside the school building, holding them for three days in unbearably hot conditions with little food or water until Russian special forces stormed the school. Over 300 people were killed. Hundreds more were wounded and a school, a town, and a country were traumatized.
Today is the Day of Russia’s Guards Regiments! Today’s holiday is another one brought to us by that triumvirate of Russian leaders: Peter The Great, Josef Stalin, and Vladimir Putin, and celebrates the elite, or “crack” regiments who have earned the title “Guards” through exceptional achievement, bravery, and military prowess. Today marks the 10th anniversary of the holiday’s celebration in today’s Russia, but the history of the Guards dates back to 1687.
Although crowned Tsar in 1672 as a child, together with his mentally deficient half-brother Ivan V, Peter The Great spent most of his childhood outside of Moscow and away from the intrigues of the Kremlin. In the peaceful riverside villages of Preobrazhenky and Semyonovsky, energetic Peter organized the local boys into playing soldiers: games which became more complicated as the years went by, until, by 1689 the toy regiments constituted sufficient military might to play a major part in Peter’s successful efforts to wrest power from his half sister, the Regent Sophia. Peter set about a complete transformation of Russia’s armed forces, and designated the loyal companions of his youth as the two elite “Guards,” regiments: The Preobrazhenky and Semenovsky. These regiments remained the pinnacle of aristocratic military service until 1917, personally attached to the Tsar, and often under his personal command. The Guards’ regiments represented a significant political force, and their backing of a young German princess married to the lackluster and insane Peter III would play a major role in the ultimate coronation of Catherine II, or Catherine The Great. Peter insisted in working his own way up from a lowly recruit to the Colonel of the Regiment: a burden all other Romanov men would be saddled with in the years to come.
The glory and panache of the Guards’ disappeared in the defeat of the White Army in the Civil War of 1918, and by 1920, most former Guardsmen were either teaching riding in Central Park or driving cabs in Paris. It would take World War II to revive the idea of designating a “Guards” regiment. Stalin designated Guards status for exceptional bravery and military success on a few rifle divisions, artillery divisions, aircraft, tank regiments, and navel warships, cruisers and destroyers. At the end of the war, however, these Guards divisions were dismissed and the privileges and patronage of the Head of State were not extended into peacetime.
Fast forward to the Putin era, and the Guards are brought out of retirement, dusted off, and put to work again for the greater glory of Russia’s new empire: along with double-headed eagles, the orthodox church, money, and good old Russian excess.
Today the Guards’ Regiments, under the direct command of the Head of State, Dmitry Medvedev include the Kantimirovsky Armored Division, the Tamanskaya Motorized Rifle Division, The Carpathian-Berlin Motorized Rifle Division, the Sevastopol Separate Motorized Rifle Brigade, as well as Air Force Bases and Naval Ships.
Congratulations to all of Russia’s elite Guards Regiments!
I’m indebted to the very informative web portal www.arms.expo.ru for details on the modern Guards divisions.
About the photo: I took this photo a few years ago at the inaugural "Changing of the Guard" in Cathedral Square in the Moscow Kremlin. Although these soldiers do actually serve in Russia's military, I've not been able to confirm if they are actually "Guards" or if they are, like the soldiers who stand guard at the Eternal Flame, part of "The President's Regiment." If any readers know, please pop me a note in the form of a comment: it would be great to get some more information to make this post complete!
---------------------------------------
Dear Readers:
Had you heard of the toy army of Peter The Great? Does it make you think you might want to pay more attention to what your children are actually up to in the sandbox? Thank you for stopping by on this very festive and colorful profpraznik! Stick around and enjoy some more posts like this one:
Today is another of Russia’s fifteen Days of Military Glory or День воинской славы России. These are key military victories from 1242 – 1945 which, according to the 1995 legislation of the Federal Duma of Russia “played a pivotal role in the history of Russia’s history, and in which Russia’s forces earned themselves the honor and respect of their contemporaries, and the grateful memory of those who came after them.” We have visited a few, such as Victory Day and the Battle of Poltava, and we’ll get to more as we slog through the Year of Living Russian Holidays.
The Battle of Hanko Peninsula is known in Russia as “Gangut” since there isn’t an “H” in Russian. It is helpful to know this, so as to not appear as if you’ve lived your life in a remote Sierra Leonese village if a Russian mentions someone uber famous such as Adolf Gitler, the head of the Nazi party, or Gamlet, the Prince of Denmark, who features in Shakespeare’s tragedy of the same name, or, if you are under twenty-five, Gryffendor’s Quidditch Seeker, Garri Potter, and his good buddy Germione (pronounced Ger-mee-own-eh) Grandzher. You don’t want to be caught in that trap.
The Battle of Hanko Peninsula is Russia’s first major naval battle, fought during the Great Northern War in 1714 against the Swedes, with Peter The Great pitting his new navy against the much larger, and more experienced Swedish fleet of Emporer Charles XII, in an effort to secure sea access to the Russian forces in Finland. Admiral Apraksin made an initial attempt to open the lines, but was pushed to the other side of the peninsula by the strong Swedish fleet. Apraksin then sent an urgent message to Peter to come and command the troops himself, and it should come as no surprise that Peter did not have to be asked twice.
You have to hand it to the Russians, sometimes. Full marks for not giving up, where others might. In attempting to break through the Swedish lines, the Russians decided to drag their galleys across the peninsula on land, which can’t have been a walk in the park. When the Swedes found out, they deployed a detachment of eleven ships, including the aptly named flagship “Elefant.” The Russian ships were much smaller, and proved easier to handle in the calm weather which prevailed all day on August 8th and were all able to break through the Swedish lines by the early hours of August 9th, according to Apraksin’s orders. Once through the lines, the substantially larger Russian force was easily able to surround the cumbersome Swedish fleet and ultimately capture them.
Gangut was the first naval victory for Russia’s nascent naval forces, and the gains in Finland remained in Russian hands until the end of the war in 1721. In commemoration of this victory, the Russian Navy maintains, at all times, one active battleship or vessel, which is called “The Gangut.”
Congratulations to all Russia’s sailors and naval officers!
Do you know which are the other twelve Days of Military Glory? Can you guess? Here is a subtle hint for one of them: it’s a battle “on the rocks.” Stay tuned for that and other important professional holidays coming right up!
Hungry for more tales of Russia’s navy or Peter The Great? We have plenty! Like these:
It’s 40 degrees outside, and there are 853 wild fires raging across Central Russia. Moscow is shrouded in a toxic cloud of smoke, carbon monoxide and other harmful pollutants. Airports are closing, visibility is null.
This is what it looks like from my window at 2 pm.
In other news?
The Kremlin today released its comprehensive plans to re-name Russia’s law enforcers from “militia” to “police," which it feels will bring a swift and long-lasting end to over one thousand years of corruption. Citizens are encouraged to log in and comment, which is probably a good thing to do today, since going outside is not an option.
With accompanying Tweets:
KremlinRussia_E
Following
No immediate measures to replace signs or repaint vehicles will be taken or budgeted for, this is about content rather than form.about 1 hour agovia web
Renaming the “militia” the police is a conceptual change – a transition from the Soviet system to one that is modern, fair and capable.about 1 hour agovia webRetweeted by you and 23 others
Тhe new law on the police will clearly define the Ministry of the Interior's responsibilities, powers, and accountability to the community.about 2 hours agovia web This post is not part of (my) Stunt.
Today is another day to lock up your daughters, and certainly to wear protective footgear around fountains to avoid a huge amount of broken glass! It’s Paratroopers' Day, and this year marks the 80th anniversary from the first jump of the first unit of twelve paratroopers in Voronezh. Like the Border Guards, the Paratroopers take their holiday very seriously, and hold informal reunions across Russia, generally centered at the city’s major fountain, and involving a certain amount of liquid spirits. This year, I decided to go along and join them.
HRH was a little hesitant, as he always is about me venturing into this kind of scenario, and told me to keep in touch on the phone. After four hours in Gorky Park, I dialed his number.
“This is the best holiday of them all!” I gushed, “I’ve had three marriage proposals, ten invitations to go for a beer, and two guys asked me to swim with them.”
“Great,” he said, “what time is dinner?”
Pictures are not always worth a thousand words, but I think, in this case, they might be!
Congratulations to all the paratroopers of Russia! You guys sure know how to put on a great party!
Last Word from a kiosk near Gorky Park: "Beer not sold from 9:00 am to 10:00 pm"
…there is no good emitting smoke till you have made it into fire.
~Thomas Carlyle
Today marks the founding of the State Fire Inspectorate, which could be confusing to regular readers of Dividing My Time, who will recall that we have already celebrated Day of the Firefighters on April 30th, the day upon which in 1649, Tsar Alexei (Peter The Great’s Dad) founded the first firefighting brigade. Today, on the other hand, marks the day in 1927 when the Council of People’s Commissars (I love being able to slot that in) signed new legislation overseeing fire control in the Russian Soviet Federative Socialist Republic, the precursor of the USSR.
And I might leave it there except for the fact that fire is on my mind this week: the peat bogs outside Moscow are burning, spreading their acrid, foul-smelling smoke into the city, visibility is severely impaired and the sticky soot is everywhere. People who live in affected areas complain of itchy eyes and trouble breathing. The peat bogs are literally burning under ground, and attempts to put out the fires by dousing them with water are made more difficult by the intense heat we’ve been experiencing for the last two weeks – daytime temperatures of over 95 degrees F.
You never think of peat and Russia in the same thought, until these fires get going. Those who remember the particularly bad smoke from 2002 recognized the smell instantaneously. The upside is, I now have an olfactory understanding of what J.R.R. Tolkien’s Mordor must smell like.
My heart goes out to the fire fighters, and all those trying to alleviate the discomfort the heat and the smoke is providing to people most affected by it. It’s no fun…
Have you experienced the peat smoke, or something similar to it? Let us know by leaving a comment below. Thanks so much for stopping by today. If you are looking for a post with a little more meat (literally) on it, try one – or all – of these:
Today is the birthday of the Naval Aviation of Russia’s Naval Fleet! On this day (also Velvet’s birthday) in 1916, four Imperial Russian M-9 fighter planes engaged in a dogfight with German aircraft over the Baltic Sea, and won!
In the years that followed the Russian Revolution and the massive push towards building a viable military industrial complex, the Soviet Union became a leader in building and piloting naval aircraft. During World War II, the Soviet Naval pilots went on more than 350 000 sorties, destroyed 835 enemy ships as well as 5 500 Nazi airplanes, and many other strategic land-based targets.
Which is where, actually, I will stop, because that’s not what I want to talk about today: I’m not an expert on this kind of thing, and what with the spy thing going on, one don’t want to delve too deeply into this kind of research, does one? Suffice it to say that there are all kinds of weighty tomes on this subject, as well as the fantastic Museum of the Armed Forces in Moscow if you want to pursue it in more detail. You can also read about the history of Naval Aviation in Russia here.
What I thought I’d do today is tell the story of how I met HRH, since it actually does have something to do with Naval Aviation. Almost everyone I meet asks me how I met my Russian husband, so I can now hand them a card with the blog address and direct them here, which would be great for traffic, I suppose (though it won’t be able to compete with the Beef Stroganoff enthusiasts.) I have to make a brief note to say that I’m inspired by my fellow blogger Jocelyn’s (Speaking Of China) very readable installments about meeting and falling in love with her Chinese boyfriend, which I highly recommend.
In 1991 (before the first coup) HRH and I were not living lives that were destined or designed to intersect. I was traveling the world as a free-lance tour guide and he was settling down to life in a military dormitory as a young 2nd Lieutenant in the Red Army. But, we did meet, thanks to a series of random factors, and once we did, despite the difficulties – logistical and otherwise – we were pretty much stuck on one another, and still are. I needed a train ticket from Moscow to what was then called Leningrad and today is called Saint Petersburg: I was planning something very bold, slightly outrageous, and possibly ill-advised: after a two wink stint working on a trade show in Moscow, I was going to borrow a friend’s flat in Leningrad for a week, none of which was not allowed by the tourism regulations of the time, and is actually still sort of uphill work.
“I need a train ticket,” I said to my friend Anatoly, an Arabic-speaking guide with Syrian groups, who spent most of his days flat on his back on the couches of the National Tourist Company’s Office in our base hotel, sleeping off a long night.
“Ah,” he said, cottoning on immediately. “That’s not me…its Lyosha who has those contacts,” he gestured towards his fellow Arabic-speaking guide who was taking his turn on the sofa. “You ask Lyosha when he wakes up.”
Lyosha, once he’d procured a strong cup of coffee proved efficient. He told me to leave the ticket issue with him, and also invited me to his birthday party the following week at his flat, which he warned me was a little bit out of the way, but accessible by taxi.
When the night of the birthday party rolled around, I was all in. It was hot, and humid and the day had been a long one: managing, as my boss Jack would have said, the expectations of a very difficult executive. I was contemplating bribing the bartender for a bag of ice and repairing to my hotel room for an early night. But, the thought of letting Lyosha down, that stalwart comrade of the road, who had been so helpful about the train ticket prompted me to take a shower, stash the bottle of scotch I’d purchased at the dollar store into my innocuous back pack and sally forth to find a taxi to take me to the wrong end of the ominous sounding “Highway of the Enthusiasts.”
The taxi driver and I had a spirited haggle about the price, which I finally got down to a little more than what a Russian would have paid, thanks to an accent which was more Yugoslavian than Anglo-Saxon: a ruse I kept up throughout the whole journey through the city: past the monumental post-war Stalin buildings, which morphed into the monotonous and grimy pre-fab housing projects of the 70s.
Most everyone was drunk when I finally got to Lyosha’s apartment. Really, really, drunk, crowded around a small table laden with food and sticky bottles.
“I told the driver I was a Yugoslavian, and only paid 30 rubles,” I informed Anatoly proudly as I squeezed into a space between him and a girl called Lena.
“You are amazing,” slurred Anatoly, “A Yugoslavian…brilliant.” He made brief introductions of the other people around the table: Lyosha’s brothers, their girlfriends, some colleagues, and then the man sitting across the table, who appeared to be the only other person in the room except for myself capable of chewing gum and walking a strait line. Smashing looking, I thought, and regarding me with a certain amount of interest.
“And he is the guy who actually got you the ticket,” said Anatoly.
“Oh,” I said, “thanks so much. Do you work at the train station?”
“Sort of,” he said.
And here is where the naval aviation stuff comes in. There was a badly dubbed version of “Top Gun” on the TV – which is not the sort of thing you would see in this day and age of repackaged patriotic xenophobia, but back then they couldn’t get enough of the stuff. Everyone else went in different directions to either pass out or pair up, leaving the smashing looking guy and myself. He opened one of the remaining bottles of sweet Russian champagne and sat down next to me to watch it.
“Those aren’t our pilots,” he said presently as Tom Cruise was getting aerodynamically haggled by what the film called “The MIGs.” If you’ve seen the film (and HRH and do watch it every year on the anniversary of this particular evening) you’ll recall that the MIG pilots’ faces are fully covered with ever-so-slightly sinister headgear.
“Aren’t they?” I asked, not caring one way or another, just hoping he’d stay right where he was.
“Those are our planes, certainly,” he explained, “but not our pilots.”
“Oh.” I said, for someone who worked at a railway station, he seemed to know a lot about naval aviation, and I said as much.
“I’m a military officer,” he said, looking at the bottle of champagne to see if I’d had too much.
“I see.” I said as we watched Tom take out the MIG.
“Our planes,” he said again, “but not our pilots.”
“Are you sure?” I asked, wondering where military officers lived and worked.
“But, you know that,” he said, looking confused. “You’re from Yugoslavia…you have MIGs.”
“If I say, Battle of Poltava to you, what immediately springs to mind?” I asked HRH. It’s been very hot lately, and I don’t do well in that kind of weather. I need some inspiration.
“Peter The Great?” he asked, taking another hefty swig of cold beer.
“And?”
“The Swedes?” he ventured.
“Anything else?” I asked.
He scratched his head and thought a bit.
“We won?”
Russian History is neither HRH’s core interest, nor part of his skill set. He confuses the Nicholases, the Alexanders and the Catherines (though at least he does not make the common mistake that Catherine The Great was married to Peter The Great). But he got full marks on The Battle of Poltava, and bonus points for a succinct distillation of the salient points about today’s holiday: Peter’s victory over the Swedes at the Battle of Poltava on July 8, 1709, and their ultimate surrender on July 10th.
When last we encountered Peter The Great, he was also engaged in a contretemps with the Swedes, the naval victory in 1703 which secured him the strategic mouth of the Neva River on which he built his dream city, Saint Petersburg. If that was his first modest victory against his primary adversary, Charles XII of Sweden, Poltava was the zenith of Peter’s emergence as a military might, as he triumphantly hurled the might of his newly re-organized Western style army of 45,000 troops at Charles XII and the Ukrainian Cossack Hetman, Mazeppa. Ukraine gave up its dreams of independence (what else is new?) and Charles XII and Sweden had to cede their preeminence as the most significant player in the region: they limped away and spent three centuries crafting a new strategy to invade Russia, which would ultimately prove successful.
Today is one of fifteen “Days of Military Glory,” victories, which were recognized by the State Duma in 1995 in legislation entitled “About the Days of Military Glory of Russia” (so, now you know what the Duma does all day) as “playing a significant role in the history of Russia, and in which Russian troops have earned the honor and respect of contemporaries and grateful memory of posterity.”
I was interested to read, recently (in Bruce Lincoln’s The Romanovs) that Peter was not weaned until he was two years old, which, for me, explains volumes: not only his vigorous health, but also his addiction to instant gratification. “Boats,” you can see him thinking when, as a teenager, he and his Dutch tutor found the rotting remains of a keeled sea vessel in 1688, “Boats…hmmmm…I think I’d like a navy.” Never mind that Russia was completely landlocked. This could also explain his impatience with anything that stood in his way: a meddlesome older half sister as Regent during his minority? Overthrow her and stick her in a Convent. Boring conservative first wife? Rinse and repeat. Long traditional kaftans getting in the way? Adopt Western clothes. Money tight? Tax people for keeping their beards. Moscow seeming a little backward? Abandon and create a new capital on a mosquito-infested swamp. Church getting a little too powerful? Cut it down to size and make it into a government department, and, for good measure, mock it, holding a mock Synod entitled “The Vastly Extravagant, Supremely Absurd, Omni-Intoxicated Synod,” (and you have to wish they’d revive that particular Petrine tradition.)
Dictatorial? Da. Effective? Definitely Da. This is the kind of ruler the Russian people understand, expect, and ultimately admire. Larger-than-life, clear on what he wants, and slightly crazy. Certainly no one, except perhaps Stalin, has so thoroughly dragged Russia kicking and screaming into the direction of his choice by sheer force of his own personal will power
Peter The Great is the impossible standard against which all other Russian rulers must measure themselves, and I can’t think that, in their heart of hearts, they feel they are in danger of outstripping him in any way.
Peter, for example, would never have tweeted. Never.
Had you heard about The Battle of Poltava? Did you know that Sweden was such a military power in the 17th Century? What’s your take on Peter? Do you buy into the breast-feeding idea? Let me know, by leaving a comment below. If you enjoyed this post, linger a while and read some more just like it:
Волга Волга , мать родная (Volga, Volga dear mother)
~ Russian folksong
Today is Day of the Workers of the Ocean and River Fleets!
“Again?” I hear you query, “Haven’t we had a lot of aquatic holidays of late: four naval fleets and that fountain hopping holiday?”
“Oh yes,” I reassure you, “and more to come; lots more to come, so stay tuned.”
Since we’ve gone into a certain amount of detail about Russia’s four naval fleets: The Black Sea, The Northern, The Baltic, and the Pacific Fleets, I thought we’d focus a little bit on Russia’s lesser known, but equally important river fleets.
Any course, book, or podcast on Russian History will begin with the geography, with much stress on two things: the lack of a natural boundary from the Danube River to the Ural Mountains, which explains the shifting borders; and the importance in early Russian history of the North-South communication provided by the Dnieper (now no longer part of Russia) and the Volga Rivers. Other Russian rivers played their parts in Russia’s history: the settlements of Cossaks on the banks of the Don River, expansion and exploration in the east along the Amur, the Lena (from whence Lenin took his nom du guerre) theYenisei, the Angara and the Ob.
Landlocked Moscow is actually the port of five seas, thanks to one of those impressive building projects of the 1930s: the Moscow Canal. This impressive feat of engineering connects the Moskva River from Tushino in the north-west of Moscow up to the mighty Volga River some 128 kilometers, through a series of locks, and thus provides access the White, Baltic, Black, and Caspian Seas, as well as The Sea of Azov.
I spent a lot of time on the Volga River, during my misspent youth as a tour guide, and later Head of Customer Service, and, although my memories of it are primarily dominated by the lack of air-conditioned buses, a really unpleasant and inept (never a great combination) Cruise Manager who was someone’s son, having to work for Serbs (which I never want to do again), really horrific food, and mosquitoes the size of pigeons, I would still tell you that, if you are a paying customer, a river cruise is the very best way to see Russia. Here is a link to a great company who can help you organize that.
I wrote in an earlier post about the bizarre three days I spent on a river cruise as a guest (and I use that term loosely, since we were largely ignored) by Russia’s National Tourist Organization (not it’s real name), and, perhaps as a result of that meeting, I got my name on some list, and soon after was summoned to a large dingy building on New Arbat Street, up twelve or thirteen floors in a very dodgy lift to meet with some Deputy Director of Moscow’s City Government Tourism Development Organ, who was called Maxim (they are always called Maxim) who said he would be very happy to listen to all of my ideas for making Moscow a better place for tourism. He got out his cheesy leatherette A5 Diary, which they all use to write down this kind of thing, and looked at me with anticipation.
“Move the Kremlin, Pushkin Museum, and Novodeyvichy Convent to Saint Petersburg and close up shop,” was honestly the first thing that came into my mind, but the Muscovites get tetchy about this kind of thing. I decided, instead, to plug for much needed improvements to the infrastructure of the River Cruise program, suggesting that the Moscow River Station, a marvelous and completely empty 1930s building with colonnaded terraces, marble floors, mosaic ceilings and marvelous views over the river, could be furnished with a few more amenities.
“Such as…?” prompted Maxim.
“Well,” I said, “Perhaps a bank of international phones, maybe a fax machine (this was 1999), or something…since you have almost 10,000 foreigners passing through there each month and no other way to be in touch along the 7 day cruise.”
He wrote that down.
“And maybe…” I continued, “a store with some souvenirs, books, maps, and snacks…like perhaps bottled water and soda,”
“Soda, good,” he nodded and wrote that down.
"An ATM?" I queried.
"Complicated," he responded.
“Handicapped access might be improved,” I proposed, “since most of the people on these cruises are over 70.”
He shook his head, “That is a Federal problem,” he said, “We are Municipal” (this was pre-Putin when people still said things like that).
“A coffee shop?” I ventured. He squinted at me in confusion. “Or a bar,” I amended he nodded and smiled.
“And possibly a water taxi to the center of town?”
We continued in this vein for some time, and then I got in the dodgy lift and rattled down to the ground floor. I never saw Maxim again. I’m happy to say that some of these measures were put in place, some are still being considered. I never got a thank you note or anything, but I feel I played my part.
And I didn’t have to go up that elevator ever again.
The beautiful picture of the Moscow River Station was taken by Sergei Burak in 2004, and more of his work can be found here.
The lovely image of the Moscow Canal Lock is by Shiko the First (2009)
----------------------------------------
Greetings Readers!
Have you ever taken a river cruise? Where? Thank you as always for stopping by Dividing My Time. Do you like the new and improved streamlined look? If so, please let me know! If you would like to stay a little longer, please do, an enjoy some more posts like this one:
"This war is not an ordinary war. It is the war of the entire Russian people. Not only to eliminate the danger hanging over our heads, but to aid all people groaning under the yoke of Fascism"
Josef Stalin - about 22nd June 1941 (broadcast on July 3rd)
Today is the Day of Remembrance and Mourning, which marks the day in 1941 when Hitler launched his fatal "Operation Barbarossa" and opened up his war onto a second front by invading the Soviet Union. So for the Americans out there, you will readily understand when I tell you that this day is Russia’s Pearl Harbor Day.
When I first worked as a tour guide in the USSR and later Russia, I spent a lot of time collecting really badly written guidebooks from various places in an effort to beef up what in the tourism biz is called “the commentary.” This was pre-Internet, so I painstakingly copied all kinds of information into an exercise book and eventually developed a very rich repertoire of historical facts, figures, anecdotes and other things with which to entertain busloads during long haul trips to Sergeiv Posad’ or Tsarskoye Selo, or if I got stuck in a traffic jam. I could never bring myself, however, to work in the pat phrase which appeared in every single overview of USSR history published between 1945 and 1989: after a bulky and distinctively hyperbolic section on the Victorious October Socialist Revolution, way too much information on V.I. Lenin and his mates, and those brave sailors from the Battle Cruiser Avrora firing the first shot etc. things would come to an abrupt close. It would then Fast Forward right to June 22, 1941 (adroitly by-passing the murky 1920s Famine/NEP period and the somewhat depressing 1930s), when all of the sudden, as the guidebooks explained, “The peaceful life of the industrious Soviet people was brutally interrupted by a sudden and unexpected invasion of the Nazi armies.”
Amongst modern historians, there are two schools of thought on this “it was a complete surprise, we had absolutely no idea they were coming” theory.
1. Theory 1: It was a complete surprise, they had absolutely no idea they were coming. This is supported by the Nazi-Soviet Nonaggression Pact of 1939, in which the USSR shut its eyes to the Nazi invasion of Poland, while it grabbed the Baltics, and parts of Finland and Romania. Stalin, who seems to have been paralyzed by fear, cowered in his bunker for more than a week, only making a public address on July 3rd. The brain drain of the 1930s had left the Red Army without an officer corps, and the troops were slow to react to the surprise attack. This school of thought makes the eventual sacrifice of more than 20 million people and the key role the USSR made in ending the war even more impressive.
2. Theory 2: While it was a surprise for the people of the USSR and the ordinary soldiers of the Red Army, it was no surprise to Stalin and his inner circle, or the Military High Command. The 1930s was all about getting ready to fight a large-scale global war with A-Listers over ideology, and the 1939 Pact was a strategic move to buy more time and continue the military-industrial build up.
In any case, Hitler was nuts, on that we can all agree. What on earth was he thinking? (Some historians have suggested that he expected the 12th Century Prussian King Frederick I known as "Barbarossa" to rise up from the dead like those guys Aragorn goes and gets in The Two Towers, and help Hitler put the cap on Total World Domination). This seems to have not worked out, and therein lies a lesson for us all: never count on slightly fictional/definitely dead heroes to show up to help out.
And, readers, I’ll leave you with this last thought: is this all a little too much? Do we need to celebrate the beginning, as well as the end of wars? I don’t think the British do: I’ve never seen a “Beginning of World War I Day” flower campaign, have you? The French (obviously) don’t, nor do the Italians…you don’t see them saying, “Happy Beginning of the Third Punic War Day,” do you? The Spanish don’t and, God knows, the Germans don’t. Only the USA and Russia.
Author's Note: If you want to learn more about Theory # 2, I encourage you to read this excellent review.
Hey There, Readers!
Do you think we should celebrate the beginning of wars? Do you, perhaps, know of some other nations that do? If so, leave me a comment and let me know. Thank you as always for stopping by “Dividing My Time.” If you enjoyed today’s post, perhaps you might also enjoy these:
Guests, like fish, begin to smell after three days.
~ Benjamin Franklin
Today is Northern Fleet Day! Put on your party hats, let’s play pin the tail on the submarine, because the Northern Fleet is the baby of our bunch. Construction of a northern naval base was begun under Nicholas II in 1895, but like so many things started by Nicholas II, it was left to Josef Stalin to finish it off. The Northern Fleet considers its founding dates to a visit to the Zapolarniy (meaning just below the Pole), in 1933, which makes it 77 years old today.
Young they may be, but the Northern Fleet has distinguished itself as a formidable force, winning numerous battles in the Great Patriotic War and the recent unpleasantness with Chechnya. It is, however, their continued ability to literally make me wave a white flag of surrender each June that is the subject of today’s post.
HRH, who went to military school and served as an officer until 1991, has a bunch of friends who are still actively serving in braches of Russia’s military, all over the country. We see a lot of some of them, and less of others, but summer is always ushered in by the simultaneous arrival of Borya from Zapolyarniy and the pukh.
Pukh, (pronounced “pooo-kuh”) which fellow blogger Potty Mommy described very well in a recent post, is the fluff from a sexually frustrated female poplar tree. After World War II, Russian authorities hastened to make Moscow green again, by planting a large amount of poplar trees. It was one of those moments when the people who knew better were afraid to speak up, and so the authorities planted only female trees. Poplars, like holly, are both male and female, and you need a few of each to keep the others happy. Moscow has only female trees, which each June release their snowflake-like pods into the atmosphere where they swirl and whirl in a summer snowstorm, like a million Carrie Bradshaws looking for Mr. Big. Muscovites rush to close their windows, since the pukh gets into nooks and crannies, wily evades the vacuum cleaner, the broom and the duster. It creeps into your nostrils and down your throat. You find it lurking in corners, and if you are at all prone to allergies, you don’t even go outside until the week or so passes.
As soon as the first bit of pukh sails through the air, HRH announces that Borya is on his way down to from Zapolyarniy and will be staying a few days.
I have learned that, in the case of HRH’s friends, it is better not to lead with polite chitchat about their work, such as “So, Borya, how goes it with the Northern Fleet?” Though we’ve not discussed it, this is what I assume Borya does for a living, and one does not need to be the Head of the CIA to work that out. The clues are there: the naval tank top, the fact that he hails from Zapolyariny: apart from the Naval Base, there isn’t a lot else going on. There isn’t, for example, an IKEA at Zapolyarniy, despite its relative proximity to Sweden. Then there is the final and clinching evidence: Borya enjoys an annual summer vacation of forty days.
That’s right, forty days. People who work for the government in Russia, who live above a certain latitude (and Zapolyarniy is so far north that it tends to be obscured on any globe by the knob one uses to rotate the globe) get a government subsidized vacation of obscene length to the Black Sea resort areas of Russia: the theory being that they need to soak up the vital vitamins contained in the sun’s healing rays. So down they go, unencumbered by sun hats or sunscreen, to lie flat on their backs, turn beet red, and gorge themselves on fresh fruit and sweet Crimean champagne. Borya had stopped off in Moscow en route from Zapolyarniy to Sochi to change trains and catch up with some of his childhood friends.
That first year, I had just started working at The Bank and was putting in 15-hour days trying to figure out the difference between Fixed Income and Asset Management. Nevertheless, when HRH told me his friend would be arriving for dinner, I spent some time the night before to make what I thought was a good menu for a scorching June evening: gazpacho and raspberry chicken salad. I left two bottle of wine chilling in the fridge, emptied the ice trays into precious zip lock bags and refilled them. The next morning, I extracted a promise from HRH that he would shut all the windows against the pukh and buy whatever staggeringly large amount of beer he felt was appropriate, grabbed my coffee mug and headed into the pukh maelstrom.
Fast-forward fifteen hours. Tired and limp in my crinkled linen suit, I dug my car out of pukh spores, climbed in and cranked up the air-conditioning. Switching on a book on tape, I eased into the evening Moscow gridlock, looking forward to a cool shower and the nice dinner I’d prepared.
I opened the door of our flat and was flattened by a gust of hot air and a cloud of pukh that immediately settled in my inner ears and nostrils with the precision of a Murmansk nuclear submarine. But the overwhelming sensation was one of affixation by a lethal combination of dried fish, flat beer and human sweat.
“Darling,” I called out in English, “what’s up?”
HRH poked his head around the living room door.
“Hi Sweetie!” he said, “Come on in and meet Borya!” He enveloped me in a clammy, shirtless embrace.
The shirtless thing is one of the first hurdles you face making your marriage to an HRH work. You have To Be Very Firm about that not being acceptable outside the bedroom, or before you know it, there will be a coterie of nearly naked men in your living room. Like not in a good way.
Which is what I had that night. Resplendent in only a pair of Turkish track suit bottoms, hunched over a coffee table spread with newspaper and what looked like most of last month’s catch-of-the-day from Murmansk, sat Borya, his round face shining with sweat. With some difficulty, he focused his Windex-colored eyes on me disapprovingly, making a “tsk tsk tsk” noise with his tongue and shook his head.
“What time do you call this?” he shouted over the boom of the television, tuned to Russian MTV.
I didn’t know him from Adam.
I wondered if it was a trick question and consulted my watch as I picked up the remote control for the air-conditioner.
“Nine thirty?” I responded.
“Not any time for a woman to be getting home from work,” boomed Borya, “I don’t let my women come home at this time.”
“I see,” I said, moving towards the window to shut it. HRH bounded over the coffee table to stop me.
“Borya is concerned about getting sick from the air-conditioner…the breeze,” he explained.
“But it’s like 92 degrees and the pukh is everywhere,” I said in English.
HRH gave me one of those Slavic shrugs that speak volumes. Wordlessly, I retreated to the kitchen, opened the fridge and poured myself a hefty glass of the chilled wine, adding a few of the untouched ice cubes (also very bad for your health) for good measure. After a long cold shower and another glass of wine, I cranked up the a/c in my bedroom, pulled a Nancy Mitford book down and climbed into bed wearily.
I am no match for the Northern Fleet.
Congratulations to Vice-Admiral Nikolai Mikhailovich Maksimov and all those who serve under him!
Author's Note: I found that superb picture of the pukh on hub by Jim Sheg. It's actually China, where apparently they have the same problem, but it is a great visual!
----------------------------------------
Dear Reader:
Be honest, men shouldn't go shirtless in the public areas of the domicile should they? Have you ever come home to find an impromtu male bonding thing going on? What did you do? Leave a comment and tell us about it!
Lock up your daughters and batten down the hatches...today is Border Guards' Day! If you were thinking about invading Russia, today might just be the optimal day to do it, since all of Russia’s border guards will be otherwise occupied:
photos courtesy of pics.livejournal.com/drugoi
Some Russian holidays we have seen, like the Day of the Defense of the Fatherland, are nation-wide extravaganzas where even the weather is micromanaged, while others, like yesterday’s All Russia Library Day pass with relatively little hoop-lah. Today, however, is the first of our massive-scale casual piss-ups and one of the best of the genre.
May 28th commemorates the day in 1918 when the Border Guards were officially formed during the chaotic days following the Russian Revolution. The holiday was first officially celebrated in 1958 in the Soviet Union, and confirmed as a fixture of the calendar of the Russian Federation in 1994. Though the window dressing of statehood may change, Border Guards and Border Guard Day traditions have remained. The day is spent in watching formal displays of the border guards military prowess, evening witnesses fireworks Moscow and all of the “hero cities, and between those two events, the border guards hold mini-reunions around the fountains of parks of major cities. These are opportunities to hook up with friends one made during mandatory military service, share a few cocktails, and kick back. Sort of like a high school reunion…on steroids.
Russia’s border guards are responsible for patrolling and protecting the world’s longest border, which has very few natural barriers such as rivers, oceans, or mountain ranges to define them or add to the ease of protecting them, and thus the borders have ebbed and flowed over the centuries: retreating back in lean years, and expanding out in the flush years, such as after The Great Patriotic War, which, as we know, didn’t work out so well.
At the moment, Russia has 14 neighbors, and not all of them are the kind you could pop over and borrow a cup of sugar from. Some of them didn’t bring a casserole over when the borders shifted in the 1990s. Here they are in metric, because, as we agreed last week, metric is the way to go: Azerbaijan 284 km, Belarus 959 km, China (southeast) 3,605 km, China (south) 40 km, Estonia 294 km, Finland 1,340 km, Georgia 723 km, Kazakhstan 6,846 km, North Korea 19 km, Latvia 217 km, Lithuania (Kaliningrad Oblast) 280.5 km, Mongolia 3,485 km, Norway 196 km, Poland (Kaliningrad Oblast) 232 km, Ukraine 1,576 km.* Thanks to the Bering Strait and the Tsars needing a quick cash influx, Russia does not share a border with the US, but let’s not forget that Sarah Palin can see them from her house…which is always a cause for concern.
But all in all, I like Day of the Border Guards. It’s nice to see so many people who have so many concerns kicking back and enjoying themselves. It’s nice to see them act human for a change…with unbridled frivolity and mirth. It makes a change, as anyone who has ever waited in line at passport control knows…Border Guards don’t always roll out the welcome mat with unbridled enthusiasm…even for VIP guests like these…(this video is highly highly highly recommended and you need no Russian to understand it, the title reads, "Long Awaited Burger King")
Happy Border Guard Day to all those who patrol and protect Russia’s borders!
Do you have a border-crossing story? Of course you do! Share it with all of us by clicking on the comment button below, and the one who can claim the longest wait at passport control will win a guest blogging gig here on Dividing My Time…until I stock up on those Russian Christmas Tree ornaments to dazzle the mommy bloggers with, that is. Then we’ll be in warp factor nine! Thanks, as ever, for dropping by on another Russian holiday!
Sarah Palin may well regret until her dying day that she erroneously claimed that she could see Russia from her home in Wasilla, AK; but for the boys in Russia’s Pacific Fleet – it means job security for life, and I for one sleep easier knowing that they are keeping their collective eyes on her.
Today is Pacific Fleet Day! On this day, in 1731, Russia’s first permanent Naval Base was established at Okhotsk. Some of you may not think Russia has anything to do with the Pacific Ocean, but that’s just not true. Where else do you think the Trans-Siberian Railway goes…Siberia?
In addition to keeping their eyes on Sarah, the Pacific Fleet keeps Russia safe from Japan and their insane cars with the steering wheel on what my British friends call “the correct side.” Almost 50% of the cars in big Pacific Coast cities like Khabarovsk, Yuzhno-Sakhalinsk and Vladivostok are beat-up but serviceable Subarus with the steering wheel on the correct side. Occasionally some lunatic transports these to Moscow to make an already intolerable traffic situation even more horrific, since the people who drive these all seem like they haven’t taken their Lithium that day.
The real reason, however, to keep the Pacific Fleet yar, as C.K. Dexter Haven would say, is China, and if you ask me (and no one ever ever does) it’s a bit like locking the barn after the horse has been stolen. When the world’s most spacious nation, chocker block with rich mineral resources that are hard to access, populated by people who only ever get galvanized by military engagement and don’t seem to want to do anything about their worrying declining birth rate, is bang up against the cramped and overcrowded worker ant nation: a crowd who brought you affordable Hot and Sour Soup, then osmosis is simply going to take over.
Osmosis is “the physical process in which a solvent moves, without input of energy, across a semi permeable membrane (permeable to the solvent, but not the solute) separating two solutions of different concentration,” and that seems to sum up the situation between Russia and China to a tea. The semi permanence of the membrane in this case is economic, and the physical process has already started in Russia’s Far East. This might not be the worst thing to ever happen to Russia…the last invasion and occupation of Russia by an Asian Power, the Tatar Mongul Yoke from 1237 – 1480 gave Russia all kinds of useful things like shashlik, primogeniture, bureaucracy, and, something they’ve put to very good use, taxes.
And the Chinese drive on the right side of the road.
To Admiral Viktor Dmitrievich Federov, and all those who serve with him: Congratulations on Pacific Fleet Day!
Today is also Day of the Military Translators, where you will find your intrepid blogger adrift, attractive and adroitly doing a little military translation on the Volga River! Don't miss it!
---------------------------------
Dear Reader:
First of all - to those very kind people who I haven't actually met in person who send me the lovely e mails about this blog...THANK YOU!!!!!! The last few days have been kind of stressful and those were lovely moments. I am so pleased you like this blog.
I've had some questions from readers about leaving comments. Here are the answers to some FAQ:
1. It is super kind to leave me a comment on Facebook, but then I suspect you haven't quite read the post, which is entirely up to you, of course, but, comments here on the blog are like potato chips without the calories.
2. You don't necessarily have to give your real name, which is what is keeping HRH from leaving anything, (althoughI know for a fact he isn't reading 1/8 of what he says he is, because I think he'd divorce me if he actually did.)
3. You don't need a URL to leave a comment - you can leave that blank.
4. Yes, Dad, you do have to put in the CATCHPA code in. It keeps the Spammer crowd at bay, and, for someone with a College degree, you shouldn't have to wait for your wife to do it for you.
I am happy to speak Russian whenever they do not speak English.
~Eloise (Eloise Goes To Moscow)
Today is Military Translator day, marking the day in 1929 when the Peoples’ Commissar for The Army and Navy signed an Order to create the profession of military translator. I love when you get to say "Peoples’ Commissar." The date was turned into a holiday in 2000, so this makes a nice round number for the military translators to celebrate this year.
This may come as a surprise, but I actually know a ton of military translators; most of my Russian friends are people I met during my time in tourism, who studied foreign languages at prominent Universities in The Soviet Union. This exempted the men from obligatory active military service, but exacted a commitment for both men and women to attend the “voyennaya kaftedra," or military department, were they learned how to say all kinds of menacing things in various languages. Really. The next time conversation lags during your tour of the Pushkin Museum of Art, casually ask your tour guide what to say to a prisoner of war. He or she will automatically rattle off: “What is your name, rank and serial number?” They also know how to say, “I’m a member of the Geneva Convention,” which is sort of stretching it, really.
It may come as a further surprise that I can also boast a little hands-on experience in military translation. This is in addition to teaching HRH about D-Day.
One summer, I received an invitation to take part in the three-day cruise on the Volga to celebrate the (some round number that I’ve forgotten) anniversary of the National Tourism Committee. This invitation had been handed down through the food chain from my company’s venerable 80-year old founder (who knew better than to accept), to it’s very busy President, (the one with no head for liquor), and subsequently through his even busier Vice-Presidents of Product Development, Operations, and Sales, down to me. There was no one for me to pass it down to, so I got my executive wardrobe together and headed for the River Terminal.
After boarding the vessel and getting situated in my 3 meter by 2 meter cabin, I drew on my experience as a cruise ship employee, and went up on deck where I supposed there would be both liquid refreshment and human contact.
I was correct on both counts; and I was neither surprised nor disappointed to note that the National Tourism Committee people, who were all men dressed in the standard Russian travel attire of nylon track suits, plastic flip flops, and too much knock off “Farenheit by Dior” aftershave, were on one side of the deck – the side near the bar, and the international guests, attired in what their particular culture considered “Business Casual,” were clustered in pods according to their nationality and language.
Through the crush of Australian diplomats and Indian airline executives, I recognized Linda, a cheerful British woman from another tour company I had met once. We fell upon one another like long-lost sisters, and, linking arms, we started in on the tepid sweet Russian champagne which was the only alternative to shots of vodka. As we pulled away from the River Terminal and out into the Moscow canal, the parties moved in parallel groups to opposite sides of the dining room to consume possibly the worst meal on record. Linda and I gravitated to the English-speaking/NATO-countries table, where we were informed by a nervous, beige-colored Danish dairy rep that the KGB was following us.
“Rubbish,” said the Australian Under Secretary, refilling our glasses.
“And if they are,” I said reassuringly, “surely that is a good thing.”
“Safety first,” agreed Linda.
We finished the worst meal on record and made our unsteady way into the dimly lit bar/lounge area, where the Russians clustered around a karaoke machine. Ear-splitting ABBA tunes made the room pulse and vibrate with a life of its own, and a mirrored ball spun in the center of the 3 foot square dance floor, throwing dappled hot pink specks in a chaotic whirl around the room. I felt slightly ill, and switched to tepid Pepsi for a few hours.
Linda and I, and another woman from Holland called something like Antje were the only females, and, with the exception of those 8-day/No Ports of Call cruises around the Antarctic Peninsula, I don’t think I’ve ever enjoyed that level of popularity with the opposite sex. The unfortunate thing was that most of the attention was coming from the Asian Sub Continent contingent, all dressed in three piece polyester suits and their own version of knock-off-knock-you-out after shave, who all wanted to slow dance. This would have been okay, I suppose, except that I am 5’9” and they were all about 10 inches shorter. Having endured “Fernando,” and a longer-than-usual version of “Hey Jude,” with an electric guitar solo that made my fillings rattle, I excused myself to the ladies, where I sat for a while on the loo, massaging my temples and vowing to get some subordinates as soon as I could.
I returned to the dance floor to see Linda locked in an embrace on the dance floor with one of the Russians who had been sitting slightly apart from the National Tourism Committee types.
“Interesting development,” I screamed to the Under Secretary who rolled his eyes.
“What is the program for tomorrow?” asked Antje.
“Bloody Mary’s, I hope,” I said and the Under Secretary rolled his eyes even further heavenward. He put his mouth into my eardrum and confided:
“I’ve got a case of Australian chardonnay in my cabin."
“And you’ve kept quiet about that for the last five hours?” I hollered at him.
“Let’s go,” he said to us, and we prepared to make a strategic retreat when Linda disentangled herself from her dance partner and, leading him by the hand, came up to ask us where we were going. Largely by means of sign language, since the Deputy Director of the National Tourism Committee was launching into his signature party piece, which was a syrupy rendition of “Santa Lucia,” we indicated that we were doing a runner and asked Linda to come with us. She dragged her Russian along with her.
We squeezed into the cabin and settled ourselves with tooth mugs of wonderful oaky buttery Australian chardonnay and then turned our attention to the Russian, who told us his name was Misha. I introduced myself, Antje and the Under Secretary in Russian, at which point his eyes lit up.
“Can you speak Russian!?” he asked me, “I need help – I want to talk to Linda.”
“Linda,” said Antje aghast, “Don’t you speak any Russian at all?”
“No,” she said sanguinely, cuddling up to Misha, “I don’t need to, do I?”
“What do you do?” I asked Misha, who looked slightly uncomfortable, as do all Russians when you lead with this question.
“I’m here for your security,” he said elusively. I translated this to Linda who cooed and snuggled up even closer.
Misha turned out to be a high-ranking Major in a very scary part of Russia’s military, which is all I can say about that. They disappeared for the next 24 hours, emerging only as we approached Moscow, to help us finish off the chardonnay, to the accompaniment of the excellent pickled mushrooms and pickles we’d bought in Uglich. I helped them exchange contact information, Antje took over to help them get the details of their personal biographies clear – Misha had thought Linda was from New Zealand, and she hadn’t quite got the information that he’d been married before and had two children. We all staggered off the ship and went our separate ways.
Today is also the Day of the Pacific Fleet: those brave sailors and seamen who keep Russia safe from Sarah Palin, right-hand steering wheels and other perils. But, can they do anything to stave off the inevitable invasion by the real threat? Don't miss it!
---------------------------------
Dear Reader:
Thanks for stopping by on Day of the Military Translators! Have you ever translated for budding lovers? What was your experience? Let us all know by clicking on the comment button below and leaving your story!
(Your intrepid blogger's personal tribute to the Baltic Fleet in Leningrad circa 1990)
Today is Baltic Fleet Day! The oldest of Russia’s naval fleets was founded by Tsar Peter The Great, himself as part of his Herculean efforts to secure a “Window on the West” for Russia. On this day, in 1703, Peter led his troops in a naval victory against two Swedish battleships, and thereby secured the strategic mouth of the Neva River, where he went on to build the naval city of his dreams, St. Petersburg.
The Baltic Fleet, like the Black Sea Fleet, has a sticky wicket in terms of the territorial waters it defends, a historically complex relationship with its near-neighbors, and, of course, the base question. One Baltic Fleet base is in Kronstadt, and the other in the Russian enclave, Kalingrad. Kronstadt has the advantage of being cozily tucked deep into the Gulf of Finland, and Russia’s second city, St. Petersburg has its back. Kalingrad, formerly German Konigsberg, on the other hand, is handicapped by being the lone blueberry in a NATO muffin. As with the Black Sea post, it’s a visual so check out this helpful map:
The Kaliningrad question has been in the news a lot. Short history lesson may be in order: Soviet troops captured Konigsberg from the Germans in 1945 at the end of The Great Patriotic War and renamed it “Kaliningrad” after a prominent Bolshevik. In 1991, Latvia, Lithuania, and Estonia said “Thanks, but we’ll take it from here,” which meant that Kaliningrad was cut off from the rest of newly forming Russia. Then those crybaby Baltic States and that wimp Poland went to hide behind NATO’s skirts, which meant Kaliningrad was more than just mildly logistically difficult. Every time the US talks about putting missiles in places like Poland “to fight terrorism in the Middle East,” Russia drops a hint (thud) that Kaliningrad would also make a nice place to stick a few warheads. Kaliningrad is a special economic zone, but some of the Kaliningraders feel they might have more fun being part of the EU.
A few years ago, my friend Jack, who goes to Russia frequently for business, was being held hostage at a long liquid lunch in St. Petersburg with some tourism types. This happens to Jack a lot, and not having much of a head for liquor, he was tuning out, letting his local representative do the heavy conversational lifting, until he vaguely noticed that the conversation kept including a funny word he’d not heard before, which sounded like the syllable “nat-“ (as in “fat-“ “cat-“ or “rat-“) and then “oh.” Nat-OH. Jack first thought it might be a newly opened summer palace, which, as far as he was concerned, are all unpronounceable: “Gatchina,” and “Orianbaum,” Forchrissakes, or the ultimate tongue twister, “Tsarskoye Selo.” But that didn’t seem right, because the battleaxe he was lunching with kept saying things like,
“But you know that nat-oh has absolutely no right…”
or
“And you know, nat-oh never ratified..”
“Perhaps,” thought Jack, “it’s a new hotel and they haven’t got the price points we need.” That seemed plausible: God knows most St. Petersburg hotels were both overpriced and unpronounceable – after 25 years he still couldn’t say “Pribaltiyskaya,” “Pulkovskaya,” or “Oktyabrskaya,” and, really, he thought, why on earth should anyone want to try?
“Putin is having all kinds of trouble with nat-oh,” said the Battleaxe.
“A-ha,” thought Jack, relieved he’d at last got the right end of the stick, “it’s a tourism ministry thing.” He prepared to jump into the conversation, when his interlocutor said, bafflingly,
“And then there is the question of Kaliningrad.”
“Kaliningrad?” thought Jack, wildly, downing another shot of Stolichnaya in an ill-advised attempt to achieve some clarity, “Where the hell is that?” Then, because he’d been on 461 city tours of St. Petersburg, he recalled that St. Petersburg had been called Leningrad from 1924 - 1991, (well, that’s not what Jack thought…but I’m supplying the correct information) and as The Battleaxe paused to take in another lungful of air, he interjected what he hoped was an overdue intelligent observation.
“I find it interesting that some people still call it that,” he said affably,
The Battleaxe leaned over and slammed her fist down on the table, making the silverware dance, and the crockery rattle. Sour cream splashed onto the tablecloth. Jack sighed, thinking that much – perhaps too much -- of his professional life had been spent in a semi-alcoholic-induced stupor, sitting across the table from Slavic battleaxes from the tourism industry who rested their titanic bosoms on the shelf of a groaning lunch table, and banged on the grease-stained tablecloth to make some emphatic point the vodka kept him from fully understanding. Perhaps, thought Jack, it was time to begin to contemplate partial retirement.
“We are not giving it back!” she shouted, “No matter what nat-oh says!”
“Golly,” thought my friend, “this new tourism ministry is even more powerful than the old guys.”
“But who would you give it back to?” asked Jack, searching his memory for a sketchy understanding of 18th Century Russian history.
“The Swedes,” asserted Jack’s local St. Petersburg representative, who had much more of a head for lunchtime drinking and had been following along with a certain amount of wicked amusement.
“The Swedes!?!?!?!” howled The Battleaxe, bosom heaving, “What have they got to do with it.”
“NATO,” said the local rep, making it rhyme with ‘Plato,’ and kicking Jack under the table to silence him. “You have to keep your eyes on them at all times.”
To Vice Admiral Viktor Nikolaevich Mardusin, and all those who serve with him – many congratulations on the birthday of the Baltic Fleet!
-----------------------------------------
Today is also International Museum Day, and your opportunity to weigh in on your favorite museum bathroom, pick up value, desirability as a runaway venue and other categories! Be sure not to miss it!
Thank you so much for stopping by on Baltic Fleet Day! Is it part of your job description to have too many cocktails at lunchtime? What's your strategy? And, does anyone know why Finland hasn't joined NATO yet? That seems silly...
Today is The Day of the Black Sea Fleet, founded on this day in 1783 by Prince Potemkin – of the Villages fame. Traditionally, and it now seems that tradition will continue, the fleet has been headquartered at Sevastopol, located on the Crimean Peninsula. Sevastopol has the disadvantage of not actually being in Russia, not that Russia worries about this too much. This would be like Britain having its Naval Headquarters in Galway, Ireland. So likely. If you’ve been watching the news recently, you’ll recall that the subject of extending Russia’s lease of numerous naval bases in the Crimea resulted in this dignified moment in the Ukrainian parliament:
Russia’s navy has four fleets: The Baltic, The Pacific, The Black Sea, and the Northern, as well as one flotilla, The Caspian Sea Flotilla. While I am sure each of these has its own particular cross to bear, it has to be really uphill work to keep Russia’s interests safe in this particular part of the world. Ukraine, which Russia does treat as a mildly irksome younger sibling whose left shoe is untied and nose is running, is not the only problem. To make it clearer, I’ve made a helpful map:
The Black Sea fleet guys are known for their somewhat hotheaded approach to seamanship, the most famous example being the uprising in 1905 of the sailors of The Battleship Potemkin, (named after the guy with the Villages.) Sailors mutinied killing 18 officers. They then tried to shop the battleship round to minor countries like Bulgaria and Roumania, who knew enough to send it back to Russia, but the uprising was seen as one of the early victories of the Russian Revolution and later made into a famous film.
The other thing you think about when you think about the Black Sea, of course, is the site of the 2014 Winter Olympics, Sochi --
“Where?” asked my high school friend, Madeline, whom I met for a drink on a visit back to the US.
“Sochi – it is a resort town on the Black Sea Coast – backs up on the Caucasus mountain range? They’ve turned it into a winter recreation center and Putin and Medvedev are always there skiing and stuff.”
“Wasn’t the Olympics in Canada this year?” she asked, confused.
“Yes, but the next winter Olympics is in Sochi.”
“Are you sure?” she said. “I never heard about that place in my entire life.”
Madeline is clearly not Russian, because every Russian knows about Sochi – you can’t avoid the nightly updates on the Russian news about it. The Olympics in Sochi – or “Sochi 2014” as it is branded, is likely to be the biggest national embarrassment since the Russo-Japanese War, but to hear Russians talk about it, you’d think it was the Second Coming of Christ. Russia watchers have concerns that things may not be going according to schedule. Putin changes the person in charge every three months, and eventually, I suppose, he will simply have to go and run the damn thing himself.
Maybe he should get that Potemkin guy in. Him with the Villages.
----------------------------
Happy Black Sea Fleet Day to Vice-Admiral Kletskov and all those who serve under him!
Can you believe Russia has four fleets in it’s Navy and that they ALL celebrate different holidays? I confess I was a little taken aback. Had you heard about the egg roll in the Ukrainian parliament? Had you heard of Sochi before this post? Could you have correctly identified it on a map before today? Did you realize it was so close to Georgia? Well, there’s no homework here at Dividing My Time, just a sincere thank you for stopping by and reading this post. I’d love a line from you, telling me more about you and what you think of this blog, or Russia in general. You can leave a comment by clicking the comment button below!
And I'll leave you with a charming montage of the Black Sea Fleet Musical Ensemble's performances:
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.
----------------
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.
-------------------
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!
We aren't going to give a lot of attention to this CYA post-perstroika footnote holiday. Not when today is also Radio Day, which is a lot more interesting.
Today marks the 18th anniversary of the Creation of the Military Forces of the Russian Federation, which happened on May 7, 1992. It's a post-perestroika, sign the decree thing.
Which is an excuse for a lot of 40, 50, and 60-something alpha males to kick off the REAL holiday on Saturday a few days early. I can see the logic -- make sure their hangovers are well and truly cured before the rigors of the big day. Stay tuned!
Wait a minute....18 years? That long? This is where I came in...
YIKES!
----------------------------------------
Dear Reader:
Unless you are a military buff, I don't think you'll have much to say about this...neither do I, but thanks, as ever, for tuning in!
The only difference between a saint
and a sinner is that every saint has a past, and every sinner has a future.
~ Oscar Wilde
Today’s is
St. George’s Day and before you Brits go ballistic, remember that, despite all
that “religion is the opium of the masses” stuff, Russia still goes by the
Orthodox calendar, and thus is always about 13 days behind the rest of the
world.We’ve talked about this
before.
Having
conceived this stunt, I was determined to steer clear of all but the most
important religious holidays…once you get into things like Day of Saint Simeon the Stylites, you kiss
any hope of seeing Grey’s Anatomy on a regular basis good-bye.But St. George is actively
celebrated in Russia, possibly due to its proximity The Major Event (stay
tuned) happening later this week, and therefore is something of a warm up.It’s also a very good example of how post-perestroika Russia
has returned to Tsarist traditions. Catherine The Great established the Military Order of St. George in 1769, and this was revived in 1994 by President
Boris Yeltsin, with an obvious hiatus from 1917 – 1994.The Order of St. George, said she in a
know-it-all voice, is the highest military order in Russia, and before you HRHs
out there start mouthing off about The Hero of The Russian Federation, which
used to be called The Hero of the Soviet Union, that is the highest military
honor associated with a medal.So
there.
When HRH
does something truly astonishing such as carrying his empty coffee cup upstairs
to the kitchen (our kitchen is upstairs) and is obviously looking for the gold
star, I will often say to him:
“What to do
you want, The Order of Lenin?” to which he will instantly and rather cheekily rejoin
“First
class.”
I think I
will start asking him if he wants the Order of St. George the Triumphant.If I can figure out how to say
“Triumphant” in Russian, which could be uphill work.
If you were
in Russia this week, you’ll have seen a lot of these ribbons, the “George
Ribbon” which is a fad that got going five years ago when Russia celebrated the
60th anniversary of World War II:motorists tie this on their antennae or on the dashboard to
show their patriotism.The
colors of the ribbon are said to represent fire and gunpowder and are possibly
derived from the original Tsarist Coat of Arms, which also features George and
the dragon.
St. George
appears on a lot of coats of arms in Russia, as well as on the Presidential
flag.You can see him in the
middle slaying the dragon, which interestingly in Russian/Orthodox tradition
never dies (classic) but is locked in eternal struggle with the noble George,
who embodies all the virtues of bravery, faith, Christian morals and
compassion.No wonder he’s the
patron saint of the Boy Scouts.
We don’t
know much about George himself, except that he was a noble Roman soldier who
was beheaded by Emperor Diocletian (who was often known as “the dragon” which
perhaps gave birth to the legend) for protesting the Roman persecution of the
early Christians.
Whoever he was, today, St. George
is a busy guy:he is the patron
saint of soldiers, cavalry, chivalry, farmers, field workers, Boy Scouts,
butchers, horses & riders, saddlers, archers (hence the Henry V speech),
and those who can’t get their visa to Russia because they have leprosy, plague
or syphilis.Saint George is supposedly buried
outside Tel Aviv, but that doesn’t stop Moscow from making him its patron
saint, along with many countries and cities.
Happy St.
George’s Day to all who claim him!And who is the patron saint of Pony Moms…huh? Huh?
Happy St. George's Day! Are you a Boy Scout or a Butcher? Did you have to get a leprosy test to get to Russia, or do you think that's just the straw that might break the camel's back? Thank you very much for stopping by Dividing My Time. That means a lot to me, as does your feedback. Tell me, how do you celebrate St. George's Day, if indeed you celebrate it at all? Does your husband think he deserves a medal of honor for picking up his dirty socks? Whatever you're thinking, leave me a comment by clicking on the comment button below and let me know about it!
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!
![[Valid Atom 1.0]](valid-atom.png "Validate my Atom 1.0 feed")
Recent Comments