Dividing my time is more complicated than it sounds.
I’m back in Moscow, and I’ve spent the last few days doing what I always do after a lengthy absence: removing every single garment and (carefully labeled) plastic container from my closet, which for some reason is covered in about an inch of dust. If you ever wondered why luxury handbags come with those soft bags, now you know: to keep the dust off. Then I had to empty the fridge and do whatever it is I do do to rid it of the sour smell that comes from what I call “HRH food.” I put all the half-wrapped salami slices into sealed containers, I throw away the rotting radishes, and I banish all the food my mother-in-law imports as soon as I leave: jam, German pickles (yuck!) and synthetic faux creamer.
Having replaced batteries in absolutely everything from my computer mouse to my Sonic-care toothbrush, downloaded software updates for my sluggish MacBook, completely reconfigured my To-doist.com (never underestimate the empowerment of a good to-do list), I read Raisa the cleaning lady the riot act about not throwing out any ice while I’m here, and finally feel ready to get back to writing.
I’ve been on an enforced writing sabbatical since HRH came to Northampton for a week’s holiday from the Difficult Start Up at the Important Industry right before my departure to Moscow (a schedule line up I won’t be repeating any time soon) during which, he declared, he wanted to do absolutely nothing. Except buy some new suits. And watch Velvet in a Very Serious Horse Show she attended in utter upstate New York. HRH forgot his driver’s license, which meant I did all of the driving involved. And this pleased neither one of us. HRH loves to drive in the United States, which he likens to playing a not-too-demanding video game. Since we acquired Serena, our dulcet-toned GPS, we never worry about getting lost, and since my Dad (the car Tsar) generously arranged for and continues to underwrite an E-Z Pass, we are almost never stuck in traffic.
The E-Z Pass reigns as one of HRH’s top favorite things about America (along with Cape Cod Potato chips and the Hampshire Regional YMCA). Being Russian, he likens waiting in line for anything as a sign of weakness, and waiting in line to pay for using a road completely unacceptable. Each time we shoot through the E-Z Pass lane, leaving the other drivers to creep and crawl through the “CASH” Lane, HRH gives a grunt of approval. I certainly found it handy as I pushed pedal to metal on the New York Thruway in order to make it to one of Velvet’s early morning jump offs.
Perhaps it was the E-Z Pass, or maybe it was the smooth execution of the Valet Parking I surprised him with at the Natick Mall, but HRH got it into his head that he needed to order a VIP Meet & Great at Domodedevo Airport for his return journey back to Moscow. He also very generously determined that I should have the same treatment for my return three days later. I did not demur. When you’ve checked in three large duffle bags full of harmless kitchen essentials such as a vertical chicken roaster, and innocuous white substances such as 500 packets of Splenda and baking powder, the thought is always there that some Customs’ Official recovering from a long night, might just take it into his head to decide that the former is a sex toy and the latter a controlled substance.
I was thrilled, therefore, to casually stroll off the aircraft as my fellow passengers pushed and shoved, and did that thing that is not quite a run, but is a lot more than a walk, in a desperate effort to get to the front of the endless passport control queue (which is now even longer as we wait for the printer to print out the registration card). Savoring the moment, I approached the bored-looking female with pockmarked skin and an inexpertly hemmed uniform skirt, holding up the “VIP-ЗАЛ” sign.
“Hello there,” I said brightly, “I’m your client!”
She regarded me with a massive amount of disinterest.
“Identify yourself,” she grunted.
She seemed surprised, but resigned when I produced the right documentation and she motioned me to follow her.
Does anything say “You’re back in Russia” like the echoing “clack clack clack” of a female airport employee’s rickety heels on the tile floor? We forged our way through the steamy departure lounge, full of Russians in tracksuit bottoms and tank tops heading off for package holidays in Turkey and Egypt. Through a door, down a corridor, up a flight of stairs, down another corridor and up an additional flight of stairs I lugged my rollaboard full of cameras, computers, my Duty free swag (three bottles of PIMMS) and enough cooking magazines to last me two months. We finally pushed through the final set of doors to the VIP Lounge.
I won’t belabor the point describing it, except to say I think that rattan, as a decorative motif in a climate such as Russia's is a mistake, and that, at the prices they charge for the service, a cash bar seems tacky, but as the Russians say, “It’s a sin to complain.”
Well, maybe just one complaint then…
It is nice to sit in a rattan chair and wait for someone to collect your three large duffle bags full of Splenda and vertical chicken roasters for you, but having to lug them up those two flights of stairs then through the entire arrivals hall, down the one tiny working elevator to get to the car which is parked in the dedicated VIP Parking space…that makes me long for my E-Z Pass.
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Priveyt Readers!
Have you experienced a VIP service in Russia? VIP Sushi perhaps? Or VIP Banya? What's your experience been? Hit the comment button below and tell us about it!
As my friends, fans, and family know, I like jobs I can do in my pajamas and one thing I do for the occasional crust is brief expats who are setting off to Moscow for work. I have a very serious and thorough outline and I do a nice job if I do say so myself. There are, however, a few points I tend to leave out of a general briefing. In this series of posts, I’ll be grouping these important concepts about expat life into alphabetical clusters with some helpful links to other resources. I encourage you to submit your own questions about expat life in Moscow!
Salary:
It’s all about the money. That’s why you are here after all, and don’t let on that this isn’t a hardship post. Of course it is: peanut butter costs 9 bucks a jar and there is a 5-month lag to watch Celebrity Apprentice. But the “The Package” as expats refer to it includes all kinds of perks: an all expense-paid look-see visit before you move, and all-expense paid move when you do featuring a sea container big enough to fit a year’s worth of Sam’s Club Mac&Cheese boxes, housing, insurance, insurance that ensures your insurance, pet relocation, assimilation training for you and your pet, schooling, trips home (to stock up on more Sam’s Club Mac &Cheese), a guaranteed bonus.
Shelter:
Location, location, location. Are you poshly situated on the banks of Patriarch Ponds (soon to be renamed Cadaver Pond) or have you chosen the more hygienic confines of Rosinka or Pokrovsky Hills, where your neighbors are People Like You and not slightly crazy octogenarians in worn out tapki who hurl insults at you, or a scary beezinessmeyn from Moldova and his 17-year twin girlfriends. Are you horrified by the cost of your rental? Do you know the layout of IKEA by heart? You are outraged when the rent goes up, and you know you are really entrenched when you stop thinking you can get one up on the landlord. You can’t.
Servants:
Suddenly, you are the hero of your own Masterpiece Theatre special. There are servants everywhere! Someone drives you around, someone else drives your spouse around, and a third guy may even drive your kids around. A colorful but increasingly tedious woman cleans your home, sighing heavily about the good old days when she worked for a Soviet Research Institute and had a three-week voucher to a sanatorium each summer. She often suffers from a curious thing called “pressure” from the “magnetic field.” You are working up the courage to fire her and get a string of Filipinos in to replace her.
Schooling:
Keeping your children busy, productive, occupied, and off the streets is a full time job for an expat. If you have school aged children, you’ve probably gone for the “All Inclusive” option of an international school with bonus points if you’ve chosen to live adjacent to it. Good choice: everything including your own social life is under one roof. You will never be lonely again. Unless of course, your child is unhappy at the international school, in which case, you are out of luck. If you have teenagers, I strongly advocate a lengthy and serious consideration of "American Boarding Schools" or a similar publication from your home country.
Security:
If this is your first posting abroad, you may be disconcerted by the amount of security measures in place: metal detectors to enter shopping malls, armed guards at your local supermarket, and the bewildering rigmarole of getting a “propusk” or pass to any building in the city. Relax. Remember Russia is a human resources rich country and the entire male population serves in the army, making them fit for only one thing when they get out: security services.
Spirits:
Moscow expats like their tipple. Whether it’s cocktails on the patio at Scandinavia or vodka at the banya, gird your liver for the onslaught of alcohol to come. Quantity, not quality, is what counts in Moscow, where a mediocre bottle Cru d’Ordinary Cheap and Cheerful Australian Chardonnay retailing in your home country for $7.99 and available at every newsagent, needs to be specially ordered and costs up to $60.00. None of this deters Moscow expats, some of whom even take a liking to the aluminum tins of pre-mixed Gin Tonic sold at kiosks throughout the city. Don’t knock them ‘til you’ve tried them, and try them as the locals do: while riding public transportation.
Sirens:
Relax. All those ambulances are just moonlighting as traffic jam plows, and all those blue lights are just show-off minigarchs. No emergency.
Sourcing:
Where oh where do you buy peanut butter? (Azbukha Vkusa) Or toilet bowl cleaner? (Metro) Can you get Vanilla Extract in Moscow? (No) Is there any store that sells three holes US Letter Sized paper?(huh?) Where do you buy a bathing suit or clothes that are in the size 12 and up range (www.landsend.com of course…what did you think?) Finding things in Moscow is a full-time job for a trailing spouse, or what a recent Expat Forum more charmingly renamed the “lovepats.” Keep your ear to the ground; post your questions on Facebook. Be ready to improvise. Take many many many empty suitcases home on holiday.
Social Life:
A big part of being an expat is the social life. This is primarily carried out with other expats at large events held to raise money for various good causes. This is when “The Package” begins to make sense. You are charged an arm and a leg to attend, then shell out the other arm and your other leg to purchase way too many raffle tickets for chance to win something you neither want, nor need (such as a weekend at the Marriott Grand Hotel on Tverskaya Street). Hours of fun. You may choose to join a book club, or go native and visit a dacha. Whatever you do, get out there and meet people. Even if you have to help unpack 14,000 Russian Christmas tree ornaments, or go to divine service. Otherwise, the cleaning lady will drive you nuts.
Sojurns:
Ah…vacations! Before you even unpack one suitcase, check with the HR people who are in charge of you about all the public holidays in Russia. You don’t want to be caught wondering where everyone is during the first week in May, November, or January. Nor do you want to miss the Saturday that turns out to be a working day. Once you’ve got that clear, you have a wonderful opportunity to discover the joys of package holidaying a la Russe in Turkey, Egypt, and the UAE for the low, low price of less than $500 p/p and the high, high cost of mental anguish when you take your first (and last) charter flight to the sunny destination. Live and learn, friends, live and learn.
Sex:
No "Life in Moscow" piece could be complete without this "S" word. Suffice it to say that attitudes about sex are different abroad, particularly those held by the typing pool at the better firms. And then there are the rumors of trampoline sex in the gated communities...true or false? Hmmm...
Can you think of other "S" words that are important to life in the expat lane? Questions about life in Russia? Curious or outraged by what you read here? Hit the comment button and weigh in, won't you?
There are two ways to make Russia’s oldest soup, ukha. The first way (and the way I first experienced it on the shores of Lake Baikal in 1990) goes like this: catch a fish in a crystal clear lake or river. Throw it into a kettle of the crystal clear water and boil until the eyes pop out. That’s how you know it’s done. Consume immediately. And that’s it.
Which is fine if you happen to be on the shores of a crystal clear river, know how catch a fish, and can make a fire in the wilderness. But if one of these prerequisites is missing, fear not! You don’t have to go all the way to Siberia, learn to fish, or even work up the courage to deal with a fish eye. It is, however, a good idea to make friends with your local fishmonger, if you haven’t already, for help in sourcing the freshest fish possible for your version of ukha.
Ukha has been around for centuries, and like all Russian dishes, has changed and adapted in the kitchens (and riversides) where it is prepared. Ukha comes from the word “ukho,” the Russian word for ear, which is odd since fish don’t have ears. Ukha originally had nothing to do with fish, but was rather a thick, rich stock made from the leftover parts of cows and pigs, including the ears, the feet, the sinews, and other trimmings. The word ukha became synonymous with “bouillon” and ultimately with the simple broth and fish soup popular with both peasants and nobles alike.
Chucking fresh fish into boiling water is not so much a recipe, as a method of cooking, but ukha was re-imagined and tweaked throughout the centuries. At the Tsar’s table, “amber” ukha, redolent with precious saffron strands, was made with perch or sturgeon. The French chefs working in Russian noble kitchens concentrated on perfecting the flavor and appearance of the bouillon itself, clarifying it with egg whites and eggshells and experimenting with different kinds of fish. Some Russian chefs insist upon the addition of potatoes and root vegetables, whilst others vehemently protest that anything but fish and water make the concoction no longer ukha, but genertic fish soup. I’ve heard violent arguments about whether or not to add lemon slices, and some heated discussions as to how many different kinds of fish you can use for ukha. There are many fish in the sea, and many recipes for ukha.
So, if you are not bound for Siberia, or if you aren’t an accomplished reelsman or woman, but you’d like to try ukha, a recipe culled from numerous stories, cookbooks, advice from Russian fishermen, and a little sage input from my friend the fishmonger follows:
Ingredients:
2 liters of Fish Stock (recipe below)
750 grams of scaled and deboned white fish such as pike, perch, halibut, cubed (5 centimeter pieces)
750 grams of salmon fillet, cubed (5 centimeter pieces)
½ of a parsley root or turnip, cubed (2 centimeter pieces)
½ a celery root, cubed (2 centimeter pieces)
1 tsp of olive oil
2 leeks or one large yellow onion
1-2 bay leaves
15 allspice pellets
4 Tbls of Malden sea salt
1 Tbls of black peppers
1 bunch of flat parsley
1 bunch of dill
Lemon slices (if you dare!) for garnish
Instructions:
1.Sweat the leeks or onions in oil in a heavy bottomed soup pot on moderate heat.
2.When the leeks and onions are soft and translucent, add the parsley and celery root cubes and sauté until tender (5-7 minutes)
3.Add the fish stock, bay leaves, allspice, salt and pepper. Raise heat and bring to a boil.
4.Reduce heat, cover and simmer for 30 minutes.
5.Add the fish, poaching it lightly at low heat for 7-8 minutes.
6.Remove the bay leaves and add chopped fresh parsley and dill.
7.Serve immediately. Russians traditionally serve ukha with rastigai or fish pies, and it is the traditional accompaniment to Salmon Coulibiac.
Fish Stock:
I am a great believer in fresh stock made from natural ingredients, which is far superior than prepared and processed cubes or tinned broths, which introduce too much salt and a chemical taste that has no place in a fresh soup like ukha. Whenever possible, take the time to make fresh stock, and while it isn’t essential to clarify it, nothing looks better than a clear, sparkling broth to showcase the delicately poached fish and the brilliant green garnish.
Ingredients:
2 fish heads, gills and eyes removed (here is where your friend the fishmonger can be so helpful!)
2 liters of water
1 stalk of celery
½ a yellow onion
2 Tbls Malden sea salt
1 Tbl of black peppercorns
3 crushed cloves
Trimmings of fresh herbs (keep these in a plastic bag in the freezer): parsley, dill, scallions, tarragon etc.
3 egg whites and eggshells
Instructions:
1. Place all the ingredients except the eggs and eggshells into a heavy, deep-bottomed stockpot.
2. Bring to a boil, reduce heat, and simmer on low heat for 1 hour, skimming the surface of any scum, which has accumulated.
3. Remove from the heat.
4. Line a colander with fresh cheesecloth or a clean linen kitchen towel and strain the bouillon into a clean stockpot.
At this point, you can stop, but if you wish to clarify the stock, proceed as follows:
1.Replace the stockpot onto moderate heat and bring to a simmer.
2.Whisk the egg whites together with one cup of the hot stock and then pour the mixture into the stockpot.
3.Add the crushed eggshells and stir for four minutes.
4.Reduce heat and slide the stockpot to the left so that only the left third of the pot covers the burner and let simmer for ten minutes. As the egg whites cook, the cloudy matter of the stock adheres to them.
5.Rotate the stockpot around to allow the other side of the pot to cover the burner and let simmer ten minutes. Do the same to the top and bottom of the pot, taking care that the stock does not boil over.
6.Remove the pot from the heat. Line a fine sieve with cheesecloth or a clean linen dishcloth over a tall stockpot. Ladle the stock and egg mixture carefully through the sieve, taking care that the bottom of the sieve does not touch the clarified stock.
Priyatnogo Appetita!
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This article first appeared in french under the title "Oukha, la mere des soupes russes." in Le Figaro and La Russie d'Aujourd'hui on May 16, 2011. A link to that online article can be found here.
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Hey There Readers!
Sorry for the radio silence, but it is not an indication of a lack of interest in blogging! We're working hard on a major overhaul: introducing new material, launching a new blog and all kinds of new and interesting developments! So stick with it!
Question to the cooks in the group: what other Russian recipes interest you? Been longing to make something you read about? Log in and let us know and we'll plan some new columns around it!
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 National Parks Day! On this day, in 1916, Russia’s first ever-national park was established in Buryatia, the “Barguzinski Preserve.” I have to wonder how the Russians found the time, given that they were tied up with the double whammy of war and revolution, but there you go: if you want something done, give it to the busiest person in the room. 81 years later, in 1997, the Center for Preservation of Nature and, the real guided missiles of the piece, The World Wildlife Fund got together and lobbied for an official profpraznik. Today, Russia is home to over 100 land and forest preserves and 40 national parks, covering a total area of over 79 million acres, about 2 % of Russia’s landmass, or roughly the size of Belarus, which is, of course, slated to become a Russian National Park in the very near future..
Big country, Russia, as I’ve said before, and much of it uninhabitable, or made so by the pursuit of what lies deep beneath its permafrost, gross mismanagement, or outdated upkeep such as the peat bog mess so fresh in our minds from last summer. But much of Russia’s nature is stunning, and I speak with the experience of one who has written and edited many many many travel brochures. The problem is, as it always is, the infrastructure. It’s hard to get to many of these places unless, like my friend Lucy Milne (travel agent to the oligarchs) you have access to a helicopter: “Everyone should have a helicopter,” says Lucy with conviction, in a neat twist on the classic line from “Cold Comfort Farm.”
Russian National Parks differ from those found in the rest of the world. You can’t plug in your RV at most of them (obviously) and they don’t have Smokey Bear, nor indeed, Yogi Bear, so of course, they’ve missed out on all that revenue stream, and, as the faint lines around my eyes and mouth attest, you can't always bank on what you'll find when you get there.
I have a modest example:
In my former life as a Tourist Rep during the Wild 90s, a rather bold foray into the world of eco-tourism (another word engraved on my heart) found my team in charge of an exclusive cruise around Lake Baikal on a private boat which went appallingly pear shaped. In an attempt to provide something new and different, our bosses had crafted the itinerary with “The Baikal National Park” as their supplier. My intrepid colleague, let’s call him Nikita, took off with 12 unsuspecting Americans to Irkutsk where he was met by one of those 22-year language students who you just know, right there at the airport, is going to be useless and you will have to do all the work. A seasoned professional (and very well trained by yours truly) Nikita hit the ground running, and made a series of unsuccessful phone calls to “The Baikal National Park” people, none of whom answered their phones. Since this was before mobile phones were the norm, Nikita strolled down to the quayside of the Angara River to the dock where the pleasure boats took off and made some enquiries. He then purchased a few bottles of vodka and made some deeper enquiries. Returning to the hotel, he put the useless 22-year old up against the wall in a menacing manner he had picked up in the Paratroopers and made some urgent enquiries.
“Korochiye– in short-- ” he said to me over a crackling Irkutsk - Moscow landline, “I can rent a boat for the trip, but you need to bring me $5000 in cash…by tomorrow.”
As the case unfolded, it turned out that, back then anyway, there was no “Baikal National Park” and our wire transfer securing the non-existent pleasure boat was now safely in someone's – not I think one of the 11,000 employees of Russia’s National Parks Service – numbered account in one of those small island nations.
I then made a series of escalatingly urgent phone calls on a crackling Moscow – USA landline with my baffled and increasingly outraged American colleagues. Then scrounged around Moscow for some cash. Another colleague – let’s call him Ilya – flew out to Irkutsk that night. With a money belt.
It was right up there with the time we had the guy die in the back of the bus on a bitter cold day in Suzdal. After a brief consultation with the driver and national guide, we upped the heating to maximum, put on some quiet music and prayed all the four hours back to Moscow that no one would wake up. No one did.
Is it little wonder I never answer the phone or leave the house?
Happy National Parks Day to the more than 11,000 Russians who preserve and defend them!
That’s one of my favorite Russian horror stories…what are some of yours? Share them with the rest of the Dividing My Time readership by clicking the comment button below. Or, if you like, retweet or “like” this one Facebook so your friends can enjoy it too. And when you are finished, stick around for more tales of Russia’s enormous land mass, the troubled ecological issues, and my miss-spent youth as a tour guide, by enjoying some more posts, like these:
There are only two industries that refer to their customers as ‘users.’
~Edward Tufte
Today is Information Technology Day in Russia! On this day, in 1948, Soviet scientists Issak Bruk and Bashir Rameev submitted their research and design for an electronic digital computer – the USSR’s first -- and were awarded the country’s first patent for the design.
Anything to do with IT always reminds me of my good friend Phoebe Wainwright, who has, thanks to the Direct Intervention of God, moved on from Russia. In the early oughts, however, Phoebe worked for a global Computer Reservations System (CRS) as their Moscow and Russia Rep Office Head. It was Phoebe’s job (and she was very good at it) to maintain good relations with all the airlines (her suppliers) so that every six months or so, she could get their updated fares and plug them into the CRS system so that the travel agencies (her clients) who subscribed to the CRS system could sell tickets. Pretty straightforward except for one thing…Russia’s National Carrier. In the Real World, the CRS Rep Office Head in any given country would be charged with developing and maintaining a close relationship with the country’s airline, and the airline, for its part, would be highly motivated to keep up cordial relations with the CRS company: picture the relationship between the US and Canadian Ambassadors in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia.
In the alternate world of the National Carrier, however the global CRS companies were considered strange Western aberrations. The plethora of 60-something “red directors” who thought they were still running the Carrier were open about their suspicions that, if the CRS agents were not actually covert CIA agents, then they were certainly sinister Western predators poised to move in and steal airplanes.
When Phoebe’s Regional Boss, Kurt from Switzerland announced his intentions of making a visit to Moscow in order to cement relations with the CRS’s major partners, Phoebe knew she had to tear down the walls of the National Carrier, and get a meeting with an actual human being or lose her job. She was certainly not a covert CIA Agent (no CIA Agent has that many handbags…not in the field anyway), but she knew how Moscow worked, so she called everyone she knew, including me.
Phoebe’s tenure with the CRS paralleled my brief and happy time with the National Carrier. (The ones who still owe me $27,000.) At that point in time, the National Carrier was run by a very capable and clever guy who unfortunately looked and frequently behaved like Dracula (the Klaus Kinski version, not the Robert Patterson version.) Dracula was tasked to bring the National Carrier up to International Standards so he hired a Western Consulting Company, staffed entirely with arrogant, male 23 year-olds from Yale. They, in their turn, advised hiring a stable of young, obnoxious, arrogant Russians who had at least three hours of experience with Real Airlines like BA or KLM or Western banks or accounting firms.
Among the stable of young Turks was the IT guy – the head of all information technology for the entire airline – at that time considered one of the world’s largest. I honestly can’t remember his name or patronymic, and apart from "under a rock" I don't know where he came from but he was the weirdest Brother From Another Planet I had ever encountered. In the daughter company of the National Carrier, where I toiled, the phones didn’t work (which is bad for a service company), the e-mail was sketchy, and it took about 6 minutes to load an Internet page. When we brought up these issues at the Board Meetings to the Brother he simply silently shrugged and wrote something in his cheesy leatherette A5 book, then continued to stare at the ceiling, and Dracula would just move on to the next thing on the agenda. No one batted an eyelid. I don’t know where he is today. Dracula was last seen sailing around the world in his yacht.
In the normal way of things, I had very little to do with the IT crowd, but when Phoebe, her back well and truly to the wall, called, I did what I could to help her secure a meeting with the Brother for her and her Swiss boss. I went over the Brother’s head to Dracula’s female sidekick, who in many ways was a Sister From Another Planet, but who’s job it was to make sure all the Turks at least pretended to buy into the Westernization. Phoebe got her meeting.
“How did it go?” I asked her a week later.
Phoebe closed her eyes briefly and shuddered.
“I have to tell you,” she said eventually, “that guy is the weirdest person I’ve met in Russia, and that includes the three months in Kamchatka. And the meeting was the strangest thing that has happened to me since that trip to Kazan.”
“We call him the brother from another planet,” I agreed.
“My boss is pretty cool – so he was okay about the six metal detectors and the armed escort to the executive floor, and he didn’t mind that we sat around in the waiting room for 50 minutes,” continued Phoebe, ”which is par for the course here, but then we went into the guy’s office – have you ever been to his office?”
“Oh, God, no,” I said, “I could never work up the courage.”
“Well,” she said, “try and find the courage, because you will laugh your head off. He has the usual huge desk with the large phallic-symbol table coming out from it for the minions to sit at, and we sat down, and he and Kurt started exchanging pleasantries and I looked around. On the wall behind him were about 12 heads of dead animals – like a cheetah and a moose and that kind of thing…and all the eyes were trained on me!”
“You are kidding…” I said.
“That’s not all – he also had about 25 African masks and spears and stuff, including an arrow with what had to be caked blood on it.”
“Oh Lord, no!”
“Yes, but here is the weirdest thing: I looked around the office and I looked around it again and then I figured it out…he didn’t have a single computer in the place – not one.”
Happy IT Day in Russia to all those who do have computers in their offices!
Are you on good terms with your IT Department? Have you ever had a meeting like Phoebe’s? Do you know a Brother From Another Planet? And, as a related question, do you find the global conspiracy to make us have 6 remote controls per each television set a tad unnerving? Let me know, by hitting the comment button below!
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Here are some more posts about technology and computing in Russia:
Tancy O’Reilly lives alone, and was felled by a bad cold over the November holidays. I packed up some chicken soup, garlic, and oranges and went over to her apartment. She was in bad shape: huddled in bed, surrounded by balls of soggy used Kleenex, a sticky laptop, and an incongruous teddy bear. I took one look, banished her to the bathroom for a long hot shower, opened the windows to freshen up the air, then changed the sheets. I heated up the chicken soup, dropping peeled and sliced slivers of fresh garlic into it and let it simmer. I squeezed the oranges, fixed a tray and returned to the bedroom.
Propped up against fresh pillows, in a clean nightgown, Tancy slowly spooned the garlic soup into her mouth, and sipped the fresh orange juice, “This is great,” she croaked, “but I hate to take you away from your work.”
“Well, I needed a break,” I responded, scooping up dirty T-shirts from around the room into a laundry basket. “I’m a little frustrated. I wanted to use this week to really get stuff done with my book, but I keep having to re-write my humor piece for this month.”
“Why?” asked Tancy.
“My editor, whom I adore, keeps rejecting everything I write. I wrote about Dr. X –“
“—He is SO funny,” crowed Tancy, “what’s wrong with that?”
“They have to be careful about legal issues,” I said shrugging,
“Why don’t you write about these crazy holidays?” asked Tancy, “how the calendar gets all screwed up?”
“I did that already,” I said, “and got into trouble for it.”
“How?” she asked.
“Some of the other editors objected to the phrase ‘warped individual sitting in a windowless room in the Kremlin’” I said, shaking my head, as I ran a duster over Tancy’s deep window ledge, “So, then I put in another piece on how Russians never write thank you notes –“
“—Now that is absolutely true,” said Tancy, stuffing another pillow behind her back and wriggling up to a better position, “—or you get one of these really silly formal ones. What was wrong with that?”
“Perceived as angry – not funny,” I said shortly. My mobile rang; it was Velvet from home with a question about her homework.
“Mommy, can I write about the Russian guy with the big cross at the Baptism of Christ site in Jordan who went in the river?” Velvet’s class was studying the Middle East, and each child was doing a country, she was doing Jordan.
“You mean the guy with the wife who had blue fingernails that matched her bikini and put Canadian club in her Diet Coke at 10 am?” I asked, catching my breath. Now, they really were funny.
“They sound perfect!” wheezed Tancy reaching for the Kleenex, “what happened to them?” I put Velvet on speaker so she could help tell the story.
“He wore this teeny tiny Speedo and a huge pectoral cross” I began.
“And he jumped into the Jordan River –“ said Velvet, “which was really gross.”
“It looked like dishwater” I qualified, “and like only a tiny strip of dishwater, but he was submerging himself under it over and over again, while his wife – blue fingernails – filled up the empty Canadian club bottles with the water…and they were totally oblivious that on the other side of the bank were about four hundred Israeli soldiers with their weapons trained on him. The Jordanian guide was tearing out his hair.”
“And there was this man from America next to us, -- what did he say?” said Velvet giggling.
“He said, ‘Jesus, I hope that dude got a Tetanus shot,’” I howled.
“That is hilarious!” said Tancy. “Use that.”
“No, that story needs more than 3000 characters without spaces – and I want it for the book,”
“You could always publish the recipe for this chicken soup,” said Tancy “I feel better already.”
This piece first appeared in Russia Beyond The Headlines and The Washington Post on November 18, 2010. A link to the online original version can be found here.
If you want to get there fast, take a plane. If you want to get there on time, take the train.
~ Popular saying in Russia
Today is the day of the Railway Workers in Russia! This is one of my favorite professions, and over 1 million employees of Russian Railways, Inc will be celebrating today, so if you happen to be on a train today, be sure to wish anyone working a very happy profpraznik.
Railway workers’ day is one of the oldest professional holidays celebrated in Russia, though it has taken some shifting to get into its current gauge of the first Sunday in August. The holiday was first inaugurated in 1896 by order of Tsar Nicholas II during the active construction of the Trans-Siberian Railway, and the date chosen was June 25th, the birthday of Nicholas’s Great-Grandfather, Tsar Nicholas I (1825- 1855) who oversaw and encouraged the construction of Russia’s first railway in 1837. The holiday was celebrated until 1917, and then dropped until July 28, 1936 and later moved to the first Sunday in August.
Many of the enduring images of Russia which drew me to the country have to do with the railways: Yuri Zhivago’s epic trip across civil-war torn Russia, Anna Karenina (of course), John Reed, Lenin in the sealed train, the Finland Station, and Paul Theroux’s hysterical account of his Trans-Siberian trip with his grumpy Yugoslavian wife, Wanda. When I worked as a tour guide in Russia, leaving at midnight on the Red Arrow for weekly overnight trip between Moscow and St. Petersburg was always a highlight: the chaos of the station, the chimes announcing the departure, the sweet tea served in old-fashioned metal tea glass holders, called podstakanitchki, and the gentle sway of the rails rocking me to sleep. Sea travel is my favorite way to go anywhere, but the railways are right up there.
The Trans-Siberian From Moscow - Vladivostok 1990
Twice, I traveled to Siberia to ride on portions of the famous Trans-Siberian railway, and I hope to do the whole trip someday, though perhaps not with a group of tourists: I’m still getting over having to explain to a woman from New York that the train did not offer pedicures (although this is a fabulous idea…because the days are very very very long and ever so slightly monotonous.)
Nicholas I of Russia: The Railway Tsar
The introduction of railway travel and cargo had a lasting effect on Russia in the 19th Century, bolstering the rapid industrialization of the late 19th Century, and transporting peasants from the countryside to join the swelling ranks of the proletariat. It was Austrian Franz Anton von Gerstner who first lobbied Tsar Nicholas in 1836 with a comprehensive plan to introduce the railroad to Russia, arguing, correctly, that railway travel was far more efficient than the river systems, which froze for half of the year in Central and Northern Russia, or the roads, which were choppy at the best of times. With classic Teutonic persistence, von Gerstner waded patiently through the mire of the Tsar’s bureaucracy: sitting in endless committee meetings, re-submitting plans, debating with the strong canal faction, and lobbying for support and investment from Russia’s chrysalis merchant classes. Von Gerstner’s patience paid off, and on October 30, 1837, the Tsarskoye Selo – Saint Petersburg Railway line was officially opened, linking the Imperial Russian Capital, with the summer residences of the Tsar and nobility.
My favorite anecdote about the railway line between Moscow and Saint Petersburg (inaugurated in 1851), is that Nicholas I, exasperated by the haggling of the engineers as to where to lay the tracks, famously took a ruler, slapped it down on the map of Russia, and impatiently drew a straight line between the two capitals, saying “Put it there!” Some tour guides embellish this refreshing story with the notion that Tsar accidently drew around his own finger, causing a bend in the line around Novgorod, but the line was actually perfectly straight.
Today, Russia’s railway is the second largest network in the world (after the US), with over 85,000 kilometers of tack. The Railway accounts for 2.5% of GDP, moving 1.1 billion passengers per year and 1.1 billion tons of freight (43% of the country’s entire freight capacity). Russian Railways Inc. is the fourth largest company in Russia, employing over 1 million people. The Trans-Siberian railway remains the world’s longest single uninterrupted railway track.
In closing, let’s wish the Russian Railway workers prosperity and good luck in the coming years! Really.
I am indebted to Russian Railways Inc.s very helpful and informative website for current railway statistics.
I researched the history of the development of the railway in Russia with the invaluable help of two sources:
Kevin Fink. (1991) "The Beginnings of Railways in Russia"
Haywood, Richard Mowbray. (1969) The beginnings of railways development in russia in the reign of Nicholas I, 1835 - 1842.
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Ahoy there Readers!
Are you a railway fanatic? There usually is one in every family. Do you know a railway worker? If you do, be sure to give them a big hug today! Or, you can leave them a note on this blog, I’ll see that they get it. Hope you enjoyed today’s installment, and if you liked this post and would like to read more about some of Russia’s history and industry, try posts like these:
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)
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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:
Do you have any specialized skills, training or experience related to firearms and explosives, or to nuclear, biological or chemical activities? If <Yes>, please explain.
~ Question # 32 on the visa application for US Citizens to the Russian Federation.
Here is another holiday, Like Day of the HR Managers, where I do not see us breaking out the Veuve Cliquot and the cobalt blue champagne flutes with the Imperial Seal. Today is Workers of the Federal Migration Service Day. See, I can’t even work up enthusiasm for my customary exclamation mark.
This is the crowd, as I have written before, who are making us run around Moscow trying to find a certified Latin- Russian translator, so we can have our college diplomas translated and apostiled, and have us combing the post-Armageddon landscape of southern Moscow to find the one rump-sprung clinic that is still testing for leprosy. These are the clowns who change the rules about where and how to register your visa (once you actually get one and successfully enter the country) every single solitary time. And, I have to assume that these are the Sadists who came up with that PDF version of the visa application, which is quite simply impossible to fill out on the computer. Go ahead, try to do it…click here and try and fill in one line without having to move your mouse and click on every single box. See?
These people drive me to drink...and I can crawl there on my own, thank you very much.
People are always offering me back doors to Russian citizenship, and I just decline politely on behalf of myself and Velvet. For one thing, Russia doesn’t have a dual citizenship agreement with America, or a number of other desirable first world locales like the EU...and all those Russians who think they are so clever (a number of HRH’s female relatives fall in to this category) in keeping their red passports once they get the new blue or burgundy ones should, I believe, be made to choose one and not the other, in tense circumstances by someone as unpleasant as Officer Noble, after a 26-hour flight. Citizenship, Comrades, is not a travel document. You can’t have a propiska (a residency permit) in a Moscow apartment, and vote for Barack Obama. One or the other. Not both. Apart from anything else, you are depriving the poor Workers of the Federal Migration Service income, and driving the price of a one-year, multi-entry visa (for which you could get an entire new outfit at Eileen Fisher) for the rest of us!
The Federal Migration Workers are in charge of surveillance of labor migration, which is everyone from the Head of Proctor & Gamble in Russia to the Tadzhik street sweepers, and I always smile at the Tadzhiks and say “Good Day” politely since I feel we are essentially in the same boat. It seems the Russians also think so, because the Moscow Times had a hysterical report on Friday about a little volume being created by Moscow City Hall. This quite over-shadowed the other news of the day which I must just mention: about the65 meter penispainted on the underside of one of Saint Petersburg’s drawbridges on the eve of the Petersburg Economic Forum. When raised, the drawbridge faced the Saint Petersburg HQ of the FSB, and that, to me, is genius on a scale you rarely see these days.
But to get back to the other story: it seems the authorities at City Hall are coming up with an etiquette book for foreign workers visiting the capital. This is A Bit Much, if you ask me, from a crowd who clear their nostrils of phlegm by pinching one side and blowing out the contents of the other. Like on the main street, in broad daylight.
Is this woman getting ready to slaughter a lamb?
Is this man wearing his national costume on Tverskaya Street?
The latter-day Emily Posts at City Hall, if you ask me (and no one ever ever does) could spend a little more time on re-working traffic patterns to ease the gridlock than telling me how to behave, but there they are, putting out this silly thing and issuing press releases about it all over the place. The volume gets specific about some taboo behavior including wearing one’s national costume in public, which rules out jeans I guess, and LL Bean boots, as well as my North Face parka. We are also supposed to refrain from slaughtering sheep in the courtyard, which wasn’t high up on my to-do list, but then my blood ran cold when I saw that we were also forbidden to barbecue on our balconies.
Oh Dear…
Congratulations to all of the Workers of the Federal Migration Service.
Have you ever applied for a visa to Russia? Did you have to be medicated after you completed the application? Did you try that PDF, and if so, do you agree it was created by a modern day Torquemada? Do you know why I am so concerned about the barbecue rule??? (HINT: you’ll find the answer in one of the posts listed below!) Leave me a message of support below, or stick around and enjoy a few more posts like this one.
"You can't be a real country unless you have a beer and an airline - it helps if you have some kind of a football team, or some nuclear weapons, but at the very least you need a beer."
~Frank Zappa
Today is the second Saturday in June and since 2003, that has meant one thing: Beer Brewer’s Day!
I’ve been writing, for my sins, a monthly cooking column about Russian food, which I don’t actually like to either make or consume, but I have found it interesting to learn that most dishes that we think of as “classic Russian,” are, in fact, not native to Russia at all. We don’t know that, because Russia has so claimed these meals as their own, that it doesn’t occur to us to question their origins. Take Beef Stroganoff, which seems to account for an astonishing number of hits to this blog, which is French; or shashlik, which comes from the Caucuses, or, indeed, Russian pelemeni, which were brought to Russia originally by the Finno-Ugric tribes of the North.
And so it is with beer. Russians certainly did not invent beer, in actual fact the Iraqis did (for all the good it did them), but today Russia is the third largest beer market in the world! Russians stumbled upon beer fairly early on in the form of kvass which beer expert Michael Jackson argued is an early form of beer. Kvass is a lightly fermented drink made from any old grain or stale dark bread, yeast, and flavored with berries and other fruits. It’s mostly consumed in the summer by the older generation, whereas everyone consumes beer in Russia, 24/7, 365 days a year.
Russians like their beer strong, and I was interested to learn that the strongest stout ever, was made for Catherine the Great, and called “Imperial Stout.” The theory was that the high alcohol content of the stout ensured that the sub zero temperatures in winter would not freeze the beer as it made its way from Great Britain to Russia.
Today, Russian beer is a dynamic sector of the economy. The national brands of Baltika, Siberian Crown, Stariy Melnik and others are never going to win any prizes for quality, but they remain viable because, in Russia, the main driver, as the economic geeks say, is quantity rather than quality.
I know this, because, like most women in Russia, I live with a beer expert.
HRH is very fond of beer, and, because he’s been exposed to beer in countries like Switzerland and Jamaica where they focus more on the quality, rather than the quantity of beer production, he’s discerning. He prefers European draft beer to American bottled beer, which he feels is on a par with Sprite or 7-UP in the beverage line up. The happiest I have ever seen him was in the Sultanate of Oman, where we spent one Christmas. Slightly concerned about our dwindling reserves of Duty Free gin and whiskey, we were invited to Christmas lunch by a charming couple, who ran the (tightly controlled) alcohol concession in the Sultanate. Tipped off by our friend Annie, Debbie and Samir unearthed a case of Heineken, which they wrapped in festive paper and presented to him as the, hands down, best Christmas present he ever received.
So, to an industry facing possible crippling tax hikes and the ever-menacing specter of another government-sponsored anti-alcohol campaign (because the last one went so well), let’s raise a glass of imported Newcastle Brown Ale and wish the Beer Brewers a very happy profpraznik!
The wonderful picture of Russian beer and dried fish (the peanut butter and jelly of Russian summers) was found on the Google by Mr. Kunglay.
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Hey Readers!
How are you enjoying Beer Brewers’ Day? Does your country have both beer and an airline? Mine does, but both are pretty lame. What’s your favorite tipple? Leave me a comment and let me know! Thanks for stopping by.
Did you enjoy this post? Here are some others you might also enjoy:
Today is Victory Day!! I usually put the entire name of the holiday in the title of the post, but this one doesn't fit. Once again, post-perestroika political correctness at work: День воинской славы России — День Победы советского народа в Великой Отечественной войне 1941—1945 годов (1945) which translates as Day of Russia’s Military Glory – The Day of Victory of the Soviet People in The Great Patriotic War 1941 – 1945.
What can I say about Victory Day that hasn’t already been said? As you know, May 9th of course commemorates the glorious moment in 1945 (choreographed by Stalin with the tacit agreement of Roosevelt and Churchill, who no doubt just wanted the whole thing to end one way or the other) when the Soviet Army triumphantly marched into a vanquished Berlin.
World War II, or “The Great Patriotic War,” as any Russian schoolchild will tell you, was a conflict primarily fought in the Eastern European theater of war: starring the Russians as the Good Guys and featuring the Nazis as the Bad Guys. As guide books say : while many millions of brave and patriotic Russians perished, the Soviet Forces ultimately triumphed over the powers of Fascism, and peaceful productivity was restored to the peaceful-loving Soviet people. Footnote: there were, perhaps, other skirmishes taking place on the periphery of this major conflict such as a minor air battle over the English Channel, and some unpleasantness in the Pacific, but they do not cover this in national curriculum of Russia, even in elite officer-training military academies such as the one HRH attended. As I have written before, HRH was baffled and unable to identify D-Day as an historical event during a screening of “Saving Private Ryan.” I rashly suggested that D-Day had been the turning point in World War II, with dire consequences.
On May 9th, there is a huge parade through Red Square. Huge ostentatious military parades complete with goose-stepping have rather gone out of fashion, so Moscow's parade is one of just a handful of opportunities left on the planet to experience this live. I recommend it, if only to see the bizarre moment when Very Senior Military Guy tries to remain standing in the 1950's style convertible car at the beginning of the parade, as the car clatters over the uneven cobblestones of Red Square. Velvet feels, and I must say I agree with her, that there is really no excuse for this sort of thing: Very Senior Military Guys should be on horseback, like Field Marshall Zhukhov who led the first May 9th parade astride a pure white charger, and here is his statue just outside Red Square:
In case your local TV station didn't cover the parade in as much detail as you'd hoped, here is a link to the 2009 parade.
We always watch the parade at home with Bloody Mary's and smoked salmon, and avoid going out on the streets since you can hardly move thanks to crowd control brought to you by the Ivan The Terrible School of Civil Defense. After the parade, the veterans march down from the Belorussian Railway Station to the Bolshoi Theatre and have a big piss up. Rather nice fireworks later in the evening. Barack isn’t coming, which is a blow, although my Very Good Friend The Famous Newscaster interviewed him the other day and he wished all the Russians well. There is this issue of Moscow's pint-sized mayor seeding the clouds to ensure good weather which is true. No one believes it, but its true: helicopters fly up the sky and put something in the clouds and they go away for the day, ensuring bright, hot sunshine on the day, and cold, cloudy, clammy weather for the next week after. The estimated cost of this, according to Moscow News: 45 million rubles, and that never seems like a lot in Monopoly money does it: but is actually $1,474,208.58 USD or £996,858.62 Pounds Sterling. Seriously.
May 9th this year happens to coincide with Mother's Day in the USA, but I'm not expecting HRH to remember to send floral tributes my way (he recently learned how to purchase floral tributes on the Internet and send them places...was astonished by the technology) since he is hosting a small gathering in our apartment, so everyone can enjoy the five second moment when you see the fighter planes come from Tyushino Airport at the speed of sound right towards our large living room window. Then you see the same thing on the TV and then you see red, white and blue smoke from the opposite window as they make their way over Red Sq. Prime real estate.
Since all my clever readers know about World War II (if not, see Cliff Notes in Paragraph 2), in lieu of a history lesson, I'll tell you a very funny story about what happened to our family on May 9, 2005 in Malta:
Sometimes, if I want to make HRH rein it in, I need only cock my eyebrow and say, “Darling, let’s not forget Malta 2005 now, shall we?” He nods, shudders, puts down the shot glass and, tail between his legs, moves to fizzy water for an hour or so.
Malta was my choice for our annual May Holiday getaway. I had always had a hankering for Malta, which I vaguely wanted to test drive as a possible second home for when we struck it rich. On paper, it seemed to combine a number of things which are high up on my list: Italian culture, British history, a glamorous Order (with a capital “O”) of Knights, stone architecture, the San Antonio palace connected with Marie of Romania etc. It seemed like a win-win travel destination for the whole family, offering Velvet and HRH the opportunity to sun and swim while I poked around Valetta. The food, I felt sure, would be heavenly Mediterranean.
Disappointment ensued. Not the stabbing kind of disappointment that motivates you to pen an outraged letter to the New York Times; rather a dull sinking feeling that pervades you like soy sauce spilled on a white cotton T-shirt, that this travel destination is not the travel destination of your dreams. Yes, the ornate hotel was nice and comfortable, and sure, Valetta offered up some of its interesting history, but the sea was cold, the beach rocky, and the “charming” port town of St. Julian was full of brassy British expats, loud sunburnt German holiday makers, and shifty looking Eastern European youths from the myriad Maltese language schools. The blocks of flats looked depressing, the drink of choice was Belgian lager, and the plat du jour tended to be lasagna and chips. As I poked through Valetta’s streets with the growing awareness that even Dan Brown couldn’t conjure up an ancient Maltese secret, at the hotel, HRH and Velvet fell into a nodding acquaintance with a group of disgruntled Russian tourists from Perm, fellow refugees from the cold sea, they pulled deck chairs around the hotel pool and shared their general disappointment in the entire experience.
This cordial entente continued until the evening of May 9th, arguably the most important holiday in Russia. Returning to the hotel after yet another fruitless foray out into St. Julian to find something more appetizing than lasagna and chips, we found about sixteen of the Permites had taken the liberty of rearranging the hotel lobby’s furniture into a stereo-typical festive Russian living room configuration: couches pulled up around two coffee tables. They motioned to us to join them, and have a Victory toast.
It seemed vastly ill mannered on the 60th anniversary of Russia’s unqualified victory over Nazism to flee, although this was my immediate gut reaction. Since nothing as major as the 60th anniversary of the end of the Great Patriotic War could possibly be put to bed in a mere half an hour – I braced myself for a lengthy session in the trenches. We squeezed onto one of the couches. An elegant Maltese waiter immediately approached to ask what I wanted to drink, and I mentioned a local wine I’d tried and liked. HRH ordered a cognac and we secured Velvet a Fanta.
“Lissssssssen,” Arkady, the ringleader, hissed at us knowledgably. “No need to pay those bar prices…just order juice, look see what we have!” He motioned us to look between his legs, which I felt might not be completely appropriate for 8-year Velvet, but I followed his eyes to the bottle of Duty Free Chivas under the table.
This under-the-table tactic was one I knew well: having successfully employed it frequently, off-duty, during my misspent youth as a tour guide in the late 1980s in Eastern Europe. It’s a good trick, if somewhat obvious, and yet somehow, as a full paying guest in the “oughts” it seemed somehow awkwardly out of place.
“Um…” I began, but HRH gave me a no nonsense warning look, and I just smiled. Arkady deftly topped up eleven orange juices with Chivas and we hoisted our collective glasses to victory: “Za Pobediy!”
This all-too-familiar ritual was repeated about six or seven more times. I was getting woozy, and I could see Velvet was on the verge of collapse from the gassy combination of stodgy lasagna and chips and three large Fantas. I cast a few pleading glances at HRH across the coffee table, but he ignored me, deep in a conversation about the 900 Day Siege of Leningrad with an older men who’s face was borscht red with sun and drink. We drank to the Soviet Army a number of times, and Arkady was kind enough to indicate, that, of course, America had had a role in World War II, so a toast was drunk to me, which I tried to acknowledge gracefully.
A discreet cough.
“Madame,” said the suave waiter in English. “Madame, may I speak with you?”
“Of course,” I said, welcoming the interference, but wary about the conversation I felt sure would ensue. I awkwardly extracted myself from between Sveta and Aniuta, who were on either side of me, and went to join the waiter a discreet distance from the group. My tour guide days had made me feel an intense solidarity with hotel staff, and I smiled encouragingly.
“Madame, I realize your friends are guests of our hotel, and as such are most welcome in the lobby bar. They are, we recognize, celebrating a national holiday, but we cannot allow them to continue to top up their drinks from under the table. There are a number of hotels and hostels where this kind of thing is permitted – even encouraged -- but this is not one of them. It is not our custom to allow such things.”
I sighed; feeling much as I imagined Roosevelt must have done at the Yalta Conference.
“I understand,” I said, “and I will try to get them to move the party elsewhere, but I fear these things are –“
“We know, Madame…we have many Russian guests. If you could explain that they are very welcome to order their drinks from the bar, I’d be most grateful.”
He had the impeccable manners to hand me a complimentary glass of wine and we exchanged watery smiles.
I returned to the couches and explained, as sweetly as I could, that the guerilla tactics with the Chivas under the table had been outed, and I thought it best that they repaired to someone’s room to continue the party.
Arkady shook his head and, thumbs tilted at right angles to his body, pounded his upturned wrists in the universal gesture of Russian emphasis.
“Urodiy!” he spat out, “Italian Axis Power BASTARDS! But what can you expect…all these other countries can’t stand it that we won the war…and look at it now…EU money while we…”
“Besieged,” I whispered, miserably, but with the confidence of one with a complete tour of the Valetta History Museum under her belt, which I (correctly) conjectured Arkady wasn’t, “Malta. Under siege by the Germans from 1940-1942. British Naval Base. Allied forces all the way.”
Abject silence ensued, as seventeen pairs of eyes squinted in suspicion and an effort to focus vision. The suave waiter gave me a big smile and a nod of acknowledgment.
“I think Velvet and I are going to say good-night now, she seems very tired. Once again, congratulations on victory in The Great Patriotic War.” I beat a hasty retreat, dragging Velvet, now on a sugar high, behind me.
HRH lurched in around 9:00 the next morning as I was trying to decide whether to go to breakfast or call the Maltese police first, while simultaneously trying to reassure Velvet that Papa had just stayed awake with the nice people we’d met the night before. HRH stood in the doorjamb, swaying back and forth. I felt a rush of relief that he was alive, which is all that matters in moments like this.
“Vraaaaaaagggg-eeeeee…” he drawled, in is his standard morning-after condemnation and accusation of the external forces – or “enemies”, which have forced him, unwillingly, into a drunken stupor the previous evening.
“Allies, surely.” I quipped as he fell senseless onto the bed.
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Happy Victory Day to everyone...where ever in the world you may be!
The phrase “In defeat unbeatable: in victory, unbearable,” is attributed to Sir Winston Churchill, who used it in reference to Lord Montgomery, not The Russian Federation.
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Dear Reader:
Happy Victory Day! Unless, of course, you don’t celebrate Victory Day, and there are those who don’t. There are those who already celebrated it yesterday, but anyway. What’s your take on seeding the clouds? Do you think I was right to get Velvet out of the Maltese lobby? Did you think the waiter was being churlish? Thanks for making it through a long story…but hopefully a funny one. You can tell me to “edit edit edit” which is what my Mom always says to my Dad, by clicking the comment button below and leaving me your thoughts! Stay with me as we set sail (hint hint) for next week’s exciting line up of Russian professional holidays!
There hasn’t been much news since I delivered Babushka and Dedushka into the dubious hands of Delta Air Lines at 4 am en route to their Caribbean cruise, Babushka complete with a three new Eileen Fisher ensembles (which I suspect she has secretly relegated to the “HRH takes back to Moscow pile,” and Dedushka clearly not using his Christmas presents I thought would be so useful: a TUMI document organizer and travel case, each with flaps, and separate zippered compartments and straps, and Velcro and convenient passport-sized slots and the whole nine yards. I know this had been relegated to the “HRH takes back to Moscow pile,” as he was at a loss to locate one single thing during check-in. This was stressful, as I had the car parked in the HANDICAPPED ONLY section of the POSITIVELY NO PARKING AREA of the curbside check-in. A large TSA/Harrison Ford wannabe told me, “Ma’am, you are going to have to move your vehicle,” and I told him I was very sorry, but there was no way I could leave my elderly, non-English speaking, generally clueless, Russian in-laws en route to Miami on their own at curbside. I pleaded with him to make the not-so-difficult leap of imagination that they were handicapped. “Five minutes.” He said and lumbered off.
“Where is your goddamn document holder?” I screamed, stamping my foot. I sensed Babushka was up for a little female solidarity, but as usual, she was the one methodically going through the enormous, cumbrous, completely inappropriate faux Dolce and Gabana overnight bag they think is the ultimate in hand luggage. She found the document in question and took charge, clasping it to her bosom, pushing Dedushka aside and stepping up to the check-in counter with the DNA that made Hitler and Napoleon gnash their teeth. I stood in awe, and mused, on my way back to Northampton, that if people like Babushka weren’t forced all the time to pretend that people like Dedushka are really in charge, the world would be a much more efficient place.
In any case, the sheet rock guy was right, and all the starm and drang of Christmas and New Year’s seems like a long time ago, now that HRH and I are ensconced in the lovely Sugar Mill (not it’s real name) in beautiful St. Croix. And no news from the Royal Caribbean crowd, as I assured HRH, probably means good news. I mean, if Haitian pirates had captured them, we’d hear from the pirates, right?
On the way down, as I dozed in the plane, I was mildly musing about Russians abroad, which is the theme of the chapter I’m currently working on. Since HRH first went on our honeymoon on a similar Royal Caribbean cruise we’ve been running into his compatriots in every corner of the globe. I should pause here to note that Dedushka is a great one for brand loyalty: he once booked his daughter into the same hotel, in the same resort town, on the same island as HRH and me: where we were attempting to have that “first vacation after small baby,” thing. Not that his daughter thought anything of it, since the world really does revolve around her. So Dedushka opted for a preference for Royal Caribbean.
The Sugar Mill (which is delightfully free of any global hotel chain association) is a lovely old Sugar Plantation that has been turned into a golf and hotel resort. HRH and I discovered four years ago, and liked it so much that we folded it into our solidifying annual schedule. I ask HRH every now and then if he wants to try another place, but he doggedly insists that he likes The Sugar Mill, and I agree. It is incredibly laid back – no boom boxes or naval peircings, no discos or Jell-O shots, just a quiet, laid back crowd, sleeping on the beach, reading Wolf Hall or Vanity Fair, coming back from a satisfyingly energetic round of golf, or splashing about in the Grotto pool with their small children. We usually hit it after American schools resume, so the property is half empty, and even quieter than usual, which makes the minor logistical responsibilities such as booking a table for dinner overlooking the ocean and the twinkling lights of Christiansted a synch.
Or so we thought.
I had booked the table overlooking the ocean and the twinkling lights from Northampton the previous weekend. But when we got to the restaurant and announced our last names, there was massive confusion. Were we are party of 3? No, we assured them, party of 2. It seemed we’d already been seated. We assured them we had not been. After a certain amount of fluster, the maitre d’ took control and led us to a just-vacated and hastily tidied table overlooking the ocean. As he pulled out my chair, and wafts of the conversation from the next table drifted over me, I solved the mystery of the snatched table: raspy immigrant Russian, tones born in the South of Russia and honed in the outskirts of Chicago and Brooklyn. I exchanged amused glances with HRH, who raised his eyebrows and confined his speech to English for the remainder of the evening. Was he recalling the 9th of May, 2005 in Malta, when he got sucked into a group of Russian tourists from Voronezh with 3 bottles of Chivas under the table and a continuous order for orange juice on top, who insisted he stay with them to celebrate the 60th anniversary of the end of World War II, prompting a two day hangover and a vow never to drink Chivas ever again?
Perhaps it was a reluctance to agree to, or even engage in the stream of abuse about The Sugar Mill’s food, and service, and general shabbiness that was Topic A at the table that should have been ours.
In the latest in a series of truly funny direct marketing shoots, the national carrier of Russia topped its own unchallenged record for silliness, dispatching an English-language e mail with a subject line announcing:
New service of Aeroflot - "Comfort+"
Since you don’t immediately notice the “+” part of the subject line, you can be forgiven for thinking that the airline is introducing comfort to their regular range of services. This would make a change – a radical and welcome one to many travelers. Sadly, when we open the e-mail, we discover that this is just another badly marketed attempt to make more money by charging extra for bulkhead and emergency exit seats. This is a tactic real airlines instigated a few months ago: equally outrageous, but with a far more sophisticated and diplomatic rollout.
Here is what the Russian carrier tells you:
“"Comfort +" – a new opportunity of Aeroflot.
The "Comfort +" service will ensure that you fly with the best comfort, in enhanced-comfort seats of an economy-class cabin.
We offer you to reserve seats with increased seat pitch and reclining back rests during you check-in at the Sheremetyevo airport.
The "Comfort +" service is available on long-haul routes from Moscow to Bangkok, Washington, Vladivostok, Habana, Hong Kong, Delhi, Luanda, Los Angeles, Magadan, New York, Beijing, Petropavlovsk-Kamchatsky, Seoul, Tokyo, Khabarovsk, Hanoi, Shanghai, Yuzhno-Sakhalinsk.
The "Comfort +" service fee is 700 rubles.”
I don’t know how well this is going to work for the carrier, since, as everyone knows, you only have to pay $100 USD in cash directly to an ambitious flight attendant to snag a seat in Business Class just after boarding is completed.
When I worked for the carrier, I was upgraded to business class on an overnight flight – not automatically at the check-in desk, but furtively slipped into seat 5F at the last minute, as the surly flight attendants were slamming the overhead compartments shut. After take-off, I asked for a whisky (the only drinkable beverage served on the carrier), only to be told that the whisky was for business class passengers only. I looked around the cabin, checked my seat number, and raised a quizzical eyebrow at “Liuba.” She shook her head, raised her plucked eyebrows heavenward, disappeared behind the flimsy curtain, yelled a little, and returned in 15 minutes later with a thimbleful of whisky, which she slammed down on my tray table, and categorically ignored me for the rest of the flight. It felt good to be part of a team.
Russia’s national carrier is, of course, beyond a joke, and because they owe me over $30,000 in unpaid salary, I don’t feel any compunction to be at all diplomatic about them. It is a disaster. It is managed by a large group of past-their-sell-by-date, 50-somethings with overgrown eyebrows who know absolutely nothing about the airline business. The nominal heads of the airline are a few young, outrageously compensated/switched on types at the top who let deeply silly 20-something representatives of multi-national consulting companies tell them what to do. At the “ground level,” the carrier employs a legion of unsmiling flight attendants who don’t have the remotest concept of service, pilots who lay it on a little thick with the pre-flight beverages, allowing their teen-aged children to fly Airbuses across large tracks of ocean water; and covens at the airports of people called “Olga” who sigh heavily when you hand them your ticket. The interiors of the aged Boeings stink of something I can’t put my finger on, the food is appalling, the service surly, and they always fly out of the the terminal with the worst Duty Free shops. Why in the world would you ever pay them five cents to take you anywhere?
Since he operates in “the formal economy,” and has to travel into the awful Russian “interior,” HRH travels on the carrier more than I do; as does his friend Vitya Komorovsky, who must be in the VIP category of customer of everything he does from grocery shopping, to airline travel, or die. Vitya proudly flashed his ELITE card from the carrier at me, explaining all the perks he and his Barbie Doll girlfriend enjoy: free upgrades, something that got lost in translation called “premium boarding,” he could not explain, and other benefits.
“Does it include a sober pilot?” I quipped and he smiled that ghostly, slightly critical, and vaguely menacing smile Russians do when a foreigner makes a joke at the expense of a major Russian institution.
HRH has floated the idea that it might be quicker and cheaper to fly from Moscow to the USA on the national carrier, which flies direct to New York, Washington, Los Angeles and San Francisco, rather than via London on BA, directly into Boston’s Logan airport.
“You do that darling,” I encourage him. “You blaze that trail: fly them in economy class into New York, then try to connect to something that gets you to Hartford. Then tell me how that is working for you.” I’m not giving up World Traveler Plus and the Jo Malone outlet for love or money.
The one thing I feel sincerely grateful to the carrier for are those side-splittingly funny English-language direct marketing e-mails. And I can tell you this: they don’t mean them to be funny -- they are just too arrogant, and too cheap to do the checking. You’d think the carrier -- publicly-traded company, national symbol of Russia’s prowess, proud member of a real-world airline alliance could -- and indeed should -- afford the (very reasonably priced) services of a native English speaker to run a critical eye over the translations, thus ensuring that they flow, contain plausible syntax, are devoid of double-entendre or veiled suggestions that businessmen bring their secretaries on the road with them, or, indeed bear a too-marked resemblance to Boris Badinov from Rocky and Bullwinkle.
Some examples of these pitches include:
“(the carrier)…appreciates your loyalty and will do their best not to disappoint you by open up the new interesting actions...”
or
“Dear ladies & gentlemen!
Summer - is such a desirable time when most of our passengers are planning their vacation. (Our) Bonus programme and its partners are ready to offer excellent opportunities to make the most of this pleasant time. As example if join the new…Bonus Prime programme , you get an exclusive opportunity not to worry about how to plan your vacation.”
Here is a new take on “Buy One, Get One (almost) Free:”
“If you buy a business-class ticket for a flight by (the carrier) or one of its subsidiaries…before November 12 2009, you can buy another ticket for the same flight for only 1% of its price. This means you can invite someone close to you for a flight and pay only for 1 business-class ticket. The cost of such two tickets will be calculated as 99% of the tariff (the cost of the 1st ticket) + 1% of the tariff (the cost of the second ticket) = 100% (two business-class tickets).
Make a travel for two and enjoy our extra quality personal service in the business class.”
Finally, on the carrier’s website, you can find detailed (very very very detailed) information on coping with the fear of flying.
“To person concerned can occur following symptoms: Sweaty hands
Palpitation of the heart
Short-windedness
Absence of appetite
Nausea
What can cause the fear People who fear flying mostly are suffering from other fears like claustrophobia, fear of heights or from a general fear of loss of control. These aggravate the fear of flying.
The sufferers have a feeling of being helpless in a strange environment at a high altitude.
But there are ways how you can handle and overcome your fear.
What you can do about it
Before flight try to respose as much as possible
Beg a person, who you trust to fly with you
Take your time at the airport to become acquainted with the ambience of the situation
Make yourself familiar with the technical data of the aircraft you are flying with, that may help to understand and gives you a sense of security.
Try to keep busy during the flight, for example by reading a book, listen to music or use our entertainment programme on board.
There are two simple exercises will that will help you:
Tense all muscles of your body at the same time and keep it for some seconds. Relax suddenly and let your muscles "hang loose". Enjoy the feeling of relaxation and repeat the exercise sometimes
Breathe controlled. Inhale through your nose and breathe out through your mouth as long as possible. Information service at (outdated phone number listed).”
Note: Quoted materials have retained original spelling (such as the capital of Cuba) and punctuation.
I was so busy getting ready to come to Moscow, that I did not even think about being here for the 20th anniversary of the fall of the Berlin Wall, despite the fact that this event, more than any other, has influenced the way I live now. We were not, however, flooded with invitations to Black Tie celebrations here in Moscow, where it was very much business as usual. The celebrations in our household were also muted and modest, partly defined by my jetlag, but also by HRH’s very mixed feelings about the events of 1989 and Berlin itself.
HRH, though Russian, was born and spent his childhood in Berlin, on what most of my readership would consider “the other side of The Wall.” This is an era he remembers not with barbed wire and check-point Charlie, but as the halcyon days of his childhood. He grew up in a tightly knit, privileged, expatriate community of Soviet diplomatic, military and other official families. My mental image of him as a teenager is always superimposed against The Wall: HRH and his trusty sidekick, Boris Stepanov – the enfant terrible of the Soviet Mission, who, at the age of 11, had already cornered Black Market in West German Comic Books, thereby laying the foundations of his current construction fortune. I see them both dressed in unfortunately cut leather jackets, grimy Eastern European jeans, with unfortunate ABBA haircuts, furtively smoking purloined Marlboros before they race off to hockey practice.
I was moved by the celebrations, as, indeed, I always am by any well-executed world scale event management, which features Barack Obama merely hinting at the Declaration of Independence; but I kept my emotions in check, casting furtive glances at HRH on the other end of the squishy sofa, as we consumed the remains of some really amazing Bouef Bourguignon I’d made, and channel surfed in a delusory fashion. We flitted between BBC World, who was covering the event in its entirety, to Euronews (Russian Language), who covered the event in chunks, interspersed with features of “where are they today,” nostalgia pieces about East Germans, and the Russian News Networks, who stuck to their regularly scheduled programming throughout the evening, and led the news headlines with the death of Nobel Prize Physicist, Evgenii Ginzburg. This Russian restraint did not come as a huge shock to me. This summer, I toured the Newseum in Washington DC with our 14-year old Russian godson, who spent the summer in America with us. I directed his attention to the eight panels of the Berlin Wall on prominent display near the entrance of the museum, flanked by flat screen monitors rolling continuous vintage grainy CNN footage of the Fall of the Wall. He had absolutely no idea what he was looking at – none at all. Hadn’t heard about it in school, hadn’t been told about it by his parents, hadn’t even seen any reference to it on TV.
No, it was very much business as usual in Russia – a nation, as I have written elsewhere, very into anniversaries and round numbers. Third story on the headlines, despite the fact that there was President Dmitry Medvedev sitting on the podium – next to Hillary, chatting in the vastly more relaxed manner he always adopts at an away game. I certainly hadn’t expected Berlin’s VIP Guest, Mikhail Gorbachev, would create any spike the Russian TV ratings, as he is on an exclusive away games only circuit – being perceived very much as the unfortunate relation who sold off the family silver. Gorbachev has to go abroad for speaking engagements, to be fêted, and invited to feature in glossy Louis Vuitton commercials, showing him riding alongside the Berlin wall. I love that image – to me it sums up brilliantly the last twenty years of my life: a conjunction of where I came in, and a generation’s lofty political hopes purloined into rank materialism. I keep trying to add it to my collection of ironic things on our Moscow fridge, but HRH refuses to sanction it. Russians as a rule don’t put anything on their fridges except faux wood paneling, and HRH doesn’t think we need to give the man who broke up The Soviet Union any space on our German double-door deluxe Liebherr.
And, since he is the Berliner in this family… it’s his call.
I wanted to divide it geographically between Moscow and…somewhere other than Moscow. I would like to divide my time wisely, as I attempt to write a book about my life as an American expatriate living in Russia, married to HRH (my “Horrible Russian Husband”) and bringing up Velvet, my horse-obsessed daughter, while actually living that life.
I would like to divide my writing time evenly: between the book and my monthly columns in Russia Now! and my other interests such as reading contemporary fiction, my weekly podcast line-up, European Royalty from 1837 – 1918, cooking, hunting for antiques, photography, and my next big travel adventure. I spent too many years procrastinating by scrutinizing book jackets, all of which seemed to feature tasteful black and white photos of smooth-haired successful women authors, all of whom seemed to “divide their time,” between two enviable locations: Oxford and Sydney, London and New York, Berkley and Paris.
So, now I’m dividing my time between Moscow, Russia: a massive, magnificent and messy city of 12 million which I’ve called home for 17 years, and Northampton, Massachusetts, a small, beautiful, artsy New England college town, which I’ve also called home for 7 months. This doesn’t exactly fit the chic author prototype, but nevertheless, there -- and there, HRH, Velvet and I are – some of the time all together, and a lot of the time one of us in one country and the other two in another: this blog is dedicated mainly to writing about our crazy “trans-cultural” life in Russia and Northampton, but also making time to explore all my favorite things and write about them, instead of just looking at book jackets.
I hope you enjoy!
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: herringunderfurcoat@gmail.com
"Jennifer Eremeeva’s blog Dividing My Time is certainly not another English Russia. Instead Jennifer – who has been living in Moscow for 17 years – posts wry observations about day to day life in Moscow."
Daily Hampshire Gazette
"wry and funny observations on life in Russia...Eremeeva also shares her tongue-in cheek take on what she encounters stateside."
Cool Cucumbers in a Pretty Pickle The sizzling hot spy scandal makes me wonder if I could pull of being a Russian...if only in the kitchen, where I attempt pickles!
Cool Cucumbers in a Pretty Pickle The sizzling hot spy scandal makes me wonder if I could pull of being a Russian...if only in the kitchen, where I attempt pickles!
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