To Stavropol' and Beyond!

Here are some pictures and impressions from Stavropol’ and beyond. We mostly just relaxed and I had a great time with Nazee's family...they were wonderful!

Name Note: Tina (Nazee's 18-year-old daughter), and Kulya (Nazee's youngest sister).

Nazee and Tina getting ready for the quickly approaching 2006.

Me and Tina at New Year's dinner...yes, this is the only picture I have of me on New Year's...otherwise would I have used this deer-in-headlights shot? I think not.

An incredible cake courtesy of Nazee's mom and Kulya.

Kulya and their parents (and cake!).

Nazee's dad sings at every meal, for any reason...he is the most

life-loving person I have ever met.

See Story Below: New Year's

Me and Nazee got dog slippers for New Year's and ended up switching,

so I got the orange one's in the end.

See Story Below: The Slippers and the Pussycat

Stavropol' is south of Moscow and so is usually much warmer,

but this year it was truly a winter wonderland. Below are some pictures from just outside the apartment of Nazee's family.

See Story Below: The Hat, the Pants and the Computer

See Story Below: Christmas in Stavropol'

This is a 3-D photo, so open it up bigger. Now cross your eyes (and your fingers) so that the two pictures combine into a third picture between them and it will pop out at you.

During the 32-hour train ride back to Moscow, the cabin got so stuffy and hot that we literally couldn't breath anymore. So we found a tiny window and stuck ourselves out there, even though it was freezing!

This is me, yet again, in my favorite hat after 20 hours in the train.

NEW YEAR’S
The clock struck 12; we heard fireworks and Tina and I, both scarf-less, rushed down four flights of dark stairs and plunged into the cold New Year’s air. Much like everything else, fireworks are legal in Russia, and so, were being fired (by adults and children alike) from the base of every apartment building as far as the eye could see. The sky was completely white with smoke and I could here explosions from every angle: it was like a surreal war zone.

Despite the fire-hazards married to such activities, the sheer magnitude of the celebration was intoxicating. Although I understand that it is no coincidence that everyone started shooting fireworks at the same time, I felt that there was something more to all of this than a pyromaniac extravaganza. There was a sense of unity, of oneness, of being a very small part of an infinitely vast whole, a feeling that almost paralyzed me with its awesome force. And I, for one, am wholly convinced that it was not I alone who felt the inescapable energy that permeated every iota of life as it was at that moment. This oneness with everything and anything, this universal soul—what Eckhart Tolle[1] calls ‘God Essence’—revealed (at least to me) that regardless of the multifarious nature of the human spectrum, there exists a common denominator, which when applied leaves us in nothing but our human skin: this just happened to be one of its superficial manifestations. For me, this experience was a lifetime in the making—but then I suppose everything is.

The fireworks continued for the rest of the week, at all hours of the night, but they didn’t have quite the same effect on me while I was trying to sleep as they did on that breathtaking New Year’s night.

[1] Eckhart Tolle is a renowned spiritual teacher and author of, among many other things, The Power of Now. His work is aimed at helping people find their personal ‘God essence,’ in other words: the power of just being in the present moment.

THE SLIPPERS AND THE PUSSYCAT—A FABLE BY LIZA
On New Year’s morning we all sat around the tree while Nazee's parents distributed gifts. They started with the youngest, Tina, and moved up. Nazee’s mom swung each gift around in the air, and with the accompaniment of her husband, sang a discordant and yet remarkably festive song about Santa and his grand gift-giving abilities. They took New Year’s to a whole new level. I didn’t expect any gifts, much less dog slippers, which they bought for both me and Nazee. I was so tickled by my new bright orange, hairy slippers with ears and kitsch eyes (see photos above), that I couldn’t have envisaged the problem awaiting me back in Moscow.

As soon as I got home, I unpacked my slippers and started walking around the apartment, and that’s when it all came out: Tamara’s cat lost her mind. She started freaking out: running into walls, hiding behind corners waiting to pounce at my feet, and displaying other signs of psychological disquietude. Any attempt to reason with her was futile: I took the slippers off and left her to mingle with them uninhabited. Then, when I thought she was ready, I slowly slipped my feet back into them, talking to her in an endearing voice throughout...but it was no use. This was war. I must admit that I couldn’t help myself and took full advantage of my ability to eject her from my room with the mere wiggle of my big toe. But, alas, all good things must come to an end. After a few weeks of being afraid of one another (she of my dog feet, and me of her claws penetrating them) she accepted them into our home—so much so, in fact, that now she simply scoffs at them when I try to use them against her.

The moral of this story is dedicated to my good friend George ‘Dubya’: If used repetitively, and over a long period of time, farcical fear tactics lose their effectiveness and can leave you at the viscous mercy of your own sycophants.


CHRISTMAS IN STAVROPOL’
If experiencing New Year’s in Russia wasn’t enough, I also had the opportunity to take part in the Russian-Orthodox Christmas (January 7). After flipping from channel to channel watching the prestigious, you-need-a-ticket-to-get-in church service in Moscow, and Putin’s (blatantly political) tour of different churches and cathedrals, in each of which he crossed himself indifferently, Nazee, Kulya and I went to church ourselves. It was the traditional night service, so we arrived there at 1a.m. and got back home at around 3. The church on its own was magnificent, but it was the attendance that was stunning. Now I know what all my atheist friends are thinking: ‘religion-bad, bad’—but the fact is that devout atheism can be just as destructive as fervent religiosity: as far as I’m concerned any form of extremism is, by its very nature, volatile and has great potential for ahnilation. The congregation was made up of people young and old, hip and crippled, pious and pious-light—but, just like on New Year’s, they all felt the need to put their tumultuous lives on hold for one night of something sacred to them. I’m willing to self-diagnose naïvety, but I’m moved to see that certain things remain sacred in a time when so few things are.

At some point during the service, I made my way out to the church courtyard. The biting cold air combined with the wind made being outside almost unbearable, but it was equally difficult to tear away: The day before, the city was enshrouded in a thick fog, so when on Christmas day the temperature dropped below zero, the moisture from the fog froze onto every side of every branch of every tree. It was the most incredible thing I had ever seen. Nazee was yelling in a loud whisper from the doorway of the church—I was insane, she said, for staying out there—but I couldn’t bring myself to go inside. And so I stood there alone with the snow dancing in the warm glow of the multicoloured, stained glass porch lights affixed to either side of the church entrance; the low melodic hum of the chorus reigning over an empire of silence; the tubed lights in a sinuous embrace with the short, stout, snow-drenched trees; and the impregnable presence of the domes of the Russian-Orthodox church contrasted against the black abyss.


THE HAT, THE PANTS AND THE COMPUTER
I fell in love with this hat at first sight (see photos above). I bought it while shopping for pants at a local market with Tina and Kulya. While they were off trying on jeans, I found said hat and bought it without giving it a second thought—OK, so maybe I gave it a second thought, but certainly not a third. I suspected that it would be difficult to find a matching scarf, but I remained optimistic.

Let me jump backwards for just a moment. Tina, Kulya and I went to a rinok to buy pants. Rinoks are large (mostly outdoor) flea markets that are very widespread here, as buying clothes in stores is unaffordable (for the most part) even with an American paycheck. And so, since I’m a Ross kind of girl, this was heaven for me. The vendors are each designated a modest hole-in-the-wall (literally) where they display and store their merchandise. This particular rinok was indoors, and upon entering I was immediately confronted with a rack of jeans. Naturally, I couldn’t walk passed it…that would be rude and insensitive…so, for the sake of the poor vendor and for the enhancement of my cultural experience, I decided to have a look. I started flipping through a rack of tightly packed pants when the vendor, a woman in her early 40s and, like most of the other saleswomen, from somewhere in the caucuses, jumped up from her footstool and ran over to me.

“I have the perfect pants for you,” she said, pushing me aside and confidently rummaging through the rack. She pulled out a pair of black jeans. “Every girl who has tried these on has bought them and left here wearing them. They’re made in Turkey: it’s a wonderful brand!” I examined them closely and she sensed my skepticism.

“Just try them on,” she said already going to look for my size. She was so convincing that I told her my size without even thinking. Naturally, there was no dressing room and so I changed behind a sheet that she held up in front of me. I must admit that it was a bit awkward changing behind a sheet, watching complete strangers walking by, but trying on clothes is sacred, and so I made the ultimate sacrifice. Early in the process of putting them on I could already tell that they were too small.

“Just keep pulling! Keep pulling!!” she yelled with the seriousness of an obstetrician. “They’re made in Turkey, this is a great brand! Keep pulling, jump if you have to!” So I jumped. Finally I pulled them on, but when it came time to zip I knew that we had entered choppy waters. If it wasn’t clear before, it was certainly now that I had under (or over)estimated myself.

“I got them on but I can’t button them,” I said laughing at the absurdity of the situation. She dropped the sheet and took to buttoning them for me.

“You pull them together and I will zip them,” she said, again with such a sense of urgency that I didn’t think to question her. While she was trying tirelessly to fit me into the Turkish pants, I started wondering why she was so hell-bent on selling me the wrong size. Why didn’t she just offer me one size bigger? So I asked.

“This is the only pair I have left,” she said, a bit embarrassed that she had been outed. But, much to my (and her) delight our joint effort was rewarded: there they were, glued to me tighter than skin, and so being, stopping my breathing process all together. But I didn’t care: I was just content to have gotten myself into them. I walked out to the mirror and it was true…they were the most amazing pants I had ever tried on.

“They look incredible! They’re from Turkey! It’s a great brand!” She yelled so loudly that she attracted the attention of the women from neighboring kiosks. Kulya and Tina liked the pants but advised against them as my usually rosy complexion was turning to a pale blue. Well aware of my inability to make quick decisions (even with good air flow), I sent Kulya and Tina off to bigger, better things. While I walked around in the Turkish pants trying to decide if it was worth buying them, all of the neighboring vendors chimed in, sounding their concerned commentaries.

“Are you crazy? What is there to think about?” said a young woman from her shoe stand across the way. The other women said much of the same.

“Don’t get me wrong,’ I said, trying to make sure that they knew I was being genuine. “I love them, but I can’t breathe and I need to be able to work in them.” My saleswoman brought me a chair and forced me into it to simulate my workspace.

“Well, I’ll need a computer to really feel like I’m working,” I said with a chuckle. She stared at me blankly. Ok, I thought it was funny.

After 20 minutes of dancing around, jumping, squatting, sitting, walking with my shoes off, walking with my shoes on, and being egged on by the aforementioned women, I laid out 800 rubles and walked away in my new Turkish pants, just like she said I would.

Now, back to my hat. Back in Moscow, I went to Ikea with an old friend of the family who, although a good person, possesses the special gift of making, otherwise reasonable people, feel as though they are certifiably insane. She picked me up near a metro station. I was so excited about my recently acquired hat, that I hadn't even closed the car door when I asked: "So, how do you like my hat?" She looked at my mustard-colored hat blankly for a few seconds, and then with her usual air of superiority looked straight ahead. I didn't understand her reaction and awaited the inevitable 'crazy' that I knew she was about to unleash.

"Liza,” she started, with a confident smile, “all I can say is that I am 100% sure that it wasn't you who bought that hat."

"What do you mean,” I said already annoyed by her all-to-familiar manner. "Of course I bought it; why would somebody else buy me a hat?"

"No," she said authoritatively, even though the word ‘no’ did not answer either of the questions I posed. "I know that you couldn't have bought it yourself: Somebody must have led you to buy it," she said, as if uncovering a dangerous conspiracy. She likes to think that she knows me very well, and I could tell that she was proud of her insight.

"Nobody convinced me to do anything: I saw the hat, by myself, put it on my head, looked in the mirror, took out 300 rubles, placed them in the vendor's hand, she gave me 50 rubles in change and I walked away without even taking it off.” I was trying to compose myself, but having had similar conversations with her in the past, I knew that this all-too-trodden path was leading me to nowhere good, really fast. I thought that she would back off after my explanation, but no: I could tell she was pitying me for having to make up this elaborate lie to justifying my bad judgment—it was that or temporary insanity.

“I guess there is a small chance that you would like something like that,” she said, wholly disappointed in me. “But the problem is that you have a black coat, blue jeans and, now, a mustard-yellow hat.”

“So?” As soon as I asked I regretted it, knowing perfectly well where this was going. She paused for a moment before answering.

“You look like a parrot,” she said hesitantly, as one would if she was breaking some shocking, terrible news to an unsuspecting listener.

“So what: I’m supposed to where yellow pants now?” I asked, actually curious.

“Of course not: black,” she said confidently.

“Why black? What difference does it make? Everyone wears blue jeans and different colored hats: so what, everyone should always wear black pants?” She looked at me as if I was questioning the validity of 2+2=4.

“Yes, how else? Of course I am no fashion expert, but…” and she continued on with the offended tone that we all know so well: the tone that implies that, up until this moment, she was in fact a fashion expert and that by questioning her ability to perform in the capacity of a fashion expert, I was actually questioning the very essence of her existence.

“OK, lets just agree to disagree,” I blurted out.

She vetoed my attempt to stop the conversation and even when I tried to boycott by not responding, she droned on. I stopped listening, and started wondering whether this day would end in Ikea or a psychiatric ward, where I would be placed in a straight jacket, and, much like the poor characters in Bulgakov’s Master and Margarita, be sedated with a syringe all the while chanting hysterically: “I swear, I bought it myself! I bought it myself!” She would be there, standing with the doctor, watching through the one-way mirror of my cell of solitary isolation, shaking her head and crying hysterically in disbelief that this could happen to me.

“It’s a tragic case,” the doctor would look at her and say. “But I think we’re going to have to put her down.”

After our trip to Ikea, where I bought two 100-count bags of tea lights, a full-length mirror, four candle holders, four scented melon candles and two cutting boards—all for $30—we went to her house where her husband was awaiting our return. He gives the impression of a man who was once normal, but who after so many years of living with his wife, caught a mild strand of Crazy. While we were eating, we started talking about the office where I work. He had been there once and was discussing how plain it was. I happen to like our office, and even boasted about the fact that between the code needed to get in and the night guard, I felt pretty comfortable leaving certain things there overnight.

“I’d leave anything there with the exception of my laptop ,” I said casually.

“Why not?” he asked. I thought about it for a moment, wondering why he would care, before I answered in a joking tone.

“Because life isn’t worth living without my laptop and I don’t want to put my laptop, and thus my life, at risk if I can avoid it.”

“Well, can’t they give you a lock?” he asked, genuinely concerned for the safety of my laptop.

“I didn’t ask,” I said. “I don’t need a lock because I don’t leave it there, ever. I rarely even take it with me— I need it at home.”

“But you could just ask them for a lock and lock it up so that nobody steals it, and that way you can just leave it there” he pushed on.

“But I don’t want to leave it there; there is absolutely no reason to leave it there; I refuse to leave it there with or without a lock.” The conversation was making me dizzy.

“The locks are really safe. They won’t be able to steal your computer even if they want to…unless they take the whole desk, of course” he said with a chuckle. “I’m sure they would give you a lock if you just asked for it.”

I’ll stop here, but let me just say that this ping-pong match went on for a good 12 minutes. After I cooled down, I realized that it would have been easier to just agree with him and take an oath that, first thing Monday morning, I would go ask for a lock for my laptop. But like so many things in life, my great idea came too late. After at least eight similar conversations scattered throughout the day, I was beat. But I’m not cruel: I won’t afflict anymore of them upon you, my faithful reader...take me as your martyr.

The Wheels On The Bus Go 'Round & 'Round

December 30-31, 2005

Like any other day that I was leaving for a trip, I woke up feeling certain that I had budgeted more than enough time to get ready. The night before, I placed all of my laundry into the washing machine, and Tamara set it to the appropriate cycle, so that as soon as I woke up in the morning I could just hit the ‘start’ button and it would, well, start. Let me start by saying that the washing machines here are not the user-friendly appliances that I have come to know and love. They are terribly small and on the front panel there are a series of buttons and knob-like indicators that are labeled with symbols rather than words—symbols that, to an untrained eye, don’t appear to have any logical connection to the washing of clothes. Even Tamara, who has used the machine time and time again, doesn’t really know what these washing machine hieroglyphics mean—her daughter taught her what to push, and she pushes without any real understanding of the science behind the buttons. Although she seems to know what she is doing, her second-guessing hesitancy cast doubt into my heart.

I woke up at 8:45 a.m. and pushed a button with a straight horizontal line above it, which in Washing-machine means ‘start’. Tamara and I had breakfast, she left to work, and I started packing. After cleaning my room, talking to my family for more than an hour, going to the supermarket, making a bag-full of food for the trip, and packing everything except for what was being washed, I made my way to the washing machine, all the while marveling at the masterful efficiency with which I handled this particular morning.

But then, an hour and a half before I was supposed to be out the door, I was faced with a catastrophe: my clothes were soaking wet and stuck in a machine that had turned itself off instead of going into ‘dryer’ mode. It wouldn’t dry and it wouldn’t open. The door only opens when the washing cycle is complete and one of the two red lights turns off. When after turning every knob that I could turn, I saw that starting the dryer was not in the stars, I decided to redirect my efforts to halting the operation altogether. In a bit of a panic, I started pushing the ambiguously labeled buttons. I pushed the start button—nothing. I turned the washing knob, then the drying knob—nothing, nothing. I pushed the ‘start’ button again, thereby turning on the worst-case-scenario: the whole cycle started from the beginning, flooding my clothes with a new burst of water. I frantically started calling Tamara to figure out what I should do, but she was not to be found. In a nervous frenzy, I called Nazee, but she could provide naught but emotional support because, aside from the fact that the washing machine buttons are undecipherable, they are also different on every machine. Time was running short and my clothes were soaking wet and stuck, mid-cycle, in a possessed washing machine. I finally reached Tamara, whose washing machine expertise I will never doubt again. She calmly talked me through getting the machine to start drying, but, alas, the machines here don’t have the drying capacity necessary to dry an entire load of laundry in 40 minutes. This, however, was still a leap forward, as the door could now be opened. After staring at my spinning clothes for 10 minutes—an activity that, I am convinced, can lead to the development of a vast array of neurological disorders—I flung the door open and took everything out. I threw all of my clothes onto the heaters and chairs and took to the futile task of drying my favorite jeans with a blow dryer. I don’t think anyone will disagree that this was probably not the most efficient use of my time. Nonetheless, I stuck our little blue blow-dryer into one pant leg, and just as I was thinking about how clever I was, the blow-dryer overheated and died. This, I decided, could only happen to me.

In the mist of my dismay, Tamara came home, and we started ironing my most essential articles of clothing in order to bring their moisture level down a few notches to ‘damp’. But there was no time. I inhaled a piece of chicken, packed my wet clothes into plastic bags and threw them into my suitcase. I was supposed to meet Nazee and her daughter Tina at 3:00 p.m. so that we could get to the bus at 3:30 and depart at 4:00 and I was running more than a half an hour late. Tamara accompanied me to the metro station to prevent me from having a panic attack. When I got to the meeting point at 3:30, Tina was the only one there to meet me—Nazee had rushed off to the bus to make sure that the driver didn’t scalp our tickets. Running, pushing and shoving, Tina and I made it to the bus by 3:50. Long live my small red suitcase whose tiny plastic wheels survived the bumpy, puddle- ravaged road.

While everyone else boarded with relative ease, placing their things in the overhead compartment and settling down, we made much more of a raucous. People couldn’t help but watch us: out of breath, trying to fit our numerous carry-on bags into the full over head and small under-seat compartments, elbowing people in the face while trying to take off our huge coats in the small aisle, figuring out who would be responsible for the food bag, etc. Relieved to have made it onto the bus, I plopped down and caught my breath.

Two hours into our trip, one of the bus’s tires blew out. We were pulled over for more than an hour—an hour in which I tried not to think about how in the world our drivers were going to change a tire on a huge bus full of people, in the black cold night. I also tried not to think about what kind of spare tire they had, whether it would hold out, and, if we lost a tire so early on, did they have enough spare tires to last a 22-hour trip.

Later that night, we made our first stop. There was a small strip of establishments, all of which were very much in order: eatery, tire shop, bathroom. Like any other profit-reaping enterprise, the restroom came fully equipped with a cashier and a receipt-printing machine. Upon paying 10 rubles ($.30), you are free to rip off a few sheets from the community toilet paper roll, and get in line. As soon as I walked in, I knew exactly what kind of bathroom this was: the kind with no toilets. Inside the stalls, patrons can find an elevated platform with a hole in it—that’s it. Although for men this may seem like the optimal arrangement, it’s really not.

After the bathroom we walked past the tire shop and into the small restaurant. Inside there were two counters with separate cash registers and equally unorganized lines. In a connected but separate section, there were a good number of tables with plastic chairs, a scantily clad Christmas tree and a gargantuan flat screen TV, which seemed anachronistic for this small, middle-of-nowhere place that harked back to another time. Everyone was in a hurry to get back on their respective busses, so the atmosphere was tense and rushed. It wasn’t clear why there were separate cash registers and where we were to order what. Finding no answers, we picked the shortest line and stuck to it. The cashier was counting the change for the woman in front of us when a man intruded, waving a 10-ruble bill. His accent revealed that he was from somewhere in the caucuses—perhaps Armenia or Digistan.

“Lady!” he said. “Please, I don’t need any change, just give me some salt.” He threw his 10-ruble bill onto the counter like big money.

“Salt? Do you want a whole pack?” she asked surprised.

“A pack, a pinch, I don’t care. Just give me some salt,” he said with a sardonic swagger, which made it unclear if he was drunk or just strange.

“He wants salt?” came another voice from behind the wall that was behind the counter.

“Yes, I just want some salt. Please, somebody give a man some salt!” He looked around and smiled mischievously, making it quite clear that he intended to be obnoxious and was, in fact, rather pleased with his performance.

A small, confused, sharp-eyed woman came out from behind the wall holding a box of salt. She handed it to the man and (irritated) asked him to return it when he had used as much of it as he needed. He took the box from her, looking at it with the proud eyes of a new father, and emitted a loud, pompous ‘Thank You,’ to which he attached a small bow of the head.

We ordered our tea and water, and while we waited for our change, he returned, but this time with 20 rubles.

“Lady!” he said. “Please, I don’t need any change, just give me some bread!” His tone would imply that he had already asked for the bread several times and had been ignored.

“What kind?” she asked, neglecting us and other customers for this one boisterous patron.

“Black, white, grey…I don’t care! Just give a man some bread!” Although his manner was unrefined, there was a playful undertone that made it clear that he intended no harm.

A woman appeared holding two loaves of bread and asked sarcastically “Where’s the man that needs bread for his salt?”

“Thank you,” he said with a flirtatious smile.

We drank our tea, ate our chocolate, debated why the above man wanted to pay for salt when there was a salt-shaker on every table, and meandered back to the counter to buy bottled water for the road. During this second trip to the counter, I discovered a sink in a small separate room directly across from one of the glass counters. This little room had no door, and was rather banal except for a sign hanging above the sink:

Please!
Wash only your hands
You are located in a café

Пожалуйста!
Мойте только Руки
вы находитесь в кафе

Naturally, we started discussing what could have prompted the restaurant owner to put up such a sign. We were so amused that I decided to take a picture, only to realize that my camera was on the bus and time was short. So, I did the next most logical thing: I forced Tina to wash her hands for five minutes while I, ever so inconspicuously, tore the sign off the wall.

After making another precautionary trip to bathroom, we got on the bus and drove off. On the bus I befriended three people, or rather, I should say, they befriended me. I was tired and had no desire to make new friends, but there was no escaping them. Next to me sat a stylish girl named Zhenya (don’t try to pronounce it...all of your attempts will be fruitless). She had scrunchy blond hair with dark highlights, a round face and a white down jacket. She was a few years older than me, and found it necessary to show me pictures (both on her digital camera and on her cell phone) of her entire family and all of her coworkers. This would be bearable if her camera had a smaller memory card. Behind us: Liza and Denis, a young couple in their early 20s. Neither of the three seemed to have anything interesting to say and yet they prattled for what seemed like hours, and I was stuck like a fly in their web of nonsensical chatter. And that was not the worst of it. In order for everyone to have access to this spellbinding conversation, Zhenya and I had to turn around and face backwards. I am already prone to motion sickness and this arrangement only sharpened the sensation. I wanted to excuse myself from the dialogue but there was not enough time between words, thoughts, or sentences for me to do so without interrupting someone. Finally, feeling that if I did not rudely turn around, I might rudely do something else, I interrupted. “I’m sorry friends,” I announced, “but I must turn around as I am feeling sick.” I quickly plugged my ears with headphones and closed my eyes thereby giving the illusion that I had fallen asleep in a matter of seconds and was therefore not to be bothered. Relieved to be free, I slowly fell asleep. Later, when Nazee and I discussed my prosaic new ‘friends’, and Nazee referred to the conversation (which she overheard from two rows away) I realized that although I had in fact taken part in the previous night’s affair, and had emitted my fair share of nods and sounds that would confirm that I was listening, I hadn’t heard anything they said. All of my energies were funneled into calming my nausea and thinking up an escape plan.

The next morning, in a half-daze, I felt the bus slowing down. I was expecting to open my eyes and see another restaurant or cafe, but no such thing was to be seen. In front of the bus was nothing but a half-standing auto repair shop. We climbed out of the bus hoping to find a bathroom. I must say that, although it wasn’t quite as cold as Moscow and there was no snow, the strong wind made being outside almost unbearable. We saw some of the women from our bus heading up a small dirt hill and, like well-trained cattle, we followed. On top of the hill was a dilapidated wooden port-o-potty-type structure: inside, were the bare ground and a bottomless pit, which peeked out from back wall. I had already decided for myself that this was not an option, but Nazee wanted to take a closer look, so we started up the hill. As we made our way to the top, we saw that one woman, who apparently couldn’t wait, decided to relieve herself next to it instead of inside of it—right on top of the hill for everyone to see. This pushed even Nazee over the edge and we quickly made our descent back to the bus. We overheard passengers, who were also dissatisfied with the restroom facility, ask the driver if there would be another more suitable stop coming up, to which he replied, annoyed, that we would stop again ‘soon’. Just before getting on the bus, I noticed that my brand new boots were completely covered in dirt. I tried to clean them off only to find that the hill had not been covered in dirt, but rather a clay-like mud, which had hardened on my shoes.

We got back on the bus, and assuming that we would be stopping soon, didn’t bothered settling down too comfortably. Two and a half hours later, the passengers, us included, were getting restless. Everyone was starving and in dire need of a restroom. People started walking up to the front of the bus asking when and where we would be stopping. When another half hour passed, people started losing it. We all started breathing easier when we saw civilization ahead—a whole row of cafés and shops—but the tension escalated even further when our bus driver flew right by them. This was the end of the line for everyone, and I was afraid that the situation might escalate into violence.

Finally, three hours after our last stop, he pulled off the road in front of a traktir (a small roadside restaurant). We all rushed out of the bus in search of the bathroom. We walked inside behind another woman from our bus, who was dressed in a fancy fur coat and high heels.

“Where is the bathroom," she asked with a denigrating tone.

“Outside,” answered a man.

“We were promised civilized bathrooms,” she said glowering at him. Then, she turned around furiously and with a pretentious flip of her coat, stormed out of the traktir. We followed and quickly encountered three outhouses. Although they were regal when compared to the wooden shack on the hill, they left much to be desired. This time we had to make a choice: it was either this or a bladder infection. If I were confident that I could receive professional medical attention, I might have picked the latter, but it was too risky. And so, we stood in line and observed the reactions of each woman as she opened the ‘stall’ door: after opening the door, any given woman would take an instinctive step in, only to be thrust out by a stench, a description of which exceeds the lexical capacity of the English language. Then she would gather herself, roll up her pant legs, take a deep breath of air, and hesitantly make her way in. We laughed—until it was our turn. After two minutes inside the booth, I felt as though I needed to be quarantined and thoroughly boiled before I could be released back out into society. But being as no such service was available, I had to settle for the next best thing: washing my hands with ice cold water and liquid in a bottle, which I could only assume was soap. This, too, was outside and with no paper towels and a broken dryer, my hands went completely numb in the cold air.

Starving, as I always am, I ran into the traktir ready to consume an entire horse if they had one. Nazee and Tina followed and we started deciding what we wanted. There was a large TV playing one of my favorite movies of all time, and a must for New Year’s Eve: Karnolval’naya Noch’. On one hand it made me feel very at home and on the other hand it made me feel further away than ever. Nonetheless, I got to sing my favorite song Pyat’ Minut (Five Minutes) and it set the mood for the upcoming new year. At the counter stood a large, dark-skinned man in his late 40s, who spoke with a pronounced Georgian accent. When patrons ordered, he would shout at them for pronouncing the name of his dishes incorrectly or for taking too long to decide what they wanted, so we started practicing what we were going to say ahead of time. When it was our turn, Nazee stepped up to the plate:

“We’ll have three coffees and two hachapurees,[1]” she said with a courteous smile.

“Two coffees,” I jumped in. “I’ll have tea.”

“Tea!” he laughed in my direction. “They always want tea! Maybe you want soup as well? Tea and soup! Tea, soup, tea, soup!”

I had no idea what he was talking about but, since I smile infinitely more than the average Russian, he took well to me and responded with a fatherly grin.

“One hundred rubles,” he said to Nazee, and she instinctively turned to the menu (a handwritten sign to the left of the counter) to make sure he wasn’t overcharging us. He was not flattered.

“Don’t look there!” he said and tried to cover the sign with his large rough hands. “Don’t look there, look at me! Don’t look there, look at me!” Although he was yelling and slightly irritated, I could tell that he was not really angry and that he, on some level, knew that he was amusing us. He showed Nazee the check with the enumerated costs. She shot him a skeptical smile and handed him a 100-ruble bill.

“Where are you going to sit?” he asked, his eyes frantically darting around the room in search of an empty table. We also turned to look but there were none.

“You, young one,” he said to me. “Go in the other room and find a table. Look for a table or you can look for a chair: wherever there is a chair there will be a table!” He said everything so loudly, and with such urgency that I rushed into the other room, only to find eight taken tables. When I came back out, he was directing Nazee and Tina to a table where a man was sitting alone, finishing his meal. We sat down and he personally brought us our silverware, but for some reason he only brought two sets.

“What about me?” I asked courteously.

“What about me?” he imitated. “Oh, she needs a fork, too!” he said shaking his head. When we had all three sets of silverware, and discovered that they were filthy beyond use, we resorted to using the plastic forks that we had in our bag-o-food. In fear of offending our Georgian host, I tried to be as discreet as possible in distributing our bright green forks. Upon examining the forks in the light I decided that they were actually a very pleasant shade of green and very sturdy: ‘perhaps,’ I though, ‘he would like our forks so much so that he would wash them (or not) and include them in his regular silverware rotation.

Within a few minutes, they brought us our hachapurees, which looked much better than they really were and, because of their insanely high salt content, we barely managed to down one. A little boy from our bus ran into the traktir screaming “Mama, mama! The bus made beep, beep!” That was our cue and we, yet again, boarded our chariot of fire.

Finally in the home stretch, we started making more and more frequent stops, dropping people off in various small cities along the way. We were scheduled to arrive in Stavropol’ at 2:00 p.m. When at 2:00 p.m. we still had two hours to go, I started losing hope that we would make it there in time to greet the New Year. As our bus inched down the road, a dark green bus just like ours passed us and cut us off. Mr. Road Rage was the bus scheduled to arrive in Stavropol’ at 6:30 p.m. Why he was ahead of us was less important than it was irritating. But this was just what the doctor ordered for our inept driver. Fittingly, the green bus took on the role of tortoise, while our orange and grey bus became the hare. In an attempt to regain his pride, our driver poised himself for a die-hard racecar match. Clearly having forgotten that he was behind the wheel of a huge, gawky bus and not a 2006 Corvette, he drove up to our rival bus and when he was no more than 3 inches away from it, took a sharp turn into the oncoming lane, floored the gas pedal, passed the bus, and cut him off without an inch to spare. Then the time would come when we had to pull over to unload passengers, and the tortoise would pass us yet again. Our maniac driver recklessly passed even small cars on the road just to gain on him.

At 4:00 p.m. we entered Stavropol’s city limits.
[1]Hachapuree: a thin, round bread, shaped like a pizza, baked with Greek feta-like cheese inside

Me, Me and again Me

Sorry for the delay on getting pictures up. These are terribly out of order but I guess it doesn't really make any difference. For those of you who left comments on the blog, I finally got them to show up...thank you for writing! It would be great if when you leave a comment you include your email address so that it's not just a one-way conversation! I hope everyone is well!

P.S. Sorry for typos or anything else that sounds dumb...didn't have time to edit!


This deserves little explanation as it is relatively clear that I am posing with a large, fake Santa Clause. He is standing next to the entrance to McDonald's inside my favorite mall 'Druzhba' (Friendship). Druzhba is a very well-kept, small and cozy mall that satisfies all my shopping needs. It's located directly next door to the metro that I take from work, so when I first learned of it I visited it almost every day.


Nazee and I in front of one of hundreds of decorated trees in the city. This is just outside of my 'friendly' mall.


On the first day of Hanukkah (Dec. 25) when I was very sad that I had nowhere to go, I worked up the courage and did something I've never done before: I went to the theatre alone! It was a concert called "Hanukkah in Russia" and they named "Jewish People of the Year." There were famous Jewish actors, singers, songwriters, journalists, authors, movie directors, etc. and performance were interspersed with the giving of awards. The award itself was an Oscar-like statue, but instead of an elongated golden body, there sat a copper-colored round bearded man playing on a fiddle. Winners also received an envelope with money, and a huge bouqet of flowers. All of this was too much to hold for most awardees, and made it difficult for them to climb down from the stage. The stage settings were equally overdone: an ongoing (and very distracting) lazer show, fountains, flowers, columns, decorations, etc., etc., etc. In other words it was very 'Russian' style, which is still based on the "more is more" theory. It was this very Russianess, and the spirit of the crowd, and the songs from my childhood and knowing that, finally, on some level, Jews are finding their way in Russia, that made me happy to be there. It is also important to note that this event was held in the "Hotel Rossiya" (Hotel Russia) theatre, which is a large, glamorous establishment, and it was completely packed.


Before the beginning of the event, members of the Chabad Lubavitch synagogue distributed menorah and candles and set up a menorah-station, where they let each person light their own menorah, and then take one home.


This is the view just outside of Hotel Rossiya...one of an infinite number of picture-worthy sites in Moscow.


This is a picture from the same point as the one above, but 180 degrees turned around. This building is one of several of Stalin's 'Visotki' ('high ones'), a style of architechture from the days of the Communist regime. The prestigous Moscow State University is one of these rare-breed buildings as well.


On the second day of Hanukkah, when the electricity in our office mysteriously turned off and we were let go early in the day, two of my friends from work Ilya (a.k.a. Topinambur) and Arseniy accompanied me to the Red Square in search of the giant menorah that I was told was lit there. They were convinced that I was crazy, and that the Orthodox church would not stand for such a thing. After 20 minutes of standing in front of the Red Square and not finding it, and asking a security guard who had no idea what the words 'menorah' or 'hanukkah' meant, I called a friend only to find out that it was in another, neighboring square. Nonetheless, above is a picture of me and Arseniy in front of a somewhat snowy and always breathtaking Red Square. To the far right you can see St. Basil's, and behind us is ГУМ (goom) a huge shopping mall that is so expensive that its better to avoid going inside.


Me and Topinambur in front of the menorah...we found it! As you can see in the back right corner, it is not far from the Kremlin.


This is me in the theatre named for Tchaikovsky. Tamara and I went there for a performance by the Moiseyev Dance Company. I have seen them perform at least five times and am always left spell-bound by the stupendous talent of the performers. They are considered the best folk-dance troupe in the world. They perform traditional dances from Russia, Ukraine, Moldova, Georgia and other former soviet states. The costumes, music, choreography, energy and perfection of every move are unrivalled by anything else I have ever seen. They come to the states annually, so if you ever have the opportunity to see them, I promise that even the most cynical, theatre-hating person will not be disappointed. It is an absolutely breathtaking expression of Russian culture.


Me, Tamara and Angela...a friend of Tamara's from somwhere in Eastern Russia.


This is Tamara's (and to some degree now mine) cat. Her name is Peggy, but we just call her 'kisa' (kitty). She is very sophisticated and is the first cat that I have really taken a liking to, and if I am not mistaken, the feeling is mutual. She goes to the bathroom in the toilet, but she will not use it twice if it has not been flushed. Once she is done, she finds Tamara, emits very obnoxious cat noises and doesn't stop until Tamara flushes the toilet and sings her songs of praises for a job well done.