To Stavropol' and Beyond!
Nazee and Tina getting ready for the quickly approaching 2006.
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.
posted by Liza | 1:02 AM
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