Ewww

Another vigilant expat drew my attention to this article in the Moscow Times.

We woke to a dusting of snow on the ground this morning, but, according to the article, it may not be real snow in that it is a result of factory emissions and not precipitation.

Ewww.

Things Can Get Dirty

I don't generally make political comments about Russia, but this story appeared in my hometown paper.

I saw OMOH heavies (the Russian SWAT equivalents) hanging out in a square on Saturday when I walked Skittles to her cooking class. They were mostly smoking cigarettes and taking pictures of each other. They make me smile, ever so slightly, because I am told that the Spanish gays, among others, covet their uniforms and regalia because it is all emblazoned with the acronym OMOH, which looks like HOMO backwards. The H is really an N, but never mind. Anyhow, they arrested 90 on Sunday.

The gay pride people routinely can't get a permit from the mayor's office to have a parade because they are dangerous, but the Movement Against Illegal Immigration was allowed to hold a demonstration on Friday. Then there are stories like this.

Yeah, I know. New York isn't a great place to be Ecuadorean either.

Walking into the Metro yesterday, the rush of air in the doorway blew my hat (not my fur hat) off my head and out the two sets of doors where it was stopped by a kind passerby. It wasn't until I was on the train and had traveled several stops that I looked at my hat and saw how dirty it was. I was cold the rest of the day because I just could not put it back on my head without washing it. Teach me to leave my big fur hat at home on a cold day.

In Which a Chicken Is Not a Bird, and a Woman Is Not a Person

Well, we have been in Moscow now for a year. According to the children, yesterday was our anniversary. That sure went fast. We celebrated by going to Gorky Park, but you'll have to see the photos on my Facebook page. Uploading photos on this site is too frustrating.

The days now are short, dark, and overcast, making them even shorter and darker. The temperature has been below 0C the past few days, which is a blessing only in that it guarantees no rain. No snow either, but time enough for that. Maybe. I'm starting to wonder if the whole global warming thing is going to screw with my time in Moscow. I can imagine looking back on our time here on day and saying, "Oddly, we never had much snow in Moscow."

I got a piece of mail the other day addressed to Expatresse Nopatr. My full name was in Cyrillic, last name first, then my first name, then "Nopatr."

That cracked us up. I have no patronymic. Well, only because I never gave anyone one. But I could have one.

You may or may not know how this patronymic name thing works, but the Russians use the patronymic, based on the name of their father, as their middle name. It is an official name and is used on official documents. There is a feminine version and a masculine version. For example, if the father is Ivan, the son's patronymic name would be Ivanovich and the daughter's would be Ivanovna. Since my father's name is Larry, my patronymic or middle name would be Lariovna.

To be really polite and respectful, you use a Russian's first name and their patronymic. We shouldn't call Vladimir Putin "Mr. Putin," for example, but, if we want to be polite and correct, should say Vladimir Vladimirovich (his father was also Vladimir).

Russian doesn't have the titles "Mr." or "Mrs." which I find very disturbing as there is no polite way to address a stranger. Nobody says "comrade" anymore, but they haven't come up with an alternative. There is no "sir" or "ma'am" or "miss." Apparently you can say "girl" to women of any age. It's odd, I know.

This blog title comes hand-in-hand with other Russian remarks such as "I thought I saw two people on the road, but it was just a man and his wife." There's a weird mix of sexism and chivalry here. Men will hold doors and offer seats on the metro (sometimes). I have also seen men carrying the purse of their female companion. That looks a little strange to me, and I have seen it quite often, actually. I cannot imagine The Spouse ever carrying my purse for me. I mean, he always offers to carry things if I want, but he would never think to offer to carry my purse, and I would never hand it to him on my own. He can hold it while I go on the roller coaster. But that's it.

I also hear expats relaying stories of Russian women deferring to male colleagues because "He is the man, so he is smarter." I have not experienced anything like that, and, frankly, suspect that in most Russian households the woman runs the show. It is another one of those cultures where the sexes are defined: men are masculine and women are feminine. Why would you want to be otherwise? Given how we Americans sometimes neuter ourselves, especially at work, I don't mind being allowed to be female. It hasn't gotten in my way anyhow. But I'm also not trying to run a board meeting here either. Ask me again after I try that.

As an aside, Miss Russia won the Miss World 2008 competition this weekend. Here is the winning interview. She is adorable.



There was also the Miss Constitution pageant last week, commemorating the 15th anniversary of the post-Soviet constitution. Read all about it here.

In other news, I am on the hunt for a new winter coat. Every coat I have seems to have a problem. The lining is shredding on my favorite coat. It is becoming embarrassing. I have another jacket-type coat I bought from JJill before Youngest Daughter was born. I mean, I have photos of a pregnant me wearing this coat. There was more of me then, and now this coat is too big. The wind blows up it. The good news is I can wear layers with it (always useful) and even wear my purse under my coat. But the shoulder seams hit the middle of my biceps: it really doesn't fit nicely. I have a similar problem with my lovely mink coat: it is too big for me. And sometimes it just isn't appropriate.

I looked at coats in a shop in town the other day, but what I wanted cost between 25,000 rubles to as much as 36,000 rubles (these days, 2,700 rubles = $100 US). I don't want to spend $1,000 for a down-filled winter coat.

That's what I want: something knee-length, water-resistant, down-filled. With a hood. Some fur trim would be nice, but isn't vital.

I got a tip from a woman on the expat forum about a market ("rynok" in Russian) called Konkovo (conveniently at Metro Konkovo, for those of you following along on your Moscow Metro Map). This morning I went to check it out.

All I can say is "Wow."

It goes on and on. All indoors. Shop stall after shop stall of coats, jackets, furs, men's suits, shoes and boots, bras, evening gowns, and those over-the-top Russian women's outfits complete with too much lace, glitter, and bows.

I was too intimidated to venture into any of the shops. While some items I saw did have price tags, many things did not. Clearly, this is a place to bargain, and I am convinced that, without a Russian speaker, I will be lunch meat. Even with The Spouse, we are likely to pay the Foreigner Prices. But I'm sure I will do better with his help.

So we will go back together another time. There are, uncharacteristically, some sales in Moscow already. But Sale Season is traditionally after the New Year. It might pay to hold off until January.

Ho! Ho! Ho! A Study in Contrasts

I received a call last night from Trusted Girlfriend. Her husband had my Christmas tree; was it okay if he dropped it off at 7:45 this morning?

Okay?! That's terrific!

The girls, especially Skittles, have really been into the whole idea of Christmas. Last year was such a wash, what with the move and all happening, and our shipment being delayed. We spent what felt like an eternity in this empty apartment with only an air mattress (that leaked) and a few dishes for us (not even a coffee pot) and bunk beds for the girls and pieces of cardboard to play with. December 25 came. The girls opened a few gifts, and then the Spouse went to work (it isn't a holiday in Russia). By the time Russian Christmas/New Year's came, we had furniture, but it seemed too late and not the right time to be putting up decorations.

I stored the box on the stairs to the building attic. It's locked. The neighbors and we have keys, although technically we aren't supposed to. A few weeks ago, the woman who manages the people who maintain the building came along and, without accusing us of having keys we shouldn't, very nicely but firmly said we had to remove anything we wanted to keep from the stairs as they had to paint.

So the box moved into our bedroom. The cat likes to sleep on top of it, and slash at us with his claws when we walk by. Looks like we'll actually get to open it. Too bad for Cat-O.

I let the tree sit in its box for a while this morning as I harbored some sort of illusion that if I waited a bit, it would be light enough to see what I was doing. Around 10:00 I realized that this was about as light as things were going to get. I was sitting in the dark at the computer, and the rain outside was not about to suddenly stop, heralding blue skies and sunshine.

So I assembled the tree. It was harder than I expected. Here's how it looks right now.


If you follow the Lolcats link on the right of my page, you may be familiar with the "Basement Cat" concept. Here's one. Above you can see that I have my own. He is fascinated by the tree.

Buoyed by my productivity, I even got dressed and went to the grocery store. I filled my cart with eggplant, Parmesan (a real luxury here), avocados, cleaning supplies, milk, granola, grapefruit, wine. All in all, it was about a $100 trip. The clerk didn't put my change in my hand, but set it, coins and bills, on the counter. People often leave the small coins behind as they aren't worth much, and there is sort of a "Got a Penny? Leave a Penny/Need a Penny? Take a Penny" view on the kopecs. I collected my bills, but ignored the coins.

While I was bagging my purchases (the only store here that bags for you is the Why Pay Less? store), I noticed the fellow behind me.

He was grizzled and carried a cane. He didn't exactly look homeless, but he had that worn out look of the street drunks we so often see. He was buying a bottle of vodka, and I realized he was unsure if he had enough money.

I wish I knew more Russian because I would have just leaned over to the clerk and said, "This one's on me." But I couldn't. By the time I even cobbled together a few words in my head, he had pulled out the appropriate bills (all small) and was waiting for his change.

I probably would have only embarassed him.

But I felt awkward and self-conscious carrying my Trader Joe's and Mono Prix reusable bags full of groceries back to my apartment with my Christmas tree waiting.

Here Kitty, Kitty!

Weather in Moscow: +3C, overcast, no snow this week.
Reading: I'm still slogging through Richard Russo's Bridge of Sighs. Not saying it's not worthwhile. It's just so slow to boil.

Had one of those Very Small World experiences last week.

Since before we even moved to Moscow, I have been in touch with the recommended Russian vet for expats: Dr. Yuri and his wife, Valeria. She is not a vet, but since she speaks fluent English, she helps manage the appointments and communications with their foreign clients. He claims to not speak English, but he did enough to follow our conversation while they were here. But I'm getting ahead of the story.

I spoke to Valeria extensively prior to our move, working out details for bringing Cat-O to Moscow. I was even considering bringing the guinea pigs at one point, and she was very helpful about the steps I would need to take. We discussed having her meet us at the airport when we arrived with the cat so as to help shepherd us through Customs. But she decided that I probably would not have any problems, so she armed me with her cell phone numbers and instructions to call her immediately (and then hand my phone to the pesky Customs agent) if the need arose. It did not.

I have referred people to her and her husband over the past year, but we have not spoken since. Until Sunday, we had never met.

About a week ago, it occurred to me that if cats need annual vaccines, it was probably time to schedule Cat-O's. Yes, he's exclusively an indoor cat, but on the chance that I might need to take him out of Russia someday, I thought it would be in my best interest not to allow any gaps in his "coverage." I hate calling people, doctors especially, on their mobiles because inevitably they are in the middle of working. I prefer to send a text message and then arrange a convenient time to actually talk. So I sent Valeria a text message asking if we could arrange an appointment for the cat.

Friday, while I was walking home from school with the children, she called. Yes, house calls are routine and no problem at all. Did I want them to come Saturday or Sunday or Monday?

Anytime was fine by me, so she asked, "What is your address."

I told her. There was a pause. She said, "I'm sorry. Can you tell me your address again?"

Drat, I thought. The street noise, combined with my mangling of the Russian . . . the street name is long (Sadovaya Samotechnaya), and I forget that I always put the stress on the wrong syllable. I say the street and building number again.

She starts to laugh. "That's MY address," she says. "I've lived in that building my entire life."

Turns out, we are neighbors. Not knowing what she or anyone else in her family looks like, I can understand how we might have missed one another. But I cannot believe I have never seen them walking their dogs. Moscow is eerily small.

Below is the little shit (the cat, not the vet) when we first got him. He went by "Oscar" then.

Here he is today, exhausted after a day of driving us insane.

In Which Time Flies

On the one hand, I have absolutely nothing to report. It has snowed a few times in the past week, but nothing more serious than flurries, really. It seems to happen in the late afternoon/early evening, but any accumulation is gone by morning.

Yesterday was practically springlike: a balmy 10C, windy (in fact, I read/heard about signs and bricks crashing down on parked cars/pedestrians . . . the local news was, apparently, urging people to stay indoors). The radiators in our apartment were cold, which was fine while it was 10C. But when the temperature dropped to 0C in just an hour or so, I was starting to get nervous, wondering if the landlords had forgotten to pay something. This is a silly thought, since the heat is centrally managed. But one does wonder . . .

The other concern was the barometric pressure change sent Skittles to bed for a few hours with a sick headache. Since she got reading glasses this summer, the frequency of her headaches has dropped dramatically, which is definately a good thing. But she, like her parents, is still susceptible to dramatic weather changes.

Saturday morning Baboo announced she had an earache. Thankfully, she said this early in the morning, and I was able to get an appointment across the street. This being Moscow, I think I could have just walked into a pharmacy ("apteka") and asked for amoxicilin. But on the off-chance it was not an ear infection . . . and I don't know about dosages . . . it seemed prudent to ask a professional.

So we did. The Spouse took Skittles to her Saturday morning cooking class. I took Baboo to see the doctor. The doctor wrote us a script. I took Baboo back home, and then set out to deal with getting her Rx filled. First, I had to get cash. This meant a trip to the bank, which is across the street (gotta go uuuunder) and a block or so down. Walking out of the bank, I thought about stopping in the pharmacy that is right next door to the bank. But I've never been in that one. They don't know me. Best to stick with a tried and true shop, given my extensive linguistic talents.

So I walk back up the block, go uuuunder the street, continue past our building to find the pharmacy where they know us is CLOSED. The sign on the door lists their hours, and this includes Saturday mornings at 11:00. But, alas, there's no one there.

Okay. I retrace my steps back to the pharmacy by the bank. I step up to the window and greet the clerk. I put my hand in my coat pocket to pull out the prescription.

Shit.

There's nothing in my pocket.

The clerk blinks at me.

I lose the ability to communicate in Russian. "I don't have the prescription!" I mutter.

She continues to stare. As well she should.

I exit the pharmacy, trying to decide if I left the paper on the table by the door at home or did I drop it on the street? It is possible I accidentally pulled it out of my pocket when I put on my gloves as I exited the bank. Do I go all the way home? Or just stop back in the doctor's office and hope she's still there so she can write me a new Rx. If I call the house, will phone-phobic Baboo even answer?

I decide to look in the bank first. No paper.

As I'm, dejectedly, walking back towards our building/the doctor's office, I see it: a folded piece of paper just lying on the sidewalk! Hurray!

Back to the pharmacy. I manage to complete the transaction and, with help from The Spouse, figure out how to dose the Baboo (it was one of those deals where the drug came in a bottle, but as a powder, and we had to add the right amount of water).

Later that afternoon, with the Baboo one resting quietly and The Spouse and Skittles amusing themselves, I went to buy nuts and honey from the guy with a little shop under the street. I manage to procure 300 grams each of almonds, pistachios, and Brazil nuts. I even get the honey I wanted. But I fumbled on the numbers part when he told me what I owed. I got 40 and 80 confused, and handed the guy 550 rubles when he wanted 580. Duh-oh! Figured it out, no harm done, but I just hate that. I know, I know: numbers are tough. But argh.

Yesterday afternoon, I screwed it up again. I went to the grocery store, but as I was leaving, I realized I forgot to get lemons. Grrr. But there, across the street from the Sedmoy Continent grocery store, is the fruit and veggie lady's permanently parked truck/stand.

"Lemons, please," I say. "Two pieces."

She says a number I interpret as 80. I have a 1000-ruble note, a 500-ruble note, and 4 or 5 10-ruble notes. Drat. She's not going to like this. I shuffle through the bills, hoping to show her I'm doing my best here, and offer the 500 rubles.

She shakes her head.

Sigh. Am I going to have to go buy cheese?

She reaches through her window and gently takes two tens. Duh-oh! She wants 18 rubles, not 80.

I shuffle home, muttering and dejected.

The Spouse, however, is more upbeat.

"Look," he says kindly. "We've been here almost a year now. Can you imagine this time last year if I had said to you, 'Go take Baboo to the doctor, get her prescription filled, and then go buy nuts from the guy under the street'?"

He's right. I would have cried. I haven't come very far, but I've come a long way.

I close with a Thanksgiving wish:

May your stuffing be tasty
May your turkey plump,
May your potatoes and gravy
Have never a lump.
May your yams be delicious
And your pies take the prize,
And may your Thanksgiving dinner
Stay off your thighs!

In Which I Suspect Winter Is Icumen In

The weather this week has been as lovely as any I’ve seen since moving to Moscow, dare I say it, almost a year ago. Cloudless, pale, blue skies. Thin, anemic, winter sunlight bathing everything in a golden glow. The temperatures are generally below 5C, but it hasn’t been unpleasant yet. What’s been odd is the length of the shadows at noon. And this is only early November.

But the inevitable is certainly coming. The double doors have started returning at the metro stations. (There are two sets of doors; one is taken down in the warmer months.) Most disconcerting, however, is the arrival of two big (Canadian!) snow-melting machines down at the end of Tsvetnoi Bulvar. I saw them last winter, but I didn’t think they were here when we arrived. I darkly suspect the Moscow version of Indian Summer is over.

Only “bits and bobs” to report as life is just sort of chugging along normally.

First, the Baboo Update. Tuesday afternoon she emerged from school in tears. “Deux garçons dans ma classe m’enervaient!” (I honestly can’t recall, but I think she said it in French, although she usually doesn’t speak French to me. At any rate, what she said was, “Two boys in my class were bothering me!”)

Seems Clément and Valentin dogged her the whole way from school (they have class in another building, but all walk back to the French school together at the end of the day). They stepped on the back of her shoes. They opened her backpack. They played Monkey In the Middle with her thermos. They pulled the belt on her coat.

“You know what this means,” I told her.

“Yeah!” she cried harder. “They. . . like . . . me!”

We found her teacher on the playground and explained the situation. “I’ll call them back to order,” he reassured her.

Fast forward two hours. Lo and behold, Valentin is in her fencing class. First match of the session: Baboo v Valentin.

There is justice in the world. Or at least in fencing class. She whips his funky butt, four points to two. He is overheard telling Tom, “Elle n’est pas nulle!” In other words, she’s something. Youpie!

New topic. Had a serious scare this week. Got a letter from Pani Babka, our 84-year-old neighbor in Bratislava. She's a sweetie and saved my life during the move because I would spend hours at the house dealing with it and forget to eat. Yes, it does happen. One night she found me outside, practically in tears because I was so tired and hungry and stressed. I don't know what I had done with the kids. Playdates, I guess. She dragged me inside and fed me, not just then, but on several occasions. Just real basic stuff, but real comfort food. And always plied me with homemade hootch. Even at breakfast.

Me: "I have to DRIVE!" (Slovakia has zero tolerance)

Her: "It's gentle! It has herbs!"

Anyhoo . . . this summer I sent her a postcard from Mackinac. And this week I open the mailbox and there’s a letter from her. It's all in Slovak (she speaks no English). I scan it, thinking I might get something. I do. I see "Pan Varga" (Mr. Varga, our landlord there), and the words for "windows open," "unusually warm," "plyn" (gas), and "43,000 crowns" (over $2,000). PANIC!

I can only describe that sinking sensation as being sure the top of my head is going to blow clean off. I hadn’t felt this stressed since the move, when every day I was sure I was going to die from a stroke or an aneurysm. Looking back on the move later, I have no idea why I got so worked up: everything went smoothly. But at the time . . . it was all coming back to me now.

We had been on the easy-payment-plan for gas there . . . like in the US: you pay a flat monthly amount and they settle up with you in August. We had overpaid, but the account was in Varga's name, so the refund check came to him. It was a couple grand, but we told him to keep it in lieu of paying to repaint the place when we moved out (that's negotiable, but usually the tenant leaving pays). He had made some noise, but we even moved out early, and he had a new tenant and could have had no break in income if he had chosen.

I was stressing because I thought there was some issue about us owing more money. I didn't know whether to ruin The Spouse's day by sharing the letter now (I scanned it and could email it). Or wait til he got home from work (at which point it would be too late to deal with it that day). We had had a bit of a tiff that morning . . . and I hadn't spoken to him since . . .

“Are you talking to me?” I decide to call.

“Of course.”

“Are you busy?”

“Not so busy.”

“Do you want to hear something that might be bad news but I can’t tell because I can’t read it but I guess I could get someone else to translate it for me but if it’s bad you will have to hear about it anyhow sooner or later . . .”

“For heaven’s sake! What is it?”

“I think we could owe Varga gas money.”

“Screw Varga,” he tells me.

Long story short, he forwarded Pani Babka’s letter to his former secretary in Slovakia who said the Babka was just gossiping about the tenants who followed us: they had parted with Varga on bad terms and, out of spite, had cranked the heat and opened all the windows and it had been several days before he realized and was now stuck with a big gas bill. She thinks he then realized what good eggs we were.

New topic. At 9:30 this morning, I finally got naked and ready to step in the shower because I had an English conversation date with Hairdresser to the Stars at 11:00. It was then I realized we had NO HOT WATER! I always feel a certain pressure to clean up my act before seeing HTTS because I don't want anyone to see me leaving his salon and think, "THIS is after?"

Moscow famously shuts off the hot water for three weeks in the summer. But I was in the US when our neighborhood's turn came around, so I did not have to invest in lobster pots for heating bath water. Once, more than 20 years ago, I had to wash in Taiwan with no hot water. But it was summer. One teakettle of hot water, cut with cold water, was enough to shampoo, rinse, condition, and rinse my hair while I stood in the bathtub. It took two teakettles' worth this morning, while I bent over the kitchen sink and dripped on the kitchen counter. The water was back later this afternoon. Life in the Big City.

I leave you to ponder winter in Moscow with the words of Ezra Pound:

Winter is icumen in,

Lhude sing Goddamm,

Raineth drop and staineth slop,

And how the wind doth ramm!

Sing: Goddamm.

Skiddeth bus and sloppeth us,

An ague hath my ham.

Freezeth river, turneth liver,

Damm you; Sing: Goddamm.

Goddamm, Goddamm, 'tis why I am, Goddamm,

So 'gainst the winter's balm.

Sing goddamm, damm, sing goddamm,

Sing goddamm, sing goddamm, DAMM.

In Which I Buy a Cheese

In Russian class last week, Baboo learned these verbs: "to speak," "to watch," and "to smoke." (Huh?)

They then learned the following dialogue:

"Here's a cigarette."
"Thanks, but I don't smoke."

Okay. I think there is something about the construction that works best in this scenario. But couldn't they save it for Russian 200? They are ten years old, after all. But in the French school, I suppose it's never too soon . . .

On a different topic, I went to the dry cleaners today.

I have been dreading this, and putting it off since last spring. It's never convenient. They will certainly ask me questions. In Russian. Questions like "Name?" and maybe "Address?" I'd rather have my teeth drilled.

But my winter coat is dirty, and, in fact, has been dirty since last spring. In fairness, I did try once, in early September. Alas, the little kiosk that was formerly a dry cleaner is now a shoe repair place. I even walked past another shop this week, only to discover, to my great delight, that this outlet, too, is no longer. I was off the hook.

Then, one day last week, while waiting for the light to change at an intersection near the girls' school, my eyes came into focus on a sign across the street from me. A dry cleaners! Ah ha! But where?

Crossing the street, I realize the dry cleaners is a drop off kiosk inside a small grocery store. How long it has been there is anyone's guess since I am deathly afraid of this grocery store.

It is one of those old Soviet style stores where everything is behind the counter. It is language intensive. You have to talk. Once I went in to buy a Diet Coke and couldn't figure out how to open the cooler, so I just ran away.

Dealing with the dry cleaner is bad enough! But at least this is all I need to deal with inside this store.

So today, on my way to pick up the children (they are done at 3:00), I bring along my winter coat. This is it. I'm going in. At 2:50 p.m., I take a deep breath, girding my loins, as it were, and I enter the grocery store.

Sitting in the dry cleaner booth is a very nice woman. She's one of those Russians with strong Tatar heritage, which means she looks like she could be Japanese. But her name tag says her name is Ludmilla. I'm excited I can even READ her name tag.

"Hello," I say in Russian. "Good day. I'm sorry, but I speak Russian not very well." I'm pulling out everything I've got.

No problem, she reassures me. She has a kind smile. This will be okay.

"This?" I say, producing my coat and putting it on her counter.

"Sure, sure, no problem," she starts looking it over. It has a faux fur collar and cuffs.

"It is synthetic?" she asks.

"Da. Synthetic," I reply. Hey! This is going to be easy.

She gets out a binder, and starts flipping through pages, looking for the correct price for this cleaning job. In my (other) coat, I am starting to sweat. I can feel the drops begin to roll down my sides. I look at the clock. She turns a page. She turns a page. She turns a page.

"Ah!" Her finger lands on a page. She's found it. "The price is 720 rubles."

Since I was expecting something between 500 and 1000, this is pretty much right on target for me.

"Good," I say.

But now she's flipping pages again. She turns some more pages. She runs her finger down the page. I look at the clock and sweat.

"Oh," she has made an adjustment. "710 rubles!" Well, that's better. Whatever. Just give me my receipt so I can get out of here. The clock moves towards 3 o'clock.

She puts the binder away and begins to write the receipt.

"Family name?" she asks.

I show her my visiting card. This is fine. She writes my name on the form.

"Phone?"

I point to my Moscow number on the card. She writes it, slowly, saying each of the ten digits aloud: "zero . . . nine . . . six . . . one."

At this point we are interrupted.

"Pardon me," a woman wants to ask a quick question about price. Out comes the binder again. She turns a page. She turns a page. She turns a page.

Bored now and still sweating profusely, I get 1010 rubles out of my purse, ready to pay my 710 rubles and make the change situation easy.

The interloper has her information and leaves. Ludmilla returns to the receipt process.

She writes in the date of drop off and the date of pick up. She writes what seems to me to be a description of the item. It goes on. And on. And on. From time to time she picks up the coat and examines it, and then writes another paragraph. WHAT IS SHE WRITING? The Great Russian Novel?

She finds a worn spot in the lining. Obviously, this is where I sat, probably while driving. Not good news, as this is only going to get worse. I have no idea where to get the coat relined in Moscow. But okay. Defect noticed and documented. I won't be able to cry foul later when I pick it up.

It is now 3:00 sharp.

She is still writing.

After what seems to me to be another full ten minutes (but was probably more like another 60 seconds), she puts down her pen.

"710 rubles," she says.

I hand her my 1010 rubles. She sets it carefully on the counter and finds her cash box. It is a small, plastic box, like a piece of Tupperware without the lid.

She begins to count out change for me . . . "One hundred . . . two hundred . . . "

She stops. She doesn't have change. She doesn't have 300 rubles to give me. I have some other money, but not something that works with her change box scenario.

I turn towards the cheese counter behind me. Surely this is a common occurrence. Surely the grocery store will make change for her. I raise my eyebrows towards the cheese counter.

As if reading my mind, Ludmilla brightens.

"Why don't you BUY something from the shop so they will give you change."

Please, God, no. Anything but this.

What I want now, is a Diet Coke. But still ouchy from my last attempt to buy one, and dubious that my attempt to purchace a 30-ruble item with a 500-ruble note will be met with smiles and flowers, I reject that idea.

Okay . . .

There's a line in front of the part of the store where they sell vodka. I really can't wait that long.

Cheese counter it is. We WERE out of cheese. I had just used the last of it this very morning, making eggs for The Spouse. I could use cheese. I guess.

I approach the cheese counter. Cheese Lady stands up and eyes me warily. I stab at the glass case with my index finger.

"This . . . cheese . . . please." I smile hopefully.

On her side of the display case Cheese Lady miraculously points to the very cheese I want.

"You want the WHOLE thing?" She is incredulous. The crazy American woman is buying an entire package of cheese. It must weigh . . . a whole 500 grams! (That's roughly a pound, for you non-metric types. And while I am digressing, I will confess that, in the interest of artistic integrity, I fished the wrapping out of the garbage can, where it was already buried beneath the children's uneatten penne, so as to make this entry just that much more real for you. I care that much.)

"Da. Whole thing," I tell Cheese Lady.

She snorts. "Well, it's your rubles . . . "

Huh?

She weighs the cheese. It costs 249 rubles. I have a 500. I set that on the counter and say "I have nine . . ." as I start to count out nine rubles.

"FORGET THE NINE!" she barks. Okay, okay! Sheesh. I collect my cheese and my change.

So the rest is boring. I took back my 1000-ruble note and gave Ludmilla a 500-ruble note and two 100-ruble notes. She still had the ten-ruble note on the counter. She finished writing War and Peace on the receipt. Without the coat, but now armed with a cheese, I was not that late to collect the children.

P.S. I stopped at the liquor store on the way home. To get, you know, vodka.

In Which I Boast a Little

I am no longer able to make blogger respond to my requests to move photos around. So I'll brag about Skittles first, I guess.  But I am so proud of both of them.

Skittles is positively ebulent about her kids' cooking class. It is the high point of her week. 

Yesterday was the second class, and they made potato salad and bread rolls. She's getting really good with yeast doughs, which is great as I cannot make dough rise to save my life.  But the double-secret bonus, to me, is that she actually tries the foods she makes. 

She announced she wants to be a chef when she grows up. That's fine by me.

This school year, Baboo is in this special intensive-Russian program through her school. Their classroom is in a Russian school (which is, conveniently, just around the corner from the main campus). Two days a week they return to the main campus for lunch* and to use the computers and library. They have daily Russian lessons, and a structured exchange with specific Russian kids from their host school. Those kids have been studying French, and the two groups have time together every week.

*Lunch aside: Lunch at the Russian school is disappointing. Seems every day they get a weiner and a starch: either over-cooked pasta or flavor-free mashed potatos. Plastic cutlery. Baboo now takes a small container of flavored salt in her backpack. Her best friend brings those little salt packets like what you get from a fast food restaurant. 

Needless to say, the days they have lunch at the main campus are much nicer, more diverse, albeit a LOT more expensive.

Russian school lunch: 20 to 50 rubles a day. I don't know why the price varies since the menu doesn't. 

Main campus lunch: 190 rubles a day. Here is a typical lunch at the main campus:

**********
(Choose one) 

Assiette de crudités (raw veggie plate) 

Salade de carottes (carrot salad) 

Salade au jambon et fromage (ham and cheese salad) 

***** 

Soupe de légumes (vegetable soup) 

*****
(Choose one) 

Fricassée de poulet (fried chicken) 

Pain de porc (breaded pork cutlet) 

Poisson cajun (cajun-style fish) 

***** 

(Choose one)
Riz doré (yellow rice) 

Haricots verts (green beans)

*****
(Choose one) 

Yaourt (yogurt) 

Fromage (cheese . . . well, duh!)

*****
(Choose one) 

Fruits de saison (seasonal fruits) 

Jus de fruits (fruit juice) 

Pâtisserie (pastry . . . Guess which is more popular in this category?)

Baboo said she and one of her French classmates were sitting on the playground during recess last week, and a group of Russian girls came over and asked them questions. Baboo and friend answered, in their limited Russian, and the Russian girls said, "Oooooo!"

We asked her teacher if she could skip English class. "Well, many of her classmates speak English well," he began.

Um, yeah. But this kid's mother tongue is English, we insisted. He left it with a "We'll see about that."

He's been using Wednesday mornings to give her class assessment tests. Shortly after we had the English-skills conversation, there was a question on an assessment test, asking her to identify the last movement of Beethoven's 9th Symphony. She doesn't know how to say that in French, so she wrote "Ode to Joy."

Suddenly her teacher realized that not only does she know English, but she knows THINGS in English. It really is a working language for her. So she got yanked out of English class and given extra one-on-one time with the Russian teacher.

The other weirdly wonderful thing is that last week the teacher emailed all of the parents a copy of a student's weekly assessment test so that we could use it to see the correct answers. It was not a flawless test, but it was, apparently, the best one. The student's name was whited out, but we recognized the handwriting immediately. 

The Spouse sees the teacher ever morning when he drops Baboo off at school. "She didn't get all the answers right," he said to Teacher. 

"If she didn't get the answer, no one got it," said Teacher. 

Pardon me for being proud . . .

In Which I Am Romanced by the Rouble

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In Which I Rock with More Old Dudes

Last month it was Alice Cooper. 

Last night I went to see Queen + Paul Rodgers.

Yeah, I know. Queen without Freddie Mercury is like . . . I dunno. Fill in the blanks.

But Paul Rodgers came from Bad Company, so, in a way, it was like getting two concerts for the price of one (and at Moscow prices, a bargain is a good thing). Yeah, sometimes he seemed a little overwhelmed by the rest of the band when they were playing the Queen stuff. But when he sang the new songs or the Bad Company songs . . . he rocked. 

If you go to YouTube, you can find clips of them doing the same show last week in Kharkov, Ukraine. Their website says

Playing an awareness-raising outdoor concert in Kharkov’s Freedom Square, the second largest square in Europe, at the event supported by Queens’ own HIV AIDS charity, The Mercury Phoenix Trust, and organized by the Elena Franchuk ANTIAIDS Foundation, the show by Queen + Paul Rodgers attracted more than 350,000 to see the overture concert for its 33-city tour of Europe and immediately entered the record books as the biggest charity event devoted to the fight against AIDS in the Ukraine.

Which is cool. Our crowd was, obviously, not this big. But the feel was the same. Except, perhaps, when they did We Are the Champions. There was something vaguely unsettling about thousands of Russians singing "We are the champions . . . ." It kind of creeped me out. 

What else was, well, different, was what they sold at the concert. No black t-shirts. No booze. (What? In Russia!) It was like we were going to see the circus instead of a serious rock and roll band. I saw a guy eating a Dove bar. You could buy Russian flags and cowboy hats and light-up devil horns. 

But no beer. I didn't want any beer. But I wanted them to sell the beer.

I'll leave you with a clip of my favorite number, a song I am sure I haven't heard since the last time I played my Night at the Opera LP:

You rock on, Roger Taylor!

And Brian May just looked so . . . blissed out. Like he was having the time of his life. And, yeah, he made us sing too. For Freddie.

And finally, this is what I paid my money for. Turn it up.

In Which I Become a Pariah

Just in case you were thinking, "Gee, my friend the Expatresse could make a pretty penny with some English conversation gigs," I want you to understand me when I tell you

NOT BLOODY LIKELY.

You may have been wondering, just how, exactly, Russian-US relations have changed, cooled even, since the Georgian thing. Well, your answer is right here.

Yeah. That's right. Leprosy testing. 

Oh, and I'm gonna rush to assume the lithotomy position right now so I can chat with some elitny oligarch. 

Pul-eaz.

When I mentioned this to a Russian woman I know, she laughed and laughed.

"My dear," she said (you'll have to imagine the thick Russian accent). "Don't pay attention to anything Russian government does!" 

Uh huh.

In Which I Re-Enter the Fray

Temperature: Over 80F! And humid. My hair is out of control.

I've been back over a week now and have been thinking about what stands out to me as quintessentially Moscow. Being new to a place brings the odd differences sharply into focus, Being away two whole months brings reminders screaming into view.

So what am I struck by here?

The gorgeous golden egg yolks.

American eggs disappointed me. I shopped at Trader Joe's all summer. At the Giant Eagle, I bought Eggland's Best. But nothing rose above a pale anemic yellow. The eggs here are fantastic.

All tap water, all the time.

My American house, which we refer to as 910 because this is the street address, has typical "older home" water pressure. If you flush, you have to wait before you turn on the shower. Don't wash dishes immediately after you put in a load of laundry. Oh! And you can cook with and drink the water at 910, too.

Here in my Moscow digs, there is a never-ending flow of hot water. Cold water too. If someone flushes, no problem! But you don't want to drink it. Today, I heard a rumor that in the winter, whatever passes as the Moscow Water Works adds antifreeze to the mix. This seems unlikely. But it might also explain why my skin when so wacka-wacka last winter.

I love the smell of vodka in the morning.

Man, oh man. Moscow has more drunks than Kelleys Island. 

I was on the Metro last Friday at 10:45 in the morning. Well-Dressed Dude sitting next to me reeks of Ruski Standart. Well, I don't know that it wasn't Stoli or even Absolute. But, Dude! It's not just for breakfast!?

This is not a rare occurance in Moscowtown, I assure you. I often see people dressed for the office, but smelling strongly of vodka. Walking under the Garden Ring this morning, I passed a step full of empty beer bottles. Okay, maybe they were from yesterday, and the cleaning crew hadn't gotten there yet. But, emerging on the other side, I saw a very drunk young man, staggering and leaning against parked cars in a "Ohhhhhh! I don't feel so good!" sort of way. 

The weather was nice this weekend and brought everyone out to the parks. On a walk to a friend's house Saturday night (this was at 7:30 in the evening), the four of us stared in amazement as a young man sitting on the end of a park bench, turned around to face the back of the bench, puked a liquid beer puke, turned to face front again, and continued texting a message on his phone. Didn't miss a beat.

On the way home that same night, we came across a young man who had just passed out on the sidewalk. A small crowd had gathered. Someone poked him with the toe of their shoe. The Spouse leaned in, had a look, and declared, "He's breathing." The crowd grew bored and wandered off. So did we.

Today, the Drunk Count on the walk home from school was eight: five passed out on benches, mouths agape, and two bleary-eyed souls treating the head injury of a third who looked as though he had fallen down and cracked his eyebrow. Or gotten in a fight. They had a styptic pencil.

Bitchin' public transportation: aka You're Not in Cowtown Anymore.

The Metro is an incredible thing. The moment I walked in on my first trip since returning, I smelled that dusty, metallic smell that is the Metro (when it is not overwhelmed with B.O. and alcohol). Quite simply: the Metro rocks.

The Spouse saw a documentary about it recently on Russian TV. The drivers are all men: the job is too technical and requires more precision than women can manage, or so they reported on the program. Drivers arrive at some undisclosed Metro check-in location the night before their shifts begin. The Spouse assumed that this was to ensure they have a proper night's sleep and a good breakfast before the rigors of their work day begin. I assumed this was to ensure they are SOBER before the rigors of their work day begin. They are awakened gently and served a hearty breakfast. Probably kasha and vodka.

I got shoved OUT of the Metro on that vodka-soaked ride last Friday. When I got on, the car was quite full. I was travelling several stops. At the first stop, the doors opened, and EVERYONE tried to exit. At first I was able to sort of turn and collapse my spine so that the wave of humanity just washed over me. But eventually the wave became a tsunami, and I was pushed into the passengers waiting to enter. The woman I landed on was understanding. "It's probably safer out here!" is how I translated her good-natured reaction. When we finally all got (back) on the train, she gave me a conspiratorial thumbs up. I laughed. She probably thought I had been drinking my breakfast.

The noise, noise, NOISE!

I had forgotten how noisy the city is. When the girls and I are walking home from school, it is very difficult to carry on a conversation over the noise of the traffic. Yet, there is a city behind the City: in the courtyards and alleys and sidestreets, all is calm.

The City that never sleeps.

Friday was a small farewell for my friend who owns Luna the Dog. Her husband's job is taking them to Armenia. I emerged from the restaurant about 11:30 p.m., and proceded to walk home. I'm rarely out this late, so I was blown away by the incredible number of people out on the street, not just in front of the restaurant (which is a pedestrian zone), but the whole way home. Every kiosk, from Crap Dogs to Crunchy Potato, was open. But the most surprising thing was all the flower vendors. 

Who needs flowers at midnight? 

Muscovites, apparently.

In Which We Return, Triumphant

Temperature: It was 8C this morning. That’s about 45F. It IS Labor Day, right?

Snow: Um, none yet. But I did wear my winter boots yesterday. In August.

We’re back. I am looking forward to the first day of school tomorrow, and a coffee and Bitch Session with Favorite Girlfriend. She spent her summer in Paris.

I know Paris, and Moscow is far superior. In Moscow, the prices are lower, the buildings are tidier, there are the cutest little boat rides on the river. And the language is so much prettier and more approachable. The people are civilized, and you can sit in a cute little bistro and get wine in little carafes. But in Paris, it's just cold and heartless old bag ladies and getting shoved around in the Metro. Today, I went to the store to get school supplies. Everybody waited in line and the cashier smiled when we got to the front. She wished me a nice day.

I can imagine shopping for schools supplies in Paris . . . ugly, dirty Paris, where the crowds would just push past me to get where they are going, knocking me into the shelves and making my daughters cry. Looking at me like I just shit myself when they hear me speaking English with The Spouse, and the cashier not even looking up from the cash register. People would try to push in front of us, and the people behind us would try to push us, too. On the Metro, some drunk guy who was plastered at 11:00 in the morning on a Sunday would sneeze a huge sneeze onto the back of my head, and I would move, in tears, to stand near the door next to yet another vodka-soaked, middle-aged creep and the fat lady with the bag who would practically knock my school supply bag out of my hand to get to a seat. Like I was going to steal her seat. Fat old cow. Screw you, lady. I hope somebody peed on that seat.

And then going to the Septieme Continent in Paris, which I remember well. There, they don't have any herbs except dill dill dill dill and packages of parsley with dill. Oh, and some olive oil that they wanted $50 for. $50 for olive oil. What? Are these olive trees that Christ prayed amongst or something? Why in God's name would you need to pay $50 for olive oil?

I remember one freezing Sunday in August trying to buy a light bulb from a kiosk in one of those underground passages, and the prices were not at all what they were showing in the window, and the sales lady just sighed and barked at me and The Spouse. And I never would even have to go to such lengths to buy light bulbs under the street from this nasty old bitch if they only had light bulbs at the Septieme Continent, but NOOOOOOO, you have to buy everything in Paris from some underground passage where people pee.

This is why The Spouse and I just love Moscow, and we were discussing this just today while I was taking a shower to wash my hair as soon as we got home from school supply shopping.

I am sure Favorite Girlfriend and her husband are happy to be back in civilization and away from the gray, cold, drunkenness of French failure that is Paris.

You know I’m joking. Right?

Yesterday was actually a disaster on oh, so many levels. The School Supply Shopping Outing I mention above, was, relatively, a bright spot.

The day started off on the wrong foot when I opened one eye as The Spouse left the bedroom at 8:00 a.m. only to open the other eye almost THREE HOURS LATER at 11:00 a.m. Cursed jetlag! Now the day is half shot. And, not only that, but The Spouse is trapped in the dining room with a dead battery in his laptop because the babysitter has slept over on the couch, rendering him loathe to enter the living room and retrieve the cord that enables him to plug the laptop into the wall.

We have a Very Late Breakfast, the sitter leaves, and we venture out to hunt up a few school supplies. Our first stop, one of those underground passages, is fruitless as the shop in which I once bought scissors and highlighting pens is no more. But we get a replacement light bulb, which I then drop.

No problem. It’s fluorescent. We’ll venture over to House of Books, on one of those Arbat streets (I always get Old Arbat and New Arbat mixed up). House of Books has a rather large office/school supply department.

Oh, but the best laid plans can go awry. Hubris overtakes us as in a Greek tragedy. The Metro is busy enough that, on the escalator, a phalanx of Muscovites separates Baboo and me from The Spouse and Skittles. We emerge at the top of the escalator. No Spouse. No Skittles. Nevermind.

Forgetting the First Rule of Separation in the Metro (“STAY PUT! WE WILL COME BACK FOR YOU!”), determined not to let Moscow get the best of me, I soldier on, Baboo in tow.

But I forget where I am going, take a wrong turn, and find myself outside on the street in front of the Lenin Library. This is not right, I proclaim, and, paying for two more Metro rides, Baboo and I reenter the Metro.

Although this is a Metro station with which I have a lot of experience, it is the ONLY point on the entire Moscow Metro where FOUR lines and FOUR stations converge. Two of the lines, the Light Blue/3 and the Dark Blue/4, share two, count ‘em TWO stop names. So although I find what turns out to be the right platform, I am discombobulated enough that I watch the train enter and leave the station twice, just to make sure it is the one I want (the one I want does not continue in the same direction, but pulls in, and then backs out).

I try calling The Spouse, but he either does not have his phone or he is deep enough in the Metro that he is not receiving a signal. I have the money and the Metro pass. He has the shopping list. I know where the bookstore is. I figure he has gone on ahead, and I will find him there, shopping basket full, waiting for me to pay for what he and Skittles have gathered.

Nope. Baboo and I are wandering around in the bookstore when my phone rings. It’s The Spouse. He and Skittles went to his office as he decided they needed a phone.

What else do you need to know? He met us. We used machetes to slash our way through the throngs of fellow shoppers. People looked at me like I just shit myself when they heard me speaking English to the girls, and the cashier didn't even look up from her cash register, but sighed deeply, typed the amount due on her calculator, and showed us that like we were idiots because she mumbled the total and we couldn’t hear her. On the Metro, some drunk guy sneezed a huge sneeze onto the back of Baboo’s head, and a fat lady practically knocked my school supply bag out of my hand to beat Skittles to a seat.

Then, later, in a bizarre epilogue, The Spouse e-mailed a document to his experts in the Office Copy Center and asked for six copies. When he picked them up at 8:00 p.m. last night, the document had printed badly but Copy Center Guy didn't notice, so The Spouse had him do it again, which took 90 minutes. At 9:30 p.m., The Spouse exited into arctic temperatures and rain to walk home. He got almost to our house when he met some drunk. We live just on the other side of the Garden Ring on which there are nine lanes of traffic in each direction and no gardens. So he goes into the underground passage to get to the other side, and in there is a guy absolutely trashed and staggering, and he says to The Spouse in Russian, "Oh, so we find ourselves alone here."

The Spouse just stares in incredulity, wondering if he understood correctly, and Dude says again, "So we're alone." Now, The Spouse hasn't had his shower today because nobody sneezed on the back of his head, and he hasn't shaved. He claims he didn’t look at all like anything anyone would want to be alone with, and just thought, “Oh, God, I am about to get raped right here in the underground passage, 100 meters from my own front door while police cars with sirens race above on the "Garden" Ring with no more important task other than to make sure some VIP doesn't have to wait for red lights.”

Fortunately, The Spouse looked tall and big in his parka from the Moscow Summer Collection and was able to speed walk past Dude telling him in English that “I don't understand,” and, mercifully, Dude went the other direction, shouting the whole way in idiomatic vagrant-ese.

Ah! Moscow. Queen of the Russian Land.

It’s good to be back.

In Which I Go for a Bit of a Ride

I had a little biking adventure tonight.

My sister-in-law (who lives across the street) and I decided to go for a little ride on the Alum Creek Bike Path. I tried to find a link to it, and learned I was near the Three Creeks path, but, apparently rode so little of it, that showing the map is sort of pointless.

SIL was bringing her two dogs along (a coon hound and a labrador). She has a contraption that enables her to hook their leashes to her bike. But we started off less than auspiciously as, one house down from hers, the dogs spotted another dog being taken for a walk. They ran towards Walking Dog, pulling themselves free of the bike. The contraption, thankfully, released them as it was designed to do or SIL would have been pulled right over.  The dogs, thankfully, aimed for opposite sides of a tree, thereby limiting their ability to maul/lick Walking Dog. But it was startling. 

So SIL cobbles her contraption back together and off we go. This bike is the one she flew off of in Michigan last summer (riding with just the coon hound, she hit a pothole in our lane). While her physical therapy is now just about over, the bike never fully recovered, she tells me. 

We ride along for about 20 minutes at a gentle, leisurely pace, as Daisy the Lab has relatively short legs.  Soon the lab is panting, and it's obvious that, in order for Daisy to make it home, SIL has to turn back now.

It's 8:15 p.m. I tell SIL that I intend to go for another 15 minutes before turning towards home. 

"If I'm not back by 9:00," I say, "send out the search party. 

We part. I continue along the bike path, which is lovely. I coast down a long, slow hill, thinking "I'm gonna have to ride UP this long, slow hill, so maybe it's time to turn around." 

But at the bottom of the hill is a sign explaining that this part of the path is one-way, heading down. I can't really turn around here.

So I go left, following a sign for the "Oxbow Loop," thinking this will certainly make a circle. And it does. But, somehow, I miss my exit. 

Next thing I know the path has ended on Alum Creek Drive, but not a part of Alum Creek Drive I have ever seen. I head to the right . . . but after a few hundred meters it looks wrong. So I turn around . . . but after a few hundred meters x 2 it looks REALLY wrong. I am on a road, with plenty of cars and no front light at dusk. I do have a red, flashing thing on the back of my bike, but this is small comfort when I think about being just thrown off the road by a car. Fear is a powerful motivator, and I really moved in order to get the hell off the road.

So with no other options, I head back to the bike path, and, lo and behold, the turn I apparently missed in obvious now. The ride back is, from this point on, delightful. I saw a two deer (one, a young buck with a decent sized rack), lots and lots of rabbits, and all sorts of birds. 

Got home at 9:05 p.m., with no idea how far I had ridden.

I stop by SIL's house to let her know I'm not dead. Her bike has died, she tells me. Not five minutes after we parted, the dog-walking contraption swings loose and eventually punctures her tire. The frame, still bent and damaged from the crash last summer, begins to disintegrate beneath her. She drags the bike off the path, and leaves it in the bushes, so that I will not see its corpse and panic about her safety (wise move). 

We're going to go again tomorrow morning at 7:30, this time without dogs and with her other bike.

Update on LR (my dad): He had surgery yesterday and came home this afternoon. He's a bit cranky because he is left on his own to cope with, among other things, a catheter. I understand that a hospital is a germy place, and one inevitably heals better at home. But, on the other hand, a hospital is full of people who are trained to deal with things like catheters, and where one can find equipment like, oh, hospital beds, for example. Things designed to help one who is burdened with something limiting like, oh, a catheter. At least it is due to come out on Monday. But in the meantime, LR is loathe to ask for help, but rather overwhelmed with the burden of the responsibility.

American healthcare sucks. No two ways about it.

 

In Which I'm Never Going Back to My Old School

I'm writing this from my summer "dacha" in what I call my "ancestral village." That would be a suburb of Columbus, Ohio. Across the street from my little brother and around the corner from my mom's house (the house where I grew up, more or less). 

Through a series of events, some good and some not so good, my dad (we call him "LR") is living in this house. The good part, for me, is that I have a live-in property manager and bartender. The bad news, for him, is that he's trying to sell his condo in this very difficult seller's market. 

The girls and I arrived at the beginning of July, just in time for my 30th high school reunion. That event was overflowing with potential blog material. But since many of the characters providing the material are still alive and might, possibly, read the blog, I don't feel comfortable letting fly as I normally do. Some sort of self-censoring device has kicked in. 

But some highlights I think I can share:

1. I ran into Original High School Crush in the local drug store the day before the reunion. Actually, he might have even been Junior High School Crush . . . it's all sort of murky now, my memory. But, oh, he was so cute in the early 1970s, in a sort of David Cassidy way. I had seen pictures of him on his website, so I recognized him when he walked past me at the end of the aisle where they sell the anti-wrinkle creams (I had been in this aisle, not him). I did a double take. Then he did a double take. I said his name. He looked suspicious until I said my name. And we stood there and chatted for what was actually much too long. I mean, the siren call of the Anti-Wrinkle Cream Aisle was actually stronger than the urge to stand near O or JHSC. Call me cruel, but it was actually so reassuring. I tried to explain this to Eldest Daughter: how, the next eight to ten years will be filled with what will surely feel like life-ending heartbreak. But that 30 years later, when you run into the object of your teenage affection, he will be just a nice, if slightly spacey guy with a satisfying and meaningful career as a musician, and you'll wish him and his wife all the best in the world. And mean it sincerely. It was very liberating, but weird to think how what seemed so important at the time, faded to virtually nothing in retrospect.

2. At the actual reunion, I was struck by how good we all looked as a group. However, a few weeks later when I looked at the photos fellow classmates posted of the event, all I could think was "Who are all these old people?"

3. That said, many classmates have not changed at all. Including a guy who I'll call BG. I honestly cannot, for the life of me, figure out how I ended up necking with BG in high school, but I think it may have even happened on more than one occasion. He did have lots of great curly, dark hair then. It's much shorter now, but he still has hair, for what that's worth. What he never had was what I would call a great intellect. Good-natured persistence? You bet. A Phi Beta Kappa key? Um . . . don't think so. So, imagine my reaction when, fall quarter freshman year, I walked out of Ellis Hall on the Ohio University campus and found him sitting on a bench in front of the building. I don't think he knew I was even going to OU. I certainly didn't know he was. And while he seemed thrilled to see me, in a "Hey, bay-bee!" sort of way, my heart sank. I was sure he flunked out shortly after, as I never saw him again, although I lived in Athens for eight more years. At the reunion, he was the same as I remembered him in 1978: he leered at me and said something about "hooking up later" if I wanted. He had been a fabulous tennis player in high school, I suddenly remembered. "I'll give you tennis lessons this summer," he purred. "Private lessons . . . " Yeah, yeah. I took his card, and asked how long he had lasted in Athens. Oddly, he told me that he was there for FIVE years. Huh. Go figure.

4. A couple of Nice Jewish Boys from my class literally bounced over to me and announced "We're gay, you know!" I hadn't thought about it in 1978, but it sure made sense looking back. My gay-dar wasn't so finely tuned then. One of them confessed to having had a crush on me in high school. Awwww. I had no idea. And one of them, I am fairly sure, was responsible for spilling lye on my leg in Chemistry class. It didn't hurt or cause any damage: I just couldn't figure out why this liquid wasn't evaporating, so I ended up standing in a bucket of water and baking soda. But no harm done, and no ill will. At least I told the NJB it was him. It might have been a different, third NJB. Who, now that I think about it, might have also been gay.

The day after the reunion, the girls and I got in the car and drove to Detroit where we met The Spouse. We spent the next week in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan with my brothers' families (in the same house we rented last year), and the following week visiting his family. While any extended visits with family (and by "extended," I mean any visits lasting more than three days) hold the potential for disaster, neither week provided me with anything snarky to write about. Really.

So now, alas, The Spouse is back in Moscow. While I'm very happy to be here, it does feel odd to have him be so far away and for so long. I don't want the summer to go by quickly. But yet I do.