Local Flavor

Talk about catering to your market. Those crazy Lay's people. I just had to buy these and see what they taste like.


On the left, obviously, is "red caviar" flavor ("krasnaya ikra"). On the right is "shashlik" flavor although, even up close, the cubes of meat on the package look like, well, hooves. There. I said it.

In the interest of accurate reporting, I tasted the caviar chips. They taste like butter. And I don't like them. Although I love butter.

You would think that butter + potatoes would be a great mix. And, I must point out that on the package the dish of caviar is garnished with a curl of butter. Because usually caviar is served on buttered bread.

So I would think the chips would taste like salt and butter.

Which they do.

But not in a good way.

At least they are not fishy.

I expected the shashlik flavored chips to have a barbecue flavor. But instead of that spicy flavor Americans tend to associate with barbecue-flavored chips, these taste like meat. Salty, powdered meat. I know that sounds disgusting, but they are actually rather good. Can't say I will buy these again, but it will not be so difficult finishing this bag.

The children, by the way, were totally disappointed in the chip flavors when The Spouse and I revealed the snacks we purchased for them. Ingrates.

On an unrelated, but highly relevant topic, I'm in a weird limbo, waiting to see how long, exactly, the beet will go on. Economic crisis and all. Should know more later today. I'll post news when I have it. Might have to re-title the blog "The Beet Goes Home."

Kamikaze!

We went to a birthday party last night. It's not a big deal for most people to go to a party on a Saturday night. Not sure it's even blog-worthy. But we had a good time, and it was a real change of pace for us.

The party venue was the office of the host/birthday girl (actually, the party was on the occasion of two birthdays). This office, really a showroom, apparently specializes in very high end wallpapers, furniture, upholstery fabrics, and light fixtures. So the space was beautiful with the walls covered in hand-painted wallpaper (which, I believe, may have actually been silk).

The centerpiece was this huge chandelier of Murano glass.

The hysterical thing about this light fixture was that it seemed to be on some sort of flawed circuit that caused the light to turn off and on at regular intervals. The women who worked in this office said it inevitably turned off at crucial moments during the workday. The Spouse could not figure out why no one bothered to deal with the circuit breaker.

In the background you can get a glimpse of some of the wallpaper. I was not in the room for the discussion, but I believe something like this retails for around 600 euro a meter. Not the thing for a family with young children, that's for sure. If you thought The Great Purple Nail Polish/Sofa Spill of 2002 involved a lot of shouting, any piggy marks on this stuff would result in a Parental Nuclear Meltdown.

There was another great chandelier in the bedroom. This picture gives a better idea about the lovely wallpaper. If you are a friend of mine on Facebook, you can see other photos of the party there.


The party started at 8:00. We arrived fashionably late at 8:45. Our babysitter gets locked out of her dorm at 1:00 a.m., so we need to be home by 11:30 p.m. at the latest in order to give her time to get home. (I asked if she was bribing properly, but she tells me that is useless because the babushka who works the door falls asleep and no amount of pounding will wake her).

We left the party and were hurrying to the Metro when I realized it was 11:23. Panic! I called the sitter to ask if we had already missed the deadline. Poor thing was sleepy and said, "Do you mind if I just stay on the couch tonight?"

Do we mind? Of course not!

So back we went to the party.

Which, by this time, decided we should move on to a club. So we all tumbled out to Novy Arbat and hired "kamikaze taxis" (for a demonstration of how this works, see here). I always called these "gypsy cabs," but The Spouse says the Russians call them "kamikaze" because of their willingness to hurtle across four lanes of traffic to pick up a fare.

There are real taxis in Moscow, but the majority of Muscovites use these private cars that will pick up passengers. To hail one, you just stand on the street and hold out your arm. Sometimes two or even three cars will stop for you as you must haggle with the driver over the fare before entering the car. If you don't like what the driver wants, you walk back to the next car and see what you can negotiate there. The Exile, Moscow's infamous and now defunct alternative paper, has an article here about being a gypsy cab driver. The author explains it all much bettered than I ever could as I have now been in gypsy cabs a grand total of three times. Two of which were last night.

Two hundred rubles got us from Novy Arbat to Chistye Prudy. Where we waltzed right past the bouncers (no "feis control" here) and into this nightclub/bar/restaurant (Krisis Zhanre or Crisis Genre).

It was absolutely packed, but the crowd was really fun. It wasn't a gay bar, but we speculated that it might be gay-friendly. Or maybe Russians and Europeans totally screw up my gay-dar.

There was a dance floor crowded with people and a fun DJ, as well as a fun band (someone told me the singer was the club owner). So we all danced. The birthday girls bought drinks for everyone (in Russia, you buy the drinks on your birthday).

And next thing I knew it was almost 4:00 in the morning. The Spouse and I collected out coats from the coat-check lady, walked outside, and got ourselves another kamikaze taxi home. They were lined up outside the club two deep.

I must have gotten up around 9:30 this morning, but as soon as we fed the kids and waved goodbye to the sitter, I went back to bed until 3:00 p.m.

The funny or at least notable thing about last night was that I was, far and away, the oldest person not only at the party, but probably in the club as well. Some of this I figured out while talking to people. But the other revelations came today with the inevitable new Facebook invitations and examination of people's INFO.

It's weird. I am old enough to be some of these peoples' mother. But when I am hanging out with them I don't feel older. And looking at the photos later, I don't think, "Who let Grandma in?"

So far.

Everybody MOP!

I am in a mood. And if I vent to The Spouse, I feel bad for making him listen to me bitch, and he'll feel all responsible and guilty and that's not the point.

It's not just an expat thing (although my complaints are uniquely expat today, I think). But a male/female thing. Women know that the proper procedure is to
1. listen while I complain,
2. nod compassionately,
3. and then take me shopping.

Men want to fix things, and often there's nothing to be done anyhow except let me ride out the storm.

So you have to listen to my petty whining instead.

My mood came about because of the following:
1. The cat peed on the rug in the dining room a few days ago. (It was Cat-O, and I don't know what happened. He seemed distressed and embarrassed.)
2. Baboo's cello teacher spilled her cup of coffee on the living room rug on Wednesday.
3. I am ovulating as only someone who soon will no longer ovulate can ovulate. Think of that last, giant, black and hairy fly of autumn that will not die. This is what is happening to my reproductive system today. I am PMS Poster Child 2009.

Like the cat, Cello Teacher was also embarrassed by her accident. I laughed it off at the time and, because Skittles rushed to help clean it up, did not even see where it landed until today. There it was. A big, brown, coffee stain on the rug.

This and the prospect of trying to arrange for someone to come and clean my rugs professionally, coupled with the mystery of why I suddenly do not have long distance telephone service today, is not making for an I Heart Moscow feeling.

Okay, I filled a bucket with warm water and some laundry soap. I scrubbed at the coffee stain and it came right up. Easy-peasy when you have polyester rugs.

But then I was on a cleaning rampage. Which led to mopping. Which led to this entry.

Maybe how I mop is interesting. In the US, I had one of those giant, industrial mop buckets. It had wheels. And a detachable bucket I used to hoist into my utility sink in the laundry room to fill and dump. It also had a wringer that attached to the side of the bucket. The whole thing was the size of a Mini Cooper, but, damn, it worked.

The Eastern European method is slightly different.

I clean my own house here in Moscow. Many expats hire someone. I have done this in the past. But the size of my apartment (maybe 110m2) makes paying someone to clean while I sit on the couch and eat bonbons seem inappropriate. Further, I was intimidated by the last cleaning professional I used (I think it was in 2003) . . . a one-time offer, paid for by a sympathetic friend, who thought I could use a treat.

Except that her cleaning lady didn't like my million dollar Dyson vacuum and thought I should buy another, easier-to-use vacuum.

In her defense, I had, at the time, misplaced all the attachments. So vacuuming the couch meant lifting the entire machine up on the cushions and having at it. At least this is what I always did.

She seemed to think that was above and beyond the scope of her job description.

As I said, the attachments somehow re-emerged since then, and I no longer vacuum furniture this way. But the handle pinches, and I just don't want to have to defend my choice of vacuum to anyone! It is a sore point with me.

But I digress.

I was explaining how I mop.

It is the Slovak method, which is a variation on a technique I saw in Argentina (where I did not mop my own floors, but instead paid someone else more than it would cost me now for a similar size apartment while I sat on my couch in Buenos Aires and ate bonbons). There they used a squeegee instead of a broom. But I'm getting ahead of the story.

First, you assemble your equipment: bucket with soapy water, gloves, broom, specially-purchased piece of yellow terrycloth-like fabric designed for cleaning floors, and a clothespin.


You put the cloth in the bucket, wring it out, and lay it on the floor like this:


Fold the cloth over the broom:



Now, this part is optional. But I like to clip it in place with a clothespin to keep the cloth in place. I clip the pin on my shirt sleeve while I am rinsing and wringing out the cloth.


Rinse and repeat as needed.

And there you go. Mopping, Eastern European style.

Three Cheers for Aeroflot!

Can you believe I said that?

But seriously. A Vigilant Beet-nik reports that my blog got a mention in the latest issue of their in-flight magazine.

Shame on me for noticing on our return from Bratislava that with the new month came a new issue. Yes, I noticed the new cover. But I never even picked it up.

If you get a chance, save one for me, will you?

But I Digress

A rather mundane day, today.

Skittles has a half day of school on Wednesdays (except for the once-a-month Free Wednesday, which is coming up next week). Baboo never has school on Wednesdays (Ahhhh! Bliss!). So she lounges and sleeps late.

Skittles' passport is due to expire in February 2010. Assuming we are still around that long (in today's economic crisis climate, nothing is certain), we are renewing our 12-month visas in April . . . which means her passport needs to be valid at least until April 2010.

So off to the US embassy we go. All four of us. Because when it is a child applying for a passport or a passport renewal, both parents have to go too. And Baboo gets dragged along.

I had not yet been inside this embassy. Generally, I hate going to the embassy. The security measures. The fear I'm going to be there when it gets blown up. It's more the tedium than the anxiety. But still. At best, it is inconvenient.

The Spouse intended to meet us there, but a phone call delayed him. Since Skittles finishes school at noon, I was worried that the girls would be faint with hunger. When we exited the Metro at Barrikadnaya, I looked for a kiosk selling something I could
1. recognize and
2. order.

There's always Crap Dogs, but I'm not a fan of the crap dog. Outside the Barrikadnaya Metro are a lot of food vendors, especially those selling kebabs and Armenian-type filled breads.

The day was gray and drizzly. The girls and I settled on a vendor. I looked at the sign. The kebabs looked good. But it seemed like a conversation-intense endeavor ("Do you want A? Or B? With X? Or with Y?"). I didn't want to have to struggle that hard.

The Armenian-type filled breads seemed safer. I could not determine how to say the item stacked behind the kiosk window. But I could see from the big sign over the kiosk window that I had choices: with meat, with cheese, with meat and cheese, and some other option I was not interested in deciphering.

"Which one do you want?" I polled the children.

We all voted for "with cheese." I can say "with cheese."

Baboo tried to sound out exactly what the bread product was called.

"Screw it," I said. "I'm saying 'Three. With cheese'."

We agreed this would work.

I approached the window. "Hello," I said in Russian to the nice lady inside. "Three. With cheese." I gestured towards the stacks of bread to my right.

"Kebabs with cheese?" She gestured to my left. Where the kebab meat was. She seemed confused.

"No. This." I gestured right. That made more sense to her. I don't think kebabs generally come with cheese.

"You want these warmed up?" she asked.

Oh, thank God. I understood her.

Yes, yes, that would be cool.

"You want rfkhjgfhr gfhqoi? A little bit?" she asked.

Huh? Uh oh. I am stumped.

I turn to Baboo. "Something, something, a little bit?" I ask. Baboo shrugs. She is stumped as well.

"I don't know," I tell the lady sadly.

Apparently it was not crucial. She felt my pain. And took my 60 rubles.

We ate our Armenian-type breads in the rain, waiting for The Spouse who, now freed from his phone call, said he would meet us at the embassy.

Now, the problem I was anticipating was the photos. I already had pictures done of Skittles while we were in Bratislava because I knew where to go and how it works. Yeah, there is a photo place on the corner here that I walk past every freakin' day. But I've never been in there. I've been to the little booth in the Tesco in the Bratislava Old Town a million times.

Except Dude there cropped the photos too small. What, exactly, is 2 inches by 2 inches in metric? I said, "For passport" and, Dude, he understood. And her head was big enough. But they weren't no 2 inches by 2 inches these photos. No siree.

I showed them to the Nice Man at the embassy. And, to my surprise, he gave me the address for a nearby photo place, complete with instructions in Russian (turns out it is 5 cm by 5 cm). It was the kind thing to do, but, honestly, I did not expect that from my embassy. Color me impressed.

I had looked for a photo place while walking from the Metro to the embassy because I suspected I would need one. But these small businesses are often tucked in the basement of apartment buildings or accessible through courtyard passages. I knew enough about Moscow to know one would certainly be nearby and that I might have a snowball's chance in hell of locating it on my own. So having Nice Man hand me the address was a huge help.

Because, sure enough, you had to walk behind one of those gigantic apartment buildings to find the door, which led us through a rabbit warren in the building basement. Yes, there were signs on the front of the building (and no, the basement was not at all scary). But I could have wandered that neighborhood for hours without stumbling on the shop.

So we got photos. I took them back to the embassy. Nice Guy told us it would be two weeks. Then we went for sushi. Because The Spouse was hungry. And who doesn't like sushi?

Later, coming out of our Metro on the way home, I saw a woman selling strawberries. 250 grams of strawberries for 100 rubles. Today that's $2.85 and a BARGAIN! I bought the same size package in Bratislava last week for a euro (which is these days $1.20), I swear. But what can you do?

I bought some. The girls and I ate them with wonderful Russian sour cream (only 15 percent fat this time . . . I usually buy something richer).

I hope she's there again tomorrow.


The story of the strawberries was what I sat down here to write about. How I got off on the other details escapes me. Maybe it's the wine?

The Peasants Are Revolting

Yesterday was a holiday. The kids had school, but The Spouse did not have to go to work. So after an early morning coffee with a girlfriend, I met him in Red Square.

I'm sorry, but that does sound exotic, doesn't it? I met him in Red Square. I'm gonna miss getting to say things like this after we've left Moscow.

We decided to go here:
This is the Moscow State Historical Museum on Red Square. You can read about it here. And here. The official website is here, but it is only in Russian. Not much help to the tourist. Screw you, tourist! Learn Russian like the rest of us!

This is the ticket to the museum, front and back:


Russia can be like that. Often doors into museums and churches are so NOT marked as to seem inappropriate to walk through. This one was an exception, however. Anyone--even the Russian-language-challenged tourist--can easily see where to enter. And the nice lady taking tickets will very helpfully explain that you need to go up the stairs and keep turning left to follow the exhibit in a logical order.

"Go up, up, up. Then left, left, left," she told us.

"She sure was nice," I said to The Spouse as we went first to the coat check. He agreed.

"Too bad she didn't speak a word of English," I pointed out.

Russia isn't always user-friendly. I sometimes wonder what my mother-in-law, for example, would do if someone dropped her into Russia, and she decided to go visit the Moscow State Historical Museum on Red Square by herself. She probably would see the exhibit all backwards or something.

In fact, we did go through the top floor of the museum the wrong way. We regressed from just before the Revolution to the War of 1812 or so.

We realized this as we were standing in front of a display case.

"Oh. Hey. The peasants are revolting," I said.

Without missing a beat, The Spouse replied, "Yeah, and you don't smell so good yourself."

I'm BACK, Baby!

Spent the past two weeks or so with the girls in Bratislava.

Yeah. I know.

Who goes to Bratislava for a holiday? I do, I guess.

It was lovely, actually, and very nostalgic. After all, we lived there for almost seven years.

Somehow, I bullied a nice man I don't really know all THAT well into letting us stay in his apartment while he went to Dubai to celebrate his 30th birthday (Do I really know men that young? Guess I do.). Turns out the apartment was in one of my favorite corners of the city (off Palisady, right next door to Traja Musketieri). It is a part of town that I rarely got to walk through, although I always regretted that. So for about a week, I got to look at the buildings closely, peek into gardens, consider the renovations. It was a treat.


Then, we moved over to an apartment behind the Tesco in the center of town. This business belongs to the fellow who is partly responsible for Cat-O (his girlfriend at the time was the one who called and said they had a kitten if I wanted it . . .).

The cool thing about this location is that it is right where the novel, The Chess Machine, takes place. I bought the book on my mom's recommendation, since she said it takes place in 1770s Bratislava (or Pressburg, as it would have been called then). And immediately I realized that if you take the names of the streets, and change them from German to Slovak, I know exactly where all the action took place. Donaustrasse becomes Dunajska. Herrenstrasse becomes Panska. I've walked those streets for years, and it made for a very fun read. I can't say if the book would be so enjoyable if I didn't know intimately every block.

How does Bratislava compare to Moscow, you may ask?

It sure is cheaper. I saw heads of broccoli for about a euro (Slovakia went to the euro on January 1). Here they cost about 150 rubles (just under $5). I bought strawberries for a song (they are still well over $10 for a box here). Skittles got her bangs trimmed for 3 euro.

No stray dogs. All the dogs we saw were with someone.

More graffiti. There isn't much in our part of Moscow. Maybe farther out in the suburbs there is.

People seem so young there. And less jaded. But perhaps more naive? (The elevator in the Au Park mall still never ceases to amaze.)

It's so small. Even without a car there, getting around via public transportation or just on foot was easy and sometimes downright pleasant.

And quiet. I often woke to the sounds of birds in the mornings. Walking here, especially with a hat on, makes it impossible to hear anything. The traffic is very loud.

And sleepy. I was noticing how many cafes and restaurants in the Old Town close at 10:00. I think there is a noise ordinance.

But my favorite part? I must confess. My favorite part of Slovakia was always Austria. Last Saturday I got to go to what I consider The Happiest Place on Earth. Peter Szigeti poured glass after glass of champagne for me to try until I happily rolled back to the car (I was not driving), and my dear friends took me to Nagelreiter for lunch. Grilled chicken salad. Sigh.

That was bliss.

Speaking of which, here I am with one of my favorite people in the whole world. We're sort of a mess in this photo, not just because we had drunk a lot of wine before bullying her darling husband into taking photos of us.

It is hard to tell in the photo, but she's probably on her way to a Harry Potter-type scar on her forehead. She wasn't zapped by an evil wizard, but turned around suddenly during play rehearsal and cracked her head into another actor.

I, on the other hand, am a victim of my own inability to learn. To learn that when you go to have your eyebrows plucked in Slovakia, and they say, "Farbit'?" ("Color?") and you say "JEMNE!" ("lightly" or "gently") that you cannot trust them not to turn you into Baby Jane.

I will never learn. But you can benefit from my stupidity. Just say, "No."


It has faded significantly since this photo. But still The Spouse paused this morning during breakfast, and said I looked like this:

How We Take Taxis in Russia

The whole "gypsy cab" process explained:



Here is what they are saying in English:

Putin: Good evening. Will you drop me off at the Kremlin?
Driver: Do you know the way?
Putin: Not very well. I'm from St. Petersburg.
Driver: How much?
Putin: Well, I don't know. 200? [About $6US these days]
Driver: Let's agree on 300 and go!
Putin: No, for 300 I will not go. Excuse me.
Driver: Okay, let's go.
Putin: Excuse me, may I? [These lights give civilian cars priority in traffic. Think Kojak. Except everyone in Russia has one.]
Driver: No need. I've got my own.

Snapshots of Moscow (Except I Didn't Have My Camera)

Argh! How often have I stumbled on something hilarious or horrible or incredible and not had my camera! That said, I think there are folks who would not appreciate having someone document them for an international audience (yeah, I'm taking some liberties with that definition).

Anyhow, in no particular order, since Friday I have seen the following:

1. While in line at the grocery store I find myself behind a woman in a powder blue fur coat. It's really fluffy fur (I have no idea what it could be). She looks like she is wearing a pale blue cloud of cotton candy. Her hair is bleached a very pale blond and pulled back tightly in a slicked down chignon. Her cart is full of party supplies: clear plastic cups, white paper plates, packages of sliced salami. She has about four baguettes.

As she leans over into the cart to retrieve her items, she can't help but raise one foot in an arabesque. Her shoe is practically in my face. This shoe. Note that on eBay, this shoe goes for $545.

I watch Sex in the City. I know shoes this expensive exist. But I have never had real designer shoes, Jimmy Choos no less, right under my nose.

How can anyone walk outside on the Moscow sidewalks in $545 shoes? How can anyone walk in these shoes at all.

They were gorgeous. The photo doesn't do them justice.

Really.

I'm completely green with envy.

2. Last night while waiting for a friend at the exit of the Lenin Library Metro (in the under-the-street-mall part . . . not where I saw the Pooping Guy. But close.) I saw what had to be a Person in Transition. How can you tell if someone is a transsexual? I've heard some people say the wrists are a dead give away. This person was extremely tall, wearing black high-heeled boots and an orange silky skirt under a black wool coat. She had on just a bit too much blue eye shadow. And she was perusing the kiosk that sells lingerie. (Yeah. You can buy lingerie in the Metro. Don't ask me how that works.)

I tried to get a photo of her with my mobile phone, but she decided to look at the purse vendor instead. I didn't want to stalk.

3. But while turning to see where she went, my eye caught a nicely-dressed woman . . . swivel. That's the only word for the movement. She swiveled. She looked to be about my age . . . maybe a little younger. She was wearing a sporty-looking pink, suede jacket with pink fur trim on the hood. She looked like someone's mom. And she was . . . weaving. She looked drunk.

I was wondering, "What if she's having a stroke?" (That's what Aeroflot said was responsible for their obviously drunk pilot a few months ago.) I know there are some simple questions you're suppose to ask someone you suspect is having a stroke.

NB: I had to google them. Turns out we should ask the person to

1. Smile (look for one-sided facial weakness)
2. Raise both arms (look for them to be raised at the same height)
3. Speak a simple sentence (listen for slurring)

Now: how to do this in Russian?

But crisis averted. She ricochets over to the ticket kasse (there are ticket booths around town, often in or near the Metro, where you can buy tickets to all sorts of cultural events). Ticket Kasse Lady greets her like a sister. Hands her some tickets. Huh. She doesn't seem to think anything is wrong. Maybe the woman has already had a stroke and always walks a little funny? Ya think?

3a. (Because it wasn't weird at all) The Spouse took me and a friend to a totally cool little bar/restaurant not far from his office last night. Above an old theater, the joint used to be a restaurant for actors only. Now it has a charming ambiance, high ceilings with crown moldings, a bar you can actually belly up to, a pleasant menu (I had the pâté assortment and it was good), and very reasonable prices.

4. While walking home around 11:00, I saw two young women riding horses in the park in the middle of Tverskoy Bulvar. Actually, it is not that unusual to see people riding at odd hours because the traffic is less of an issue then.

5. Today, while walking through the under-the-street underpass by Triumfalnaya Ploshad/Square, I heard music. Often young guys with guitars hang out there. Some of them play while their buddies hit up the pedestrians for money. They are never interesting enough to make me want to give them anything. Plus, I resent being pressured.

But today there was an older woman wearing the most incredibly thick and woolly sort of fur coat I have ever seen. With the hood up, she looked like Mama Bear. She was sitting at an electronic keyboard, playing classical music, while wearing gloves. That's gotta be tough, no?

I met The Spouse and the children for lunch at Starlite Diner (I love Starlite Diner. They always have the best music playing.) and when we walked back, she was still there. I made The Spouse give me some money for her. Baboo put it in her tip jar.

New Topic: Monday, the girls and I go to Bratislava until March 6. So things might be a bit quiet here Chez Beet. If you remember, stop by and vote for the blog. Here's the link again. There's not much in it for the winner, but I have a real competitive streak. Then, next month, go back and vote for the woman with the DogCents blog. Seems like a real worthy cause.

Thoughts on Sex Ed

The talks with the kids recently have made me think about my own education on the topic and some of the more amusing (I hope) aspects of that. If it isn't too mortifying, post your own in the comments section. Oh, heck: the more mortifying, the better, right?

One of my earliest memories of being aware of even understanding all of this was going to camp and having to get a check up at the doctor's and fill out a form. I must have been in about fifth grade, which would make me roughly the age Baboo is now. There was a question on the form about menstruation, and I remember explaining what that meant to a girlfriend who was also going to camp. I'll have to ask her if she remembers that conversation (it was on the sidewalk in front of my house) and if what I said had any basis in reality.

As for the mechanics of reproduction, I thought it was all involuntary. Like ovulation. You can't control it. It just happens. Women have this small window of time in which they can conceive, and most of the time it sort of just sneaks up on you.

I thought it was the same for men. No one explained the concepts of lust or, heaven forbid, just plain friction. So I thought erections were spontaneous (I guess in teenage boys they sort of are) and had this hysterical image in my head of the executive, hurriedly leaving a meeting in the middle of the workday because "Oh, no! Here it comes!" and running home to his wife. I never did work out how husband and wife both explained that they had to leave work RIGHT NOW! At least, junior feminist that I was, I had it in my head that they both worked outside the home.

The image still cracks me up.

The (Dreaded) F-Word

"Flossing."

What does it always have to be flossing? First the kegels. Now this. The endless Middle Age Maintenance. When does it end? The grave?

It's been painful to chew on my left side for ages now. I already had one filling replaced, but the problem didn't go away. Last night my tooth felt . . . sensitive. At lunch, too. Honestly, I always thought people who complained about sensitive teeth were wimps.

At my medical center across the street they scheduled me with a new guy. French and oh, so fragrant. I love having my head tucked into a B.O. armpit. Almost as much as I like hearing, "I'm going to give you some anesthesia here so I can clean under the gums." Indeed, I didn't feel a thing. I also can't breathe on the left side of my nose right now.

Continuing in the F-word vein, Baboo has been having sex education at school these days. They are supposed to understand how the opposite sex is set up and "human reproduction." So it has been a hot topic Chez Beet.

They both understand conception, but what about contraception? I tried the Woody Allen line about oral contraception ("I want to tell you a terrific story about oral contraception. I asked this girl to sleep with me, and she said 'No.' ").

C'mon. It's funny.

They just blinked at me in a "Oh, Mo-ther!" way. Maybe they don't see the humor. Or maybe they think teaching abstinence is futile.

The topic came up again at lunch today.

"We do it, you know," I pointed out.

"Yeah, well, we wish you wouldn't," came the reply.

Huh?

The moaning. The groaning. It's off-putting. We don't need anymore children, do we? They think we should just wait. Until they've moved out.

I'm of two minds about this. On the one hand, they should be glad their parents have more than "hallway sex" (where we say "fuck you" when we pass each other in the hall). On the other hand, if they find the idea horrific, maybe it will delay their interest in doing it themselves. I want them to have healthy attitudes about sex. The woman in me thinks sex a very good thing. But the parent in me reacts on a visceral level to my children being sexual beings just yet. Ask me again when they are young women, I suppose.

I've given up on what we used to euphemistically refer to as "naps." There was a time and a floor plan that enabled us to put them in front of a movie on a weekend afternoon and scamper upstairs for an uninterrupted hour. In this apartment, however, our bedroom is across the hall from the living room. Without us ever discussing it, "naps" have become real naps in Moscow.

Now that we had The Talk at lunch, I'm going to feel self-conscious even at night with all appropriate bedroom doors closed.

I guess after my cold shower I can always floss, right?

I'm Not Lovin' It

A gray and slushy February day is not going to make anyone fall in love with any city. Even Paris would be charm-free today, I'm sure. But sheesh. Moscow.

I was walking to the Metro today to collect the children from school and thinking about how, before I moved here, everyone I spoke to who had previously lived in Moscow positively gushed about the place. "Oh, you're going to love it!" "Oh, we had such fun there."

Um. I'm waiting. It's been over a year. Where's the fun?

I don't hate it. But my life here is rather routine.

Wake up. Fix breakfast. Arrange lunches. Send family out the door. Clean the house. Do some laundry. Provision. Play on the Internet. Read a little. Talk to The Spouse on the phone. Collect children from school. Supervise homework. Prepare dinner. Greet The Spouse. Put children to bed. Watch some TV. Talk about our day. Lather, rinse, repeat.

Not unpleasant. But not memorable.

When I gently grumbled to The Spouse, he suggested the reason I'm not having more fun is that there is limited fun to have inside our apartment with two children.

"We never go out without the kids!" he said. And he's right.

Finding a perfect babysitter here has well and truly stumped me.

I have a lovely young woman, a college student. She's great. But she lives a million miles away in a university dorm that locks its doors around midnight. I have to keep a close eye on the time so she can take the Metro back. She has spent the night on our couch a few times, but our apartment is small . . . It's a good solution now and then, but I wouldn't want to do it every week. And I think neither would she, especially during the week.

I talked to my Russian neighbor about her 14-year-old daughter. She's willing, but has activities of her own. And, truthfully, I would feel guilty keeping a 14-year-old up even as late as 11:00 on a school night. I might have to try her on a Saturday. But a lot of regular expat activities take place Tuesday through Thursday.

When I post ads on the expat forums, I either get Filipinas who want to be full time nannies, people who expect that my driver will take them home, or, forgive me, African students. I feel bad about sending a young woman of color home on the Metro late at night. Yeah, they are adults and can make up their own minds. But I would worry every single time that they might run into trouble. I feel bad enough sending my white sitter home by herself at night.

What about high school kids from my kids' school? Lots of them live near the school, which is a 30-minute walk from our door. But I can't send a high school kid to walk home alone in the dark. And I don't want to walk someone home at that hour either.

Am I over-analyzing this? Making it harder than it needs to be? Just plain whiny?

Like a Seinfeld Episode: It's About Nothing

Both kids had sleepovers last night. Baboo was invited to a friend's house, so Skittles took that opportunity to invite a classmate to stay with us.

Other peoples' kids are always a mystery. I only saw this child for about 30 seconds at school on Friday with whom I thought was her mother. Mom wasn't being very chatty, so I nodded "Hello" and told Skittles to have her friend's parents call one of us to arrange Saturday night.

Friday night about 10:00, my phone rings. It's the kid. I hand the phone to The Spouse since I am not equipped to discuss Russian street names with a French-speaker. (What is the French version of "anglicizing" something? They transliterate the Cyrillic differently than we do. Sometimes I have a tough time figuring out addresses on birthday party invitations.)

The Spouse has a conversation in French with the child who keeps covering the phone and addressing her mother. Just as he begins to wonder "Why don't you just let me talk to your mom?" he realizes the mom doesn't speak French.

Eureka! He tells the child to give the phone to Mom, and they work out the details. In Russian.

Saturday comes. I deliver Baboo to her host's. Around 6:00, as arranged, Skittles' guest arrives. She and I go down to the street to meet her (it's easier than explaining which door and how to work our temperamental "dom-o-fon").

Impeccably Dressed Guest Child and even more Impeccably Dressed Mom appear. This is not the woman from school, I realize. That was clearly Grandma (who, to be honest, is closer to my age than Mom is). Mom, as we learned on the phone, doesn't speak English or French, but she's got a GIANT cake for us. She's lovely and charming, and we establish that she will collect Guest Child on Sunday at 11:00.

Guest Child is adorable and polite. She's a bit overwhelmed by The Spouse and resists all his attempts to joke with and charm her. He lobs something at her. She just blinks. But alone with Skittles, I hear her laughing and playing.

I go to the grocery store for emergency breakfast bacon. While there, I turn around suddenly and just miss crashing into a very elegant woman with bleached blond hair pulled in a chignon. She's wearing a full-length mink coat. And carrying a nervous, brown Chihuahua that is exactly the same color as her coat.

The Chihuahua's nose is wet.

It takes all my self-control not to touch it.

Mink Lady is oblivious, but Chihuahua and I bond over near the nuts and bottled waters.

My phone rings as I approach yogurt.

It's Impeccably Dressed Mom.

"This is Guest Child's Mom," she says in Russian. I panic. I cannot hand the phone to The Spouse because I am in the grocery store. Alone. "Is everything fine?" she asks me.

Whew. I understand what she's saying. "Yes, yes. Everything good," I reply. She's apparently satisfied with that and the conversation ends.

Chihuahua ends up in the checkout line in front of me. Again, I resist touching his nose. But it is a struggle for me. (And here I must confess that sometimes I surreptitiously touch other peoples' fur coats in the Metro. Yeah. That sounds creepy, I know. But they are so soft . . . and it's right there in front of you on the escalator. And the owner will never know . . .) I do manage to make cooing sounds and earn a nice smile from Mink Lady. But she does not invite me to pet her boy, and Chihuahua looks just nervous enough that I can envision losing a finger. THAT would be good blog material.

In spite of all the snow we received yesterday afternoon the night is relatively warm, and the sidewalks are practically clear.

The little street that leads to the store is quiet, but suddenly two cars come racing towards one another. They reach each other at a point where cars are parked on both sides, forcing them into a Mexican standoff. As I approach the street, neither one gives to let the other through.

I cross the street, watching to see who will back down.

They are still sitting there, nose-to-nose.

I get to the trash dumpsters at the end of our "driveway." They are still sitting there, staring each other down.

This is one of the many reasons I do not drive in Moscow.

Arriving home, I find the girls watching a DVD. When it finishes, I announce it is time for pajamas. They must retire to the bedroom (we've set up the inflatable double bed), but they can chat as long as they want.

Guest Child announces that she would like to take a shower.

Okay. My kids are not enamored of hygiene. But it would not be unheard of for a child to have the habit of bathing daily. Mine do so only under duress. Especially Skittles. But hey: maybe this will be a good influence. Peer pressure and all.

I realize then that Guest Child has brought her own towels.

Is that weird? I think it's weird.

The Spouse suggests later that Guest Child has been going around our place with a bottle of disinfectant in hand, but, when I press him further, he confesses merely that she has brought and is actually wearing her house slippers.

That's not weird. The fact my kids refuse to wear theirs is weird. But her own towels?

As expected, she had never seen American style pancakes before. Or maple syrup. She ate hers this morning, but it was clearly new and different for her. That's okay: this is the point of visiting other people. See how they live.

Baboo, for example, was introduced last night to the concept of raclette. She loved it, but what's not to love? Melted cheese, slices of ham or sausage, boiled potatoes . . . it's a very good thing. And if I had pressed her to try it, it is likely she would have looked at me as if I were nuts.

There is no point or moral to my post today. Just a snapshot of our day. And some real snapshots thrown in for good measure.

Below is a picture that illustrates how close my grocery store is. I am standing at our trash dumpsters, which is perhaps halfway between my front door and the store. The store is the blue spot on the ground floor of the tall apartment building.


Here is a photo of today's snow. It's hard to capture it in a photo, but the fogginess is the snow. This is around noon.


And because he asked nicely, this is for Loyal Beet-nik, A.M. A little Crooky action.

Snowy Saturday

Uncharacteristically, we were out and about today. It was snowing cats and dogs.

Here is Baboo, pretty in pink.

Our "backyard."


On the Garden Ring near Prospekt Mira, we saw this wedding entourage-mobile.


City sidewalks, busy sidewalks. Near Lubyanka. Typically, part of the sidewalk is blocked to protect pedestrians from ice and snow that might fall off the building.


In Chistye Prudy Park. The man near the statue is removing snow.


Everyone is out for a stroll.


This photo is a bit blurry because I was trying to be discreet. The woman on the left is a typically dressed young Muscovite. Her friend is uncharacteristically Goth. They were taking turns posing and snapping each other's photos against the backdrop of the snowy park.

Hat Trick of Horror?

Okay, not really. But I was on the Metro today, musing about how I lead such a boring, uneventful life . . . how Friday the 13th means nothing to me . . . and then the following three things happened.

1. There is always a potential for a scrum of people at the bottom of any Metro escalator. I don't understand the algorithms that go into determining when we get to have both escalators working. But usually we just get one in each direction. So we scrum, rugby style, pushing forward into one another's personal space.

Infringement of personal space is not uncommon, and I have grown immune to these intrusions. Yet, today, at the transfer between Sretenskiy Bulvar and Chistye Prudy Metro stops, I felt unusually assaulted from behind.

I was bumpedbumpedbumped by what I initially assumed was a woman. It happens. There is a demographic consisting of older women, those who grew up under communism, who have morphed into Old Bats. They are aggressive and nasty. They drop Metro doors on your face without for a minute considering that someone else may be right behind them. They shove you aside in order to exit a car when you are also, obviously, planning to exit.

This is what I assumed was behind me. So I paid it no never mind at first.

Until, on the escalator, I realized it was still RIGHT BEHIND ME. The escalator is everyone's chance to spread out a little. I can leave a step between me and my fellow passenger.

Whatever was behind me did not.

The geometry of the escalator steps resulted in a nose RIGHT IN MY LEFT EAR.

I assumed my best Big City Vision . . . that ability to don virtual blinders and ignore whatever social transgression is occurring beside me.

I was succeeding, too.

Until it made a loud KISS noise in my ear.

That's it, ladies and gentlemen: EVERYBODY OUT OF THE POOL!

I decided to climb the stairs, rather than riding along, laughing about the creep behind me.

Ugh. Although I had a shower before leaving the house, I now desperately need another.

2. I change trains. Exiting at Lubyanka involves two, short escalators. As I step off the first, I hear a BELLOW!

Hmm. This should be interesting. Clearly, there is a very angry, very drunk man ahead.

I go around the corner and step onto the second escalator.

The bellowing continues. This is going to be good, whatever it is.

As I ascend, I scan the faces of the people descending into the Metro. They all have that incredulous, Jesus-Christ-On-A-Popsicle-Stick look in their eyes.

Disappointingly, I never get to see the Angry Man. But I can hear him, always slightly ahead of me, as I ride up the escalator, pass through the doors, and emerge in the underpass mall.

This is one mad dude. His voice echos through the passage. But I never get to see who he is, nor speculate about what has caused him to vent his frustration so loudly.

Maybe he got a wet, juicy, uninvited kiss in his ear, too?

3. The finale is a bit of a let down after items 1 and 2. As I walk up the steps that lead me to the street, I hear a crash and turn in time to see a woman fall, face first, down the steps, landing on her knees.

Actually, what I see are the soles of her black, high-heeled boots. She has tripped.

What I feel, karma be damned, is schadenfreude.

Okay, I am not really that cruel. Call it relief then. Relief that even the Russians get thrown for a loop by high-heeled boots in the winter.

I'm in the Lead!

At least for the moment. Thanks to everyone who has been voting for me. Here's the link again.

New Cat Update: While Crooky is cute, she has hygiene issues. I've had to clean klingons off her little behind twice in two days now. I'm sure it is a common issue with longer-haired cats (and I have never owned a long-haired cat before). Possibly it is a result of not having time with Mama for sufficient training. Whatever the case, she is less welcome on beds and furniture than she once was. Not without Butt Inspection anyhow.

Original Cat Update: I offered Cat-O Sheba brand cat fud yesterday. This is cat fud that looks so nice, I would even consider eating it. Again, he did his burying-something-foul gesture and walked away. This is a cat who once hooked a slice of hot dog I had put in his dish and flipped it out in disdain. He just wants his crunchies. And a little plain yogurt now and then. Thank you.

Book Recommendation: Around the Bloc: My Life in Moscow, Beijing, and Havana by Stephanie Elizondo Griest. I've only read the part about Moscow so far. And while it is slightly dated, it is also a very good description of life in Russia. Here is a link to the author's site with a description of this book.

Ice Update: Coincidentally, the Moscow News had this story about slippery streets last week. Apparently, City authorities had recommended elderly citizens "refrain from going out alone." I guess the buddy system isn't just for sharing a bottle of vodka.

Smut Update: While I hate to give this woman any more publicity, she is sort of like a bloody car crash: you can't help looking. I would also like to take this opportunity to deny rumors that I am her/she is me. I write much better sex scenes than she does. Unfortunately for you, I must wait until The Spouse and my mother are painlessly beamed up by aliens before I can share those writing samples with you here.

The Bigger They Are . . .

I keep forgetting to take my camera with me when I go out so I can document for you the state of the entrance to our building. Today, I finally remembered.

On the Plaintiff's Steps, the individual steps are obscured by the ice that wraps itself over the edges. One false move, and you will slide off and land in The Lake of Doom.

Today is much better: the Lake of Doom has shrunk a bit, and you can see that the building maintenance crew has sprinkled some grit on the steps.


Yesterday, I encountered an old lady with a shopping schlepper standing, helplessly, on the far side of the Lake. The only way to continue on what I loosely call "the sidewalk," was by walking on the lowest step: the Lake covered the entire sidewalk. I saw her there, dithering about how to navigate the journey. Abandoning my own groceries and any attempt to speak Russian, I just started saying, "WAIT! WAIT! I will help you!" I took her by the arm and led her across.

If I understood her properly, she said, "WHAT a winter!" And, given her age, I'll bet she's seen a few.

Skittles fell down on the way to school yesterday. Baboo has Wednesdays off, so it was just Skittles and The Spouse. They had barely reached the corner, when Skittles went down in spite of the fact The Spouse was holding her hand.

As she got back up, muttering, "Well, THAT was fun," The Spouse went down. Feet-over-his-head-cartoon-style down.

It was to be his first fall of the day.

The second came last night as he walked home from the local expat hangout/bar. He was talking to me on the phone about who he had met there when suddenly I heard a crash and a curse.

It is a very helpless feeling to shout, "ARE YOU OKAY!" into a phone when you can only imagine your words, spilling out on the other end into the dark Moscow night.

Thankfully, only his pride was wounded.

I cannot begin to imagine navigating Moscow's winter streets while on crutches.

Humor the Proud New Owner

So the blog has (temporarily) turned into Grandma's Brag Book. I'm very sorry. Bear with me just a little longer. A vigilant Beet-nik specially requested more cat pix, and who was I to refuse?

Here is the little angel with Cat-O. Look! They're sleeping together in the Cat Chair! Awww. So cute!


Here's a pretty good shot of The Tail. It's a riot, this tail.

Today, I opened a pouch of that smelly Cat Fud. I divided it between two bowls and offered each cat its own bowl.

Crooky ate hers.

Cat-O smelled his. Then he began to paw at the floor near the bowl. As if he were in the cat box. Burying.

He's done this before when he has inadvertently tracked poo from the box to some other part of the house. He realizes something smells BAD, and makes as if he were burying it. It's a dead give away for me that I need to look carefully and see what needs to be cleaned up.

So when he did it next to his bowl of Cat Fud in a Pouch, well, I guess it really does taste as good as it smells.

Not.

Meet Crooky

Because of the crooked tail.

My uncle said the words "Siberian Forest Cat." The national cat of Russia. Sounds good to me.

In Which We Let the Cat Out of the Bag

The Cat arrived.

"Primo" bides his time.

In other Moscow news . . .

While out today, we saw a Cinderella carriage drawn by two white horses. On the Garden Ring. That's a little like seeing a horse-drawn carriage in the middle of the Indy 500.

Then, while walking through one of those "Under the Street Underpasses," we saw a guy playing Mack the Knife.

On a saw.

And not particularly well.

Baboo said, "My day just keeps getting weirder and weirder."

She's So Cold Like an Ice Cream Cone

Current Temperature: A very balmy -6C
Snow: Um, yeah. Non-stop since about 2:00 this afternoon.

I would be humming "We're havin' a heat wave . . . a tropical heat wave . . ." if it weren't for the snow that suddenly started this afternoon.

It was in the -20C range over the weekend. I, wisely, remained inside most of the weekend, except for an hour on Sunday when The Spouse and I dragged ourselves to the bank, the pet supply store (to buy what a dear friend refers to as "shitty-kitty"), and the grocery store. Everyone has been sick, and it was a good excuse to hibernate indoors. Not that we ever do much more on the weekends anyhow. Just this time there was not even a smidgen of guilt.

It's a fun bug, with a painful, unproductive cough that no drug, NO DRUG can lessen. Made all the more annoying by the fact I wet my pants every other time I cough. Worse than the unfortunate Trampoline Incident of 2002. I tell you, Midge, I am kegeling my brains out here. I ought to be able open a beer bottle by now. Why can't I cough with confidence? Why?

On to prettier thoughts. Below is a picture of the window in the door in our bedroom. This is the interior door (most Moscow doors and windows are double). The room was toasty warm . . . or I was in and out of fever/chill cycles all weekend and didn't attribute temperature changes to the environment. I was not so delirious that I couldn't see that the pattern in the frost was lovely.


Today the water guy arrived with our delivery of drinking water. It was early (between 8:00 and 9:00 . . . they start delivering at 8:00) and the bottles of water were partially frozen. A first for me, actually.

Can you see it in the photos?



Today was one of those odd Mercredi Liberés (Free Wednesdays). Both girls were home, and I had a mission: Clean Their Room.

I announced my plans yesterday. Since the girls had no school and The Spouse's workday does not technically begin until 10:00, we could have a more leisurely morning. He was fed and gone by the time the water guy arrived. I told the girls that we could relax until 10:30, but then we were going to be cleaning demons with lunch at the pizzeria across the street as our reward.

We commenced cleaning on schedule at 10:30. We stopped at 1:30 with 95% of the work done. We changed sheets, picked up clothes, straightened bookshelves, threw away junk, filed magazines, dusted every flat surface (including under the bed), vacuumed, and wiped up paint spills. It was dirty, sweaty work, but their room looks (and smells) right pleasant now.

We went to lunch.

Then we went to the grocery store.

As we left the grocery store with our purchases, I said to the girls, "This is pretty much what I do while you are at school, you know. Minus the nice lunch out."

Baboo says, "I hate your life."

Skittles says, "See . . . this is why I am going to GET A JOB."

Brrrr.

In Other News . . .

A vigilant Beet-nik drew my attention to these three stories from today's Moscow Times.

First, Aeroflot passengers rejected their pilot, suspecting he was drunk. Turns out he was. My favorite quote:

"I don't think there's anyone in Russia who doesn't know what a drunk person looks like," said Katya Kushner, who, along with her husband, was one of the first to react when the pilot made his announcement. "At first, he was looking at us like we were crazy. Then, when we wouldn't back down, he said, 'I'll sit here quietly in a corner. We have three more pilots. I won't even touch the controls, I promise.'"

Then, it turns out that the pilot of the flight that crashed in Perm last September tested positive for alcohol.

Investigators said Medvedev [the pilot], who was due to land the jet, passed the wheel to another crew member, saying, "You see yourself that I can't," the report said.

Nice.

Finally, a helicopter full of VIP's crashed in a remote part of Russia last month, killing everyone on board. Turns out the VIPs were senior government officials shooting endangered argali sheep from the air.

Oy. [smacks forehead]

Moscow in the Cold

How Did It Go?

The short answer is that if I have enough vodka, I can do anything. Including singing badly in front of a friendly crowd. No stage fright, so now I'm invincible. Look out.

Perhaps the funniest moment was early in the set, when the emcee (a fellow expat) invited me and J to the mic to join in on what I was sure was Brown Sugar. . . NO! Worse! After googling lyrics, I realize I was expecting Honky Tony Women.

Anyhow, intro complete, we all inhale and open our mouths. I sing, "I met a gin-soaked bar-room queen in Memphis . . ."

The boys sing, "Mustang Sally . . ."

I don't even know the words to Mustang Sally. Well, I can doo-wop, "Ride, Sally, ride!"

Which is what I did.

Quietly.

To myself.

What followed was a barely passable rendition of Dead Flowers and a caterwauling of Back in the USSR. Then lots of dancing, more drinking, good fun, and an early escape to have me home by midnight.

Note to Self: If you're going to jump around like that, you better Kegel more. Got it? Good.

Hungover, but ebullient (in spite of the fact someone beat me with a baseball bat all night, right? I mean I feel like someone beat me with a ball bat . . .), I even took pity of the poor, sickly Spouse (he now has the same bug Skittles had . . . and she now coughs like a barking seal, but has returned to school), and escorted the children to school in his stead. On the Metro, having dropped the girls off at school, I made a Metro Matron smile!

What I call the "Metro Matrons" are the very Soviet style women who sit in little control booths at the bottom of the escalators. Apparently they can bark orders at you through the PA system, although I have never seen that. But I never tried to eat a piece of pie on a Metro escalator like a less fortunate friend told me he once did. His pie eating resulted in a stern dressing down.

The Metro Matrons are fierce and humorless and very, very serious about their jobs. It has long been my goal to make one of them smile. But rarely am I even able to catch their eyes.

Anyhow, this morning I was approaching the bottom of the escalator when I caught sight of the woman working this particular booth. She was very matronly, broad and buxom, sporting the best big, white, bouffant hairdo this side of Dollywood. In her severe Metro uniform. The whole look just cracked me up, and I smiled.

She caught my eye and smiled back at me! It was a lovely little moment.

I can now leave Moscow.

Forget Gold. Invest in Zucchini!

Just a little look at how crazy food prices can be in Moscow. Maybe my perspective is off because I've been an expat for so long. It is possible that I have 1999 American prices locked in my head and everyone else has moved along except me. If so, please tell me.

But here are some things I bought yesterday at my grocery store. This is not, by any means, the most expensive grocery chain in Moscow. It is what I would call mid-range. I am in the center of town, and things always cost more here. But still. There are much more expensive places to buy food.

Below is the price label on chicken breasts. You can see that they cost 266.90 rubles per kilo, the package weighed slightly more than a kilo (1 kilo = 2.2 pounds), and the price for this package was 270.37. As I type, the exchange rate, which has been very much in flux as of late, is 32.9 rubles = $1US. Let's use 33 rubles to the dollar to make the math easier.

I paid about $8 for a little over two pounds of boneless, skinless, chicken breasts. Not cheap, but within the realm of reasonable, right?


Moving on. Red, yellow, and orange bell peppers are, as I recall, always more expensive than green ones. Below you see that a kilo of "premium" peppers (this one was orange) costs 275.90 rubles/kilo or about $4/pound. I bought one pepper, and it cost $1.54 (51.04 rubles), which seemed okay to me by Moscow standards.


I had seen James Martin's show about Brittany on TV this past weekend. He and a chef friend made a sort of cauliflower and cheddar cheese mash that looked really good. Certainly the classic low-carb answer to mashed potatoes. I thought it would go well with the Parmesan chicken I was planning to make.

I looked at the small heads of cauliflower, but rejected them because they were well over 200 rubles apiece. Like in the 230 ruble range. A head of cauliflower, CAULIFLOWER! costs something like $7. Forget it.

I decided to get zucchini instead. I selected two average-size zucchini. I took them to the woman who works the scale to get them weighed and priced.

Two zucchini . . . a little over a pound of zucchini (700 grams) . . . cost me $8.50. More than the freakin' chicken breasts!


Now, I get 15% off my total bill through a combination of specials the grocery store has been running this month. But still. Four-Dollar Zucchini? What's up with that?

The Metro, Like Elvis, Never Disappoints

So I'm on the metro today, heading to school. The car isn't crowded at all. It is the first stop for this line, so I have a whole bench to myself. Across from me is a young, professional-looking guy with a newspaper.

"Pssst."

I hear a sound. I look up.

Dude has just opened a bottle of beer. He's discreetly cranking a brew while he reads his paper. The time: 2:15 p.m.

Only in Moscow.

Shameless Self-Promotion: Wednesday and Thursday nights are regular expat happy hour events at a local joint called Papa's. I have an expat friend here, let's call him J, who, like me, has a rotten birthday date. Mine is New Year's Eve. His is New Year's Day.

Once, a while back, I whined to him about how my birthday never lives up to my (very unrealistic) expectations.

I don't want much. What I want is a gathering where my friends are all there. This is virtually impossible when your birthday is New Year's Eve because everyone is scattered to the far corners of the earth. I want a place, like the bar on Ally McBeal, where everyone knows my name. With a great house band. And where my friends and I, from time to time, get to join the band on stage for a song or two.

In my fantasy, I'm doing just that: singing, with no stage fright (in spite of my exhibitionist qualities, I have terrible stage fright). The Rolling Stones walk in. They play a few songs with the band. And I get to sing with them.

That's all. Not so much to ask.

J, of course, agrees with me. So much so that he takes the idea and runs with it. So now, on Wednesday, J and I will sing Dead Flowers with the band du jour at Papa's. I am also supposed to sing Back in the USSR. We'll see. Not sure if there is enough vodka in all of Russia . . . But this is one of those Life Check List items for me: get up and sing in front of a friendly crowd.

You're welcome to stop in if you're in the neighborhood. The band plays from 9:00 until 11:00.

More Shameless Self-Promotion: I completed a sort of interview about this blog here. You can vote for the blog through that link. Look for the image below once you get there.

I don't know what this is going to get me. It is a little late in the month for me to win Most Votes for January. But it could be fun. Vote often! Tell your friends!