In Which We Actually Venture OUT on a Weekend

It's April 12 and that means it's Cosmonautics Day (День Космонавтики) here in Russia. A newer and slightly separate celebration on this day is called Yuri's Night. The point is that today is the anniversary of Yuri Gagarin's historic space flight in 1961.

We rarely venture out on weekends, generally finding ourselves too exhausted from just our weekly routines. But this morning we were out of bacon. I had to run to the grocery store before breakfast, and it was just so darn . . . NICE outside. Really, there was no other word for it.

So I returned with my bacon and a mission: drag the family out of the apartment today . . . anywhere out of the apartment.

Now, one of the odd things about my experiences in Moscow is the number of virtual friends I have. There are two in particular who I have never met, save through our exchanges on the Internet. They each have blogs that I enjoy. Moscowmom's blog is noteworthy for her excellent photos of Moscow (she makes it look really good!) and her very kid-friendly activity suggestions. TRex mostly makes me laugh.

Both these bloggers had mentioned a place called the All-Russia Exhibition Center (but through a long series of name changes, it is referred to as VDNKh, which is an abbreviation of Выставка Достижений Народного Хозяйства or Vystavka Dostizheniy Narodnovo Khozyaystva if you can't read Cyrillic . . . and in case you cared). The easiest way to explain it all is to send you here to read more and look at photos of it in its former glory.

The Metro stop there even carries the former name of VDNKh. When you exit, you see all these yellow mini-vans, which are called marshrutki (маршрутки). If you speak French, the name comes from "march route" and means "fixed route taxis." They travel a fixed route, but with no fixed stops. You pay a flat fee and then tell the driver when you want to get off.

I have never used one.

But I digress. There, near the VDNKh, is the Space Museum. I read a story about it in the latest issue of the Moscow News. Seems the museum chose this auspicious day for their long-awaited grand re-opening, a concept that became painfully obvious to me as we, along with most of Moscow, exited the Metro around noon. EVERYONE was going to the VDNKh or the Space Museum.

To me, one of the highlights of the museum was the promise of an exhibition of the taxidermied Belka and Strelka, space dogs who survived their journeys and returned to Earth. But the lines to get in the museum stretched back all the way to Red Square. So we contented ourselves with enjoying the public art and the sunny day.

First, there is the "unmissable" Monument to the Conquerors of Space.


The Moscow News describes it as "soaring up on its titanium exhaust plume, which catches fire in the spring sunlight."

Indeed.

I could not fit the whole thing in my viewfinder, so you will have to see it here.

Seated at the base of the monument is Konstantin Tsiolkovsky. You can read more about him here, but I got the impression he was a recluse and a bit of a nutball.


Leading to the monument is what is called Cosmonauts' Alley. This is lined with busts of famous Russian cosmonauts, including Gagarin and Valentina Tereshkova, the first woman in space. Here are the girls in front of Yuri.


Look here for more and better quality photos.

Across from the busts, we discovered a line of classic Russian cars. It was a very user-friendly exhibit: children were not only welcome to climb inside, but encouraged to honk the car horns. Over Glenn Miller's Moonlight Serenade (er . . . not all that Russian last time I checked) the horns sounded until, rather suddenly, all the owners leaped into their vehicles and drove away.



The base of the Monument to the Conquerors of Space is decorated with fabulous friezes, in the style of what I call "People's Art," but which scholars probably call "socialist realism."

Lenin leads the people forward, to infinity . . . and beyond!

I know I sound snarky, but I really do love this sort of public art.

Following the model of the Russians all around us, we posed rather than just standing and allowing our photos to be taken. Honestly, they were positively Chinese about this posing thing.

Here's Yuri Gagarin again:

The climax of his nation's efforts to this goal:


(Is it just me? Or are the workers a bit . . . more than just friends? I see Tom of Finland written all over this. I'll let you do your own googling on that one.)


See anyone you know here?


That's right! Laika the Space Dog!

Here is a sputnik motif in the fence. The word sputnik means "little traveller." Note that it is flying over the Russian Federation.


The line to enter the museum. We'll come back another day. (I especially liked the white boots here. If you click on the photo, you can see it in more detail. I recommend you click on it.)



Then we went over to the VDNKh itself. The entrance is marked with this fabulous portal.

This exhibition center was designed to celebrate agricultural achievements. Atop the portal is an idealized farming couple hold aloft sheaves of wheat.


Below is the Central Pavilion. I am fairly sure it used to be a celebration of the USSR and its successes. Now it is a hodge-podge of small shops ranging from the ridiculous to the sublime. You can buy a guitar in here. Or a DVD. Or amber jewelry. We went in a tiny cat exhibition (entry: 60 rubles for adults and 30 for children) where we saw a loose assortment of cat breeds including those with folded ears and no fur. Breeders were dealing. Outside the pavilion, a woman with a box of orange kittens would give you a cat for free.


Here is the Karelia Pavillion (Karelia is up there next to Finland).



The Armenian Pavilion. Virtual Friend TRex recommends going there for cognac and baklava . . . there were no seats available in the cafe, so we skipped the cognac. But the girls got baklava.


The Fountain of the Friendship of the Peoples. "Yeah," muttered The Spouse, "The 'peoples' who couldn't get out of the Soviet Union fast enough."

Pretty fountain, though. Will be better in May when the water is turned on.



Another pavilion. Sadly, I didn't get close enough to see which one it is.

Because we found the CAMEL RIDES!



The French bulldog was cute. The crowd behind his family were dealing with a woman who had a crash on her roller blades. An ambulance arrived just as we left the camel. Right quick.


Russian girls doing the obligatory posing for a photo.


You could pay to have a photo taken with these friends, too.


On the Metro on our way back. The cat is a Claritin ad. It says (and I can read this all by myself) "Allergies--Your Nightmare?" The Russian word for nightmare is the same as the French (cauchemar). I'm not sure why the cat is carrying oranges. Are people often allergic to oranges?


And this art was on the wall in the restaurant where we stopped for lunch on the way home. There's a bottle of spirits, and the men and the pig seem to be enjoying some.


We had a little, too. Just because.

I Can't Believe I Almost Forgot About This

A while ago, possibly a few months ago, Man Friday called The Spouse who called me and said, "Man Friday needs to know what the electric meter says."

I dutifully went to the closet where said meter lives, and read him the numbers: 0-0-4-5 point 0.


Well, as is, apparently, often the case in Moscow, our meter is broken. It hasn't worked for at least as long as we've lived in the apartment (which is since December 2007).

When Man Friday came to repair our shower this week, he told me that he had put in a request to have the meter dealt with. Utility providers globally share certain characteristics (who among us has not cursed the Cable Guy?), and there would be a waiting period before they could get around to fixing my meter.

A waiting period of TWO YEARS.

Our utilities are included in the rent, so I don't particularly care what my electric bill runs. But doesn't the Electric Company? Are they getting paid anything at all? I suppose the apartment could be on some sort of Easy Monthly Payment Plan. But hasn't anyone noticed?

I suspect Man Friday had the answer when he laughed and said, "That's Moscow."

Spring Is in the Air? Not Really.

It has been sunny in Moscow this week. Gorgeous, clear blue, cloudless skies.

And temperatures hovering right above freezing.

You definitely still need your winter coat, hat, and gloves.

The double doors are slowing coming down off the Metro entrances. And the smell of paint is becoming more and more evident as the City's Annual Spruce Up Process begins. Don't lean on that wall: might still be wet.

The days are already ridiculously long. It was still light at almost 9:00 last night, and the sun is up well before my alarm goes off at 6:30 a.m. Our apartment is equipped with excellent black-out curtains, and this time of year they sure come in useful. I know folks here with skylights who say no one sleeps come spring because the bedrooms never get dark enough.

Last night the twilight sky held a full moon, flat and pale as Limoges porcelain.

My downside to this is that the sun pours into our apartment making it painfully evident what a lousy housekeeper I truly am. You can write your name in the dust. Which is everywhere. And let's not even talk about my windows.

Only I could get cranky because it is sunny out. What an Eeyore.

I'm also in a mood because the children have a two-week school holiday coming up, and I can't figure out what to do. Everything seems prohibitively expensive. Believe it or not, I am cheap. And given the economic climate, some belt-tightening seems in order. I'm sure it's my imagination, but is everyone else in the world jetting off to warmer climes except me? So I'm pouting.

This afternoon, on my way home from collecting the children at school, I found a ten-ruble note on the floor in the Metro. I gave it to the legless accordion player, an older man who has been a regular among the kiosks on Tsvetnoi Bulvar the past few days. I said hello to him as I dropped the money in his box, and he smiled and looked up at me with the most beautiful pale blue eyes I have ever seen. The children, who have been squabbling of late, looked at him. "I guess things could be worse," Skittles noted.

I also found, while crossing the Garden Ring, a bundle of pussy willow branches someone must have dropped. You see people around town carrying these home, trying to infuse their apartments with a touch of spring.

Money and flowers: what more could a girl want?

Today has been rather uneventful, although Man Friday came back today to finish replacing our shower head. It looks fine to me. But he pointed out that although he got the longest hose he could find, the wall mount could allow us to raise the shower head higher. As it is, it is as high as it can go.

The Spouse is 6'6" (2 meters). Fingers crossed it is high enough for him. This is the one thing he checks when looking at rental property: can he stand in the shower without having to duck.

I'm fairly sure it will work. I'll let you know.

I got two legs. I got a touch of spring. I got a functioning shower. I ought to take a lesson from Skittles, I guess.

New Keys, New Keys

So The Spouse calls the landlords' Man Friday for me yesterday. (Yay, Spouse!!) Man Friday tells The Spouse that he has a front door key . . . he'll get a copy made for us.

Now, when The Spouse broke his own key a few months ago, I stuck my head in every keysmith/locksmith kiosk I passed, and I saw NO blank keys like this hanging around waiting to be cut. But I said nothing and just waited. What do I know?

Sure enough, at the appointed hour, Man Friday appears at my door. He does not speak English, but, thankfully, Baboo's cello teacher happened to be here and graciously translated for me.

MF: "I'm very sorry. I have been to five keysmiths. This is an old style key and cannot be duplicated."

Me: "I know. We have to call the Dom-O-Fon people, and they will give us a new one. Here are their phone numbers."

MF: "No, they won't give us new keys. The building has not paid the Dom-O-Fon service fees. Your Mr. Neighbor is in charge of collecting everyone's fees."

Me: "Mr. Neighbor's WIFE showed me her shiny new metal key. She's the one who told me we have to call Dom-O-Fon."

MF: "Oh."

He gets out his cellphone, calls Dom-O-Fon (he seemed to have their number programmed in his phone address book as he shunned my piece of paper with the numbers copied there from the sign on the front door).

MF (on phone): "How much? How late are you open? Oh. I'll be right over."

MF (to me): "How many do you want?"

Me: "Three?"

MF: "Be right back."

Oh, and the back door key? Seems the government entity that manages the building (it is a three-letter acronym that is pronounced something like "Jack") handles that.

MF: "Jack has the keys now."

Me: "Jack? Jack who?"

Duh-oh! I get it. No one is supposed to have a key to the back door. Just as no one is supposed to have a key to the roof (except I do . . . shhhh). And, truthfully, it is better now because you no longer need a key to exit the building via the back door. Which is a lot safer. But you need a key to enter that way. Which is fine by me as I have never used that door.

That's one project sorted.

Next: the shower. We have one of those detachable shower heads. And the contraption that holds the head on the wall was compromised when we moved in over a year ago. Recently it all broke. Using my SuperGlue skills, I managed to get about another week out of it, but then it broke irreparably.

I hate holding the shower head/wand thing-y under my arm or between my knees while I try to apply shampoo to my head. You can never just set the thing down on the floor of the tub because it sprays water at some unexpected angle and results in floor mopping. And forget about turning it on and off. I can't be bothered.

So Man Friday apparently found a whole new set at the market yesterday and at some point will come along and replace ours.

My children are looking forward to going here this summer: they are counting the days and mapping their itinerary.

I am looking forward to a new and improved shower. I guess this, along with an eagerness to take naps, is the dividing line between childhood and adulthood.

Just So #@!&%ing FRUSTRATED!!

These are my house keys.


See that thing on the far left? That looks like a thin metal rod? It's not metal. And yesterday it broke off IN the front door.

This is how it works. The system is called a "Dom-O-Fon." (Dom means house in Russian.) If you are visiting me, you turn the dials to match the code for my apartment (see . . . it says in Russian "number apartment"). The numbers are supposed to appear in the little round windows above the dials. But, if the sun is shining on the door (it faces west, so sometimes it happens, but rarely) or the bulbs inside are burned out (they always are) the numbers above the dials are impossible to read. My photo isn't very good, but, honestly, this is about how clear the numbers are. Then you press the little black button, which summons me to the buzzer panel in my apartment. I buzz you in.

If I want to enter the building, I insert my key/rod thing-y in the hole on the lower right side of the panel. It has a little magnet or something in it, so I turn the rod until the light illuminates (as it is in the photo). Then I can open the door.

Except, not only did I break my front door key thing-y, but half stayed IN the lock/hole.

The Spouse broke his key thing-y once (and THAT's not code for anything), but he had both halves, and I was able to SuperGlue it together.

I lost my other half.

I don't know what to do.

Luckily, yesterday while I was standing there with my kids and Baboo's Big Bag O' Fencing Gear, my neighbor came out the door to walk his dog and let me in.

When I got up to our apartment, I thought "HEY! I have a key to the back door!" Clever, clever me!

Except, this morning, when The Spouse and I went down to try it, we realized the lock has been changed.

AARRGH!

Now, the same Very Sweet Neighbors tried to help (turns out they were in no way responsible for the Great Satellite Dish Debacle, but for a time we thought they might have been). They called the Dom-O-Fon people last night, but to no avail. Seems everyone breaks a key now and then, and new ones are available from the company. Mrs. Neighbor now sports an all metal one.

I hope I don't need to be the apartment owner.

Or show my lease.

It's all sort of complicated because we are sub-letting. And the folks we rent from aren't even in Moscow. They have a Man Friday on the ground here. But he doesn't speak any English.

All of which is moot because I can't call anyhow.

And The Spouse is always loathe to make these sorts of calls even though he's the Russian speaker in the house. I hate making these sorts of calls, too. But I would do it if I could.

Adding to my general frustration is the fact that, while playing with Cat-O last night, he sort of bashed me in the face with his skull. It hurt so much last night that I could not see out of my right eye. And my eye wept. I had to finish watching the judges send home the latest loser on America's Next Top Model with a tissue over my weepy eye.

I had a dream that my entire right cheek turned black and blue.

When I woke up this morning, The Spouse asked, "How's your eye?"

It felt fine.

"Hmmm," he said. "Looks like you might have a black eye, though."

I looked in the mirror.

It was just my normal puffy morning eye. Old Lady Morning Eye.

"Oh," The Spouse examined my other eye in comparison. "I guess you're right."

It was okay through breakfast, but now it is starting to bother me again. Grrrrr.

Here's a picture of my abuser. The fat bastard.

Zoo Park, Etc.

Yesterday, we were dragged from our warm lair by an intrepid pair of French friends who had not yet been here or here. Both are within a few minute's walk of our place. I've been to both before (I've now been to the Vasnetsov house three times), but it's fun to go with other people. And I always learn or see something new.

Then we all went out for dinner and spent a few hours drinking vodka at our place.

I didn't even panic about the fact I hadn't disinfected the place to a level suitable for guests. Hence, the generous portions of vodka.

Today, we had a long-overdue rendez-vous with a Russian banker and his wife. The Spouse had met this fellow a few months ago, and we have tried now several times to arrange some sort of Joint Family Outing.

At 10:00 today we met them at the zoo.

There are two ponds in the zoo, and both are still relatively frozen.


You can see some flower bulbs coming up, but there is still snow on the ground here.


Here we all are in the Elephant House. The Russian word for elephant is sloan. The little girl in green stripes (lower left hand corner) is the daughter of the couple we were with. She's two and very charming.

This cat was endlessly entertaining to us. Yeah. I know. We go to the zoo, and I take a picture of a domestic cat.

One of the "Seven Sisters" Stalin-era sky scrapers. What a dreary day! Look at the pond surface.

There are, scattered around the zoo, some amusement park-type rides, none of which I think look up to any sort of safety standards. In the picture below, the guy on the right was NOT enjoying his ride. He was only going along to accompany his daughter, who is blocked by the kassa/ticket booth.

Poor bastard.

In the Monkey House, there was a big, wall-sized illustration on evolution (no "intelligent design" here, no sirree). Dude, here, was the pinacle. I think he's got a certain fay, "come hither" look. I also think he illustrates a Russian ideal of male beauty. Too bad I never see it on the streets. Although, again, I don't think his type is interested in girls, IF you know what I mean.


Then we went to the Children's Zoo. Which is sort of redundant in a zoo, isn't it? I mean, yeah, adults are allowed in the main zoo. I like a zoo. But it is such a family destination, no?

The Children's Zoo had goats and a great, big, gorgeous cow. There were guinea pigs. About eight varieties of chickens. A wolf named Tamerlane who had been rescued by hunters as a pup and now lives in harmony next to the piglets. An adorable and very large, black bear who looked out of his cage at us in total disgust.

"The bear thinks this is bullshit," The Spouse said.

And there was also this:

This cat was totally blissed out.

Yeah. Another picture of a domestic pet.

Then we went into a building featuring Hoofed Animals of Africa.

We had seen a sad giraffe on the other side of the zoo. He lived with two very bored tapirs. But this, newer building had a really nice, light place for four giraffes.

There were zebras. And various gazelle-type creatures. A gnu.

And, my personal favorite, a wart hog. Baboo looked in his enclosure and said, "Oh! Look! A baby wart hog!"

She was terribly chagrined to discover the wart hog's companion was NOT a baby wart hog.

And I got a photographic Cat Hat Trick.

Only Six More Weeks of Winter!

So yesterday, I'm walking with the girls past Lubyanka, on our way home from school, and my phone rings.

Yeah, I do get a sort of thrill out of saying, "I was walking past Lubyanka . . ." (It's the tallest building in Russia, you know. You can see Siberia from the basement . . . . pa-DUM-dum.)

It was one of those weird conversations where all I got out of it was " . . . I'm a friend of . . . recording . . . need American female voice . . . Can you help us?"

Um, yeah. I guess. If you don't mind a flat Midwestern accent.

As is the case with all things 1. Moscow and 2. Creative, this was Sort of a Rush. But I agree to help her Friday (today).

Now, unlike most days, today was flat out crazy. Usually I stand at my apartment door in my pajamas and wave goodbye at 7:30 a.m. as The Spouse and The Children go off to school/work.

Today I went out the door with them.

First, we delivered the children to school. (By the way, it was quite sunny then.)

Then we had a coffee while waiting to

Meet with Skittles' teacher. . . A fellow we suspected of being an anal-retentive asshole. But we left the meeting thinking he was a rather nice guy who was having a very difficult time here in Moscow and who perhaps was deserving of both hugs and maybe even a coveted (because I would have to clean AND cook) Sunday lunch invite . . .

Here we split off. The Spouse went to work and I went to the

US Embassy

to have Skittles' old passport canceled. (For some reason this had to be done . . . I don't understand why, but anyhow . . .)

This took, with the security checks, all of FIVE minutes and at 10:05 EXACTLY I was out the door and heading back to the Metro.

Which I took up to Belorusskaya to meet the woman who called me yesterday. Seems she is part of a television production company making a reality show, and, as they are marketing the show abroad, she needed to dub the whole thing in English.

So we did the promotional episode.

One hour (and $100 cash in my pocket) later it was a wrap. If the show gets picked up, she'll give me a call back, she says. Because "it went so quickly" with me. Like I have ANY experience with this at all. I felt like a character in an Almodóvar film. Aren't they always dubbing movies?

(Hey . . . now it's snowing! What's up with that?)

Back in the Metro and down to Lenin Library where I dropped off the canceled passport at The Spouse's office. Before scampering back over by Lubyanka to have a little lunch and a chat with a Polish filmmaker I met who wants to do a project involving expat women. I'm not sure where this is going to go, although we discussed the ubiquitous Central Asians all the sushi chains seem to deem vital to their Eastern ambiance. She's got some ideas here.

After that it was all downhill: home by 4:00 p.m. Then cello lesson for Baboo. A quick run to the grocery store (in the rain) for vodka for The Spouse. Followed by a nutritious dinner of frozen pizza and potato chips.

THAT's good parentin'.

Good thing tomorrow is Saturday. I can sleep in.

After all, there's only six more weeks of winter.

Is it Spring Yet?

Russians say the First Day of Spring is March 1. It feels like one of those arbitrary Soviet calendar events, like when the central heat is turned on or off.

Spring is definitely out there. Lurking. Teasing us. A cruel April Fool's Day prank. It is already spring in some parts of the world. Here . . . the Metro entrances still sport their double doors. Temperatures hover around freezing, but now just slightly above (below 40F for my US readers).

The light has changed dramatically, and not just because of the time change last Saturday. The days really are getting longer. If it isn't too, too cloudy, it is now light when I get up (6:30 in the a.m.). And on Tuesday it was still light at 7:30 p.m. when we got home from Baboo's fencing class.

The slush is gone from the sidewalks. Now there are just the rivers of melting-ness. Endless trickles of water that come from God knows where. Roofs? Downspouts? The mountains of piled up snow and ice that still remain in some corners of the city and which orange-jacketed Tajiks chip away at in order to facilitate melting?

Rain is becoming the problem. I hate this time of year because it is too cold for plain old raincoats, but warm enough that the rain soaks our down-filled winter coats. Only Skittles seems to have outerwear that is more water-resistant.

I have a crack in the top of my boot now.

On the plus side, I have actually heard birds singing recently. Saw some chickadees behind our building yesterday, their splotches of yellow vibrant against their black and white tuxedos. They are my favorite backyard birds.

And Tuesday, I walked through the grounds of the Orthodox church next to Baboo's school. Someone has started the spring cleaning. There were still piles of the pine branches used to shelter the flowerbeds, but where those had been moved aside I could see fat purple hyacinth buds pushing out of the dirt.

But the trees are still leafless skeletons against a mostly bone gray sky. At certain angles, you might look out a window and still think it is January.

When I looked out the window just now, it was snowing. Sigh.

Look! Look!

My friend is part of this. Aren't these cool?

Oy! What a Day I've Had of It!

Many of you are probably wondering, "Gee. How was that concert offert par l’Ambassadeur du Luxembourg, dans le cadre de la Francophonie, au musée Pouchkine, suivi d’une réception à la résidence de l’Ambassade?"

Answer: Um . . . dunno.

It was a perfect storm of disasters, starting when I exited the Metro and called The Spouse.

No. Wait. Rewind.

It started when I, discovering that I am TOO FAT NOW for any of my clothes, spent an hour trying to find something to wear. I had a haircut that morning, so my head looked civilized. I finally settled on a gold damask-esque jacket, a white chiffon scarf, black trousers, and black tall boots. With a pair of frosty white earrings, I looked pretty sophisticated, if I do say so. I could have passed for French (well, FAT French) if I kept my mouth shut.

But back to our tale of woe.

"I'm coming out of the Metro now," I told him, thinking the next step would be to meet him on the street in front of his building so we could turn around and head back to the Metro (I was ever-so-slightly vexed he hadn't offered to meet me on the train platform so that I would not have to exit and re-enter the Metro during rush hour, but only slightly).

He was cheerful. "I'm a little delayed," he told me. "C'mon up."

This did not bode well, and, sure enough, he was not only meeting with a colleague in his office, but that chat meant then he had to make a phone call. My goal was to be at his office between 6:00 and 6:15 so we could get to the concert which started at 7:00 without making ourselves crazy. It was now 6:30. . .

He shared my vexation. The delay happened in spite of his best efforts. It had also been a tough day in the office with the axe falling on 13 lawyers and assorted, now unnecessary, support staff. The Spouse had not been at risk, it turns out, but the mood in the office was grim, and everyone's plans for the workday were in chaos as H.R. meetings took precedence over other tasks.

So back we went to the Metro. We needed to hop on the red line and take it just one stop. I had reviewed this in my head before as I arrived on the grey line and thought about how he could meet me on the platform of the red line.

And, without thinking, I led us both into the entrance for the grey line and down the L-O-N-G escalator where the opportunity to turn around and go back up the L-O-N-G escalator was foiled by barricades.

At the peak of rush hour.

Fuck.

So, instead, we went through the grey station (Borovitskaya) to the dark blue station (Arbatskaya) to the light blue station (Aleksandrovskiy Sad) to the red station (Lenin Library).

It was now 6:55.

We hop on a train. We exit at Kropotkinskaya.

I had consulted the map before I left the house, but had not brought the map with me as it is too big to fit into my everyday purse. I was looking for the Pushkin Museum and the Luxemburg embassy which are technically on Khrustchjovskiy pereulok, but the museum is on the corner of a large street (Prechistenka ulitsa). The Metro is right there, on a big square/intersection. It seemed to me that we would exit the Metro, and it would be abundantly clear which way to go.

Except this Metro stations, like many stations, has two exits.

And we came out of the other one because neither option seemed to point us to the Pushkin Museum we wanted because there are TWO Pushkin Museums, ladies and gentlemen: the Pushkin State Museum of Fine Art (not the one we wanted and in the opposite direction) and the Pushkin State Museum.

The signs in the Metro only directed one to the Pushkin Museum of Applied Arts. Hmmmm.

As expected, I got all turned around.

And the maps we found did not include details as small as Khrustchjovskiy pereulok.

And now it was 7:05.

And there was a very stony silence between us.

"I don't want to go back in the Metro," The Spouse says without eye contact.

O-kaaaay. Except, I am wearing these fabulous black boots, which normally feel pretty good, but my feet are lately a colony of various flaws and defects. I'll spare you the boring details of My Medical Problems. Suffice it to say that I was gimpy, and not really in a place to whine as I had made my fair share of contributions to the mess we were in.

We walked (I limped, silently) back to the Borovitskaya/Lenin Library Metro stations, realizing that it really would have been faster to skip the Metro and walk in the first place.

Sigh.

Now, for those of you who haven't seen it, Moscow is a lot of things. But it is very beautiful at night. The walk from (the hideous) Christ the Saviour Cathedral to the Lenin Library . . . at one point we had this view of the Kremlin, which, although from the back side, is pretty cool. I recommend you visit Moscow only at night. Really.

We considered and rejected just going to the reception.

"I wanted to hear the concert," The Spouse was disappointed.

We still needed to eat. But where? We didn't want to spend a fortune. We didn't want a big meal. And we wanted something easy.

Which is how we ended up next door to our apartment building at Taras Bulba, the Ukrainian chain we frequent.

Yeah, yeah. It's a Ukrainian Olive Garden.

But the service is good. The food is consistent. They know us there. And they sell the loveliest горілк, which is a Ukrainian hot pepper vodka.There is little in this town that 100 grams of this vodka won't improve.

Plus, it was the restaurant's birthday. They were having a party. The place, which is normally decorated to the hilt with charming rustic clutter, additionally now was filled with balloons. They had singers--two young women in traditional costumes accompanied by an accordion player straight out of Central Casting. They worked their way up through the three-level restaurant until they landed in front of us. Everyone was given a different percussion instrument, and we all played along while the women sang. The Spouse got this, called a treschetka.

Meanwhile, a manager-type handed out gift packages to each table. These included a small bottle of Nemiroff vodka (!) and two shot glasses. Can you imagine? The booze manufacturer actually gets to give out samples of the product, and not just promotional knick-knacks bearing the product name?

It was silly, but fun. And we were having such a good time, we even ordered dessert. Well, we told Oxana, our waitress, "Pick something typically Ukrainian."

She brought us this: Kievsky tort. Meringue. Butter cream icing. Walnuts.

Bliss.

It was one of those "This is why I bought the ticket to be here" sort of evenings made so much better as it involved the roller coaster ride of disappointment and delight.

Later, we realized we should have taken the opportunity to go to the weekly expat mixer at Papa's. But we had such a memorable time together, I'm glad we didn't think of it at the time.

All of this was supposed to be the brief lead-in to a description of my day yesterday with assorted cat poops, socks with holes, a slip-and-fall on the ice, no heat at all in the apartment, interrupted Internet service, picking all the dried apples out of an entire box of the children's breakfast cereal because the children don't like dried apples in their breakfast cereal, a 7-ruble shortage in the Internet service provider account due to an unannounced anywhere 160-ruble rate hike, thinking my mobile phone had finally died for good only to discover later that it was faking, and home-made croque monsieurs.

But now I don't feel like it.

Lovely Moscow Wednesday

Isn't it just dreadful?

I took this picture about 2:30 this afternoon.


This is nicer. Even though it was bothering me.


Last I saw it, it was asleep in Skittles' little wardrobe.

She's got the right idea, though. It's a fine day for napping.

Speaking of happier days, today Babysitter Deluxe-O is coming so The Spouse and I can go to le concert offert par l’Ambassadeur du Luxembourg, dans le cadre de la Francophonie, au musée Pouchkine, suivi d’une réception à la résidence de l’Ambassade. Guess I'll find out exactly what this is when I get there, but I think it's a little concert followed by a reception.

We are happy to have Babysitter Deluxe-O back as she spent the last week in Moscow Hospital #64 having had a sort of emergency appendectomy. Visiting hours were limited to 5-7 weekdays and 11-1 on weekends, so when I finally thought I could get it together to visit her on Monday, she told me that there were NO visiting hours on Monday as it was "Sanitary Day."

The mind reels.

Plus, did you notice what I wrote? A week in the hospital. A WEEK!

She claims it was okay, which I think means there was toilet paper and maybe she didn't have to share the toilet with the whole floor, although I am sure she shared it with the whole ward. I'll get the scoop tonight.

Busy Weekend, Boring Blog Entry

Usually I am so done by the end of the week that when Friday afternoon finally comes around, I get in pajamas and stay there until Monday morning unless I am driven from the apartment in search of food or alcohol.

This was an unusually busy weekend. Although I am not sure how blog-worthy most of it was.

Friday night Skittles had a sleep-over. It was the high-point of her week. I took her (carefully prepared by her) backpack to school Friday afternoon and swapped it for her school bag before sending her off with her friends.

Then Baboo and I went to The Spouse's office to help him celebrate his fifth anniversary with his current law firm. Since he knows the Bratislava office better and feels a certain affection for them (this is the office that hired him, after all), he had me procure a case of champagne while I was in Bratislava recently. With the help of his former secretary and some teleconferencing technology, he fixed a date and time for a toast.

They had Szigeti. We had some dreadful semi-sweet Russian champagne I got as a gift from the grocery store for spending 1500 rubles (note to self: next time, take the chocolates instead . . . they are better).

After pouring the rest of the bottle down the sink in the office kitchen (even I have my limits), the three of us went for dinner at a Tibetan place not far from Red Square.

Saturday morning The Spouse went off to collect Skittles. I went to a workshop on cultural differences. It was a fun group of people and an amusing way to spend three hours on a drizzly, gray Moscow Saturday.

Baboo had a haircut at 6 with the Slow Lady (but she sure does a nice job). The kid has Mia Farrow hair to begin with, and still it took an hour. After that we met my Canadian friend and her husband for dinner at Taras Bulba.

Skittles was subdued and anti-social and, being the brilliantly observant parent, it took me a while to figure out that she was simply exhausted from her slumber party the night before. (Actually, I didn't figure it out at all. The Spouse did.) This from the kid who claims to be "Night proof!"

Sunday we had a brunch date with the family of a classmate of Skittles. He's Russian. She's Scottish, I think. They have two boys. We all sat around their kitchen table and ate crepes with sour cream and homemade cranberry jam (yum), croissants (not sure where she got these), fruit salad, sliced sausage, and cup after cup of strong coffee.

Then we went for a walk in Park Iskusstv, otherwise known as the Graveyard of Fallen Monuments. As usual, I did not bring my camera and although our hosts lent me the use of theirs, they have not yet emailed me any of the pictures I took (assuming that I managed to take anything decent at all). So you will just have to look at these pictures. And these pictures.

As my virtual friend, MoscowMom, says in that blog, one of the highlights of Park Iskusstv is the statue of Iron Felix (Felix Dzerzhinsky, of CHEKA) that was torn down from the front of KGB headquarters in 1991.

The other particularly noteworthy piece is this, a memorial to those who perished in the Gulags.

In looking for information about Park Iskusstv, the information I came across on the Internet said it was free and open to the public. But, as is often the case in Russia, that was not really true. Our hosts told us that one child could enter with each adult, something I interpreted as meaning the park wanted parents around to keep children from climbing on the statues. Then I thought maybe I misunderstood and perhaps the truth was that adults enter free as long as they are with a child.

In any case, when the eight of us arrived, we all walked right on in past the Ticket Booth Lady who gave us the stink-eye, but said nothing. Later, after we had gone to the art museum and wanted to cut through the park on our way back to the Metro, the woman sitting in the Ticket Booth on that side of the park refused to let us in. "That's what the sidewalks are for," she barked.

I think we could have entered by paying a modest entrance fee (maybe 20 rubles). I do know that The Spouse used some rather savory English vocabulary before deciding that this was all part of what makes Moscow Moscow.

"Are you still looking for the logic in this stuff?" he asked me when I quizzed him this morning about my understanding of the park rules.

Um . . . no. I guess not.

The museum we saw is the modern art collection of the Tretyakov Gallery.

I've been to the main branch twice, which houses what I would call the "Old Masters of Russian Painting." This is the modern collection (20th century and beyond).

I don't know anything about Russian art. I didn't know any of the painters except for Chagall and Kandinsky. I found one Kandinsky piece and nothing by Chagall, although the meager pamphlet I picked up said they were both in Room 9.

I did find these two pieces however, which I like very much.

Internet Porn

Well, if you define "porn" as "time-wasting things on the Internet that distract one from regular adult duties," then here are three submitted for your approval.

I must inform you now, in the interest of fair and full disclosure, that although there are sheep, there is no sex in any of these. That I know of.



The second item stems from my addiction to America's Next Top Model. Yes, yes, it is mindless drivel. And, like a really bloody car crash, I cannot look away.

So imagine my delight at discovering that Elyse Sewell, ANTM contestant from the first "cycle," was also a blogger. And an amusing one at that. Here is her blog.

I had to include three items, since we are, predominately, a Christian culture. Christopher Walken twitters. I don't even know what that means. But his posts are hysterical.

Sorry about the lack of real porn. But I'm sure most people can find it on the Internet without my help.

Oh, How I Have Tried to Avoid Writing About This

I have. I really have. But today was the tipping point.

I'm gonna talk about toilets.

What IS it about Russian toilets that they defy all efforts to stay clean? Just who, exactly, designed them so that nothing enters them in such a way as to efficiently exit them again without requiring a thorough scrubbing after each use?

I had this discussion with one of my favorite expats almost a year ago. This is how long I have been sitting on this topic, so to speak.

We came to the subject is a slightly oblique manner. We were talking about toilet to floorspace ratios and buffer zones. Because we both had smallish apartments (by American standards), and those apartments each had only one toilet.

Once, I lived in a house with six toilets. In Slovakia. But that is over the top even for an American.

Anyhow, how is it, we pondered, that while IN our Moscow toilets (for now we both have toilets that are separate from the rest of what I would call a "bathroom"), we are convinced that every sound, even the quietest sound, even the sound of one square of toilet paper floating gently towards the floor, is broadcast in THX throughout the entire apartment.

Yet if anyone else is in the toilet, we cannot hear anything. They could be giving birth. Or butchering a hog. I could be standing right outside the door.

And hear NOTHING.

This is a mystery of Russian design. And the miracle of close-quarters communal living.

So why can't they design a proper commode?

Favorite Expat felt that not only did the toilet bowl defy cleaning, but it was impossible to use without being, well, splashed. "It's awful!" she sobbed.

She says her husband suggested what he called "the Fisherman's Friend" (I think. It was something clever like that.).

"Just build yourself a little raft of paper," he told her. "Problem solved."

Did I mention here that we had this conversation at noon on a Friday in the Oktyabrskaya Starlite Diner?

We didn't get thrown out for making excessive noise while laughing, but the management had every right to protect the other customers from Toilet Talk During a Meal. The Spouse is nodding knowingly as I type this, as he believes I can turn even the most innocent conversation to the scatological and that mealtimes are especially dangerous with me if you are at all squeamish.

We did the raft thing in Slovakia where five of the six toilets in that house were what we came to learn were "Austrian" or "shelf" style. Blame Freud if you must, but the Austrians seem to have a penchant for self-examination of the most intimate kind. Below is a good example:


My Russian toilet looks deceptively normal.

So apologies for the topic today. We now return to our regular program.

What DO I Do All Day?

Handy Tip of the Day: Don't bother mopping the floors until after the water delivery guy comes. It's not his fault. It doesn't make sense to have him take his shoes off. And he wipes them off before he comes in. But still, he always tracks mud across the floors.

My delivery was scheduled for this morning, which means anytime between 8:00 and noon. I can't go anywhere until he gets here. And, as I mentioned, I am loathe to deal with the floors before he comes either.

I did do the breakfast dishes. (By hand. We don't have a dishwasher.)

And put away some laundry.

And washed another load of laundry.

And discovered that a lone purple sock found it's way into the load of whites.

And redid the laundry. This time with a shot of bleach.

Cleaned the bathroom sink (since there's only one, I have to do this task daily).

Made my bed.

Then I took pictures of the cats.

Here, Crooky is seeing if she can adjust the washer so it doesn't make white shirts slightly pink.


Here we are all playing Hide in the Closet.


And Cat-O is telling me he's sorry he put the purple sock in the load of whites.

But I don't think he's sincere.

The delivery guy has come and gone, and I've mopped my floors. Ate a little lunch.

Something tells me it's time to scoop the catbox now.