Monday, May 11

Since May 9 was on a Saturday, today is a holiday. The Spouse had the day off anyhow, although the children had school. Russian children did not, but the French school did.

Like in Paris, many of Moscow's museums are closed on Mondays. So I was having trouble finding something to do.

Here's what we ended up doing.

The Spouse took the children to school and went to his gym. I did the breakfast dishes and went to my gym.

This giant fountain is outside the Kievskaya train station near my gym. I saw a sign there that says it was a gift from the European Union, and since there is the Evropeisky or "European" Mall next to the train station (in fact, you can see it behind the fountain), it all sort of makes sense.

I met up with The Spouse, and we walked through Aleksandrovskiy Sad (Alexander Gardens) towards Red Square.



I had never spent any real time in GUM. There's an elegant grocery store, Gastronom No. 1 . . . what I call a "Museum for Food." We walked around in there for quite some time and had a coffee in its little cafe.

These are some of the things featured in the display windows. I thought the labels on these cans were really lovely.

Government standard stewed pork:

Cuts of pork. But the cans on top have pork tongue.

Rabbit in its own juice.

We walked behind GUM towards the old Rossiya Hotel site. The Rossiya was a behemoth of 1960s Soviet ugliness. Twenty-one storeys, 3,200 rooms, the Rossiya was demolished in 2006. Although it is now surrounded by walls that suggest work is taking place on the new Zaryadye project slated for that site, we could see that not much was happening.

The street there is called Varvarka (Barbara) after St. Barbara, the patron saint of merchants, and is one of the oldest in Moscow. It is lined with very old churches. We went there because I was looking for the Old English Court, and The Spouse thought he'd seen it there. We did see it, but I couldn't get any interesting photos of it. Nor could I figure out how to get close to it. I later realized it is closed on Mondays anyhow, so that was moot.

This is the Cathedral of the Sign built in 1684.

Then we stumbled on this: the Palace of the Romanov Boyars.

Now a museum, this was home to the Romanovs until 1613, when they moved into the Kremlin. It is full of artifacts from the period, depicting what the life of a boyar might be like. I like these green boots.

This is a detail of a kokoshnik or traditional head-dress. This is all I could get in the shot without glare or reflections on the glass. But you can see it well enough to get the idea. (Reminder: my birthday is December 31 . . .)


For some reason, I didn't take any pictures downstairs in the "men's quarters." But they were exquisite. Like a classic men's club: dark and cozy. The wallpaper was leather, and painted in the most beautiful designs. I paid for the right to take photos, but I got it into my head that flash would be a bad idea in this part of the museum. Here's a link to a photo of the dining room.

Upstairs, in contrast, the women's quarters were light and airy. They needed the light to embroider and spin and do the other handicrafts that resulted in clothing for the family.

Here is the tile on their stove.


A decorated box.

Another stove.

The entrance and main courtyard.

Next door is the Church of St. George (the patron saint of Moscow).

The domes are described as "star-spangled."


Then we walked over to Erik Kayser bakery for a little lunch: cream of spinach soup and salads. Mine had shrimp and avocado and tropical fruit. The Spouse had a salad with pork tenderloin, fig chutney, and sun-dried tomatoes on mixed greens. They were both very good . . . this shop is over on Maroseyka ulitsa (Metro: Kitay-Gorod).

Like a tourist, I took pictures of the display cases. I did not eat any of these, but I wanted to.



Picked up the children and walked home through the Sretensky monastery. The exterior walls have these green tiles, all different.

Inside the walls, Dumbledore was gardening.

He had been sitting in the chair watering the plants. I was just a moment too late snapping the picture.

Not what I expected or planned, but a nice day out.

STAR DOGS! No, Really!

Since I heard that Belka and Strelka, two Soviet cosmo-mutts, were on display at the Space Museum at VDNKh, I've been itching to get back and pay my respects. Today was the day.

Belka and Strelka spent a day in space in 1960 with a grey rabbit, 42 mice, 2 rats, flies, and a number of plants and fungi. They were all the first living creatures to go into orbit and return alive.

Meet Strelka ("Arrow"). Now taxidermy-ed, she's in the museum and looking towards the heavens. She's in serious need of a pedicure.

As is her buddy Belka, which means "Squirrel" or "Whitey."

They were only two of many Soviet space dogs. You can read all about them and their colleagues (collies?) on Wikipedia. My favorite was Bolik (Болик), who ran away just days before her flight in September 1951. Smart girl. She was replaced by ZIB (a Russian acronym for "Substitute for Missing Bolik", "Замена исчезнувшему Болику" Zamena ischeznuvshemu Boliku), an untrained street dog found running around the barracks, who was quickly located and participated (although certainly not willingly) in a successful flight.

I'm going to name my next dog "ZIB."

Belka and Strelka had some great PR.
Here's a photo of the intrepid travelers while they were still on this earthly plane.

Here they are pushing a hand cream.

And on a post card. Which, it seems, they autographed.

Finally, here they are promoting an upcoming movie, Belka and Strelka: Star Dogs, that is supposed to come out this year.


I can guarantee that when I see this DVD in the grocery store, I'm buying myself a copy.

Just a Normal Saturday, Chez Beet

I sort of over slept this morning and didn't wake up until 7:45. So by the time I made coffee for The Spouse and sort of tidied up the kitchen, I didn't get out the door to the gym until after 8:00.

Swam my 40 laps, came home, grabbed three slices of bacon The Spouse saved for me, and we all went out to look at the May 9/Victory Day festivities.

The Spouse and the girls had been watching the action on the teevee. I especially love it when the guys get to stand up in the convertibles and zoom around Red Square. Which is closed to commoners today. You gotta have connections or be some sort of VIP to get tickets.

We did catch the end of the air show just outside our door.

Then we walked over to Tverskaya to see the last of the heavy armaments returning from Red Square. Last year we got there early and watched the whole thing. It wasn't much different this year (I heard they added a few more of each item), and frankly, I don't find the parade all that exciting. (Where ARE the Shriners with their tiny clown cars?) But the people watching was first rate.

Skittles got a good seat. I focused on the building across the street.

It has some incredible detail, complete with hammers and sickles and stars.

I gave Baboo the camera for a while since she squirmed her way to the front. Here's a picture she took.

I liked Dude here. Like a Good Russian Husband, he's holding his wife's pink jacket. Probably her purse, too. (Really. They do that.) Notice the orange and black ribbon of Saint George on his flag.

Everyone was taking pictures.


Okay, now I'm going to be catty. This pretty girl was wearing a white halter top with green stars. Like all halter tops, it was backless. But because she felt she needed some support, she also wore a white bra with little red hearts. It was cleverly disguised by her black sweater. Meow.

Lots of people had Russian flags.

Here you can get an idea of the crowd. The parade was over, and people started crossing the street. But the police kept asking them not to.

But they did it anyhow.

Including the police! Or maybe he was a military guy from the parade. Looks like Green T-Shirt Dude might be carrying a beer.

Pretty soon it was chaos. The cops just gave up.

So we walked home. Look how green it is in front of our building now. There are several beds of tulips over by the grocery store.

Since all I had for breakfast was my few slices of bacon, we decided to go to our favorite Ukrainian place for some vodka. I mean lunch.

That's when it all got sort of weird. First, Skittles began to suffer from one of her debilitating headaches. She confessed that she had been feeling bad earlier and had taken some medicine (one adult Advil, which is the dose I usually take for minor issues). But it wasn't working. She began to look more and more pained. I had finished eating, so I gave The Spouse some money and took her home. I gave her something stronger, closed the curtains, and put her in our bed.

The Spouse and Baboo returned shortly, but later than I expected. Baboo scampered immediately to the shower. The Spouse stuck his head in our room.

"It went down hill suddenly," he said.

"Huh?"

"Baboo suddenly declared she was going to vomit, so she put her hand over her mouth and ran from the restaurant," he said. "I don't know what happened exactly, or where, but I found her on the street in front of our building covered in pink puke."

Oh. Yeah. We had raspberry mors at lunch.

So next thing I know, both girls are sacked out in our bed.

Baboo said, "I felt remorse." Groan.

I got shoved out.

Crooky found a paper bag.

The Spouse had a little nap on the sofa.

Cat-O decided to catch 40 winks under the laundry rack.

Yeah, you heard me right. And this photo IS from today. Ladies and gentlemen, that is clean laundry drying in my living room. I've done three loads now.

May 9 really is Victory Day.

Now, in that mysterious way kids have, both girls have made a complete recovery. I thought they were eating Kit-Kat bars in their room. Cuz, like, they're hungry. But it seems they have finished their snacks and moved on to playing with my makeup in the bathroom.

Make up and chocolate.

Good thing the washer seems to be working.

Hot Fudge Brownies

By popular demand. Just this once. I am not The Pioneer Woman.

My non-Pioneer Woman pictures are here. Also the credit.

For those of you who have been following the saga of my washing machine, if I understand the situation correctly, Washer Repair Dude has been on vacation. As I snarkily put it to The Spouse, "You mean Dude is off to the Seychelles or Sochi or his dacha? While I have spent the entire week sitting in my apartment, afraid to even go see Lenin's tomb for fear I will get a call saying he'll be at my door in 20 minutes? Is this what I am to understand?"

The Spouse thought I was taking the narrow view.

But I digress. Note that I tried to accommodate North American and European cooks. This is why I have a scale and a calculator in my kitchen drawer. Also, I rely heavily on page 621 of The Martha Stewart Cookbook (1995) for her conversion chart of "Equivalent Imperial and Metric Measurements." Once, in Vienna, I saw on the fridge of a fellow expat, an imperial/metric conversion chart, courtesy of her local international women's club. Verily I say unto you now: this would be a good club fund-raiser. hint hint

But I digress again. To make these brownies, you will need

2 cups walnut pieces
4 ounces/112 grams unsweetened chocolate
1/2 cup/1 stick/112 grams unsalted butter, room temperature
2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract (I used about 5 packets of vanilla sugar and considered it part of the sugar, below.)
2 cups sugar (I used mostly Demerara since I didn't have enough plain old regular white sugar. If you don't know what Demerara sugar is, don't sweat it: just used what you call sugar.)
4 large eggs, room temperature
1 cup unbleached all-purpose flour (I have no idea how to say that in Russian. I just used the normal flour I use for all projects.)

The recipe says to preheat the oven to 350F. My oven has gas marks. I do everything at Gas Mark 5. I have no idea what that means. Also, I was making a Spanish recipe for chicken that required a very low, slow oven. So I turned it down to Gas Mark 3 for the chicken and then turned it up for the brownies (without removing the chicken) and then turned it back down . . .

Now do you see why I am loathe to type in these recipes? It's not so straight forward.

I used a 9-inch square glass baking dish. You metric types are on your own here. I molded aluminum foil around the outside of the baking dish leaving the foil long enough that the sides overhung the edges of the dish (this enables you to remove the brownies later). Then you are supposed to take the foil off the bottom, turn the dish over, and arrange the foil inside the pan. Since all I can get is crap-quality European foil that tears when you look at it, I used two layers. If you are using proper American Reynolds Wrap, one sheet is certainly sufficient.

Gently grease the foil with a little vegetable oil.

Arrange the walnuts in a single layer on a baking sheet. Bake the walnuts 6 to 8 minutes, until lightly toasted. Set aside to cool.

Melt together the chocolate and the butter until just a few lumps remain. I used the microwave. The recipe says to use a double boiler. I'm not getting into techniques here. Stir the chocolate until it finishes melting. Scrape the mixture into a medium bowl, and let it cool about 5 minutes. By hand, stir in the sugar/vanilla, salt, and then the eggs, one at a time. Mix with a minimum of strokes, adding each ingredient just before you have completely incorporated the previous one.

I took a little of the 1 cup of flour and tossed the walnuts with it, a trick I have seen the Barefoot Contessa do to keep nuts from sinking in batters. Stir in the remaining flour, mixing lightly again, followed by the flour-tossed walnuts. Spoon the batter into the prepared pan, and smooth the surface.

Bake for 32 to 35 minutes, until the top looks just slightly set and a toothpick inserted in the center comes out almost but not quite clean. A little chocolate should remain on the toothpick. Do not overcook the brownies--when they really look done, they'll be too dry. I set my timer for 25 minutes and then checked every 5 minutes after that until they reached the right consistency.

Cool the brownies in the pan. Remove them from the pan by pulling on the foil ends, then pull the foil off and cut the brownies to your preferred size. They will be messy to slice.

Dust with powdered sugar if you wish. Serve with ice cream, whipped cream, clotted cream . . . as you prefer.

Now, I have to go because (a different) washing machine guy is here. Really.

Update: As told to me via The Spouse, who talked to Man Friday, who talked to WRDII by phone. The hose was old. WRPII used glue. Don't use the washer before tomorrow. I can't read the receipt and did not hover, so I don't know if he patched the old hose or replaced it with a new one. The adventure continues . . . tomorrow.

When the Going Gets Tough

Heard a ROAR overhead this morning while I was posting my previous whinge-fest. I've seen this show before!



All week there have been rehearsals for the May 9 parades. The ground troops/equipment rehearsed one evening earlier this week. You can see good shots of that here.

Then it was time to get some serious mood-altering done. Skittles helped me make these:



I used a recipe from this book. A wonderful gorgeous friend sent me this when we lived in Argentina. It is a great sampler of classic American dishes. The kind Mom used to make.


Take that Dr. Atkins! Chocolate is a vegetable, you know.

I Am So Sick of This Topic

Really I am. But it is consuming me.

A few weeks ago, I put the bathroom rug into the washing machine and set it off on its merry journey.

When I returned and opened the washer door (as the "I'M LOCKED!" light was off), a sea of soapy water splashed out on the bathroom floor.

WTF?

I slammed the door and turned the dial to what should have been "SPIN ME," but the washer simply commenced to fill (with more water) and agitate.

Sort of like how I'm agitated now.

A call was placed to the landlords' Man Friday. (Our landlords live in Shanghai, so the fact they are Americans and speak English doesn't really help me at times like these.) Man Friday arranged for Washer Repair Dude to come the following day.

In the interest of not wasting WRD's time, I drained, teacup by drippy teacup, the water that was in the washer. This involves opening a little valve on the front of the machine and right at floor level, a design that makes it impossible to put any reasonably-sized container underneath in which to collect the water that seeps out. The polar ice caps are melting faster, I swear.

Tired of squatting on the floor like some indigenous woman, I opted to hunker on my children's red, plastic IKEA kid chair between the washer and the bathroom sink, crying because I was so annoyed with my life.

Yes, I know the world has deeper levels of suffering. The big problems I can cope with. Swine flu? The economic crisis . . . which caused me to elect to forgo a trip this school break and spend more time getting to know Moscow? Bring it on.

But a malfunctioning washing machine is my Achilles heel.

I could only fit about a third of a cup of water into the little plastic IKEA faux-Tupperware container I was using and even then twice that amount of water would leak down the sides of the machine and onto the bathroom floor.

It took about 45 minutes and three bath towels to drain the water.

Now I had a sopping wet IKEA bathroom rug and matching towels. I put the rug in the bathtub and hung the towels so they would not drip on the floor.

WRD arrives as scheduled the following day. The Spouse returns home for the appointment so I do not have to try to mime concepts like "It won't drain" or "I think the dial no longer matches the function it claims to perform." He diagnoses a defunct pump, replaces the pump, and leaves.

I wash the bathroom rug.

I wash the towels that had been on the floor.

I wash a load of children's underwear.

The Spouse, stepping into the bathroom to brush his teeth says, "HEY! Why's the bathroom floor all wet?"

And so it is. Soaking wet and running out into the hall onto the wooden parquet floors.

This is late on Friday. He leaves a message for Man Friday. On Sunday, Man Friday calls The Spouse to inform him that WRD will come Monday, Tuesday, or Wednesday of this week.

Meanwhile, a cat poos on the newly cleaned bathroom rug. I clean it best I can with a combination of paper towels and the detachable shower head. I put the damp rug on our balcony to await the return of my functioning washer.

Monday comes and goes. No WRD.

Every time I walk into my bathroom, I am struck by the lack of a rug. Showers now involve setting a small, not-so-liked towel on the floor so whomever is in the shower does not have to step out onto a cold tile floor peppered with scoopable cat litter. In desperation, I even price bathroom rugs at a home store at my closest mall. At Evrodom, I can have an ordinary polyester bathroom floor rug starting at about 3,000 rubles (33 rubles = $1US these days). Yup. Something that would cost me $15 at Target, and be a designer piece to boot, will cost me nearly $100 here.

I opt to suck it up.

Tuesday comes and goes. No WRD.

Yesterday, Wednesday, around noon, when I still had not seen WRD, The Spouse called Man Friday who told him, via a bad phone connection, "Balaka balaka balalaika by five o'clock."

We interpreted this to mean that WRD would be at our door yesterday by 5:00 p.m.

But, alas, it was not meant to be.

It is now Thursday. Monday is a holiday in Russia (although my kids have school Monday). If WRD does not come today or tomorrow, my children, who have patiently spent the second week of their already underwhelming school vacation at home watching SpongeBob reruns on TV while I stay close to home in case WRD says he's on his way, will return to school in dirty clothes and underwear I will have been forced to wash out in the bathtub.

Moscow does not believe in laundromats.

I have received several kind offers from fellow expats to bring over a load. I have turned them down each time thinking "relief arrives tomorrow." Now I have so much that needs to be washed, I cannot winnow it down to one emergency load. Plus, do you really want me over at your house for the three to four hours needed to wash and dry a load of laundry? In my current mood?

I think not.

And ANOTHER Thing!

Could not, for the life of us, figure out why The Spouse's mother had not thanked us for her Mother's Day Tribute yet. I mean, c'mon. Surely her flowers were delivered on Saturday!

Sunday: nothing.

Monday: still nothing.

Maybe Grandma has died, we start to wonder. She's dealing with the funeral. But surely, someone else in the family would have called.

Internet issues? Possibly.

Maybe the lousy florist lost the order. Unlikely, however, as it's a small town, and they know us.

The Spouse finally calls her yesterday afternoon. Did you get your flowers, he asks.

His mother informs him that, no, she did not receive any flowers. But since he ordered them for Mother's Day, they'll probably come in time for Mother's Day. Which, in the US, is NEXT Sunday.

Oops.

We'll this is what happens when you live in the Twilight Zone. Russian Women's Day is in March. UK Mother's Day, which we would see ads for on TV, is in the fall sometime, I think.

I swear, I thought Mother's Day was the first Sunday in May.

I had been cursing the nerve of FTD as they kept sending me email reminders about ordering flowers for Mother's Day.

"Good God, people!" I kept thinking every time I saw another email. "It's over. OVER! Move on."

My mother, to her credit, said "Thank you so much," and never batted an eye about my being a week early.

No Cookies for Me

The new little cat is in heat. It's made her very chatty. Thankfully, she's not yowling, minx-like or shouting the feline equivalents of "Fuck meeeeeeeeee!" It's more like the patter of a Patpong hostess: "Hey G.I. Five dollar, five dollar?"

The kids are getting fed up.

The Spouse, Cat-O, and I all slept with our hands over our ears last night, huddled in our bedroom as she did cat antics all around the house, commencing around 0300. She had a bead or some little piece-of-plastic-kid-toy and moused it all around the apartment, stopping now and then to chirp, "Five dollar? Five dollar?"

My own gynecological adventures took an interesting turn this morning when I arrived at the clinic across the street for my Annual Look-See.

While I never embrace this event as something great fun, I had as good a time as can be had when I used to visit my doctor in Vienna. That office was feng shui-ed and aromatherapy-ed within an inch of its life. Smelled of oranges. There were always cookies, GOOD cookies, in the waiting room. And the nurse/receptionist, a pretty young woman who embodied all the characteristics of a Great Girlfriend, would offer you tea.

The first time I went there, it was so unexpectedly nice that I cried.

My office of choice here is okay. Mostly it is okay because it is across the street, and they offer not only an OB/GYN, but dentists, an orthodontist, a general practitioner, and now they even have a shrink. It's a French office, although they speak Russian and English there, too.

The GYN I saw there last year was a man, one of the owners. He was professional and competent. But he lacked charm and humor. Charm and humor are qualities I require of people to whom I am about to show my goodies. But maybe that's just me.

So when I called last week to schedule a visit, I was not at all sorry when the receptionist on the phone scheduled me with what sounded like a woman. Although I had had a very Soviet encounter with a woman GYN at another clinic shortly after arriving in Moscow, I was willing to take my chances with this roll of the dice.

Long story short: she was very nice. Sweet. Kind and gentle. My age even (always a plus lately . . . I prefer someone who understands the hormonal roller coaster ride that is the late 40s).

But she doesn't speak a word of English.

She speaks French and Russian.

So I had to mentally thrash around trying to find the words I needed in French. I can do the OB/GYN in Spanish. Skittles was born in Argentina, and my doctor there spoke no English. But I hadn't ever done this in French.

She spoke slowly and clearly. But I couldn't remember how to say things like "worse." (I could only remember "better.") And I got all tangled up in numbers.

Her: "How many days since your last period?"

Me: "FORTY-EIGHT! I mean TWENTY-EIGHT. I mean TWO WEEKS. Merde."

I finally had to just point at her calendar. I was hopeless.

Everything under the hood checked out, but I didn't even try to cover topics like
"Am I slowly losing my mind?"
"Is it normal to burst into tears without provocation?"
"Is it me? Or is sex not quite as much fun anymore? I'm not doing anything differently."
"Why can't I stop scratching?"

Actually, I did venture into the itchy skin discussion, and we determined that it is not hormonal as I still have plenty of those. But the best we could come up with is maybe I should check with the GP about that. Or just bear with Moscow's famously hard water. Or moisturize more.

The bill for my morning's entertainment? I thought they said "2,000 rubles" at the front desk, so I started to pull out cash. The receptionist, sensing she had not communicated, turned the receipt around for me.

12,375 rubles. That's $375 at today's rate of exchange. Itemized it was as follows:

Consultation: 5,400 rubles/$166
Gynecological ultrasound: 3,600 rubles/$109
Pap test: 2,700 rubles/$82
Some other culture I don't recognize: 675 rubles (and a bargain at that $20.50)

I know it's not fair to compare markets, but I used to pay my Austrian guy 80 euros plus another 12 euros or so for the lab work.

Cookies included.

Not for the Sake of Glory

Weather: 25C/70F, cloudless blue skies, warm and slightly breezy. Very nice.

Movies: Last night I saw (actually, "stumbled upon" is a better description) I'm Not There, the Bob Dylan bio-pic, which, while enjoyable, was very confusing. I had to read about it today, and then it made more sense. But, wow . . . Cate Blanchett is something else in it. Also saw Sleuth, with Michael Caine and Jude Law. The reviews are lukewarm, but I liked it a lot. But maybe I just liked looking at Jude Law for 86 minutes.

Washer/Dryer Repair Update: Monday, Tuesday, or Wednesday. My money is on Tuesday morning at 10:30 a.m. because that's when I have a doctor's appointment. This is starting to get critical, and not just because I am running out of socks and underwear. Baboo decided to shake up a bottle of Skittles' Coke today while we were out in the detsky (children's) park behind our building. Sticky Coke all over. Oh, and this morning, as I toddled into the bathroom, I discovered a cat had pooed on the bathroom throw rug. I cleaned it up as best I could (and then put the rug out on the balcony to await Monday, Tuesday, or Wednesday). But ew. . .

Some seasonal photos of Moscow for you. The following four photos are of posters celebrating the May 1 and May 9 holidays.

Below is one for May 9 (obviously). Sorry about the shadow on the left, but there was a tree . . .

May 9 is Victory Day (День Победы or Den Pobedy) in Russia, and celebrates the defeat of Nazi Germany. I finally learned the significance of the orange and black ribbons, which I noticed all over during the holiday last year (I even have one, although I have no idea where I got it).

On our trip to Dmitrov, I asked the tour guide about the ribbon, and she explained that it symbolizes the Ribbon of Saint George, a medal originally given to those who participated in battles by Catherine the Great. The orange and black symbolize the fire and ashes of battle.

The poster above was displayed next to the one below, which is for May 1. The rest of Europe, probably the world, celebrates May 1 as International Workers' Day. But in Russia, it is Spring and Labor Day. The poster says Happy Holidays of Spring and Labor.

Bonus points for the Beet-nik who can answer "Where did the May 1 Labor Day holiday originate?" If you answer "USA," you are correct and have won the people's admiration forever. And, for our non-American Beet-niks, note that in the US, we celebrate Labor Day on the first Monday in September, far removed from any pesky associations of labor activism and the radical left.

Another May 9 poster. The one I have not gotten a photo of, and really is my favorite, is one where the ribbon is shaped like a dove. I see that one in the Metro, but haven't seen it on the street.
But this is my very favorite poster for May 9. The text reads, "VICTORY . . . not for the sake of glory, but for the sake of life on earth."

"For the sake of hyperbole," muttered The Spouse as he translated these for me.

Since I was out and about, I finally got some pictures of a "mall beneath the street." This is the closest one to us. Now there is a pet supply store there, which is handy. I also buy nuts from a little shop down there. On a Sunday, most of these businesses are closed but in other parts of the city, that might not be the case (near my gym there's one, and more shops were open this morning as I walked by).

Here are the machines where one can pay bills. I use them to put credit on my mobile phone and to pay for the cable/Internet service.


Angels and Demons, in theaters starting May 14. Can you see where it says "Tom Hanks"?

Spring/May holidays mark the beginning of the flower season in Moscow. Everywhere you turn, the City is making every effort to beautify.


I don't know what these little birds are, but they are cheeky and very fun to watch.


This is the vegetable truck near us. It is right in front of our grocery store. Even it got a fresh coat of paint. Honestly, I saw a guy slathering black paint on the wheels. The truck never moves; I doubt if it even can anymore. The Coke cooler in front has a May 9 poster on it, too.

How Many Summers? How Many Winters?

Temperature: 15C/60F, but cloudless, blue skies.
Currently Reading: Russell Brand's autobiography, My Booky Wook. He's an enfant terrible, but very charming. I loved his character in Forgetting Sarah Marshall. The book is voyeuristic, addictive, mind candy. I'm loving it.
Functioning Washer/Dryers in My House: None.

I now have a gym membership and said gym has a pool. Yesterday morning I went and swam 30 laps (40 = 1 km). I would have done more, but it was my first day doing anything active since, oh, last August? And I was sort of on the clock because I had arranged for us to take a day trip with a tour agency to a little town called Dmitrov, which is 40 miles/65 km north of Moscow.

The tour consisted of the four of us; a nice lady from Switzerland; Lena, the guide; and Viktor, the driver.

Lena and Viktor's argument/discussions were perhaps the best part of the adventure.

When we all got in the van at the beginning of the day, Lena told Viktor to pull over at the first "magazinchik" (little magasin or store . . . like in French) to get some water for the journey. Moscow streets are lined with little kiosks selling various things. Viktor complies.

Lena: "It's a flower shop!"

Later, he seemed unclear about where we were heading. She said, "I beg you. Don't be difficult. We're going to Dmitrov!"

Ah, Dmitrov.

Originally, I had planned to spend this three-day weekend on a whirlwind tour of Tver-Torzhok-Novgorod. In the end, however, I balked at the $1900 price tag. Yes, it was basically all-inclusive and for four people. But I wasn't convinced I would get $1900 worth of fun out of the project. Perhaps if Viktor drove . . .

In addition, while I haven't done much traveling outside Moscow (indeed, other than a short jaunt to Star City, I have done NO traveling outside Moscow. Unless you count trips screaming to the airport . . .), part of me has always darkly suspected that I have already experienced the world outside Moscow when I explored the world outside Bratislava.

Which, at least in terms of Dmitrov, turned out to be the case.

There's no infrastructure in Russia. Seriously. There are no real highways connecting cities. In fairness, Slovakia also lacked a complete cross-country highway. And even England does not have highways all the way from Winchester to Cornwall. But England does have proper highways connecting its major cities. Correct me if I'm wrong, but Russia does not have a decent highway connecting Moscow and St. Petersburg.

Oh, the weather is lousy, people say. You can't build decent roads when winter lasts 14 months a year. The ground's always freezing and thawing. Rivers of mud. Even if there were proper roads, it's not safe to be out there in the middle of nowhere in Russian winter weather: a breakdown could be lethal.

But somehow Canada manages.

Okay, that was snarky.

My point is that Dmitrov reminded me of Piestany or Pesinok or even Banska Bystrica. Places I've seen in Slovakia.

Dmitrov dates from 1154. Insert my favorite joke here: "I know, because I was in 1155, and the noise kept me up all night." My children just roll their eyes when I do this, but I can't help myself.

Here's the main square. You can see the statue of Yuri Dolgoruki (Yuri, the Long-Armed), founder of Moscow (in Moscow there is a statue of him on a horse on Tverskaya ulica). Yuri's son was born here, and the child's patron saint was St. Demetrius, hence the name. You can also see the earth ramparts that surround Dmitrov's kremlin.

The Spouse and Yuri.


Another shot of the ramparts. The church is the Cathedral of the Assumption (1509-1523).


We saw a very nice little museum that had not only artifacts from the region (clothing, tools, and even an entire wooded house), examples of locally produced crafts (tin toys, glass beads, bone handles, gingerbread stamps, and braids and decorative upholstery trims), but also World War II memorabilia (in 1941, the German army was stopped near here in the Battle of Moscow).

Here is the 14th century Borisoglebskiy monastery in Dmitrov. On the side of the church are Boris and Gleb, the first Russian saints.


On the way to the monastery, Viktor seemed unsure, and Lena was giving him directions, "No, not left! Go straight! Park where you parked before."

Viktor: "I've never been here before."

Lena: "You brought us here before."

Viktor: "How many summers? How many winters?"

Lena: "Last year!"

When we got out of the car, Viktor suddenly said, "How long will you be? Save me a sausage!"

Lena: "I don't have any."

We ate lunch beneath this monument to the heroes of the Battle of Moscow. It was on a hill in Peremilovskaya, a small village outside Dmitrov. It overlooks the Moscow Canal, which connects the Moscow and Volga Rivers. This was a Stalin era project, and, like the Metro, was built with the cheap labor or "golden sweat" of the gulags. The Borisoglebskiy monestary housed a local gulag HQ at one point. Very grim stuff.


This little dacha was behind the monument. The words next to Lenin's picture say "He lived. He's alive. Will he live?"


Survival was front and center in my mind as Viktor drove us back to Moscow in true Russian style. This involves roads with only a loose sense of lanes and a certain careening from the left to the right side of our half of the road. Wheee! He also had a tendency to brake before obstacles like railroad tracks and then SLAM on the brakes right before we crossed causing everyone to LURCH forward. This eliminated napping.

So as a result of my swim and the hypnotic swaying of Viktor's minivan, I was tuckered out when we got home. My darling children took this flattering photo of me and my cat.

At least you can't see me drooling.