twenty-something years of "what have you been up to?"

Category: moscow life

  • blue sky, yellow shoes, red square

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    Nina and I visited Red Square yesterday, spring has been officially approved there, the ice skating rink is gone and lilac trees bloom around St Basil's. We had Pierrier, fancy chicken salad and espresso at GUM.

    Yellow_shoes

    We walked up out of the metro behind this woman in the yellow shoes. She was walking fast and then paused, leaned into this guard and without missing a beat, he lit her cigarette before she hurried on. It was a beautiful little Moscow mini-drama with excellent costumes and choreography, it made me swoon.

  • who’s your mamichka?

    This just in from Moscow Mom:

     Hey! You're in this month's Aeroflot flight magazine! The blogs they quoted this month — in translation — and showed image-captured blog headers of are yours, mine, Expatress at thebeetgoes on, and Kate (fromrussiawithlove) in St.P! They quoted your experience at the banya when you didn't have an elf hat and then smelled like coffee.

  • almost russian easter

    Willowman

    This is what I've been waiting for. Old men selling pussywillows on the corner.

  • forty-eight in moscow

    Happy_bd

    If you told me ten years ago that I would be celebrating my forty-eighth birthday in Moscow, I would have thought you were crazy and needed something. Perhaps a therapist. I'd just finished my Master's, was working critical care in San Francisco, and was looking for my first NP job. Good times.

     

    On my birthday this year, the day started out as always. Coffee first, then breakfast with the kids. Work got a little frazzled and then Dina met me with some friends to go to Cafe Pushkin (thank you Tamara for taking Dina there when we first arrived). It was fabulous! Entering the cafe, the servers are dressed in 19th century attire.  As they were pushing the champagne cart towards us, I eyeballed a very expensive menu and tried to come up with a polite way to ask for the "business lunch" menu. Dina said, "Ask them for the business lunch menu!" They were happy to oblige us and told us to go downstairs to the main floor. But we had a chance to glimpse at the fine decor of volumes of bookcases and ionic columns with sconces and barreled ceilings.

    Downstairs, we were seated at a round table with elegant settings. The ceiling had baroque paintings with ornate molding. The business lunch menu was brought out: a choice of salad, soup, and entre. I chose the herring with boiled potatoes (thought of my papa and how we used to eat that for lunch when I was in kindergarden). The soup was borshch with smoked goose and for the main dish I had sea bass which I expected to be a steak like Chilean bass at home, but it was more like a trout pan seared and served on a bed of dill sprigs with rolled peppers and baby potatoes drizzled with a lemon sauce. 

    After lunch, we walked to an old grocery store that reminded me of Troia's Market with italian nougats, fruit shaped marzipan, jellies, chocolates, and display cases of hams and cheeses. Only the interior was different with decorated high ceilings and art nouveau chandeliers.

    From there we walked back to our apartment past a farmer's market that had mushrooms, flowers and handmade wooden toys then the church where Pushkin was married. A visual walking tour of Moscow. 

    Stefan and I played games while Dina prepared a cheese and fruit plates with french baguettes for dinner. The kids helped Dina bake a chocolate orange cake and they decorated it with the marzipan fruits and candles that refuse to go out. Ha ha! We toasted with Russian champagne. I thought of long dead relatives I love and miss. I thought of home, which I miss. So glad for internet and all my friends and family.

  • С лeгким пaром! congratulations on bathing!

    Banya

    A couple of girlfriends and I  went to the banya, the Russian baths. Now that we've seen other covered with coffee grounds we feel much closer.

    We arrived, rinsed, did test runs in the sauna and steam room. We were admonished for not wearing hats. Everyone wears these cute little felt elf hats, if you don't, the heat will ruin your hair, says the banya attendant. I don't get how your hair isn't getting just as hot since you are trapping the heat in the hat, but fine. I love felt, hats and anything elf-ish, I don't know why I'm resisting. Must buy hat. I now have a great excuse for my hair. I went in the Russian banya without a hat.

    After the sauna we had our choice of ways to shock our bodies back to a normal temperature: hop in a frigid bath, or pull a rope to tip a bucket of cold water over yourself, or go for a swim in the pool. The pool water was chilly, but not impossibly cold, it felt refreshing to swim under fountains in the sun filled room. Then we scrubbed, not with designer products, but with a homemade coffee ground scrub offered by a very nice Russian. It looked like the the worst spray-on tan ever and I smelled like an espresso for the rest of day, but three days later, my cuticles are still nice, so I think they may be onto something.

    Since the process is sauna, plunge, scrub, rinse, repeat, we were due to go back in the sauna. This time, the banya attendant, wearing two hats, locked the door behind us. She opened the oven with a horrific metal-on-metal screech, she poured water inside which made the room get hotter. She flung ladle-fuls of eucalyptus scented water around the room. Then she waved a towel over her head–Pittsburg Steeler fan style–drawing the hot air down. Everyone sits in silence, in the dim sauna, wearing their elf hats. Try not to have a giggle attack.

    She stokes the oven again, then dips a bouquet of evergreen branches in water and shakes Chirstmas-tree scented water over all of us. It feels like a sacrament. We are allowed to whisper "thank you." The hotter the room gets, the more giggly and claustrophobic I get. I have to finally just close my eyes and mentally watch a Youtube video of Anodyne. The banya attendant waves the towel around one more time, driving the temperature up higher–the blast of heat sort of reminds me opening the front door in Niamey–she pauses dramatically, and unlocks the sauna door.

    Whew. Pull the rope of the bucket and let icy water splash over you. Do not scream.

    We didn't want to miss out on the experience of being beaten with branches, which is suppose to open the pores and be part of the theraputic banya experience. Buying a bunch of branches, the attendant asked me, "Oak or birch leaves?" "Which are softer?" was my answer. So then my friends and I beat on each other with oak leaves. It feels pretty much how you would expect it to feel, wet and leafy. 

    Back to the curtained-off the dressing rooms where you can order pots of tea, and I've heard, in the men's facility, vodka. We walked home in a blissed-out state, even without the vodka.

  • maslenitsa

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    The sun is gaining on us, four minutes a day right now, it's the week before lent, post, time for Malenitsa. I wish I had a picture of Mrs. Issakov at the stove with her four doll-house sized iron skillets she uses specifically for blini. Traditionally we are suppose to dress in folk costumes, sing and parade around a straw "Lady Maslenitsa," visit family and friends on specific days, (in-laws one day, god parents the next) go for Troika rides, make bonfires (tossing in the Lady Maslenitsa on the last day), eat up all the meat and dairy in the house using blini as a vehicle, and have fist fights. You can run from some of it, but you can't hide from the blini. They are serving them in the Embassy cafe.

    Prost post.

  • before, during, after

    Somehow Peter's co-worker got us on the guest list for the inauguration party at the Ambassador's. I thought it was going to be just embassy worker bees, and we had to walk three miles in the snow: this is my excuse for showing up wearing jeans with a white belt and Keens. Well, this is no excuse for the white belt, except they are cool. On the way out of the embassy, we walked past the wall where the portraits of the President, Vice-President and Secretary of State hang. After seeing Bush, Cheney and Rice for so long on State Department walls, it was strange to see the wall, where the portraits normally hang, blank.

    We walk into the main "salon" at Spaso House and the room is electric, filled with people dressed far nicer than we are–one guy was in a tux–a jumbotron screen, and tv cameras. IMG_0946

    The lights go down, and they show the Presidents taking their seats. President George the First gets a big cheer from the Ruskie audience for wearing a Russian hat, they see it and go nuts. Aretha starts singing, in her hat with the bow you can see from space. "Freedom, freeeeedom," they show the Golden Gate Bridge and I start crying and pretty much don't stop until we get back home.

    Obama walks down the stairs going out to the podium and looks so beautiful, then speaks with this great combination of gentleness and power, that I think he may be the Buddah. "This guy is even better than David Cook," I say to myself. 

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    After the swearing-in the lights come back up and everyone stands around hugging. I feel like we all just got married. I have never felt so hopeful in my life.

    We exit the salon and the reception rooms are filled with flowers, banners, American flags, tables with caviar on toast, shishleek (Russian brochettes), mushroom pastries, dumplings in creme sauce, fresh fruit and veggies, all kinds of wine, beer, Beringer champagne and shots of Russian wodka.

    Peter says we have to drink to Obama.

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    After two glasses of champagne, I am a champion mingler. We even mingle with Obama:

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    At midnight we walked home in the snow, the ground slushy, the Russian White house in the distance. 

    We came in through the embassy and the wall was no longer blank, we were greeted by two new faces:

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  • ice skates and keefer

    Skating

    I went to the grocery store and picked up the essentials: butter, four cartons of keefer, (instead of milk, dammit) chicken, wine and ice skates for Stefan. He was thrilled. We are the kind of parents who say, "We bought you skates, we never said we'd take you skating." So he walked around in the snowy yard in his skates for half an hour and pronounced himself a very good ice skater. Then we gave in and tromped across the street to the park-turned-ice-rink so he could give his ice skates a first-time whirl, and some not-intentional twirls. I can't imagine learning to ice skate without a rail to cling to in horror. I think Stefan is junior nationals champion material because on his first time out he didn't do that horrible splits thing nor did he break his tailbone.

    I submit the following picture for a handy shopping reference. From left to right: keefer, milk, wine.

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  • low key holiday

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    While others traveled to Norway, the Riviera, and back to the States for ski resort and ocean holidays, we Chordas' stayed put and watched the snow. The sun comes up at 9:00 AM and sets around 4:15 PM. It's minus 12 degrees Centigrade (10 degrees Fahrenheit). So during the daylight hours, we baked, made trips to the grocery store to get provisions (mostly wine and milk) since the commissary was closed, and forced ourselves to the gym to counterattack the overindulgence of hibernation. 

    On New Years Eve, I took my lunch break to run to the grocery store to buy dinner. The lines were extending out into the isles and I stood 45 minutes in line, only to find out their debit card ability was down and I didn't have enough cash on me. There is a smaller store a block closer to home and I'm glad I checked it out. Prices are higher but there were far fewer people. I settled on a pork roast with vegetables and Dina made an apple pie from scratch. Work was busy that week while I was on call, but then it was back to lounging, reading, and daily wine tasting (mostly the same case of wine!) Here is a snap shot from outside our back door, which is about as far as we got.

  • oh christmas tree

    Today some friends drove us out to Ikea. We've had our perfectly perfect fake Christmas tree for two years now, and it's decorated and lovely, filling the living room with a glow, but when I saw the stack of REAL Christmas trees in the parking lot, I thought, oh I love how a Christmas tree smells, I have to have one. 

    After shopping and the darling lunch they serve there at the Ikea restaurant, Peter and I headed outside to the Christmas tree lot. "Skolka?" Peter asks. "How much?" Almost two thousand rubles, just under $80. My thought: "Fine." Peter's thought: "For a second Christmas tree? For a smell?" 

    I insist. Peter is whisked away by a Santa-hatted helper to pay inside. In two minutes–a miracle considering how long the lines are in Ikea–he's back. I'm trying to choose a tree. Here is what makes it hard. All the trees are swaddled in a cocoon of netting. In spite of this, Russians are happily picking out trees. I've never had to choose a tree based solely on its height while it's wrapped up like a mummy. I can only guess at each tree's proportions, girth and whatever other attributes a tree might have. Is it even, is it lopsided, is it too wide, too weird? Who can tell one Christmas tree tube from another? Peter is waving around our $80 receipt, demanding I choose a tree and I'm like, I don't mean to be rude, but I'm American. Can't I see them naked?

    "What is everyone saying?" I ask Peter. I mean, there is a crowd of people choosing trees, I'm trying to figure out by what criteria you choose a tree when it's wrapped in a straight jacket. In response, Peter wails, "We don't even have a stand!"

    "Oh god, you're right, forget it." I'm overwhelmed by how worked up he is and how silly the whole thing is, even though I'd already cleared a place for it in the house, had it make friends with the fake tree, strung lights on it and tied those little Swedish heart-shaped gingerbread cookies we'd bought in Ikea all over it mentally. 

    So I make Peter go back in Ikea to "return" the tree.

    At the returns counter you must take a number, Peter takes two numbers, 28 and then, inexplicably, 41. Forlorn looking Russians pack the returns area, they look like they've just come back from the gulag with their whiny toddlers in snowpants and a dresser that came without a knob. We ask a clerk how long the wait is. "One to two hours," she tells us, and she gives us a look like I work in the returns department of Ikea in Russia and you want me to feel sorry for you?

    "Forget it," Peter says.

    "Well, you might as well get a tree then," says the husband-friend who drove us. He is waiting for us with the car engine running, witnessing Christmas-tree-gate. "Oh, I make my husband buy Christmas trees and return them every day of the week," says the wife-friend, which in the polite South where they are from means, "We are never bringing these people with us anywhere ever again!"

    I'm back to blindly choosing a tree by its height and moisture content. There is something about this process that renders me helpless. Okay, if you can't choose a good one, choose a big one, I think, quoting my Uncle Sonny.

    A prospective Christmas tree-buyer walks up and asks Peter how much the trees are. Is Peter calm with his answer? "I don't know! How much is this?" He shakes the receipt at him. "Why don't you have him buy the tree from us?" I ask. Heck, we'll sell him our receipt for a thousand rubles and go home happy at this point. "I don't even want a tree!" Peter loses it. "I paid almost TWO THOUSAND RUBLES for a tree I don't want, and that I won't be able to make stand up!" The two Santa-hatted guys working the Christmas tree lot try not to smile at Peter-the-spitting-Christmas-tree-owner.

    One of them says, "I'll take you to talk to the manager." 

    Peter comes out of Ikea smiling. I picked up a sprig of fir branch lying on the ground and sniffed it during the one hour drive back. For free! We brought in our packages, and then spent the evening enjoying the glow of our perfectly perfect fake Chirstmas tree.