"No one" is the answer. Myself included. It's 5:20 p.m. here, and there is still sun shining into the Moscow Times' big and tall windows. Woohoo!!
Other than expressing my joy for Mr. Sun, I wanted to tell everyone who doesn't love dates and figs to start doing so. They're so amazing. And at the giant, sprawling, incredibly unorganized markets of Moscow, there is the occasional dried-fruit and nuts vendor who sells them, and not just any kind, but EVERY kind. That is, they sell like 10 different kinds. Big ones, smaller ones, tarter ones, sweeter ones, every kind of ones. Try cooking with them some time, too---I used some North African couscous recipe the other night that used dates, and I just about died from pleasure every time I bit into one.
Presidential election here in Russia on Sunday. Eh. Crazy that such a supposedly big deal can be so boring. No one's really talking about it, including the newspapers for the most part, and for good reason---there's not really anything to talk about. "Welcome to the hot seat, Mr. Medvedev"---that's about it.
Also, while all you faithful readers are doing things that you may not have already been doing, such as eating more delicious dried fruits, listen to Lil' Wayne. He's really good!
Till next week.
Friday, February 29, 2008
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Hello world
I'm sitting rather bored at work. I have to do translations today, of interviews with Russian professionals in the pharmaceutical industry. Yuck.
Sooooo, I thought I would re-start the old blog since there's nothing on my Google Reader at the moment . . . at least this, then, will give you all who have my blog on YOUR RSS reader of choice something to peruse in the inevitably empty moments of your work day.
I just finished an article about the graffiti scene in Moscow . . . it was pretty interesting, but I wondered, as I was writing it, how much further I could delve into the scene and still find it interesting. I think I was approaching a point that I think exists with most things where I knew enough that it seemed normal---yeah, so there's a graffiti scene in Moscow, so what?---without feeling like I had nuanced enough information to say truly compelling things about that scene . . . if such things exist at all. Part of me is very confident that they DO exist, but I feel like I might have to get into an almost academic level of complexity to get at them, when I see associations easily (maybe it's a lack of knowledge about art in general, really . . . ) and can at least think that I can make grandiose claims about something's cultural significance. I have the basics, which gave me plenty for an article---and really, I don't think the next step, where deeper issues might come out, would appeal to that many of the readers of my publication---but it left me feeling blah. Like, what did I really find all that stuff out for?
In other news, there's this stuff in Russia that I think most foreigners who've never been here don't know about that I want to plug: it's called "ikra," which is also the Russian word for caviar . . . but I hate caviar. Or, at least, haven't liked it in the past. Maybe that will change. Anyway, what I'm talking about is this orange paste that they sell in jars made from pureed eggplant, random squashes and root vegetables like that, tomatoes, onions, garlic, and a few other assorted pieces of tasty organic matter. And god is it good. I just bought me a jar and a loaf of the awesome black bread they make here, and I've been busy scarfing it down for the last, ooohhh, 10 or so minutes. I'm already a third through the jar. It's not that small a jar.
Hope anyone reading this hadn't despaired that I would never show my virtual face again! Because here I am---ready to procrastinate by blabbing into cyberspace. Catch, cyberspace, catch!
Sorry . . . that's probably enough for today.
Sooooo, I thought I would re-start the old blog since there's nothing on my Google Reader at the moment . . . at least this, then, will give you all who have my blog on YOUR RSS reader of choice something to peruse in the inevitably empty moments of your work day.
I just finished an article about the graffiti scene in Moscow . . . it was pretty interesting, but I wondered, as I was writing it, how much further I could delve into the scene and still find it interesting. I think I was approaching a point that I think exists with most things where I knew enough that it seemed normal---yeah, so there's a graffiti scene in Moscow, so what?---without feeling like I had nuanced enough information to say truly compelling things about that scene . . . if such things exist at all. Part of me is very confident that they DO exist, but I feel like I might have to get into an almost academic level of complexity to get at them, when I see associations easily (maybe it's a lack of knowledge about art in general, really . . . ) and can at least think that I can make grandiose claims about something's cultural significance. I have the basics, which gave me plenty for an article---and really, I don't think the next step, where deeper issues might come out, would appeal to that many of the readers of my publication---but it left me feeling blah. Like, what did I really find all that stuff out for?
In other news, there's this stuff in Russia that I think most foreigners who've never been here don't know about that I want to plug: it's called "ikra," which is also the Russian word for caviar . . . but I hate caviar. Or, at least, haven't liked it in the past. Maybe that will change. Anyway, what I'm talking about is this orange paste that they sell in jars made from pureed eggplant, random squashes and root vegetables like that, tomatoes, onions, garlic, and a few other assorted pieces of tasty organic matter. And god is it good. I just bought me a jar and a loaf of the awesome black bread they make here, and I've been busy scarfing it down for the last, ooohhh, 10 or so minutes. I'm already a third through the jar. It's not that small a jar.
Hope anyone reading this hadn't despaired that I would never show my virtual face again! Because here I am---ready to procrastinate by blabbing into cyberspace. Catch, cyberspace, catch!
Sorry . . . that's probably enough for today.
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