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.

I'm Baaahhh-aaaaack

Hi! Sorry I went AWOL for so long . . . if anyone out there still bothers to check this page out, well, there will be some new stuff on it, hopefully semi-consistently.

First, a quick life update:

I'm back in Moscow after a month in the oh-so-sunny U.S., where I saw lots of friends and family members and it was overall pretty awesome, so the whole windy, snowy, snow-blowy wintrousness that I've come back to is not my favorite, but hey, I'm settling in I suppose, and hopefully, before I know it, the sun will be back paying at least weekly visits to Muscovites and inviting us all out to play.

Now, my little tid-bit for today: a personals ad put out in the Moscow Times that I thought to be . . . well, lots of things. You judge for yourself:

"I'm a Doctor from Nagoya, Japan in my mid seventy's seeking a kind and attractive woman under the age of 40 to spend my life with. I speak English very well as a second language. I'm director of my private clinic and have a beautiful home. My interests are travelling, movies and more. I'm a former Judo champion and taught it during my post graduate study in the United States. My ideal woman would have short blond hair and be around 5 feet tall. I also have visited Moscow many times and am familiar with the people and their culture. If you are interested Please contact me in whatever way is most convenient. I am looking forward to hearing from you. Sincerely, [name, e-mail addresses, and phone number . . . which I didn't think appropriate to put here]."

I don't know why I decided to post that---I guess it just struck me as intriguing for some reason. Personals ads in general are pretty fascinating, I think . . . don't you?

More soon (hopefully)!

Khreschatik is Ukrainian for Tverskaya

. . . or, for those of you across the quickly rising pond, 5^th Avenue; although the scale is barely comparable (take a wild guess as to which of the three is the biggest).

I’m in Kiev! Which is cool and all, but Russia sure is bein’ a pain in the arse, making all foreigners wait at least 10 days for a visa to their much-beloved, infinitely desirable country . . . unless you go back to your homeland for the errand. That means that those of us who hail from the States are screwed! which is pretty much what Russia wants (or so the theory goes).

So I should probably just relax in this budget wonderland of borsch, Orange Revolutionaries, and a strangely familiar alphabet—right?? Well, I would, but I’m in a bit of a salty pickle, at least for now; I’ve been snoozing on an army cot with a Californian compatriot, but her Soviet-style one-room is somewhat cramped . . . so I’m in need of another flat surface and a pillow for the next 10+ working days. What to do? I’m looking into short-term apartments, which look pretty sweet—now I just have to convince the Moscow Times to fit the bill for my couch-bed palace!

Unfortunately for any of you itching to catch a glimpse of this fascinating former Soviet republic through the eyes of a semi-experienced explorer of Slavic lands—I forgot my camera. So I’m afraid any pics I pull out of town with will have to be from an ancient, late-90s-style disposable. I hope they still sell them in this technological superstore of a country!

A full report on U-kra-i-ni-ya is forthcoming—after I go see some stuff :- )

Still Kickin'

So, after 4+ weeks of finding a new apartment with a Turkish guy who doesn't come home for days at a time, starting work as a writer for an English-language Moscow entertainment and lifestyle magazine, spending 6 hours in an FSB (what used to be the KGB) interrogation room, and being disallowed from leaving the country at Sheremetevo airport–I'm still alive!

Just kidding––that is, I am breathing, walking, etc., but not all of those things are true–only 3 of them are.

I really am working for the Moscow Guide, a quarterly publication of the Moscow Times–and the job is amazing! I get to sit around looking up information about obscure extreme winter sports like iceboarding and snowkiting while munching on Finn Crisps and chatting with my fellow writer and editor about which picture of a blowfish is best for the luxury-foods article . . . which makes my life pretty great. Granted, I'm not exactly saving the world, but Moscow Guide can be a stepping stone to bigger and brighter journalistic endeavors–not that journalism is necessarily helping to solve any real problems.

And my roommate really is a Turkish guy who doesn't show up for days at a time–which is fine with me, except that, given Moscow's less than open attitude toward foreigners, I worry, sometimes, that he's been kidnapped or thrown into one of the WWII tanks that line the walkways of Victory Park near my building. I've thought about trying to climb into one just to mess with the ancient controls . . . but being tossed in doesn't sound like as much fun.

He's always fine, though, when he makes it home! And full of stories about the trashy club he and his co-workers went to in Chertanova (on the outskirts of the city to the south) or how he had to pull two all-nighters at work (recounted while making himself another cup of coffee). He's nuts! But rather sweet, and always interesting.

I have one more story, obviously . . . but I'll save it, try to keep you guessing!

Happy Halloween, everybody--I hope they celebrate it wherever you are, because they certainly don't here!

ps: I promise to start putting up pictures soon, in case anyone is interested in seeing the beginnings of Moscow's winter (i.e., fall).

Lies, Damn Lies, and Cultural Stereotypes

And with that title, I’m gonna make a few.

People in Russia are dishonest, xenophobic, and racist—or so one might think after my Saturday. I began the day nervously gulping down muesli, the yogurt and raisins making me jitter with sugar high, staring at phone numbers of realty agencies. I have to make these calls, I told myself—I had put it off too long already. I managed to wait until after I had licked my bowl of the unnaturally purple “drinkable yogurt” and gathered any and everything I might need for the ordeal: Palm, computer, house and cell phone, two pens, and a pad of paper with my leading sentences chicken-scratched out in. The call did end up being unpleasant, but in an unexpected way.

I dialed on the house phone, waiting for Lyudmila of Rentaroom Realty to pick up. As soon as she did, I relaxed: I was the customer, after all, and she seemed eager enough to help me pay them for an apartment. After asking my name, however, she apparently lost all notion of being polite.

“Excuse me, ZEEK, but are you black?”

I hadn’t understood, and I asked her to please repeat what she had said. The next time, I got it, and I assured her, in a voice that I hope betrayed my anger, that I was not. She said okay; that Americans came in different shapes and sizes; but that she could continue, now, knowing that I was white. After getting other essential information, she made inquiries into the two places I was interested in and quickly called me back to tell me that one owner hadn’t picked up and that the other insisted on renting only to Russians.

I’ve been here before, so I know about the racism, but that was the first time that it had been threatened to be directed toward me. I was shocked that a realty agent would ask such a question of a potential client—wouldn’t she at least wait until we met, then judge whether or not anyone would rent to me? I suppose it just saved her time to ask me directly (before, by the way, she asked me my age, ideal price range, area preference, and how many rooms I wanted).

I hung up not really in the mood to make any more calls, so I went to a beautiful market on the west (rich) side of Moscow, called Dobromilovsky Rynok, only to get VERY ripped off by an awfully nice Azerbaijani man. At least he was just in it for the money, though, right? Would another foreigner have anything against me? I went home not feeling great—the picture-perfect grapes I had bought tasted less than the price warranted—only to find my (gay, black) roommate sitting on his bed looking gloomy. I asked him how the internet café was, and he told me that he never made it there—he had forgotten his metro card, so he just went to the grocery store, where he bought four large bags worth of groceries, started to leave, was roughly grabbed by a security guard, brought to a back room, and accused of shoplifting. An enormous, nasty woman, he told me, flung curses at him, gesturing crazily to a video-camera shot of him picking up some cheese, putting it down, and walking away. Luckily, Chris half-wailed, the security guard and policeman, who were subsequently ordered by the glowing red woman to pat him down, were rather nice, and quickly recognized that he was not to blame. He nonetheless had to sit for more than an hour while she told him that he ought to be ashamed of himself. By the time they let him go, he said that his burgers were thawing and his ice cream half-melted.

The point is that while I’ve enjoyed my time here a great deal—rainbows of produce and character-filled side streets do it for me—days like yesterday make me wonder why I came back. I don’t yet know what I want this blog to be, but I thought it important to describe that day—and not, like I joke uncomfortably in the beginning, to make stereotypes, but to note a few unpleasant streaks of behavior that exist in this culture. I haven’t witnessed first-hand anywhere the kinds of racism and xenophobia that still seem entrenched here. I guess it’s probably good to see for myself that it still exists and needs attention, but it's not easy to deal with. Here’s to hoping that ethnic Russians address these demons soon.

Madeleines made with . . . Organic Egg Whites??

Sorry to all you gourmands out there—the title of this post has nothing to do with a creative dish I’ve tried recently in an over-priced but delicious four-star restaurant. It’s just an attempt at a metaphor about the confluence of my life with RUSSIA’S . . .

. . . because, see, everything has been so new for the both of us lately. I’m into my third week here, and yet I can’t seem to stop wanting to move, change jobs, find more expensive purchases (painful example from this week: White Acacia honey from Bashkirian beekeeper: $8), and see random British men lying in the fetal position when I open the door to my apartment. That’s right, all of the above took place u menya (“to me/for me/at my place”—and it really can mean all those things) in the past five or so days, just as Moscow was celebrating its 860^th birthday, bitterly welcoming autumn, and finding itself smitten with the taste of cage-free organic eggs. Yes, shame on you, all you disbelievers out there—even a back-asswards country like Russia can boast those brown-shelled taste bombs that Californians have been eating since the 60s. And, somehow, it gets better: their brand-name is “Happy Chicken”!! How great is that.

So, I guess what I’m trying to say is that all this change somehow reminds me of the past . . . that chill, 7-a.m. breeze that hits me as I walk out of my apartment building is eerily similar to one that hit me two years ago; I could swear that I saw the same Bashkirian vendor at the All-Russian Honey Festival of 2005 (that’s right, second time I’ve gone!); and, even though I was at some extremely strange battle-reenactment in the svezhii vozdukh that day long ago, I’m pretty sure I noticed Moscow turn 858 while I was in country. With Happy Chickens running rampant now, are Muskovites just years away from drinkable tap water and ovens with temperature gauges? Or are the $500 cellphones and ubiquitous fur coats signs that these things have no order? Did I actually come back to Moscow . . . ? Or did I just eat a light, fluffy madeleine (without preservatives—very Russian)? Considering that I might soon work for a newspaper, live in a single room and share a bathroom, and still can’t really afford that prikol’niy (coooooool) designer coat in the window—let’s just say I feel right at home ;-)

I Live in Moscow

It’s true— there is no temperature gauge on my stove; my hot water just came back on a week ago, after the annual three week “cleaning of the pipes”; I have a courtyard in which old alcoholics sit all day with tops of cardboard boxes at their feet, playing cards and shooting dice; and last weekend, I found a syringe, filled with blood, on the front step of my apartment building. But wait, that could be just about anywhere in Russia . . . here in Moscow, a six-month membership to a gym close to my office costs $750; my ten-story apartment building is one of the shorter ones in my neighborhood; my metro stop is three stops from the end of a line with 20 or so stops, and there are nonetheless no seats to be found at 9:15 a.m.; and if I ever stay out past 1 a.m. (when the metro closes), I will have no trouble getting a cab ride home from most any car that passes. So crazy! But, really, pretty damn fun, too.

And I think that it can only get better, really. Right now, I’m working for a company called Language Link, which is infamous for paying its employees little but attracting a lot of foreigners because they make it easy for people to find them (on the web, for instance) and offer full visa support and accommodation, an attractive package deal to your average college grad looking to live abroad! It sure was to me. Little did I know, I could’ve easily found a job that pays twice what LL pays ($900/month to start) and a room in an apartment all on the same website! Wish I had known that six months ago.

So, because I have a not-so-sweet job (I sit in an office with some fun Russians and translate economic documents, for the most part, for companies like RTS, the NYSE of Russia; sounds, to me at least, potentially exciting, but I promise, it’s not) and my apartment is linked to that job, I can see myself walking up the steps past a different set of alcoholics and, who knows, perhaps a crack spoon, to a new home in the near future . . . and here I was gonna put up some crazy awesome pictures of all sorts of cool stuff. But I can't seem to get it to work. That's Russia for you.

Anyway, I think I’ll try to write on this her blog once a week or so, about any and everything CRAZY or interesting that happens to me here in the RF, so if you’re ever curious about what I’m eating for dinner (probably cabbage! and/or borscht. Oh, and pickles, too) or you live in a very hot climate and want to feel better about the weather where you are (the low today—August 28—was 45 degrees) or you’d like to live vicariously through someone roughin’ it abroad (that means you, Portlanders! Your life is too cushy—feel some of my pain for me . . . ), just type out www.russiatranslated.blogspot.com, curl up in a blanket, and say hello! to Moscow . . .