April 22, 2009
During our breakfast yogurt and miusly Irina says, “Potrick, we need to put down the rugs. The Living room will look much nicer”.
Always agreeable early in the morning, I concur. Irina has some lovely oriental rugs that came from the southern parts of the old Soviet Union. I always liked them. “Good idea Irichka, but didn’t Sasha (she was Mamula’s nanny while we were in the US of A) say something about Persik (the cat that has been around 4 years longer than it should have been if I had anything to say about it) peeing on all the rugs, and she had to put them out on the balcony because the stunk so bad?” The mere thought of that disgusting cat, spoiled my morning; maybe the whole day! Every time that useless cat is mentioned my blood starts to boil. Persik had ruined the parquet in three rooms, the wallpaper in a number of rooms, the bed, the couch and now the rugs. “Get a grip, Patrick, the cat is dead, thank goodness. Time to move on, can’t change it, it’s over, calm down, slowly have another sip of coffee…. OK, OK, the cat is gone, it’s all right. Lets just go check the carpets after breakfast”
The Southern, Oriental, Eastern influence has always had a strange attraction to Russians. So it’s natural that rugs are important to Russians. First there are a lot of people from the Southern Regions of the old Soviet Union who brought their rugs to St Petersburg when they moved. These could be generation old rugs handed down over time. Some of the smaller ones may have been their “prayer rug” for a Muslim’s daily prayers. But for many their rug was probably their most valuable possession and as such held in high esteem. Too valuable to be laid on the floor and walked on. And that explained why in so many apartments we visited during our apartment search we would see a beautiful rug nailed to the wall.
“Yes, Irina. Of course I will go check the carpets in the loggia. That’s a wonderful idea, putting the carpets down. It just didn’t look like home without them.” I answered.
“I can hardly wait to go check out those urine soaked, stinky, dust ridden, bug infested, rags.” I thought. But, I dutifully don my extra-heavy duty rubber gloves, my dirtiest least favorite work overalls and hesitantly head toward the loggia. The good news was that it has been very cold keeping the bacteria and bug infestations at bay. I noticed a small wet puddle at the base of the smaller rug that Sasha had commented on. I didn’t stop to perform the “3P-stress test” – Looks like pee, Smells like pee, Tastes like pee; Must be pee! I just moved on and first dealt with the rug without a puddle at its base.
Carefully I carried it to the living room, laid it on the floor and unrolled it. “Looks OK to
Me Irichka, it seems to pass the first two parts of the 3P-Stress Test. Don’t know about the small Turkish rug though, left it on the loggia”.
Irina came, looked at the rug, frowned a bit. “Potrick, we need to clean the rug”.
“Yes dear, In Corpus we could just take it out on the deck, get the hose, spray it, get the carpet wash and scrub it, then hang it out to dry. Easy, but I don’t think we can do that here.”
It was still early morning and I happened to look out the window. “Irina, Irina, quick, come look there is how we will clean our rug! All we need is a big brush and to wait our turn at the rack”
Check out the video to view alternative Russian Rug Cleaning Options
“ZEEEEEEEK….ZEEEEEK”
“Its the door buzzer! “Who is that?” I ask. Irina unlocks the first steel security door, peeks through the fisheye peep hole in the second steel door and tries to see whose outside. Some young girl, appearing harmless. Irina opens the door and starts talking. Doesn’t seem like a problem and I go back to my computer.
After the doors are relocked Irina rushes in and excitedly tells me “Potrick, Potrick you won’t believe, some kind of guy from “Kurbee” will to come to clean our floors and rugs – for FREE!!!”
I didn’t quite catch all the details but I told her “that’s just wonderful and we were just about to stupidly go buy a big brush and wait our turn at the outdoor rug rack. It’s a miracle. When will they be here?”
“I don’t know some time later today, in a little while.” Irina said. So it sounded good, too good, maybe things are indeed improving in Russia and I went back to work. Then it stuck me.
“Irina, IRINA, who is this person coming to clean? Did you say ‘Kirby’”? I knew it, but couldn’t believe it, Kirby vacuum cleaners with door-to-door salesmen in Russia. Capitalism has arrived, albeit just in time for the crisis. Yes it was the Kirby guy that was due to arrive sometime later on. “Irina, I sold Kirby vacuums one summer when I was in college, I know their sales tactics we will never get them out of the house without buying, I know they are good vacuums, but waaaay over priced, I know you are in trouble now, so much for the rest of the day.”
Now I was nervous and couldn’t concentrate. I knew this sales man was going to immediately see our filthy rug on the floor and start salivating, I knew he was going to put one of those pristine white cloths over the vacuum’s exhaust, I knew he was going to turn on that big industrial looking monster and in mere seconds suck up so much dirt, dust, hair, dead bugs, and other unidentified stuff that the white cloth would be pitch black, I knew that the vacuum job done only an hour ago would not change the outcome of the Kirby white cloth demonstration; I knew Irina’s face would turn pale and she might faint just thinking that we live in so much filth, I knew that I couldn’t explain to Irina that their demos will every house look filthy, I knew I was doomed to own a Kirby.
Yeah, it was fate; God was finally getting back at me for my one success as a Kirby sales associate. I had felt guilty for years, but it was my summer job. My guilt drove me to quit the job after only two weeks; I knew I just didn’t have what it took to make it. Yeah, I was the sales leader. At our Monday Morning Sales Rally starting my second week I was the proud recipient of the “sales associate of the past week” award! I had actually sold a Kirby vacuum cleaner, the only one sold by our office last week. But the by end of the second week I turned in my resignation, I couldn’t handle it.
I remember it clearly even after 40 years. The sales manger, whose previous experience as a used car salesman, took all of us sales apprentices under his tutelage. We headed out of Austin, into the hills. “Virgin territory!” he said “I’m sure no one ever goes this far out of town to sell, I can smell success”
All I could smell was cigarette smoke and stale BO, our leader had no A/C in his car. I thought he at least could have picked up something better of the used car lot before he left his previous job. He dropped us off a couple of miles apart, with our vacuum and sales equipment in hand. “Boys, we’ll see yawl in a couple of hours. Sorry about no water. I’m sure you can get some from your prospects. Good luck.”
“The only thing I’m sure of is that he will find some air conditioned bar or restaurant to hang out for the next 3 or 4 hours. I hope he remembers to pick us up out here.” I thought.
It was end of June, it was hot, you could see the waves of heat radiating up from the black top road, the only shade came from the few pitiful small mesquites or cedars, the only other plant life was cactus. Each house seemed to about a quarter of a mile from the other and lay at the end of a quarter mile dusty, dirt driveway. Remember it was the hill country, so we humped up the hills with our vacuum and accessories, hoping to make it to the downhill hike. Now I understood why this was “Virgin territory”, of course no one would try to sell door to door here. This is a survival course, not sales opportunity.
Suffering the first pangs of heat stroke, I can’t remember how many prospects I had seen; not many everyone was probably at work. But at this house a nice little old lady met me at the door. After delivering my memorized Kirby sales introduction I ended with “Maum, if you don’t have time to see the demonstration, could I at least have a glass of water?”
Maybe it was pity, but she let me in, gave me a glass of water and then said “Well sonny since you are here why don’t you show me your vacuum.”
I almost fell out of my chair, she had told me that her husband had died and she was struggling on only a small pension. “How could she ever afford one of these expensive things?” I thought.
“Yes, Maum! Thank you, I would be happy to do that”. By the way we also got a small pittance for actually showing the vacuums, so I would get a little something for my time spent in hell in the hill country. As I looked around I saw no carpet, no rugs. “Uhhhh Oh! How can I demo the power of the Kirby and all its fancy, but generally useless, attachments. How can I show her the filth she is living in, so she can justify spending 7/8s of her monthly pension on this machine?” The Kirby sales pitch doesn’t work on hardwood or linoleum floors. But Wait!! Then it came to me, “lesson 9.B in our sales manual – vacuuming the sucker’s, Uh I mean prospect’s, bed can also yield impressionable results ” (everyone has a bed). So I told her “I know a broom is all you need for these wood floors, but the Kirby is reeeeaally good for cleaning mattresses. You wouldn’t believe all the dust, dust mites, dead skin and other stuff that accumulates in our mattresses. Could I vacuum your mattress?”
That was the deal maker; the pristine white cloth instantly turned black from who, knows what and she was shocked at what she was sleeping on every night. It was a done deal. I told her I would be back in about an hour with my manager and he would write up all the paper work. Thanked her and about an hour later returned to collect the check.
That evening my buddy, who conned me into joining him in this sure-fire summer job adventure, and I went out and had a couple of beers; needed to rehydrate of course. But the next morning I felt the pangs of guilt. I felt like I taken this poor, kind lady’s food money; selling her something she really didn’t need and was tricked into buying. But what to do now; nothing? On Friday, I resigned.
And so I knew that after so, so many years God had sent the Kirby sales man all the way to Russia, to our little apartment with only one rug to keep clean, to collect his dues.
“ZEEEEEEEK….ZEEEEEK”
“Irina……., IRINA! Your guy at the door, can you let him in?” I got off my computer as quickly as possible and went to meet the Kirby vacuum cleaner salesman. “Young guy, probably a little older than I was back then. Lugging the same big boxes for the vacuum and attachments. Yep! There’s the little deal makers, but now instead of white cloths, he set a stack round white paper dirt catchers that would show filth even if he vacuumed the air. I am sure we are in for the same dog and pony show I participated in 40 years ago.”
Kola the Kirby man broke out the gear, started quickly assembling the parts, put on the white paper dirt catcher and immediately headed for our dingy looking rug. He barely got the vac on the rug before the white filter was dirt black with a quarter of an inch of stuff you don’t want to touch.
Irina’s face took on the same look of horror as my prospect 40 years prior. Kola was setting the hook, smelling success; he also saw Irina’s face. What could I do now; I retired to my computer and let the show continue.
Kola had a field day with Irina. For the next three hours Irina was able to get him to try everyone of the 38 attachments in all the knooks and crannies of our apartment. The best was that he even demoed the rug shampooer on both the big rug and the little rug, which I previously had been scared to even bring into the apartment. Have to admit that I wasn’t sure who was working over whom.
“Potrick, these is a wonderful machine it does everything. I think we must buy.”
“What do these things cost now days?” I asked.
“Well they are a little bit expensive, but they do so much! I think we need.”
“What is a lettle expensive?”
“Well they cost around 140,000 Roubles”
“Irina!!! That is over $4,500. More than a car! Maybe not much for Rich Russians, but us poor pensioners will have no food money!”
“But, Potrick, we can buy on credit! Since Mamula is a survivor of the blockade (this means she was in WWII and survived the Hun’s blockade of St Petersburg and as such is entitled to all kinds of benefits; reduced utility rates, higher pensions, a new medal every Victory Day along with some other valuable gift…. The list goes on and on) we get the loan interest free for two years!! Can you believe how wonderful this will be?”
I was getting concerned now Irina had on that forceful look about her. I better think fast, or we could the proud new owners of an industrial strength cleaning machine, whose first cleaning job was cleaning our bank account. “Irina, where will we store this machine?”
“I don’t know, some where?”
“Irina, you always complain about my vacuum in Corpus which you have to push. Rememer you last told me it hurt your back for a week and will NEVER vacuum again. Won’t you have the same problem with this one?”
“Ummmm? No probably”
“Yes!” I could see I was sowing a few seeds of doubt, build on it. “I don’t want you to injure yourself, who would take care of Mamula it that happened?” Bingo, the doubt meter is rising. “I guess we could keep the vacuum in the bed room, it won’t fit in the hall closet. No, wait we could store it on the loggia.” I can really see progress!
“The loggia wouldn’t work, too dusty and dirty. Kola; I really would like to buy your machine but we have no place to keep such a big vacuum and all its parts, I don’t know what to do.”
Poor Kola, his face dropped; but he understood. In fact I am sure he has heard the same thing from many people living in these smaller apartments. “At least you let me demo, I thank you for that. Most people will not even let me in the door. Maybe you have some friends that I could visit?”
Sounds like they still get the pittance for making a demo and maybe even get something for new leads. I had Irina ask him how’s business. And he said he had sold a few. I am sure, for Rich Russians all you have to do is tell them “it’s the best” or “it’s Italian” – sale guaranteed! Well he did better than I had. We wished him luck.
I felt sorry for him. He wasn’t pushy or rude. He was just trying to make an honest living in hard times; unusual in Russia. But Irina and I always have felt that if this country is to really improve it will do so with the new younger generation.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Friday, April 24, 2009
Russian Life -The Automobile Garage
April 23, 2009
Living in a suburban St Petersburg apartment we notice interesting differences between American suburban life. One most important observation from a man’s point of view is the absence of a garage. Of course a garage is mandatory for any American home. How could we live without, it’s a necessity of life. Where else can all of a man’s favorite toys, tools, and transportation reside?
In Russia, where the environment can closely be compared to the North Slope of Alsaska there appeared to be no garages, no place to keep your most prized possession(s) safe from sun, rain, snow or other environmental hazards. How do the men here survive?
I was sure there had to an answer. I just didn’t immediately recognize the substitute, an “off-site” garage. Real men, no matter what country they reside in, have the same basic necessities of life. These substitute garages looked like our ubiquitous rental storage lockers, however here rather than rent, one generally buys the unit. Like their American counterparts these facilities are often located in some less than desirable part of town, are guarded by a tall rusting fence, and are manned by a retired military person residing in a small shack who checks the comings and goings of the owners and performs other important jobs. These facilities are a highly desired not only for you car but, like Americans, for all the other stuff one accumulates.
As always in Russia there is risk. Not so much the risk of someone breaking into your garage or stealing things, that’s the guard's job to prevent. But it’s the risk of the unexpected that’s always more feared and devastating; such as struck poor unsuspecting Igor the proud owner of a Russian garage. While he had indeed signed a contract, paid the money and owned the garage structure for a number of years, to his utter surprise, out of the blue bad news, very bad news arrived. LEK Construction Corp. builder of highly coveted giant apartment buildings had purchased the land upon which Igor’s garage sat. Ahhh, that fine print which it seems most Russians, like Americans, have a tendency to neglect to read.
Like most caring corporations, Igor’s letter telling how sorry they were about the situation gave him 10 days to get his stinking tin shack off of LEK Construction Corp’s land. Bull dozers will begin dozing in 11 days. Sorry for any inconvenience.
What to do? Nothing of course, resistance is useless against such a large Corporation with connections in all the highest places. “Heck with it, let LEK figure out what to do with my tin shack. I got my stuff.” Igor thought as he loaded his stuff into his car and that was the end of it.
A garage is a virtual necessity for many Russians who for whatever reason don’t choose to put their pride and joy through the terribly harsh driving conditions of Russian winters. Many people only use their autos in the summer, mostly to go to the dacha; hauling the project and building materials there, hauling the fresh fruits and vegetables home. But for many Russians such a luxury as a garage like Igor’s is impossible. They can barely afford their car. It’s in such cases that real Russian ingenuity comes into play. There is always a Russian alternative.
Last autumn, as the smell of approaching winter was in the air, I could see Real Russians making preparations for the soon to arrive frigid days. At the edge of our building I noticed one Real Russian’s answer to the winter garaging problem of his most prized possession, a blue Lada.
Living in a suburban St Petersburg apartment we notice interesting differences between American suburban life. One most important observation from a man’s point of view is the absence of a garage. Of course a garage is mandatory for any American home. How could we live without, it’s a necessity of life. Where else can all of a man’s favorite toys, tools, and transportation reside?
In Russia, where the environment can closely be compared to the North Slope of Alsaska there appeared to be no garages, no place to keep your most prized possession(s) safe from sun, rain, snow or other environmental hazards. How do the men here survive?
I was sure there had to an answer. I just didn’t immediately recognize the substitute, an “off-site” garage. Real men, no matter what country they reside in, have the same basic necessities of life. These substitute garages looked like our ubiquitous rental storage lockers, however here rather than rent, one generally buys the unit. Like their American counterparts these facilities are often located in some less than desirable part of town, are guarded by a tall rusting fence, and are manned by a retired military person residing in a small shack who checks the comings and goings of the owners and performs other important jobs. These facilities are a highly desired not only for you car but, like Americans, for all the other stuff one accumulates.
As always in Russia there is risk. Not so much the risk of someone breaking into your garage or stealing things, that’s the guard's job to prevent. But it’s the risk of the unexpected that’s always more feared and devastating; such as struck poor unsuspecting Igor the proud owner of a Russian garage. While he had indeed signed a contract, paid the money and owned the garage structure for a number of years, to his utter surprise, out of the blue bad news, very bad news arrived. LEK Construction Corp. builder of highly coveted giant apartment buildings had purchased the land upon which Igor’s garage sat. Ahhh, that fine print which it seems most Russians, like Americans, have a tendency to neglect to read.
Like most caring corporations, Igor’s letter telling how sorry they were about the situation gave him 10 days to get his stinking tin shack off of LEK Construction Corp’s land. Bull dozers will begin dozing in 11 days. Sorry for any inconvenience.
What to do? Nothing of course, resistance is useless against such a large Corporation with connections in all the highest places. “Heck with it, let LEK figure out what to do with my tin shack. I got my stuff.” Igor thought as he loaded his stuff into his car and that was the end of it.
A garage is a virtual necessity for many Russians who for whatever reason don’t choose to put their pride and joy through the terribly harsh driving conditions of Russian winters. Many people only use their autos in the summer, mostly to go to the dacha; hauling the project and building materials there, hauling the fresh fruits and vegetables home. But for many Russians such a luxury as a garage like Igor’s is impossible. They can barely afford their car. It’s in such cases that real Russian ingenuity comes into play. There is always a Russian alternative.
Last autumn, as the smell of approaching winter was in the air, I could see Real Russians making preparations for the soon to arrive frigid days. At the edge of our building I noticed one Real Russian’s answer to the winter garaging problem of his most prized possession, a blue Lada.
The Alternative Russian Garage.
The Lada was wrapped
By Nicky with care
In hopes that next spring
It would still be there.
Through out the months of winter the little Lada remained in it’s cozy garage. When the warm sun just starts to be felt once again the switch is flipped in Russian men’s minds. Dreams of the Summer of endless adventure replace the dark, freezing thoughts of winter: road trips to the secrete fishing hole, maybe an overnight to his friend Alexie’s dacha when his parents are gone with a few brewskis, or taking the lovely Natasha to the Finish Bay for a little beach party. Ever since Nicky had seen the lovely Natasha raking leaves at the annual spring school cleanup he couldn’t wait to coolly pick her up and head for the beach. Yes it was shaping up to be a great summer.
Disaster strikes!!!!
Risk is rampant, always right around the corner in Russia. Nicky’s summer of endless dreams instantly went up in smoke - not this year. This poor Russian’s garage somehow caught fire; maybe a careless cigarette butt and his loved little Lada went up in flames. No one knew how the fire began, but by the time the fire department arrived two hours later the little blue Lada was officially declared - “toast”.
What to do?
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Russian Life - Anna Patrovna – End of the Line, RIP
April 17, 2009
Last night after dinner Irina as usual went to check her mail. The first message she saw was from her cousin, Sasha, who had immigrated to Israel a number of years ago. The message read that Sasha would be in St Petersburg next week for his mother’s funeral and wanted to visit with us. Irina quietly walked into the living room and told me “Annya died”. And then there were none; all of those old aunts, uncles, grandparents she remembered from her youth are gone now. It’s turning into a trip of tears.
I liked Annya Petrovna! Our first meeting was 5 years ago at the city library where she had worked for years. We met Annya and a group of giddy librarians who were more excited about getting a short break from stacking books and enjoying free tea and torts than meeting some American who knew only two words in Russian. As we left Irina said I acted too arrogant and didn’t smile enough.
“Whaaaat? This is my first trip to Russia and not being able to communicate at all makes it kinda difficult to be a instant social success. I thought I smiled to everyone. What else could I do anyways?” I replied. Since my only job, as I understood it, was to just stand there on display and smile, I thought I succeeded nicely – thank you.
Irina tried calling cousin Lena, Annya’s daughter, but the phone was busy. Finally Irina connected and got the details. Annya had died earlier in the day quietly lying in her bed in her apartment. Apparently pneumonia was the cause of death, brought on by a broken hip. The services will be next week.
I liked Annya Petrovna! I really got to know Annya later on during that first trip when we had her over for Mamula’s birthday party. She could speak German!!! I can communicate with someone here other than Vicky and Irina. Thank you God, I was about to go crazy here. I hadn’t used my German in years but remembered enough so we could carry on a pretty good conversation. “Where did you learn German?” I asked.
Annya told me that during the Great Patriotic War. She had been enlisted by the Germans to do some kind of ‘service work’ in their mess halls. “Ummmm” I thought. “Very interesting; a cute young girl of 15 working for the Germans. You have to do what you have to do to make it through – survival is the only winning game.”
I don’t know what happened back then but we can’t judge the picture from our soft, cushy couch watching the latest MSNBC blather on the big screen plasma TV, applying our current societal revisionists values to past history. Russia lost 30 million people in the Great Patriotic War and another 25 million to Stalin’s Great Socialist Experiment (never could understand exactly why the Russians were so mad about the Germans but Stalin got a complete pass).
As we dug into the second course of Mamula’s birthday dinner, stuffed cabbage and potatoes if memory serves me correct, I remembered vaguely that Irina had told me, “Annya was some kind of Jewish”.
I was thinking. “How could somebody that was “some kind of Jewish” possibly have worked for the Germans and escaped being shipped off to some concentration camp? Well I guess it’s easier to ID a Jewish boy than a girl. This lady must really have had some spunk and courage; working right under the noses of the hated Hun, knowing that at any second someone might walk in the door and denounce her as a Jew. A sure way to get a one-way train ticket to the ovens.” Credit luck, survival instinct, or what ever; here she is today enjoying a nice family event.
During the evening we enjoyed many old stories, we enjoyed the food, and we toasted every thing with a little vodka. At the close of the evening I was sure that I had another friend in Russia.
I liked Annya Petrovna! But I could tell there was something going on under the surface with Irina and Mamula’s relationship with Annya. Annya had retired and now called us everyday, sometimes 4 or 5 times a day, if I picked up the phone I would always have a quick little conversation in German and then hand it off to Mamula. Mamula always began by speaking softly, but as the conversation continued her volume elevated. Of course I didn’t understand what she was saying, or rather yelling, at our end of the line. She just sounded irritated and loud, but then most Russians sound like they are shouting when they talk. I really didn’t know what was up.
I asked Irina what was going on. Turns out there were a couple of things. First Annya was around 7 years older than Mamula, in her early eighties we thought, and as so many elderly people Annya had a tendency to accuse loved ones or any other convenient suspect of stealing. So it seemed like every time she called someone had again stolen another one of her most valuable sheets, or socks, dirty underwear, or food, or whatever. The accused is most often the one closest to the accuser, like a caregiver or child. In Annya’s case her only daughter Lena was stealing her blind and the only one she could discuss it with was Mamula. Irina called Lena after a while to talk about what was going on. Lena then told us that Annya had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s and Annya was starting to display the symptoms.
However, there were also even deeper problems. Like every family there had always been ups and downs. During her younger years Annya apparently had a difficult personality and as the saying goes “you pick your friends, not your family”. They all apparently struggled, but over time the wounds faded and, as always, the good memories of the past win out and bring the family back together.
I still liked Annya Petrovna. Yeh, she had her weird points but from my perspective, which wasn’t tainted by the past, I just saw her as a struggling, lonely old lady with an interesting past.
Irina had told me that they did very well in Deep Soviet Times and I could tell she had money. Like the time Annya asked Irina and I to meet her at this pawnshop in the city center. Arriving at the address I saw no pawnshop, only a very expensive jewelry store. Annya waved us in and as it turned out the jewelry store would also take items on consignment and Annya had a beautiful antique diamond studded, solid gold cigarette case that she was trying to sell. Unfortunately it was of a different age and today people don’t want stuff like that anymore. The pawnbroker ignored any personal value or artistic value, he offered only a discounted value for the gold and diamonds. “Neyt” Annya said, stuffed it in her purse and headed for the metro back to her apartment.
A few days later like clockwork, a scandal developed. Of course the cigarette case turned up missing, of course it was stolen only in Annya’s head. No matter, Annya of course rounded up the usual group of suspects and the accusations began flying. Of course in her mental den of thieves the prime suspects were Irina and Potrick the last to be with her when she could remember having the stolen object. The concerned accused only defense was “maybe some quick fingered gypsy stole it out of her purse in the metro” and that indeed it had been stolen. It wouldn’t be the first time Gypsies had used a crowed metro car during rush hour to pinch an item. But of course detective Lena, her daughter, found it exactly where Annya had placed it, in her purse.
I still liked old Annya Petrovna. The last time I saw her was at her small little birthday party in her apartment. It was lively and it was sad. We arrived at her apartment with cake, vodka, and a small gift. But Annya’s Alzheimer kept her from remembering we were coming and when we arrived she didn’t know who we were. We stood outside in the cold waiting for someone to come out the door so we could enter the building; Annya wasn’t answering her entry buzzer. Finally we slipped in the door as a tenant exited, but were stopped at her landing by the second security fence. A neighbor, no doubt privy to all of Annya’s problems with thieves was suspiciously looking us over and I suspect getting ready to call the police to arrest this old man, older lady and some young gal. Before she could call Annya wandered down toward the gate wondering what thieves were these at her gate. As she got closer and could more clearly see these three cornered thieves he memory slowly returned. “Oh Lucy, Irinia I couldn’t see that it was you.”
The mystery solved, the foursome could start the party. We, had a little cake, exchanged the gift, toasted Annya twice and Annya then promptly got typsy. Party over. Irina and I carefully helped her to bed and she immediately went comatose as soon as her body went horizontal. Not another peep was heard, we don’t count snoring, for the rest of the time we were there.
Lena, her daughter arrived in a while and filled us in on Annya’s condition. Not good, but what to do. Lena pretty much was the only caregiver, she lived with Annya until the end. Such is the Russian way.
We left and saw her no more.
Now all of the familiar family faces of Irina’s youth are gone, her father Anatolia, Uncle Valodia, Grandmother Zoya, Grandpa Vitctor, Aunt Annya. Mamula is the last link to that generation.
Rest in peace Aunt Annya.
Last night after dinner Irina as usual went to check her mail. The first message she saw was from her cousin, Sasha, who had immigrated to Israel a number of years ago. The message read that Sasha would be in St Petersburg next week for his mother’s funeral and wanted to visit with us. Irina quietly walked into the living room and told me “Annya died”. And then there were none; all of those old aunts, uncles, grandparents she remembered from her youth are gone now. It’s turning into a trip of tears.
I liked Annya Petrovna! Our first meeting was 5 years ago at the city library where she had worked for years. We met Annya and a group of giddy librarians who were more excited about getting a short break from stacking books and enjoying free tea and torts than meeting some American who knew only two words in Russian. As we left Irina said I acted too arrogant and didn’t smile enough.
“Whaaaat? This is my first trip to Russia and not being able to communicate at all makes it kinda difficult to be a instant social success. I thought I smiled to everyone. What else could I do anyways?” I replied. Since my only job, as I understood it, was to just stand there on display and smile, I thought I succeeded nicely – thank you.
Irina tried calling cousin Lena, Annya’s daughter, but the phone was busy. Finally Irina connected and got the details. Annya had died earlier in the day quietly lying in her bed in her apartment. Apparently pneumonia was the cause of death, brought on by a broken hip. The services will be next week.
I liked Annya Petrovna! I really got to know Annya later on during that first trip when we had her over for Mamula’s birthday party. She could speak German!!! I can communicate with someone here other than Vicky and Irina. Thank you God, I was about to go crazy here. I hadn’t used my German in years but remembered enough so we could carry on a pretty good conversation. “Where did you learn German?” I asked.
Annya told me that during the Great Patriotic War. She had been enlisted by the Germans to do some kind of ‘service work’ in their mess halls. “Ummmm” I thought. “Very interesting; a cute young girl of 15 working for the Germans. You have to do what you have to do to make it through – survival is the only winning game.”
I don’t know what happened back then but we can’t judge the picture from our soft, cushy couch watching the latest MSNBC blather on the big screen plasma TV, applying our current societal revisionists values to past history. Russia lost 30 million people in the Great Patriotic War and another 25 million to Stalin’s Great Socialist Experiment (never could understand exactly why the Russians were so mad about the Germans but Stalin got a complete pass).
As we dug into the second course of Mamula’s birthday dinner, stuffed cabbage and potatoes if memory serves me correct, I remembered vaguely that Irina had told me, “Annya was some kind of Jewish”.
I was thinking. “How could somebody that was “some kind of Jewish” possibly have worked for the Germans and escaped being shipped off to some concentration camp? Well I guess it’s easier to ID a Jewish boy than a girl. This lady must really have had some spunk and courage; working right under the noses of the hated Hun, knowing that at any second someone might walk in the door and denounce her as a Jew. A sure way to get a one-way train ticket to the ovens.” Credit luck, survival instinct, or what ever; here she is today enjoying a nice family event.
During the evening we enjoyed many old stories, we enjoyed the food, and we toasted every thing with a little vodka. At the close of the evening I was sure that I had another friend in Russia.
I liked Annya Petrovna! But I could tell there was something going on under the surface with Irina and Mamula’s relationship with Annya. Annya had retired and now called us everyday, sometimes 4 or 5 times a day, if I picked up the phone I would always have a quick little conversation in German and then hand it off to Mamula. Mamula always began by speaking softly, but as the conversation continued her volume elevated. Of course I didn’t understand what she was saying, or rather yelling, at our end of the line. She just sounded irritated and loud, but then most Russians sound like they are shouting when they talk. I really didn’t know what was up.
I asked Irina what was going on. Turns out there were a couple of things. First Annya was around 7 years older than Mamula, in her early eighties we thought, and as so many elderly people Annya had a tendency to accuse loved ones or any other convenient suspect of stealing. So it seemed like every time she called someone had again stolen another one of her most valuable sheets, or socks, dirty underwear, or food, or whatever. The accused is most often the one closest to the accuser, like a caregiver or child. In Annya’s case her only daughter Lena was stealing her blind and the only one she could discuss it with was Mamula. Irina called Lena after a while to talk about what was going on. Lena then told us that Annya had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s and Annya was starting to display the symptoms.
However, there were also even deeper problems. Like every family there had always been ups and downs. During her younger years Annya apparently had a difficult personality and as the saying goes “you pick your friends, not your family”. They all apparently struggled, but over time the wounds faded and, as always, the good memories of the past win out and bring the family back together.
I still liked Annya Petrovna. Yeh, she had her weird points but from my perspective, which wasn’t tainted by the past, I just saw her as a struggling, lonely old lady with an interesting past.
Irina had told me that they did very well in Deep Soviet Times and I could tell she had money. Like the time Annya asked Irina and I to meet her at this pawnshop in the city center. Arriving at the address I saw no pawnshop, only a very expensive jewelry store. Annya waved us in and as it turned out the jewelry store would also take items on consignment and Annya had a beautiful antique diamond studded, solid gold cigarette case that she was trying to sell. Unfortunately it was of a different age and today people don’t want stuff like that anymore. The pawnbroker ignored any personal value or artistic value, he offered only a discounted value for the gold and diamonds. “Neyt” Annya said, stuffed it in her purse and headed for the metro back to her apartment.
A few days later like clockwork, a scandal developed. Of course the cigarette case turned up missing, of course it was stolen only in Annya’s head. No matter, Annya of course rounded up the usual group of suspects and the accusations began flying. Of course in her mental den of thieves the prime suspects were Irina and Potrick the last to be with her when she could remember having the stolen object. The concerned accused only defense was “maybe some quick fingered gypsy stole it out of her purse in the metro” and that indeed it had been stolen. It wouldn’t be the first time Gypsies had used a crowed metro car during rush hour to pinch an item. But of course detective Lena, her daughter, found it exactly where Annya had placed it, in her purse.
I still liked old Annya Petrovna. The last time I saw her was at her small little birthday party in her apartment. It was lively and it was sad. We arrived at her apartment with cake, vodka, and a small gift. But Annya’s Alzheimer kept her from remembering we were coming and when we arrived she didn’t know who we were. We stood outside in the cold waiting for someone to come out the door so we could enter the building; Annya wasn’t answering her entry buzzer. Finally we slipped in the door as a tenant exited, but were stopped at her landing by the second security fence. A neighbor, no doubt privy to all of Annya’s problems with thieves was suspiciously looking us over and I suspect getting ready to call the police to arrest this old man, older lady and some young gal. Before she could call Annya wandered down toward the gate wondering what thieves were these at her gate. As she got closer and could more clearly see these three cornered thieves he memory slowly returned. “Oh Lucy, Irinia I couldn’t see that it was you.”
The mystery solved, the foursome could start the party. We, had a little cake, exchanged the gift, toasted Annya twice and Annya then promptly got typsy. Party over. Irina and I carefully helped her to bed and she immediately went comatose as soon as her body went horizontal. Not another peep was heard, we don’t count snoring, for the rest of the time we were there.
Lena, her daughter arrived in a while and filled us in on Annya’s condition. Not good, but what to do. Lena pretty much was the only caregiver, she lived with Annya until the end. Such is the Russian way.
We left and saw her no more.
Now all of the familiar family faces of Irina’s youth are gone, her father Anatolia, Uncle Valodia, Grandmother Zoya, Grandpa Vitctor, Aunt Annya. Mamula is the last link to that generation.
Rest in peace Aunt Annya.
Friday, April 17, 2009
Russian Homes - Trip to the Country House (Dasha)
April 7, 2009
Let’s see last Friday and Saturday I was holed up in the apartment not wanting to stick my head out in the cold and rain. I stupidly brought my spring foul weather gear not winter and forgetting that winter’s not over until May 9th, Victory Day when the government officially bans bad weather for the big parade and the sun starts shining again.
So I was on full time nursing home duty while Irina ran all the necessary little errands, like buying food. When on Sunday Vicky asked if I wanted to go to their dacha (Russian country house), which is under construction, I thought it would be a nice little outing. “Only an hour or so to the new dacha, look around a bit, and return home – that sounds like a nice diversion and chance to get out of the house, see the winter wonderland forest scenery. Great” I thought even though it is Palm Sunday and would like to go to or just hear some kind service. But here there were no Palm Sunday services because it wasn’t Palm Sunday.
Item of Cultural Interest: For the western religions Sunday was Palm Sunday, however in Russia the Orthodox Church didn’t want to change calendar a couple of hundred years ago to conform with the western Catholic Church’s Julian calendar. Typical Ruskie stubbornness. Their religious holidays therefore are always about two weeks after ours.
Our jet lag is behind us now and we are getting up at regular hours. Sunday morning I was washed, shaved, fed and ready to head out around 10:00. I know that was optimistic because on weekends Russians are late sleepers. But on the off chance that they were ready early I didn’t want them to be blaming “those lazy Americans”, so I waited. Around noon we called Sveta, she and Valodia (remember them, they are the in-laws), who were also scheduled to go, but they had no news from the children as to the departure time.
OK, I better get something to eat for lunch, don’t want to be gone all afternoon on an empty stomach. In Russia food is always on my mind since one needs fuel to fight the cold. One o’clock, no word from the children. Irina calls, no answer. Calls Sevetta again, they have heard nothing either and they are getting a little grumpy. Well it’s still early by Russian standards; the sun won’t go down until after 8:00pm. We will wait a little longer.
Two o’clock, no word from the children. Concern is starting to build. If we don’t leave soon we will be late for dinner, or eating very late. At the other grandparents house concern has turned to anger. Valodia says “I go not on no stinking car trip this late” and we have one less passenger; the remaining two are also losing patience.
Around 2:30 Vicky calls and says they will be here around 3:00. Irina asks where they have been all day. “We were sleeping of course, we are tired and didn’t want to get to up early.” Vicky replies. “We will be there in a little while.”
Item of Cultural Interest: Russians seem to be obsessed with sleeping on weekends, or any day if it is possible. A random poll of children asking what they and their parents did on the weekend revealed that 95% of them slept until late afternoon. The parents apparently then drag themselves out of bed for a little beer and breakfast, settle down in front of the TV and the wife is sent to the store for daily supplies. And around 3:00am when the quality TV programs are at an end the family retires after a hard weekend day’s work. This need for extra sleep was confirmed to me while on a Russian tour in Turkey, when the cute little Russian tour guide told us as we were driving to the hotel “here in the south you will not need to sleep as much as you do back home”. These strange habits might have something to do with genetics, the length of the days, the Northern Latitudes, or other causes generally unknown to the Western mind.
Now Vicky and Igor are ready to go and so must everyone else. They arrive shortly to drop off Tolic, the grandson, with Irina and I start trying to figure out how cold it is and what kind of gear I might need. My brain is still in the springtime mindset and doesn’t go toward the heavy winter jacket. Maybe just a little layering, shirt, light wool sweater along with my jacket should be fine I think. I grab my hiking shoes and get ready to put them on and Vicky frowns and says “Patrick don’t you have any better shoes?”
“Yes but they are just winter boots I don’t think I would need them today. Do you?” I asked. Vicky starts describing the area and of course it includes snow, mud and construction debris. I am thinking, “Yeah, the winter boots would probably work better”. So I stand on the chair and start digging through the dusty, dirty, storage closet over the corridor.
Item of Cultural Interest: Russian apartments, like European apartments, are all built without any closets. There is generally some kind of kitchen pantry and that is it. Don’t know why this is so except maybe they are more concerned about storing food, pots, pans, etc than stuff. Stuff storage space is virtually always provided for with armoires, chest of drawers, or other types of room furniture, but furniture doesn’t comfortably handle most stuff, especially important “man’s stuff”. If a balcony is available that is the best place for stuff storage and so quickly fills up. Once the balcony is full Russians must either do a DYI remodeling or tearfully throw away such valuable treasures as we did: example; old samovar I think last used to celebrate Stalin’s death, 400 assorted sizes of glass jars for canning food, big river rocks used for some kind of process that turns mushrooms into delicious vegetables which can be stored in the jars, assorted pieces of lumber, industrial size drills that don’t work, unlabeled glass bottles filled with slimy noxious smelling cleaning fluids and on and on and on. Some people built closets by themselves and as always with DYI projects, and especially in Russia where up until recently tools and building supplies were only available by stealing from the company you worked for, things just seem to never look professional or fit or work correctly. But these closets are indispensable, even if they not easy to access and the doors don’t lock.
“Lets see, a bag full of Irina’s old boots, move this old telephone out of the way, ahhhh I think I can reach the next big plastic bag. Nope Mamulas snow boots. Can I push the box of Christmas decorations out of the way? YES, there are my winter boots. I really had them stuck waaay back there. Freudian I guess, may I was hoping I would never need them again.”
Item of Cultural Interest: REAL TIME UNEXPECTED EVENT – I just got up to go to the kitchen and happened to turn on the water to wash my hands. NO HOT WATER!!! It’s 2:30 in the afternoon and 42 degrees outside; the water out of the cold tap is probably close to that temperature. This happened last week, unannounced, and lasted for 2 days. I hope it comes on faster this time. Fortunately we have already had our showers. Back to writing, at least the heat is still on.
So finally I get my boots on and thought I was ready to go. “Patrick” Irina yells “where is your scarf?”
“Irichka, I left my wool scarves in Texas, it is spring time I thought they would not be needed.”
“No you must have! Here take this lovely red one.”
“Irichka, I don’t need! That one is scratchy and red doesn’t go with anything I am wearing, I will look funny.”
“No you must take it, you will get sick without it, you are not used to the cold here.” With Irina’s final stand I agree to take the scarf and we leave. We quickly pick up Sevetta, and head north to the dacha. I look at my watch; it’s going to be a long day.
We hit the beltway around the outside of the city and Igor is making up lost time. Speedometer hits 190, 195, 200. Brakes Now, tightening my seat belt prevents me lurching forward. Back up to 180, 190. Hard brakes and try to slip past this truck. No way, more brakes, we are on to the edge of exit ramp getting squeezed between the rail guard and the big, dirty truck. “Well maybe it won’t be late getting home at this speed.”
Item of Cultural Interest: Most Russians really didn’t have an opportunity to drive a car before the beginning of the new millennium. Unless you were a government official or a driver by profession there was no access to a car or truck. So most Russians have the driving experience of a teenager, and generally drive like one. The easiest way to identify danger on any Russian road is to evaluate the cars. Any car that costs more than $60K and is black is a potential threat and you should be on high alert for unexpected maneuvers. Only FSB (the new KGB), government officials or Rich Russians drive such automobiles. Such driver’s are taught only three principals in driving school. Lesson One - the right foot has only three positions when driving: (a) it should be pressing the accelerator to the floor, (b) it should be pressing the brake pedal to the floor, or (c) it should moving to assume position a or b above. Lesson Two – never, ever drive behind someone, pass them immediately and continue passing all vehicles until you are head of the line. Lesson Three – All other driving regulations such as right-of-way, speed limits, ect. don’t apply to you. Simple huh!
We walk out and get into Igor’s big, expensive black car. I had not ridden with him on the highway recently and forgot how much fun it is.
When we exited the speedway, er I mean beltway. We were on road that I had never seen before. I thought we would be going up the main highway towards Finland, but Igor says that it is too busy on weekends. “Thank you God” I silently prayed. The road to Finland is a dangerous road that I have reluctantly driven on a number of times. Irina and I play the game of “who can spot the next burial stone on the side of the road”. But then I am reluctant to drive on any road in Russia.
So I was enjoying the ride through the country via the back roads; two lanes, railroad crossings, small villages and scenic old country houses. Leaving the quaint, quiet village I failed to notice we were behind a line of small cars and trucks. Before I could brace it was time to enjoy Russian driving lesson #2. Accelerator to max (head snaps back), hard to the left (my head snaps to the right), pass car no 1, estimate closure rate of oncoming traffic, decision time - “go/no go” to pass truck no 2, “NO GO”, hard brakes (head flies forward), hard to the right (head snaps to the left), and back in our lane with, what, maybe a few nanoseconds before the oncoming vehicle speeds by in the opposite lane. So much for the quite scenic drive in the country, I released my white-knuckle grip of the passenger door support and rolled my head around my neck to see if all the vertebra were still in place. Now as I crane my sore neck to peer around Igor’s left shoulder at the road ahead next time I will be more prepared.
Vicky told us that we would turn of this country road, I mean highway, and then have about 10 kilometers of bad road. “What does she mean ‘bad road’, we’re on ‘bad road’ now” I am thinking. So when we get to the turn off and have gone a little I tell Vicky this road doesn’t seem so bad. She tells me this is not the bad part, the bad part is toward the end.
As we proceed through the forest and over the hill with the snow level building I ask, “do they plow this road”. I have seen such roads in the mountains during my 28 years of snow driving in Colorado, but they were only for snowmobiles or cross-country skiers, not automobiles.
“No, cars just drive over it” she replied. With little concerned about getting stuck.
The snow was continuing to build up higher, the road was turning very bad and I didn’t see any signs of other people. Once again I am gripping the support bars now trying to keep my head from bouncing against the ceiling as we hit one hole after another. I make a joke “Sveta I thought the road to your dacha was bad (it is a terrible washboard like gravel road with occasional deep holes), but this road is worse!” No one laughed.
As we turn a corner Vicky exclaims “here on the left is our lake!” All I could see was a frozen flat, snow-covered area. The only thing that would make someone think this area was a lake rather than the surroundings was the flatness and lack of trees.
“It’s big” I commented. Just as I got my words out Igor corrected Vicky and told us this wasn’t their lake, we weren’t there yet. Moods in the back seat dropped another notch lower.
A little longer, the correct lake spotted and a little further down the road Vicky excitedly exclaims, “This is it, we are here”. We stop in front of this flimsy roadblock made out of what looked like a piece of 1 inch diameter pvc pipe with a brick on the short end and the long end resting on the support across the road. From out of a little guard shack a thin, tall, oldish man, cigarette hanging from his mouth, dressed in the official “guard man” outfit, military green camouflage utilities, ambles over to the roadblock and raises the 1” pvc pipe. Igor lowers his window, nods to the guard and drives on in. That’s the kind of security that lets a man and his family sleep well at night!
It is a new development on the side of a good size lake. Kinda barren windswept area where all the trees had been chopped down to make room for the anticipated dachas; just another remote, god-forsaken spot on this planet ready to be converted into the next playground for the rich and famous.
Now there are just a handful houses, maybe 30 to 40 or so. Some rustic and others very nicely completed. But through the eyes of the developer, as plastered on the large bulletin board at the entry, we see, paved tree lined streets, grassy fields, warm sandy beaches with families enjoying picnics, children laughing at the playground; you know, you’ve seen it all before. We just drove a very short way through the muddy reality of today and pulled up by a large log cabin. Vicky gleefully says “heeere we are”.
“It was big and there are no windows” was my first thought. We got out and stepped into about 4 inches of mud, water and slushy snow. “Glad I got my boots from the stuff storage l
ocker”. There were a few workers around but none were working. The dark brown roof was on so at least the inside dry should be dry. We climbed the construction ladder to the huge front porch and walked in through the cutout where a door will be. It looked even bigger inside! No walls just a big open area. “Um” I’m thinking “the Russian way, just like the new apartments in town, nothing except walls”. In the back there was a ladder leading up to the second floor, luckily they had skylights in the roof or we would not have been able to see anything there in the dark. Adjoining one wall was another room, but we couldn’t see it, as there was no door cut anywhere into wall, a mystery room. Back outside there was a little log cabin, which is the banya, a Russian sauna sweathouse. Vicky estimated that the place would be finished next January, hopefully for New Years.
As we were standing around gawking at the cavernous main area, a man not dressed in dirty overalls and a ragged jacket appeared; “the boss” I suspect. He quickly greets everyone and starts talking with Igor and Vicky, about what I didn’t know. But, as he squatted down on the plywood floor, swept a little area clean, ordered a pencil from one of the workers and started drawing plans on the floor, I think he was saying something to the effect that he didn’t have any plans of how to the inside would be finished and we would make them up now. I don’t think Igor and Vicky were expecting this type of meeting.
The boss went on talking excitedly, waving his hands around, pointing to areas in the room and drawing another little square on the floor. My only question was “Which way is North?” Having a mountain house there were lots of things that a boy from Texas didn’t know and had to learn the hard way, one of the most important was knowing where the snow would pile highest and where the frigid wind would be blowing from the hardest. The answer to my question was answered with only blank stares by all. I am sure they all thought what would some stupid American from SOUTH TEXAS know about winter.
So moving right along they all got back to developing the house designs drawings on the plywood floor. First floor finished lets move on to the second floor. Everyone, but Sveta and I started climbing the up ladder where I am sure there are more floors to draw on. We headed outside where she talked with the workers a little. I took some pictures, sloshed through the snow and mud to see what the lakeshore looked like; just like any other frozen lakeshore. “Ok, lets see. We have been here about a 45 minutes, the temperature is dropping, I wonder how much longer this ‘short trip to the dacha’ is going to be?”
As I walk back up to the dacha I can see Sveta is not happy and Vicky and Igor are still up the ladder drawing on the floor. Since Sveta doesn’t speak any English it was difficult, but I think I understood that she was getting cold and ready to go and finished with having fun and had no idea how much longer we would be there. Ditto my thoughts, plus my spring-weight cold jacket wasn’t up to the Russian spring challenge. What to do?
“Maybe it’s warmer inside the log cabin (the banya) out of the wind” I thought. Checked it out “Nope”. Next brilliant idea, “Maybe it’s warm in the basement”. Once again the answer was “Net”. “But wait!” as I walked out of the basement I spied this little hut where I figured the bosses hung out working on plans ect. “It’s gota be heated and I don’t care that it looks like nothing more than homeless shanty cobbled together with construction leftovers”. I headed for it.
At the door I pulled, it was a little stuck, “Hope it’s not locked”. But with a second harder pull it swung open and the warmth from inside hit me right in the face. “YES, I’ll survive……! Uggg, But what is that smell?” Something like strong body odor mixed with disgusting, rancid food smells accompanied the rush of warm air. Walking in I discovered this shack wasn’t the bosses work area; rather the sleeping/living area for about 6 or 7 workers. Yes it was the workers home! Then I spied a figure half lying on the bottom bunk of a triple bunk bed setup. Moving on in, I could see it was a worker smoking his cigarette, eating some unidentified stuff from an open can and watching a scratchy picture on the small TV.
He casually looked up, probably was wondering if I was some new worker, or what I was doing here? In my ultra beginner Russian I tried saying “cold out side, warm inside – OK”. He was probably used to hearing such almost unintelligible Russian because most of the workers are foreigners coming from the “Southern Stan” regions, (Kasahstan, Kurgistan, Dagestan, Uzbekistan, Tadgikisystan, etc) and they often have only a rudimentary understanding of the language.
I am sure his first thought was “what kind of worker is this in some woman’s red scar and a clean, but uselessly thin jacket”. Then I had to disappoint him and try to say that I wasn’t a new worker at all, just visiting and didn’t speak Russian. He smiled and didn’t seem to mind sharing his shack with me.
I have noticed it is easier to understand these mindless Russian TV programs than listening to real people talking. I guess because, as in the US of A, they are aimed at the dumber sector of the audience; like teens, alcoholics and foreigners. The characters speak slower and use words that generally aren’t more than 10 letters, just perfect for me. So we both just passed the time watching Russian TV sitcoms, laughing occasionally, but generally just watching.
Then through the small, dirty window I see Igor walking toward the car with a phone in his hand. “Pasieba bolshoie, ya pashlik” (Thanks a lot, I go) I told my host and headed out the door. It hadn’t gotten any warmer, but hopefully we are ready to head home.
My hopes are dashed when Vicky tells me “No we aren’t leaving yet. Soon in another 15-20 minutes, Igor was just going to start the car. You and Sveta will wait there until we are finished ”. It was already 6:30, Igor was apparently just talking to Irina who had called in concern for my health in such cold. Well that was OK, I knew Sveta was also freezing and would appreciate the warmth. I didn’t suggest that we could probably just stay the shack where at least the entertainment was better. But Sveta would probably talk the arm off my new shack comrade, so I didn’t bring it up. Will go with the flow.
Once settled into the car and it starts getting warmed up Sveta starts talking to me non-stop as if I understood what she was saying. I nodded my head and picked up bits and pieces of her complaining. One thing I think I understood was that she was furious “200 meters (about 2000 sq feet) and no room for guests (translates to me and Valodia) in the big house!!! We must stay out in the banya, terrible!” Well she was on a tear, what could I say. I didn’t want to bring up that the banya probably wouldn’t have any toilet facilities and they would have to walk outside or wake everyone up in the big house if nature called during the night. Maybe a porta pottie is the anticipated answer. I mostly just listened.
It was then we noticed one of the workers digging around in the used lumber pile. I watched him with interest wondering what he was up to. Then it came to me “the wood needed to keep the shack warm tonight!” He was looking for a couple of pieces of the right size to fit into the little stove, found them and was ready to cook dinner and take my place in front of the TV. I envied him, he was home, it was warm and dinner would be ready soon. I didn’t see that scenario playing out for me any time soon.
After about 30 minutes I knew we were doomed to another hour or so. Then I started remembering how in Colorado they would tell about people caught in a blizzard that kept warm by running their car heaters. Only problem most died from carbon monoxide poisoning. I turned off the motor. It got a little cooler, but I was hoping that soon they would be finished and we could get on the road. However, the thought of that scared me as much as dying of carbon monoxide poisoning, where one just falls off into a deep sleep from which they never awaken rather than squashed like a bug in a car wreck. Well it was quieter, and they should be finished at any minute now.
Just about the time the inside temperature had dropped back down to the outside temperature workers start walking out of the house. “Maybe, just maybe this advertised ‘short trip’ to the country house was coming to an end and we might be heading back home. YES, I see Vicky coming out now” I said to Sveta. Sveta didn’t show any excitement, she knows Vicky better than I do. She knew it would be another 15 minutes before anyone was opening the car door to leave. Ukrainians are always right.
When they showed up to the car 15 minutes later. Start the engine and we are off. “But wait where are we going? Had they been in there so long they forgot how we came in??” I wondered. “Vicky” I asked “are we taking a little tour of the area, going home a different way, or what?”
“You don’t mind if we go look at a house that is almost finished on the inside?” She asked.
“Of course not, that would be interesting to see” I spit out as politely as possible. So we drive up to a smaller log cabin, trundle through the knee deep snow drifts, reach the muddy road and walk in the door.
“Please be careful of the new parquet, don’t get it dirty” some one said.
Muttering under my breath “I’m sorry I didn’t see the floor mat to wipe my mud soaked boots on.” It was, however, a little more interesting seeing a log cabin with an interior, but it still had a ways to go. The only thing that scared me and I mentioned to Vicky was that the load bearing posts holding up the second floor balcony seemed to be resting on only about half of their support log and were cantered way off from being perpendicular. Ah, but that’s just unimportant structural, technical stuff. No one cares about that, we’re hear just to see how beautifully the builders finish and decorate their interiors. “OK, I’ve seen enough, I’m ready to go”.
It’s halfway to 8:00 pm and we finally have everyone back in the car. Vicky tells me there is a better way to get to the highway. My first thought is “great, my butt will appreciate any road other than the one we came in on”, my second thought is “are you really sure this new road will get us back to the highway?” I guess we will find out.
Actually the new way back to the highway was much smoother than coming in so it didn’t take near as much time nor toll on our bodies. Once on the highway again, it was just normal driving: time to recheck your seatbelts, hang on to the support posts and start praying.
Even though it was late there was still some daylight and that allowed me to see all the wet spots on the road from snow that had been melting during the day. In freezing temperatures, as we were, with water on the road, as we had, a phenomenon known in Colorado as “Black Ice” forms on the highways. You couldn’t really see it you just knew you were on black ice when you turn the steering wheel and the car keeps going in the direction the nose is pointed, which really isn’t the direction you wanted to go or you wouldn’t have turned your steering wheel in the first place. The end result 99% of the time was multiple car wrecks. I told myself “Black ice probably doesn’t form here in Russia, or people wouldn’t drive like such maniacs in these conditions.”
“Wait stupid! Of course it forms here. These maniacs, graduates of the IDS (Insane Driving School), just think it only forms under the wheels of Ladas (Russia’s smallest, most affordable automobile), not my 4wheel, super V8, oversized SUV – normal, and logical.”
In spite of all the stress and danger we made it safely home around 9ish. I had lost my appetite and asked Irina for something light before I took my hot shower and went to bed.
Let’s see last Friday and Saturday I was holed up in the apartment not wanting to stick my head out in the cold and rain. I stupidly brought my spring foul weather gear not winter and forgetting that winter’s not over until May 9th, Victory Day when the government officially bans bad weather for the big parade and the sun starts shining again.
So I was on full time nursing home duty while Irina ran all the necessary little errands, like buying food. When on Sunday Vicky asked if I wanted to go to their dacha (Russian country house), which is under construction, I thought it would be a nice little outing. “Only an hour or so to the new dacha, look around a bit, and return home – that sounds like a nice diversion and chance to get out of the house, see the winter wonderland forest scenery. Great” I thought even though it is Palm Sunday and would like to go to or just hear some kind service. But here there were no Palm Sunday services because it wasn’t Palm Sunday.
Item of Cultural Interest: For the western religions Sunday was Palm Sunday, however in Russia the Orthodox Church didn’t want to change calendar a couple of hundred years ago to conform with the western Catholic Church’s Julian calendar. Typical Ruskie stubbornness. Their religious holidays therefore are always about two weeks after ours.
Our jet lag is behind us now and we are getting up at regular hours. Sunday morning I was washed, shaved, fed and ready to head out around 10:00. I know that was optimistic because on weekends Russians are late sleepers. But on the off chance that they were ready early I didn’t want them to be blaming “those lazy Americans”, so I waited. Around noon we called Sveta, she and Valodia (remember them, they are the in-laws), who were also scheduled to go, but they had no news from the children as to the departure time.
OK, I better get something to eat for lunch, don’t want to be gone all afternoon on an empty stomach. In Russia food is always on my mind since one needs fuel to fight the cold. One o’clock, no word from the children. Irina calls, no answer. Calls Sevetta again, they have heard nothing either and they are getting a little grumpy. Well it’s still early by Russian standards; the sun won’t go down until after 8:00pm. We will wait a little longer.
Two o’clock, no word from the children. Concern is starting to build. If we don’t leave soon we will be late for dinner, or eating very late. At the other grandparents house concern has turned to anger. Valodia says “I go not on no stinking car trip this late” and we have one less passenger; the remaining two are also losing patience.
Around 2:30 Vicky calls and says they will be here around 3:00. Irina asks where they have been all day. “We were sleeping of course, we are tired and didn’t want to get to up early.” Vicky replies. “We will be there in a little while.”
Item of Cultural Interest: Russians seem to be obsessed with sleeping on weekends, or any day if it is possible. A random poll of children asking what they and their parents did on the weekend revealed that 95% of them slept until late afternoon. The parents apparently then drag themselves out of bed for a little beer and breakfast, settle down in front of the TV and the wife is sent to the store for daily supplies. And around 3:00am when the quality TV programs are at an end the family retires after a hard weekend day’s work. This need for extra sleep was confirmed to me while on a Russian tour in Turkey, when the cute little Russian tour guide told us as we were driving to the hotel “here in the south you will not need to sleep as much as you do back home”. These strange habits might have something to do with genetics, the length of the days, the Northern Latitudes, or other causes generally unknown to the Western mind.
Now Vicky and Igor are ready to go and so must everyone else. They arrive shortly to drop off Tolic, the grandson, with Irina and I start trying to figure out how cold it is and what kind of gear I might need. My brain is still in the springtime mindset and doesn’t go toward the heavy winter jacket. Maybe just a little layering, shirt, light wool sweater along with my jacket should be fine I think. I grab my hiking shoes and get ready to put them on and Vicky frowns and says “Patrick don’t you have any better shoes?”
“Yes but they are just winter boots I don’t think I would need them today. Do you?” I asked. Vicky starts describing the area and of course it includes snow, mud and construction debris. I am thinking, “Yeah, the winter boots would probably work better”. So I stand on the chair and start digging through the dusty, dirty, storage closet over the corridor.
Item of Cultural Interest: Russian apartments, like European apartments, are all built without any closets. There is generally some kind of kitchen pantry and that is it. Don’t know why this is so except maybe they are more concerned about storing food, pots, pans, etc than stuff. Stuff storage space is virtually always provided for with armoires, chest of drawers, or other types of room furniture, but furniture doesn’t comfortably handle most stuff, especially important “man’s stuff”. If a balcony is available that is the best place for stuff storage and so quickly fills up. Once the balcony is full Russians must either do a DYI remodeling or tearfully throw away such valuable treasures as we did: example; old samovar I think last used to celebrate Stalin’s death, 400 assorted sizes of glass jars for canning food, big river rocks used for some kind of process that turns mushrooms into delicious vegetables which can be stored in the jars, assorted pieces of lumber, industrial size drills that don’t work, unlabeled glass bottles filled with slimy noxious smelling cleaning fluids and on and on and on. Some people built closets by themselves and as always with DYI projects, and especially in Russia where up until recently tools and building supplies were only available by stealing from the company you worked for, things just seem to never look professional or fit or work correctly. But these closets are indispensable, even if they not easy to access and the doors don’t lock.
“Lets see, a bag full of Irina’s old boots, move this old telephone out of the way, ahhhh I think I can reach the next big plastic bag. Nope Mamulas snow boots. Can I push the box of Christmas decorations out of the way? YES, there are my winter boots. I really had them stuck waaay back there. Freudian I guess, may I was hoping I would never need them again.”
Item of Cultural Interest: REAL TIME UNEXPECTED EVENT – I just got up to go to the kitchen and happened to turn on the water to wash my hands. NO HOT WATER!!! It’s 2:30 in the afternoon and 42 degrees outside; the water out of the cold tap is probably close to that temperature. This happened last week, unannounced, and lasted for 2 days. I hope it comes on faster this time. Fortunately we have already had our showers. Back to writing, at least the heat is still on.
So finally I get my boots on and thought I was ready to go. “Patrick” Irina yells “where is your scarf?”
“Irichka, I left my wool scarves in Texas, it is spring time I thought they would not be needed.”
“No you must have! Here take this lovely red one.”
“Irichka, I don’t need! That one is scratchy and red doesn’t go with anything I am wearing, I will look funny.”
“No you must take it, you will get sick without it, you are not used to the cold here.” With Irina’s final stand I agree to take the scarf and we leave. We quickly pick up Sevetta, and head north to the dacha. I look at my watch; it’s going to be a long day.
We hit the beltway around the outside of the city and Igor is making up lost time. Speedometer hits 190, 195, 200. Brakes Now, tightening my seat belt prevents me lurching forward. Back up to 180, 190. Hard brakes and try to slip past this truck. No way, more brakes, we are on to the edge of exit ramp getting squeezed between the rail guard and the big, dirty truck. “Well maybe it won’t be late getting home at this speed.”
Item of Cultural Interest: Most Russians really didn’t have an opportunity to drive a car before the beginning of the new millennium. Unless you were a government official or a driver by profession there was no access to a car or truck. So most Russians have the driving experience of a teenager, and generally drive like one. The easiest way to identify danger on any Russian road is to evaluate the cars. Any car that costs more than $60K and is black is a potential threat and you should be on high alert for unexpected maneuvers. Only FSB (the new KGB), government officials or Rich Russians drive such automobiles. Such driver’s are taught only three principals in driving school. Lesson One - the right foot has only three positions when driving: (a) it should be pressing the accelerator to the floor, (b) it should be pressing the brake pedal to the floor, or (c) it should moving to assume position a or b above. Lesson Two – never, ever drive behind someone, pass them immediately and continue passing all vehicles until you are head of the line. Lesson Three – All other driving regulations such as right-of-way, speed limits, ect. don’t apply to you. Simple huh!
We walk out and get into Igor’s big, expensive black car. I had not ridden with him on the highway recently and forgot how much fun it is.
When we exited the speedway, er I mean beltway. We were on road that I had never seen before. I thought we would be going up the main highway towards Finland, but Igor says that it is too busy on weekends. “Thank you God” I silently prayed. The road to Finland is a dangerous road that I have reluctantly driven on a number of times. Irina and I play the game of “who can spot the next burial stone on the side of the road”. But then I am reluctant to drive on any road in Russia.
So I was enjoying the ride through the country via the back roads; two lanes, railroad crossings, small villages and scenic old country houses. Leaving the quaint, quiet village I failed to notice we were behind a line of small cars and trucks. Before I could brace it was time to enjoy Russian driving lesson #2. Accelerator to max (head snaps back), hard to the left (my head snaps to the right), pass car no 1, estimate closure rate of oncoming traffic, decision time - “go/no go” to pass truck no 2, “NO GO”, hard brakes (head flies forward), hard to the right (head snaps to the left), and back in our lane with, what, maybe a few nanoseconds before the oncoming vehicle speeds by in the opposite lane. So much for the quite scenic drive in the country, I released my white-knuckle grip of the passenger door support and rolled my head around my neck to see if all the vertebra were still in place. Now as I crane my sore neck to peer around Igor’s left shoulder at the road ahead next time I will be more prepared.
Vicky told us that we would turn of this country road, I mean highway, and then have about 10 kilometers of bad road. “What does she mean ‘bad road’, we’re on ‘bad road’ now” I am thinking. So when we get to the turn off and have gone a little I tell Vicky this road doesn’t seem so bad. She tells me this is not the bad part, the bad part is toward the end.
As we proceed through the forest and over the hill with the snow level building I ask, “do they plow this road”. I have seen such roads in the mountains during my 28 years of snow driving in Colorado, but they were only for snowmobiles or cross-country skiers, not automobiles.
“No, cars just drive over it” she replied. With little concerned about getting stuck.
The snow was continuing to build up higher, the road was turning very bad and I didn’t see any signs of other people. Once again I am gripping the support bars now trying to keep my head from bouncing against the ceiling as we hit one hole after another. I make a joke “Sveta I thought the road to your dacha was bad (it is a terrible washboard like gravel road with occasional deep holes), but this road is worse!” No one laughed.
As we turn a corner Vicky exclaims “here on the left is our lake!” All I could see was a frozen flat, snow-covered area. The only thing that would make someone think this area was a lake rather than the surroundings was the flatness and lack of trees.
“It’s big” I commented. Just as I got my words out Igor corrected Vicky and told us this wasn’t their lake, we weren’t there yet. Moods in the back seat dropped another notch lower.
A little longer, the correct lake spotted and a little further down the road Vicky excitedly exclaims, “This is it, we are here”. We stop in front of this flimsy roadblock made out of what looked like a piece of 1 inch diameter pvc pipe with a brick on the short end and the long end resting on the support across the road. From out of a little guard shack a thin, tall, oldish man, cigarette hanging from his mouth, dressed in the official “guard man” outfit, military green camouflage utilities, ambles over to the roadblock and raises the 1” pvc pipe. Igor lowers his window, nods to the guard and drives on in. That’s the kind of security that lets a man and his family sleep well at night!
It is a new development on the side of a good size lake. Kinda barren windswept area where all the trees had been chopped down to make room for the anticipated dachas; just another remote, god-forsaken spot on this planet ready to be converted into the next playground for the rich and famous.
Now there are just a handful houses, maybe 30 to 40 or so. Some rustic and others very nicely completed. But through the eyes of the developer, as plastered on the large bulletin board at the entry, we see, paved tree lined streets, grassy fields, warm sandy beaches with families enjoying picnics, children laughing at the playground; you know, you’ve seen it all before. We just drove a very short way through the muddy reality of today and pulled up by a large log cabin. Vicky gleefully says “heeere we are”.
“It was big and there are no windows” was my first thought. We got out and stepped into about 4 inches of mud, water and slushy snow. “Glad I got my boots from the stuff storage l
ocker”. There were a few workers around but none were working. The dark brown roof was on so at least the inside dry should be dry. We climbed the construction ladder to the huge front porch and walked in through the cutout where a door will be. It looked even bigger inside! No walls just a big open area. “Um” I’m thinking “the Russian way, just like the new apartments in town, nothing except walls”. In the back there was a ladder leading up to the second floor, luckily they had skylights in the roof or we would not have been able to see anything there in the dark. Adjoining one wall was another room, but we couldn’t see it, as there was no door cut anywhere into wall, a mystery room. Back outside there was a little log cabin, which is the banya, a Russian sauna sweathouse. Vicky estimated that the place would be finished next January, hopefully for New Years.As we were standing around gawking at the cavernous main area, a man not dressed in dirty overalls and a ragged jacket appeared; “the boss” I suspect. He quickly greets everyone and starts talking with Igor and Vicky, about what I didn’t know. But, as he squatted down on the plywood floor, swept a little area clean, ordered a pencil from one of the workers and started drawing plans on the floor, I think he was saying something to the effect that he didn’t have any plans of how to the inside would be finished and we would make them up now. I don’t think Igor and Vicky were expecting this type of meeting.
The boss went on talking excitedly, waving his hands around, pointing to areas in the room and drawing another little square on the floor. My only question was “Which way is North?” Having a mountain house there were lots of things that a boy from Texas didn’t know and had to learn the hard way, one of the most important was knowing where the snow would pile highest and where the frigid wind would be blowing from the hardest. The answer to my question was answered with only blank stares by all. I am sure they all thought what would some stupid American from SOUTH TEXAS know about winter.
So moving right along they all got back to developing the house designs drawings on the plywood floor. First floor finished lets move on to the second floor. Everyone, but Sveta and I started climbing the up ladder where I am sure there are more floors to draw on. We headed outside where she talked with the workers a little. I took some pictures, sloshed through the snow and mud to see what the lakeshore looked like; just like any other frozen lakeshore. “Ok, lets see. We have been here about a 45 minutes, the temperature is dropping, I wonder how much longer this ‘short trip to the dacha’ is going to be?”
As I walk back up to the dacha I can see Sveta is not happy and Vicky and Igor are still up the ladder drawing on the floor. Since Sveta doesn’t speak any English it was difficult, but I think I understood that she was getting cold and ready to go and finished with having fun and had no idea how much longer we would be there. Ditto my thoughts, plus my spring-weight cold jacket wasn’t up to the Russian spring challenge. What to do?
“Maybe it’s warmer inside the log cabin (the banya) out of the wind” I thought. Checked it out “Nope”. Next brilliant idea, “Maybe it’s warm in the basement”. Once again the answer was “Net”. “But wait!” as I walked out of the basement I spied this little hut where I figured the bosses hung out working on plans ect. “It’s gota be heated and I don’t care that it looks like nothing more than homeless shanty cobbled together with construction leftovers”. I headed for it.
At the door I pulled, it was a little stuck, “Hope it’s not locked”. But with a second harder pull it swung open and the warmth from inside hit me right in the face. “YES, I’ll survive……! Uggg, But what is that smell?” Something like strong body odor mixed with disgusting, rancid food smells accompanied the rush of warm air. Walking in I discovered this shack wasn’t the bosses work area; rather the sleeping/living area for about 6 or 7 workers. Yes it was the workers home! Then I spied a figure half lying on the bottom bunk of a triple bunk bed setup. Moving on in, I could see it was a worker smoking his cigarette, eating some unidentified stuff from an open can and watching a scratchy picture on the small TV.
He casually looked up, probably was wondering if I was some new worker, or what I was doing here? In my ultra beginner Russian I tried saying “cold out side, warm inside – OK”. He was probably used to hearing such almost unintelligible Russian because most of the workers are foreigners coming from the “Southern Stan” regions, (Kasahstan, Kurgistan, Dagestan, Uzbekistan, Tadgikisystan, etc) and they often have only a rudimentary understanding of the language.
I am sure his first thought was “what kind of worker is this in some woman’s red scar and a clean, but uselessly thin jacket”. Then I had to disappoint him and try to say that I wasn’t a new worker at all, just visiting and didn’t speak Russian. He smiled and didn’t seem to mind sharing his shack with me.
I have noticed it is easier to understand these mindless Russian TV programs than listening to real people talking. I guess because, as in the US of A, they are aimed at the dumber sector of the audience; like teens, alcoholics and foreigners. The characters speak slower and use words that generally aren’t more than 10 letters, just perfect for me. So we both just passed the time watching Russian TV sitcoms, laughing occasionally, but generally just watching.
Then through the small, dirty window I see Igor walking toward the car with a phone in his hand. “Pasieba bolshoie, ya pashlik” (Thanks a lot, I go) I told my host and headed out the door. It hadn’t gotten any warmer, but hopefully we are ready to head home.
My hopes are dashed when Vicky tells me “No we aren’t leaving yet. Soon in another 15-20 minutes, Igor was just going to start the car. You and Sveta will wait there until we are finished ”. It was already 6:30, Igor was apparently just talking to Irina who had called in concern for my health in such cold. Well that was OK, I knew Sveta was also freezing and would appreciate the warmth. I didn’t suggest that we could probably just stay the shack where at least the entertainment was better. But Sveta would probably talk the arm off my new shack comrade, so I didn’t bring it up. Will go with the flow.
Once settled into the car and it starts getting warmed up Sveta starts talking to me non-stop as if I understood what she was saying. I nodded my head and picked up bits and pieces of her complaining. One thing I think I understood was that she was furious “200 meters (about 2000 sq feet) and no room for guests (translates to me and Valodia) in the big house!!! We must stay out in the banya, terrible!” Well she was on a tear, what could I say. I didn’t want to bring up that the banya probably wouldn’t have any toilet facilities and they would have to walk outside or wake everyone up in the big house if nature called during the night. Maybe a porta pottie is the anticipated answer. I mostly just listened.
It was then we noticed one of the workers digging around in the used lumber pile. I watched him with interest wondering what he was up to. Then it came to me “the wood needed to keep the shack warm tonight!” He was looking for a couple of pieces of the right size to fit into the little stove, found them and was ready to cook dinner and take my place in front of the TV. I envied him, he was home, it was warm and dinner would be ready soon. I didn’t see that scenario playing out for me any time soon.
After about 30 minutes I knew we were doomed to another hour or so. Then I started remembering how in Colorado they would tell about people caught in a blizzard that kept warm by running their car heaters. Only problem most died from carbon monoxide poisoning. I turned off the motor. It got a little cooler, but I was hoping that soon they would be finished and we could get on the road. However, the thought of that scared me as much as dying of carbon monoxide poisoning, where one just falls off into a deep sleep from which they never awaken rather than squashed like a bug in a car wreck. Well it was quieter, and they should be finished at any minute now.
Just about the time the inside temperature had dropped back down to the outside temperature workers start walking out of the house. “Maybe, just maybe this advertised ‘short trip’ to the country house was coming to an end and we might be heading back home. YES, I see Vicky coming out now” I said to Sveta. Sveta didn’t show any excitement, she knows Vicky better than I do. She knew it would be another 15 minutes before anyone was opening the car door to leave. Ukrainians are always right.
When they showed up to the car 15 minutes later. Start the engine and we are off. “But wait where are we going? Had they been in there so long they forgot how we came in??” I wondered. “Vicky” I asked “are we taking a little tour of the area, going home a different way, or what?”
“You don’t mind if we go look at a house that is almost finished on the inside?” She asked.
“Of course not, that would be interesting to see” I spit out as politely as possible. So we drive up to a smaller log cabin, trundle through the knee deep snow drifts, reach the muddy road and walk in the door.
“Please be careful of the new parquet, don’t get it dirty” some one said.
Muttering under my breath “I’m sorry I didn’t see the floor mat to wipe my mud soaked boots on.” It was, however, a little more interesting seeing a log cabin with an interior, but it still had a ways to go. The only thing that scared me and I mentioned to Vicky was that the load bearing posts holding up the second floor balcony seemed to be resting on only about half of their support log and were cantered way off from being perpendicular. Ah, but that’s just unimportant structural, technical stuff. No one cares about that, we’re hear just to see how beautifully the builders finish and decorate their interiors. “OK, I’ve seen enough, I’m ready to go”.
It’s halfway to 8:00 pm and we finally have everyone back in the car. Vicky tells me there is a better way to get to the highway. My first thought is “great, my butt will appreciate any road other than the one we came in on”, my second thought is “are you really sure this new road will get us back to the highway?” I guess we will find out.
Actually the new way back to the highway was much smoother than coming in so it didn’t take near as much time nor toll on our bodies. Once on the highway again, it was just normal driving: time to recheck your seatbelts, hang on to the support posts and start praying.
Even though it was late there was still some daylight and that allowed me to see all the wet spots on the road from snow that had been melting during the day. In freezing temperatures, as we were, with water on the road, as we had, a phenomenon known in Colorado as “Black Ice” forms on the highways. You couldn’t really see it you just knew you were on black ice when you turn the steering wheel and the car keeps going in the direction the nose is pointed, which really isn’t the direction you wanted to go or you wouldn’t have turned your steering wheel in the first place. The end result 99% of the time was multiple car wrecks. I told myself “Black ice probably doesn’t form here in Russia, or people wouldn’t drive like such maniacs in these conditions.”
“Wait stupid! Of course it forms here. These maniacs, graduates of the IDS (Insane Driving School), just think it only forms under the wheels of Ladas (Russia’s smallest, most affordable automobile), not my 4wheel, super V8, oversized SUV – normal, and logical.”
In spite of all the stress and danger we made it safely home around 9ish. I had lost my appetite and asked Irina for something light before I took my hot shower and went to bed.
Russian Government Services - How to Avoid Becoming an Illegal Alien
April 2, 2009
3:00 am, I have been awake for a while laying in bed and exercising my brain with all kinds of useless thoughts. Then suddenly I remembered, “Yikes I need to register tomorrow or I will be in the country illegally!!!” I stayed awake another couple of hours fearing that if I fell back asleep I might forget this most important task. I don’t know when it was but I did fall back asleep. Irina’s smiling face came in around 9:30 am to wake me. Fortunately having a mind like a steel trap my first words to her were “Irina we must get me registered TODAY!!!”
“Ahhh yes, I forgot about that” she said.
Item of Cultural Interest: The Russians for the last 300 years have had the perverse need to know where everyone in their country is at all times and what they were doing. And today of course this complex applies to any foreigners in their country. So each time I arrive I have 3 days within which to fill out the forms, make copies of all my documents and submit it to the OVIR, the agency whose task it is to keep control of everyone’s location. In the past it was simple just pay a corrupt travel agency that we worked with and they took care of the job. If we didn’t get it done on the exact day, no problem, they would just handle it with their corrupt official.
But last year they changed the law so that we had to do this our selves at a local post office. Timing became a real issue, now there is no slack! By the time you arrive in country the post offices are invariably closed – day one gone. Jet lag your brain is still a little groggy and you don’t normally get going anywhere soon – day two gone. So it’s already day three and the main mission becomes GET REGISTERED.
Another breakfast of hot porridge, toast and cheese, which tastes good this morning since outside it is only 35 degrees F and windy. We quickly finish, dress and by 11:00 am are ready for our mission. Irina then starts looking for her passport.
Item of Cultural Interest: All Russians that travel outside the country have two passports. One is used only for foreign travel and the second, a local passport, for keeping track of where you are in Russia and what you have been up to. Every Russian and must carry their local passport with them at all times. If you are ever stopped for any reason the authorities can demand to see your local passport. Failure to present it can result in big trouble! The concept is kinda like driving with out your driver’s license, except here it is “don’t leave home without it”.
I’m dressed in my jacket, mud boots, muffler and hat ready to go. “Where’s Iricka?” As I walk into the living room I see Irina is rummaging through all the drawers and other hiding places in the apartment. “What are you doing? We need to get moving or they will be closing for tea break.”
“We have a problem” Irina says. “I think my (local) passport is at Vicky’s and they will not be back for two days. I took all our important documents there for safe keeping while we were gone.” A little more looking and “it’s not here, I will take Mamula’s passport maybe they will accept it”.
Luckily the post office is only a hundred yards from our front door so we arrive there quickly, get the form and Irina starts filling it out since it was all in Russian. “Opps, I got the wrong date, I’ll just change it a little. There it’s done” Irina said. The form had hardly changed hands when the lady saw where Irina tried to correct the date.
“Neyt, no corrections permitted!! Here is another form re-do it” the lady behind the counter says. Back to the table and redo the form. When it is finished we return to the counter and then Irina tries to explain the problem of her passport. The lady listens, then replies “No problem just have your mother come down and sign the forms”.
“Opps; no way will that work” says Irina “we must find another way”. And we leave. Irina says our only hope is registering me at Svetta’s, Vicky’s mother-in-law, apartment. We call and she is agreeable and tell her we will leave immediately. It’s getting late; there are always long lines and no exceptions. When time is up the door closes and anyone not served always can come back tomorrow.
As we walk out the door Irina says “ we must get a gift for her.
“Vodka, they always like that. Lets head to Oasis (the local grocery/alcohol store)”. We swing into the store, head right for the liquor section, and pick out their favorite, the biggest bottle at the cheapest price. It was my first time to the store since arriving and looked at the prices of my favorite Russian adult beverage, Vodka, and couldn’t believe the price – double from last year! How’s a man to survive in Russia?
But we didn’t have time to waste, right to the checkout counter. Irina was in the process of paying for the vodka and I suggested that we might need a “ pakeet” (a plastic bag you purchase to carry your stuff home). Irina quickly agrees and asks the clerk. Before I could stop her I realized that we didn’t need the pakeet we could just stick the bottle in Irina’s purse. Wrong move!
Item of Cultural Interest: Retail check out clerks are hired on their ability to maintain a stern expression and to quickly intimidate any customer if there is the slightest deviation from standard procedures. Standard procedures include, but are not limited to things like: customer must pay with exact change, if customer doesn’t have exact change they must have small bills, all produce must be weighed and priced before checkout or it will be taken from customer, if there is a question about the price of an item the customer is always wrong and must accept the clerks price, items once rung up must be paid for – no changes can be made,…….the list goes on and on. For some reason it appears that only women can qualify for this job because I have never seen a Russian man working anywhere as a checkout clerk.
The checkout lady’s face turned from a mild frown to frozen stone. She immediately started yelling something about not taking the “pakeet” back. “OK, OK” I grab the bag as Irina digs in her purse for the extra 4 Rubles, slams them on the counter and we leave.
Svetta’s apartment is somewhere about a mile or so from here so we grab a bus. Once off the bus Irina realizes that she isn’t exactly sure where Svetta lives, and of course I had no real clue. I could vaguely remember the one time we picked them up in Igor’s car it was a dark, cold looking corner where two buildings met.
Fortunately we find the building and buzz Svetta. She arrives quickly and we are off for the local post office. Svetta is a big, brash Ukrainian lady that would make a perfect checkout clerk trainer, but for family she is always ready to help and has a heart of gold. I was glad to have on our side.
We arrive at the post office with an hour and a half before closing. Should be enough time to get all this done. Irina gets the documents and starts filling it out. We must completely fill out two of the same document – no Xerox copies allowed. Opps another mistake, another form or two. Finally it appears complete and she takes it to the clerk.
Item of Cultural Interest: See previous Item above re checkout clerks. All descriptions apply for Postal clerks plus the following. Postal clerks are even more embolden since they also have the full power and might of the Russian government backing them. They make no mistakes and since you need them, they don’t need you, you will be served or assisted at their leisure. Postal clerks are at the bottom of the government’s clerical hierarchy so there is a bit of latent anger, resentment and jealousy that transfers to those lowly customers forced to ask for their service.
The clerk grabs the documents, pears down at them, immediately spies blanks where some required redundant data was left out, throws the documents back on the counter, and waves Irina away back to the table finish her work. Again the documents are submitted, reviewed and this time accepted as submitted.
“This is incomplete. Where are the copies of your passports and other mandatory documents” the clerk screeches out. “You must have copies of all the passports, the immigration papers, visas, and registrations.”
Irina meekly asks if they have a copier. “Da” (yes) the unexpected reply is heard from behind the counter. A pleasantly surprised Irina asks if she would please copy the required items. Then came the originally expected answer – “Neyt”; with a simple explanation “we have no paper”. Irina then asks if the clerk might know were we could find some one that can make the copies for us. Once more the now-expected reply “Neyt” loudly comes from behind the counter along with the incomplete Alien Registration Application.
It is now 45 minutes to closing time. I am starting to get a little concerned. If we don’t complete this task today I will become and “Illegal Alien”. If stopped for any reason and asked to produce my documents I could immediately be subject to fine, deportation, and/or imprisonment. Worse yet we would have to go to the feared OVIR office to change my immigration status. Not only would we probably have to pay a fine, que up in the admittance line around 5:00 am (they are notoriously busy and slow), we would have to deal with their clerks. These women are a higher up the food chain and they didn’t get there by being nice to their lowly cliental. We gota get this done now!!!
As we walk out the door I spy a bank and tell the girls that they would probably have a copier that we could use or pay for using. I am immediately told that banks only do money stuff they would never even consider helping us out by copying something.
But wait, how fortuitous! There right across the ally from the bank is a sign advertising “Foto” (photos). We walk up the stairs and enter a pet store. “Strange place for a Foto shop, did we miss the door” I wondered. No! We are in luck, stuck back way back in the corner between cat litter boxes and 100lb bags of bird seed, in his own little half walled-off space sits a man with a scanner and printer. A real Russian entrepreneur! The girls tell him what we need, he makes the copies; easy! Just to make sure all is OK I check to see what we have. “WAIT, he copied my expired visa. He needs to print this one. Pheuuu, good thing I checked that.”
Back to the friendly girls at the post office. A new line has formed since we left and these people didn’t realize that we were there earlier and therefore have the right to move to the head of the line. Svetta in her suave Ukrainian manner explained to them how it works “We were hear earlier today, move over” and handed our paperwork to the ringleader on the other side of the counter.
The ringleader of this cabal of clerks is a real classic! Probably 25-30ish, chewing gum, generally unattractive, dressed in a short sleeve tee shirt exposing about 8 inches of her above-the-jeans fat line, tattoos on one arm and black stringy hair. Irina whispered that she looks like the workers at the homeless shelter where she volunteers. The ringleader looks at the paper work, asks what is this extra copy of the visa for. I explained to Irina that the one on the same page as my passport picture was my expired visa and the other page had my current visa; and Irina explained that to the ringleader, I guess. The ringleader listens; hands back the page with my current visa, and then tells us she has to go unload the mail truck which just arrived. Translated I am sure that means, “ Later, I want a cigarette break.”
I look up at the clock on the wall knowing for sure that when the little hand is on 5, the big hand is on 12, and the second hand passes 12 the curtains come down on the counter and it is “game over”; 25 minutes from now. We wait. I watch the clock.
One of the underlings waves us over and gives us some receipts and an envelope to fill out. Irnia fills out the receipts detailing the documents we are sending to the OVIR and the addresses the envelope. Takes it to the underling, she reviews. Can you believe it we made a mistake, do the receipts over. No scratch outs or mistakes! Finally we get it back to her and she accepts it. Now I hope we are just waiting for the ringleader to return from the truck.
The clock is getting dangerously close to 5:00 when the ringleader returns and starts on our paperwork again. I think we are going to make it!! She starts tearing off the part of the form that I need to carry on my person at all times, she starts folding the papers and sticking them in the envelope, SHE STARTS SEALING the envelope, she starts pounding the official stamps all over the envelope, she starts writing stuff all over the envelope, YES!!!!! She tosses the envelope into the out box and hands me my documents. I’m LEGAL and we’re outa there with, oh, at least 7 minutes to spare. I feel sorry for all the other people in line, the ones at the end will certainly have to come have to come back another day.
As we leave I thank Svetta and tell her; “Russia, one day, one task”!
“Da” she replies and we wave good-bye as we head for the bus home.
3:00 am, I have been awake for a while laying in bed and exercising my brain with all kinds of useless thoughts. Then suddenly I remembered, “Yikes I need to register tomorrow or I will be in the country illegally!!!” I stayed awake another couple of hours fearing that if I fell back asleep I might forget this most important task. I don’t know when it was but I did fall back asleep. Irina’s smiling face came in around 9:30 am to wake me. Fortunately having a mind like a steel trap my first words to her were “Irina we must get me registered TODAY!!!”
“Ahhh yes, I forgot about that” she said.
Item of Cultural Interest: The Russians for the last 300 years have had the perverse need to know where everyone in their country is at all times and what they were doing. And today of course this complex applies to any foreigners in their country. So each time I arrive I have 3 days within which to fill out the forms, make copies of all my documents and submit it to the OVIR, the agency whose task it is to keep control of everyone’s location. In the past it was simple just pay a corrupt travel agency that we worked with and they took care of the job. If we didn’t get it done on the exact day, no problem, they would just handle it with their corrupt official.
But last year they changed the law so that we had to do this our selves at a local post office. Timing became a real issue, now there is no slack! By the time you arrive in country the post offices are invariably closed – day one gone. Jet lag your brain is still a little groggy and you don’t normally get going anywhere soon – day two gone. So it’s already day three and the main mission becomes GET REGISTERED.
Another breakfast of hot porridge, toast and cheese, which tastes good this morning since outside it is only 35 degrees F and windy. We quickly finish, dress and by 11:00 am are ready for our mission. Irina then starts looking for her passport.
Item of Cultural Interest: All Russians that travel outside the country have two passports. One is used only for foreign travel and the second, a local passport, for keeping track of where you are in Russia and what you have been up to. Every Russian and must carry their local passport with them at all times. If you are ever stopped for any reason the authorities can demand to see your local passport. Failure to present it can result in big trouble! The concept is kinda like driving with out your driver’s license, except here it is “don’t leave home without it”.
I’m dressed in my jacket, mud boots, muffler and hat ready to go. “Where’s Iricka?” As I walk into the living room I see Irina is rummaging through all the drawers and other hiding places in the apartment. “What are you doing? We need to get moving or they will be closing for tea break.”
“We have a problem” Irina says. “I think my (local) passport is at Vicky’s and they will not be back for two days. I took all our important documents there for safe keeping while we were gone.” A little more looking and “it’s not here, I will take Mamula’s passport maybe they will accept it”.
Luckily the post office is only a hundred yards from our front door so we arrive there quickly, get the form and Irina starts filling it out since it was all in Russian. “Opps, I got the wrong date, I’ll just change it a little. There it’s done” Irina said. The form had hardly changed hands when the lady saw where Irina tried to correct the date.
“Neyt, no corrections permitted!! Here is another form re-do it” the lady behind the counter says. Back to the table and redo the form. When it is finished we return to the counter and then Irina tries to explain the problem of her passport. The lady listens, then replies “No problem just have your mother come down and sign the forms”.
“Opps; no way will that work” says Irina “we must find another way”. And we leave. Irina says our only hope is registering me at Svetta’s, Vicky’s mother-in-law, apartment. We call and she is agreeable and tell her we will leave immediately. It’s getting late; there are always long lines and no exceptions. When time is up the door closes and anyone not served always can come back tomorrow.
As we walk out the door Irina says “ we must get a gift for her.
“Vodka, they always like that. Lets head to Oasis (the local grocery/alcohol store)”. We swing into the store, head right for the liquor section, and pick out their favorite, the biggest bottle at the cheapest price. It was my first time to the store since arriving and looked at the prices of my favorite Russian adult beverage, Vodka, and couldn’t believe the price – double from last year! How’s a man to survive in Russia?
But we didn’t have time to waste, right to the checkout counter. Irina was in the process of paying for the vodka and I suggested that we might need a “ pakeet” (a plastic bag you purchase to carry your stuff home). Irina quickly agrees and asks the clerk. Before I could stop her I realized that we didn’t need the pakeet we could just stick the bottle in Irina’s purse. Wrong move!
Item of Cultural Interest: Retail check out clerks are hired on their ability to maintain a stern expression and to quickly intimidate any customer if there is the slightest deviation from standard procedures. Standard procedures include, but are not limited to things like: customer must pay with exact change, if customer doesn’t have exact change they must have small bills, all produce must be weighed and priced before checkout or it will be taken from customer, if there is a question about the price of an item the customer is always wrong and must accept the clerks price, items once rung up must be paid for – no changes can be made,…….the list goes on and on. For some reason it appears that only women can qualify for this job because I have never seen a Russian man working anywhere as a checkout clerk.
The checkout lady’s face turned from a mild frown to frozen stone. She immediately started yelling something about not taking the “pakeet” back. “OK, OK” I grab the bag as Irina digs in her purse for the extra 4 Rubles, slams them on the counter and we leave.
Svetta’s apartment is somewhere about a mile or so from here so we grab a bus. Once off the bus Irina realizes that she isn’t exactly sure where Svetta lives, and of course I had no real clue. I could vaguely remember the one time we picked them up in Igor’s car it was a dark, cold looking corner where two buildings met.
Fortunately we find the building and buzz Svetta. She arrives quickly and we are off for the local post office. Svetta is a big, brash Ukrainian lady that would make a perfect checkout clerk trainer, but for family she is always ready to help and has a heart of gold. I was glad to have on our side.
We arrive at the post office with an hour and a half before closing. Should be enough time to get all this done. Irina gets the documents and starts filling it out. We must completely fill out two of the same document – no Xerox copies allowed. Opps another mistake, another form or two. Finally it appears complete and she takes it to the clerk.
Item of Cultural Interest: See previous Item above re checkout clerks. All descriptions apply for Postal clerks plus the following. Postal clerks are even more embolden since they also have the full power and might of the Russian government backing them. They make no mistakes and since you need them, they don’t need you, you will be served or assisted at their leisure. Postal clerks are at the bottom of the government’s clerical hierarchy so there is a bit of latent anger, resentment and jealousy that transfers to those lowly customers forced to ask for their service.
The clerk grabs the documents, pears down at them, immediately spies blanks where some required redundant data was left out, throws the documents back on the counter, and waves Irina away back to the table finish her work. Again the documents are submitted, reviewed and this time accepted as submitted.
“This is incomplete. Where are the copies of your passports and other mandatory documents” the clerk screeches out. “You must have copies of all the passports, the immigration papers, visas, and registrations.”
Irina meekly asks if they have a copier. “Da” (yes) the unexpected reply is heard from behind the counter. A pleasantly surprised Irina asks if she would please copy the required items. Then came the originally expected answer – “Neyt”; with a simple explanation “we have no paper”. Irina then asks if the clerk might know were we could find some one that can make the copies for us. Once more the now-expected reply “Neyt” loudly comes from behind the counter along with the incomplete Alien Registration Application.
It is now 45 minutes to closing time. I am starting to get a little concerned. If we don’t complete this task today I will become and “Illegal Alien”. If stopped for any reason and asked to produce my documents I could immediately be subject to fine, deportation, and/or imprisonment. Worse yet we would have to go to the feared OVIR office to change my immigration status. Not only would we probably have to pay a fine, que up in the admittance line around 5:00 am (they are notoriously busy and slow), we would have to deal with their clerks. These women are a higher up the food chain and they didn’t get there by being nice to their lowly cliental. We gota get this done now!!!
As we walk out the door I spy a bank and tell the girls that they would probably have a copier that we could use or pay for using. I am immediately told that banks only do money stuff they would never even consider helping us out by copying something.
But wait, how fortuitous! There right across the ally from the bank is a sign advertising “Foto” (photos). We walk up the stairs and enter a pet store. “Strange place for a Foto shop, did we miss the door” I wondered. No! We are in luck, stuck back way back in the corner between cat litter boxes and 100lb bags of bird seed, in his own little half walled-off space sits a man with a scanner and printer. A real Russian entrepreneur! The girls tell him what we need, he makes the copies; easy! Just to make sure all is OK I check to see what we have. “WAIT, he copied my expired visa. He needs to print this one. Pheuuu, good thing I checked that.”
Back to the friendly girls at the post office. A new line has formed since we left and these people didn’t realize that we were there earlier and therefore have the right to move to the head of the line. Svetta in her suave Ukrainian manner explained to them how it works “We were hear earlier today, move over” and handed our paperwork to the ringleader on the other side of the counter.
The ringleader of this cabal of clerks is a real classic! Probably 25-30ish, chewing gum, generally unattractive, dressed in a short sleeve tee shirt exposing about 8 inches of her above-the-jeans fat line, tattoos on one arm and black stringy hair. Irina whispered that she looks like the workers at the homeless shelter where she volunteers. The ringleader looks at the paper work, asks what is this extra copy of the visa for. I explained to Irina that the one on the same page as my passport picture was my expired visa and the other page had my current visa; and Irina explained that to the ringleader, I guess. The ringleader listens; hands back the page with my current visa, and then tells us she has to go unload the mail truck which just arrived. Translated I am sure that means, “ Later, I want a cigarette break.”
I look up at the clock on the wall knowing for sure that when the little hand is on 5, the big hand is on 12, and the second hand passes 12 the curtains come down on the counter and it is “game over”; 25 minutes from now. We wait. I watch the clock.
One of the underlings waves us over and gives us some receipts and an envelope to fill out. Irnia fills out the receipts detailing the documents we are sending to the OVIR and the addresses the envelope. Takes it to the underling, she reviews. Can you believe it we made a mistake, do the receipts over. No scratch outs or mistakes! Finally we get it back to her and she accepts it. Now I hope we are just waiting for the ringleader to return from the truck.
The clock is getting dangerously close to 5:00 when the ringleader returns and starts on our paperwork again. I think we are going to make it!! She starts tearing off the part of the form that I need to carry on my person at all times, she starts folding the papers and sticking them in the envelope, SHE STARTS SEALING the envelope, she starts pounding the official stamps all over the envelope, she starts writing stuff all over the envelope, YES!!!!! She tosses the envelope into the out box and hands me my documents. I’m LEGAL and we’re outa there with, oh, at least 7 minutes to spare. I feel sorry for all the other people in line, the ones at the end will certainly have to come have to come back another day.
As we leave I thank Svetta and tell her; “Russia, one day, one task”!
“Da” she replies and we wave good-bye as we head for the bus home.
Russian Life - A Sad Homecoming
March 31, 2009 - later
A continuation regarding the day we arrived.
As we arrived at 218 Lunacharskogo Irina could hardly wait to see her Mother. She rang the apartment and Sasha, the lady that we had employed to take care of Mamula (Irina’s mother) buzzed us in. Meanwhile Valodia and I were unloading the baggage and trying to get it into the entryway. Once all was inside Irina ran up the stairs to greet her Mother.
As many of you may know Irina’s Mother has long been suffering from an assortment of problems, the most serious of which is water on the brain. This has been a problem from birth but was only diagnosed recently. It displays symptoms similar to Parkinson’s disease. In Russia they only dispense drugs to help with her walking and other motor activity. In the US they would probably perform a standard, simple, surgery to drain the water, but no one in Russia, at least not in the 2nd largest city of the country, practices this treatment.
So last year during the week that I was leaving Russia the doctor doing a routine check discovered extremely high blood pressure in her eyes, glaucoma. We had to immediately yank her out of the excellent nursing home that she had just moved into weeks before and check her into the hospital for further tests and ultimately surgery. The doctors in the eye clinic thought it might work, but it was a long shot. Without the surgery she would quickly become blind. The surgery helped lower the pressure, but permanent damage had been done.
Irina researched the medication Mamula had been taking for her Parkinson symtoms and to her horror discovered that a known side effect was high eye blood pressure. This was never mentioned by the Dr prescribing the medication and when Irina later confronted the Dr he admitted that “Yes the medicine probably caused the eye problem”. In America you can sue for such malpractice, but in Russia under FREE socialized medicine you get what you pay for.
By the time Irina left for Texas last year Mamula appeared to be improving, or at least stabilized, and we had found excellent lady, Sasha, to be with her 24/7.
As Valodia and I finally got all of the baggage hauled up to the 2nd floor and moved into the apartment, I could hear crying or sobbing from Mamula’s bedroom. I walked in, I saw Irina hugging her mother and they were both in tears. What first struck me was how different she looked since last I had seen her: much thinner, no real expression on her face and her skin had a pale chalky look to it. I could instantly tell there had been some major changes since last August and I thought they were just glad to see each other.
Irina turned to me and with tear filled eyes cried “Patrick she is blind, totally blind, she can’t see anything anymore”.
I was stunned! “How can that be? Nobody told us that she was so bad off. Maybe it is just a little too much excitement for Mamula and she is overly tired from it all.”
“NO, she is blind. Sasha said for some time Mamula had been lying to her about being able to see, but Sasha and Vicky (Irina’s daughter) found out that Mamula can’t see anything at all. I knew I should have left that stupid Corpus Christi sooner. Now it’s too late. She’ll never be able to see me again….”
I only listened in disbelief, what could I do?
After a while Valodia and Svetta said their goodbyes and left. Irina visited with Sasha about stuff. I started unpacking. Soon Sasha left and we were finished for the day. It was around 10:00, Irina always says we must stay awake past 10 when we return. Now it was OK to go to bed; only 27 or so hours after waking up in Corpus Christi where the trip started.
Laying in bed I remembered my notes in a journal made after Irina left Corpus at the end of her first visit – “her Mother is alone in Russia and getting older, who will take care of her down the road?” At the time, 5 years ago without a clue about what Russia was really like, I naively thought surely we would find a nursing home or some elder care solution. Well we are now “down the road”, no acceptable solutions have been found to exist and the same question still haunts us. But the same character traits that I saw in Irina from the first which made her so special to me, a big loving and caring heart, will get us through the difficult times sure to be ahead.
It was only a little over a month ago when we both walked down the aisle at church and had a cross of ashes painted on our foreheads as our pastor reminded us “dust thou art and to dust thou shall return”. A stark reminder of everyone’s future.
A continuation regarding the day we arrived.
As we arrived at 218 Lunacharskogo Irina could hardly wait to see her Mother. She rang the apartment and Sasha, the lady that we had employed to take care of Mamula (Irina’s mother) buzzed us in. Meanwhile Valodia and I were unloading the baggage and trying to get it into the entryway. Once all was inside Irina ran up the stairs to greet her Mother.
As many of you may know Irina’s Mother has long been suffering from an assortment of problems, the most serious of which is water on the brain. This has been a problem from birth but was only diagnosed recently. It displays symptoms similar to Parkinson’s disease. In Russia they only dispense drugs to help with her walking and other motor activity. In the US they would probably perform a standard, simple, surgery to drain the water, but no one in Russia, at least not in the 2nd largest city of the country, practices this treatment.
So last year during the week that I was leaving Russia the doctor doing a routine check discovered extremely high blood pressure in her eyes, glaucoma. We had to immediately yank her out of the excellent nursing home that she had just moved into weeks before and check her into the hospital for further tests and ultimately surgery. The doctors in the eye clinic thought it might work, but it was a long shot. Without the surgery she would quickly become blind. The surgery helped lower the pressure, but permanent damage had been done.
Irina researched the medication Mamula had been taking for her Parkinson symtoms and to her horror discovered that a known side effect was high eye blood pressure. This was never mentioned by the Dr prescribing the medication and when Irina later confronted the Dr he admitted that “Yes the medicine probably caused the eye problem”. In America you can sue for such malpractice, but in Russia under FREE socialized medicine you get what you pay for.
By the time Irina left for Texas last year Mamula appeared to be improving, or at least stabilized, and we had found excellent lady, Sasha, to be with her 24/7.
As Valodia and I finally got all of the baggage hauled up to the 2nd floor and moved into the apartment, I could hear crying or sobbing from Mamula’s bedroom. I walked in, I saw Irina hugging her mother and they were both in tears. What first struck me was how different she looked since last I had seen her: much thinner, no real expression on her face and her skin had a pale chalky look to it. I could instantly tell there had been some major changes since last August and I thought they were just glad to see each other.
Irina turned to me and with tear filled eyes cried “Patrick she is blind, totally blind, she can’t see anything anymore”.
I was stunned! “How can that be? Nobody told us that she was so bad off. Maybe it is just a little too much excitement for Mamula and she is overly tired from it all.”
“NO, she is blind. Sasha said for some time Mamula had been lying to her about being able to see, but Sasha and Vicky (Irina’s daughter) found out that Mamula can’t see anything at all. I knew I should have left that stupid Corpus Christi sooner. Now it’s too late. She’ll never be able to see me again….”
I only listened in disbelief, what could I do?
After a while Valodia and Svetta said their goodbyes and left. Irina visited with Sasha about stuff. I started unpacking. Soon Sasha left and we were finished for the day. It was around 10:00, Irina always says we must stay awake past 10 when we return. Now it was OK to go to bed; only 27 or so hours after waking up in Corpus Christi where the trip started.
Laying in bed I remembered my notes in a journal made after Irina left Corpus at the end of her first visit – “her Mother is alone in Russia and getting older, who will take care of her down the road?” At the time, 5 years ago without a clue about what Russia was really like, I naively thought surely we would find a nursing home or some elder care solution. Well we are now “down the road”, no acceptable solutions have been found to exist and the same question still haunts us. But the same character traits that I saw in Irina from the first which made her so special to me, a big loving and caring heart, will get us through the difficult times sure to be ahead.
It was only a little over a month ago when we both walked down the aisle at church and had a cross of ashes painted on our foreheads as our pastor reminded us “dust thou art and to dust thou shall return”. A stark reminder of everyone’s future.
The Trip to The East
March 30, 2009
07:00 am Time to rise and finish dozens of unchecked items on my “to-do-list while Irina quietly sleeps a little longer. She won’t enjoy the long trip.
The baggage is the major problem. Every year I think we take more and more clothes and junk than the year before, even after promising that we will keep stuff in both places rather than lugging it back and forth. “OK this is the final weigh in” I scream. “Irina, Irina, what did you sneak into your bags last night while I was not looking? Your bags weigh in at 49 and 52 pounds – unacceptable! Unload and move to my bags. ASAP!”
Typical Russian behavior is to deny that there are rules and even if there might be rules nobody will enforce them, they are there only to be broken. But my practicality and knowledge of this sneaky Russian behavior pattern forces her to dig back into the bags and redo the packing for probably the 15th time. Finally! I think we are in the limits: 48 lbs, 49 lbs, 49.5 lbs and 40 lbs. “But wait! There’s more we have Tolick’s Disney fire truck. We must carry it on” Irina says.
“Yes dear” my reply “Let me go back to the computer and once again see what the allowable dimensions are. OK British Air.com, baggage, here it is – 22inches long, 18 wide, 12 tall. Irina this is the only duffle bag we have that will meet the specs.” As I pull out my old salty Nauticat sea bag, beautiful sea blue and red, good memories of sailing.
“Patrick! That bag is too ugly, we cannot use it. I will go buy a new one.”
“Irina, NO! We use this one or everything stays here”. Reluctantly she agrees and we start filling up yet another bag.
So the final count is 4 large bags to check, the duffle bag weighing in around 20lbs, my computer bag another 15-20lbs, Irina’s designer nick-nack bag 10lbs maybe, and her purse. I hope we can keep track of all these bags.
Our ride shows up around noon and we head for the airport. I tell John that he will have to wait just a minute while I make sure that the bags weigh in under 50lbs. Sure enough our scale was light by about 2 lbs. The first bag comes in at 51.5lbs. ”Is this one OK to go” I asked the girl behind the counter.
“Not today.” She said “My supervisor is here and I must be very strict about the weight limits”.
So we had to lay the bags out on the floor of the terminal, open them to the world exposing all of our treasures or dirty laundry and start swapping around things. Looked like the Clampets of Beverly Hillbillies fame heading out on vacation. We got them all in or at 50lbs and
Proceeded with out checkout. Gave her my tickets and told her we were headed to St Petersburg Russia and would like to check our bags through. A blank expression appeared on her face. I could see trouble and we were running out of time. “Let me check with my Supervisor” she said. Returning quickly she said “I don’t have time to do that, it takes too long. I will just check you through to Houston. Oh, and by the way you owe me $80 for all the bags.” Things were just getting better and better.
I immediately realized this would be a major hassle, hauling 250lbs of luggage in 7 bags across the Houston airport. “In the past you guys always checked the bags through, and if we are making an international flight we should be able to take 2 bags for free. What is going on here?”
“Sir” she said. “Things have changed, I am the only one at the counter and”, pointing at the clock “your time is up, bag checkin just closed! If you want you can come back tomorrow and leave then!” We had to go so there was no point in arguing any longer.
In leaving I muttered “you guys would be better off selling tickets by the poundage of the passenger rather than the bags since ‘weight is weight’. And now ¾ of the frequent flyers seem to be over 300 lbs and I am always squeezed between them when I have the center seat”.
“Oh, no sir we couldn’t do that! Then we would get sued. And for that nasty remark God will punish you”.
With that we headed for the plane. The trip to Houston was normal. But soon as we hit the deck we were on a mission to get out bags checked in with British Air as we were on a short connection.
Quickly got our bags (thank goodness the Corpus clerk didn’t accidentally loose them out of spite), loaded them on the little dollies and headed for the train to the International Terminal. Of course the biggest hassle is getting 4 bags into and out of the terminal train. Hauling them two-by-two, they always are just a little too big to squeeze through the door and of course when the train stops you always seem to be standing in front of the one car that is filled with other travelers. So after missing the first train, we manage to lug our luggage into the tiny little train car and head towards the international terminal.
The instructions given to us by a newly arrived immigrant manning the information booth in some kind of Arabic/English dialect were a little hazy, but I knew which terminal we needed and didn’t have time for further deciphering. Unfortunately I didn’t know exactly how to get there. After a few misturns we found the BA counter. Of the 5 checkin counters manned 4 were for 1st class with only one person being served, the rest of the agents were doing their nails or some other important duty. So we waited patiently while the only other steerage class customer, an elderly Asian/Indian couple was being served. Looking at my watch, “we are not making any progress here. The elderly Asian/Indian couple seems to be reading every word of the small print and having the legal implications explained in detail. I will have to beg one of the 1st class ladies to break down and help us.” I begged, she agreed and finally we were moving forward again.
“Oh I thought, what if their scales are not the same as the Corpus scales”
I tell her of our problem in Corpus and she just shrugs and says “there’re OK”.
“Wheeeeu, one more problem eliminated”. And we head to the gate, only to find that the flight has been delayed. “OK, I will just set up my computer and Irina can go shop” that’s our life.
After about 45 minutes Irina shows up and I tell her that I am going to check on our seats since the BA check-in lady was suppose to seat us together and didn’t. I wander over to the gate guy and find a couple of seats together on an exit row. “Great! We’ll take them”. I told the guy. “More leg room” I thought, “plus if we crash and survive at least I am in charge of opening the door and jumping into the freezing North Atlantic where your life expectancy is probably 10 minutes, plus or minus a minute.” Meanwhile as I am standing there this African lady with two little kids pushing a stroller and a luggage dolly runs into me from the back. She apparently thought she could board now and didn’t quite negotiate the corner and slammed into my leg. Little did I know that this was an ominous omen!
Limping a bit back to our seat I told Irina the great news about out seats. She always struggles with these long flights and I knew the extra room would make it just a little easier.
Well we board with the rest of the great unwashed and proceed to our premium coach class seats to settle in for the 8 hr flight. The exit row seats are behind the bulkhead and next to a toilet and it’s waiting area. Not exactly what I had expected, but we won’t have anyone slamming their seat into our face when eating.
As we are settling in I spot the African lady coming down the aisle with two small boys. She is turning right into the seats across the aisle from us and Irina tells me how cute the little boys are. I tell her how this lady ran me down with her baggage cart earlier. Then we notice a large, probably 270lb plus man eying the remaining open seat next to Irina. Sure enough he plops down and kinda flows over into Irina’s seat zone. From behind us, or somewhere near by came that ubiquitous Foreigner Flavor, the aroma of 10 day old body odor. “It had the makings of a long trip” I thought.
As the little African clan pitches camp next to us I can see that the natives are a little restless. Our seats were in an open area with only the bulkhead in front; a perfect play ground. They are jumping around on the seats, running around the open area, squealing and having a great little time - boys will be boys. Which is not bad I just would like to be able to get a little sleep during the flight and am not sure if that might also be in their plan.
Sitting right by the toilet, had it’s pluses and minuses. Of course we could always get up and go with out waiting. Then I discovered another plus,whenever the door opened the succulent, sweet smell of the deodorant wafted over to us and temporarily replaced the BO smell.
It wasn’t long before the head stewardess was responding to pleadings from the other passengers about the little African clan. She marched down and began demanding in that very British way that the Mother, or Grandmother, or maybe a man whoever she was, we couldn’t figure it out, take control her kids and put them in their seats. At this point the African Mother/Grandmother, who seemed to understand English before, suddenly developed a comprehension impairment. I could hear the head stewardess screaming “there’re not my kids, there’re yours and you must get them in their seats!!!” No visible reaction from the Mother/Grandmother. But wait! I see her slowly grabbing those wiggling little bodies and then slamming them into the seats. Opps, a little too rough and one starts crying. Mother/Grandmother consoles the little fellow, he gets strapped in and we are off.
I started to think that a little extra legroom might not be worth all the extra excitement and I had noticed that the entire area in front of us, probably business class, was empty. So I decided to ask the head stewardess about the possibility of moving. My suggestion to her was “I notice that the cabin right in front of us has no one in it I wonder if we might be able to move up there and let the little kids have a bigger play area?”
A confused look instantly came over her face. “Sir, that is another Class, absolutely impossible. Perhaps something back here. Ahh you could have this last row in the center, it is empty”.
First, I didn’t think about it at the time, but I am sure my request to move up to the business class caught her totally by surprise. British, after all have always been very class conscious. And my request was akin to asking the Queen if we might just stop by for a spot of tea on the way to the market. So, even though you can occasionally get an upgrade on US carriers I guess it is a foreign concept to the foreign carriers.
“No, I guess we will stay where we are, my wife likes the extra room and hopefully things will quite down”. Back I trundled, resolving myself to what I expect will be an extra long flight. What do I find, but Irina befriending the little boys and offering them a banana. Maybe that will settle them down.
As we get to altitude the Mother/Grandmother throws down blankets on the floor around her seats, gets a big zebra skin bag out the overhead and I am thinking, “Are they going to start a fire and cook something up?” The in-flight meal service should start soon and maybe they had a special order. Nope, the Mother/Grandmother just wrestled the smallest little critter down and began changing his diaper. The perfect thing to get our taste buds activated for British Cooking – the smell of baby poop. “Oh well, the Brits have never been known for their gourmet skills” and after the delivery of the meal I could see that they were living up to their reputation.
Well after a few hours, a full stomach, everyone seems to be settling in around our little cabin zone. Irina is getting started on the movie and I am thinking about trying to get some sleep. The seats are actually the most comfortable I have found in coach. They have these kind of wings that hold your head in place and with a pillow on one side and the wing on the other your head is wedged in so you could actually relax without having your head snap down when you begin snoozing.
I closed my eyes and all the stress of the past couple of days was beginning to wane. I felt like I was actually falling to sleep. Then a loud thud and following vibration snapped me back to ready alert. Is the plane experiencing some kind of problem? Wham there it goes again!!! As I regain full consciousness the situation becomes perfectly clear - more trouble across the aisle. The older rascal had been quietly strapped into his seat, but now he has found the table. Our seats had the tables that folded up and fit into the armrest between the seats. So junior figured out that he could pull it up and then slam it back down – great fun for him, not for me. Not only was it loud the vibrations could be felt all the way to my chair. I gave the Mother/Grandmother a dirty look and she restrained the little fellow.
Soon thereafter I was once again drifting off in to sweet dreams! “Patrick” Irina shouts into my ear. I bolt out of my slumber, jump up, until my seat belt restrains my forward motion and I recoil back into my chair.
“What, what is it?” I ask in confusion. Irina starts yelling at the top of her voice something that I couldn’t quite understand in my stupor. I put my finger to my lips and go “Shussssss”, the universal signal for “quiet”. Well universal except for Russians I guess. Irina keeps yelling something and then since I could also hear the movie, I realize she has her earphones on and turned up to MAX. I calmly lift the closest earphone off her ear and using an elevated voice level ask “what do you want? You are yelling and waking everyone.”
Irina yells “I am not yelling! I just want to ask you about this movie”.
“Well I beg to differ, but I will try and answer your historical questions about why the Japanese were in China and why there were British there and why was there fighting and……” So after finishing the brief history lesson and Irina returned to her movie I decided hell with it; I was moving up to the next class cabin for some peace. Got my little blanket, went through the curtains, found a seat (that was easy since there were probably 40 empties and only one other person in the entire area) and tried to get back to sleep.
Then I discovered that the seats in the “upper class” were less comfortable than in the cattle car section. But, it was definitely alot quieter. “I will put up with the crappy seats and try to get back to sleep in the morgue-like cabin” I thought. Impossible of course after a couple of hours, give up and return to my regular seat. What the heck, breakfast would be served soon, sleep time was over anyways.
I was right and soon the meal cart arrived delivering our morning juice, yogurt and dry bun with only a cheese slice in between – delicious. The captain’s voice told us to eat fast that we would be landing shortly.
“Whoooa” poking our nose out the ladder I could instantly tell that it was not Houston weather. Cool and damp in England. I wondered what it would be like in Russia. The answer arrived quickly. As we had a quick connection in Heathrow we were settling in on the next flight to Russia, when the captain told us that it was 1 degree celisus (that’s just a hair over freezing) with blowing sleet mixed with snow. A perfect welcome for a boy from south Texas.
It was an uneventful flight with the plane not even half full. Looked mostly like Russians returning from their shopping trip to London. Guess the little jump in oil prices gave them cause to celebrate.
As we popped under the overcast scud layer I could see the white ground below. “Yep, just wonderful!” I thought.
Taxiing past the helicopter graveyard and some old, old apparently abandoned Poulkva passenger jets, I could see some things haven’t changed. But there was progress; the big new glass building, a hotel I think, was closer to completion. Exiting the airplane I knew the captain’s forecast was correct, it was cold! After a short wait we heard “Irina” called from the crowd. It was Igor’s parents, Valodia and Sevtlana, here to pick us up. All was well.
Fortunately Valodia had replaced his little Lada, which could hardly accommodate 2 adults and one suitcase with a larger Land Rover. We squished all the 250 lbs of luggage and ourselves in, then headed home.
As we were driving on the beltway everyone kept asking me where we were. Like I haven’t been there in 8 months, last year I only drove the highway a couple of times, I couldn’t see out the frosted over windows, we seemed to always be squeezed between large dirty trucks obscuring all front and side vision and of course I hadn’t refreshed myself as to how the Russian Cyrillic alphabet works to decipher the road signs – “Irina I don’t remember where we turn”. But Valodia pressed forward, accidentally took the right exit and we arrived safely at Lunacharskogo – end of the trip to the East.
07:00 am Time to rise and finish dozens of unchecked items on my “to-do-list while Irina quietly sleeps a little longer. She won’t enjoy the long trip.
The baggage is the major problem. Every year I think we take more and more clothes and junk than the year before, even after promising that we will keep stuff in both places rather than lugging it back and forth. “OK this is the final weigh in” I scream. “Irina, Irina, what did you sneak into your bags last night while I was not looking? Your bags weigh in at 49 and 52 pounds – unacceptable! Unload and move to my bags. ASAP!”
Typical Russian behavior is to deny that there are rules and even if there might be rules nobody will enforce them, they are there only to be broken. But my practicality and knowledge of this sneaky Russian behavior pattern forces her to dig back into the bags and redo the packing for probably the 15th time. Finally! I think we are in the limits: 48 lbs, 49 lbs, 49.5 lbs and 40 lbs. “But wait! There’s more we have Tolick’s Disney fire truck. We must carry it on” Irina says.
“Yes dear” my reply “Let me go back to the computer and once again see what the allowable dimensions are. OK British Air.com, baggage, here it is – 22inches long, 18 wide, 12 tall. Irina this is the only duffle bag we have that will meet the specs.” As I pull out my old salty Nauticat sea bag, beautiful sea blue and red, good memories of sailing.
“Patrick! That bag is too ugly, we cannot use it. I will go buy a new one.”
“Irina, NO! We use this one or everything stays here”. Reluctantly she agrees and we start filling up yet another bag.
So the final count is 4 large bags to check, the duffle bag weighing in around 20lbs, my computer bag another 15-20lbs, Irina’s designer nick-nack bag 10lbs maybe, and her purse. I hope we can keep track of all these bags.
Our ride shows up around noon and we head for the airport. I tell John that he will have to wait just a minute while I make sure that the bags weigh in under 50lbs. Sure enough our scale was light by about 2 lbs. The first bag comes in at 51.5lbs. ”Is this one OK to go” I asked the girl behind the counter.
“Not today.” She said “My supervisor is here and I must be very strict about the weight limits”.
So we had to lay the bags out on the floor of the terminal, open them to the world exposing all of our treasures or dirty laundry and start swapping around things. Looked like the Clampets of Beverly Hillbillies fame heading out on vacation. We got them all in or at 50lbs and
Proceeded with out checkout. Gave her my tickets and told her we were headed to St Petersburg Russia and would like to check our bags through. A blank expression appeared on her face. I could see trouble and we were running out of time. “Let me check with my Supervisor” she said. Returning quickly she said “I don’t have time to do that, it takes too long. I will just check you through to Houston. Oh, and by the way you owe me $80 for all the bags.” Things were just getting better and better.
I immediately realized this would be a major hassle, hauling 250lbs of luggage in 7 bags across the Houston airport. “In the past you guys always checked the bags through, and if we are making an international flight we should be able to take 2 bags for free. What is going on here?”
“Sir” she said. “Things have changed, I am the only one at the counter and”, pointing at the clock “your time is up, bag checkin just closed! If you want you can come back tomorrow and leave then!” We had to go so there was no point in arguing any longer.
In leaving I muttered “you guys would be better off selling tickets by the poundage of the passenger rather than the bags since ‘weight is weight’. And now ¾ of the frequent flyers seem to be over 300 lbs and I am always squeezed between them when I have the center seat”.
“Oh, no sir we couldn’t do that! Then we would get sued. And for that nasty remark God will punish you”.
With that we headed for the plane. The trip to Houston was normal. But soon as we hit the deck we were on a mission to get out bags checked in with British Air as we were on a short connection.
Quickly got our bags (thank goodness the Corpus clerk didn’t accidentally loose them out of spite), loaded them on the little dollies and headed for the train to the International Terminal. Of course the biggest hassle is getting 4 bags into and out of the terminal train. Hauling them two-by-two, they always are just a little too big to squeeze through the door and of course when the train stops you always seem to be standing in front of the one car that is filled with other travelers. So after missing the first train, we manage to lug our luggage into the tiny little train car and head towards the international terminal.
The instructions given to us by a newly arrived immigrant manning the information booth in some kind of Arabic/English dialect were a little hazy, but I knew which terminal we needed and didn’t have time for further deciphering. Unfortunately I didn’t know exactly how to get there. After a few misturns we found the BA counter. Of the 5 checkin counters manned 4 were for 1st class with only one person being served, the rest of the agents were doing their nails or some other important duty. So we waited patiently while the only other steerage class customer, an elderly Asian/Indian couple was being served. Looking at my watch, “we are not making any progress here. The elderly Asian/Indian couple seems to be reading every word of the small print and having the legal implications explained in detail. I will have to beg one of the 1st class ladies to break down and help us.” I begged, she agreed and finally we were moving forward again.
“Oh I thought, what if their scales are not the same as the Corpus scales”
I tell her of our problem in Corpus and she just shrugs and says “there’re OK”.
“Wheeeeu, one more problem eliminated”. And we head to the gate, only to find that the flight has been delayed. “OK, I will just set up my computer and Irina can go shop” that’s our life.
After about 45 minutes Irina shows up and I tell her that I am going to check on our seats since the BA check-in lady was suppose to seat us together and didn’t. I wander over to the gate guy and find a couple of seats together on an exit row. “Great! We’ll take them”. I told the guy. “More leg room” I thought, “plus if we crash and survive at least I am in charge of opening the door and jumping into the freezing North Atlantic where your life expectancy is probably 10 minutes, plus or minus a minute.” Meanwhile as I am standing there this African lady with two little kids pushing a stroller and a luggage dolly runs into me from the back. She apparently thought she could board now and didn’t quite negotiate the corner and slammed into my leg. Little did I know that this was an ominous omen!
Limping a bit back to our seat I told Irina the great news about out seats. She always struggles with these long flights and I knew the extra room would make it just a little easier.
Well we board with the rest of the great unwashed and proceed to our premium coach class seats to settle in for the 8 hr flight. The exit row seats are behind the bulkhead and next to a toilet and it’s waiting area. Not exactly what I had expected, but we won’t have anyone slamming their seat into our face when eating.
As we are settling in I spot the African lady coming down the aisle with two small boys. She is turning right into the seats across the aisle from us and Irina tells me how cute the little boys are. I tell her how this lady ran me down with her baggage cart earlier. Then we notice a large, probably 270lb plus man eying the remaining open seat next to Irina. Sure enough he plops down and kinda flows over into Irina’s seat zone. From behind us, or somewhere near by came that ubiquitous Foreigner Flavor, the aroma of 10 day old body odor. “It had the makings of a long trip” I thought.
As the little African clan pitches camp next to us I can see that the natives are a little restless. Our seats were in an open area with only the bulkhead in front; a perfect play ground. They are jumping around on the seats, running around the open area, squealing and having a great little time - boys will be boys. Which is not bad I just would like to be able to get a little sleep during the flight and am not sure if that might also be in their plan.
Sitting right by the toilet, had it’s pluses and minuses. Of course we could always get up and go with out waiting. Then I discovered another plus,whenever the door opened the succulent, sweet smell of the deodorant wafted over to us and temporarily replaced the BO smell.
It wasn’t long before the head stewardess was responding to pleadings from the other passengers about the little African clan. She marched down and began demanding in that very British way that the Mother, or Grandmother, or maybe a man whoever she was, we couldn’t figure it out, take control her kids and put them in their seats. At this point the African Mother/Grandmother, who seemed to understand English before, suddenly developed a comprehension impairment. I could hear the head stewardess screaming “there’re not my kids, there’re yours and you must get them in their seats!!!” No visible reaction from the Mother/Grandmother. But wait! I see her slowly grabbing those wiggling little bodies and then slamming them into the seats. Opps, a little too rough and one starts crying. Mother/Grandmother consoles the little fellow, he gets strapped in and we are off.
I started to think that a little extra legroom might not be worth all the extra excitement and I had noticed that the entire area in front of us, probably business class, was empty. So I decided to ask the head stewardess about the possibility of moving. My suggestion to her was “I notice that the cabin right in front of us has no one in it I wonder if we might be able to move up there and let the little kids have a bigger play area?”
A confused look instantly came over her face. “Sir, that is another Class, absolutely impossible. Perhaps something back here. Ahh you could have this last row in the center, it is empty”.
First, I didn’t think about it at the time, but I am sure my request to move up to the business class caught her totally by surprise. British, after all have always been very class conscious. And my request was akin to asking the Queen if we might just stop by for a spot of tea on the way to the market. So, even though you can occasionally get an upgrade on US carriers I guess it is a foreign concept to the foreign carriers.
“No, I guess we will stay where we are, my wife likes the extra room and hopefully things will quite down”. Back I trundled, resolving myself to what I expect will be an extra long flight. What do I find, but Irina befriending the little boys and offering them a banana. Maybe that will settle them down.
As we get to altitude the Mother/Grandmother throws down blankets on the floor around her seats, gets a big zebra skin bag out the overhead and I am thinking, “Are they going to start a fire and cook something up?” The in-flight meal service should start soon and maybe they had a special order. Nope, the Mother/Grandmother just wrestled the smallest little critter down and began changing his diaper. The perfect thing to get our taste buds activated for British Cooking – the smell of baby poop. “Oh well, the Brits have never been known for their gourmet skills” and after the delivery of the meal I could see that they were living up to their reputation.
Well after a few hours, a full stomach, everyone seems to be settling in around our little cabin zone. Irina is getting started on the movie and I am thinking about trying to get some sleep. The seats are actually the most comfortable I have found in coach. They have these kind of wings that hold your head in place and with a pillow on one side and the wing on the other your head is wedged in so you could actually relax without having your head snap down when you begin snoozing.
I closed my eyes and all the stress of the past couple of days was beginning to wane. I felt like I was actually falling to sleep. Then a loud thud and following vibration snapped me back to ready alert. Is the plane experiencing some kind of problem? Wham there it goes again!!! As I regain full consciousness the situation becomes perfectly clear - more trouble across the aisle. The older rascal had been quietly strapped into his seat, but now he has found the table. Our seats had the tables that folded up and fit into the armrest between the seats. So junior figured out that he could pull it up and then slam it back down – great fun for him, not for me. Not only was it loud the vibrations could be felt all the way to my chair. I gave the Mother/Grandmother a dirty look and she restrained the little fellow.
Soon thereafter I was once again drifting off in to sweet dreams! “Patrick” Irina shouts into my ear. I bolt out of my slumber, jump up, until my seat belt restrains my forward motion and I recoil back into my chair.
“What, what is it?” I ask in confusion. Irina starts yelling at the top of her voice something that I couldn’t quite understand in my stupor. I put my finger to my lips and go “Shussssss”, the universal signal for “quiet”. Well universal except for Russians I guess. Irina keeps yelling something and then since I could also hear the movie, I realize she has her earphones on and turned up to MAX. I calmly lift the closest earphone off her ear and using an elevated voice level ask “what do you want? You are yelling and waking everyone.”
Irina yells “I am not yelling! I just want to ask you about this movie”.
“Well I beg to differ, but I will try and answer your historical questions about why the Japanese were in China and why there were British there and why was there fighting and……” So after finishing the brief history lesson and Irina returned to her movie I decided hell with it; I was moving up to the next class cabin for some peace. Got my little blanket, went through the curtains, found a seat (that was easy since there were probably 40 empties and only one other person in the entire area) and tried to get back to sleep.
Then I discovered that the seats in the “upper class” were less comfortable than in the cattle car section. But, it was definitely alot quieter. “I will put up with the crappy seats and try to get back to sleep in the morgue-like cabin” I thought. Impossible of course after a couple of hours, give up and return to my regular seat. What the heck, breakfast would be served soon, sleep time was over anyways.
I was right and soon the meal cart arrived delivering our morning juice, yogurt and dry bun with only a cheese slice in between – delicious. The captain’s voice told us to eat fast that we would be landing shortly.
“Whoooa” poking our nose out the ladder I could instantly tell that it was not Houston weather. Cool and damp in England. I wondered what it would be like in Russia. The answer arrived quickly. As we had a quick connection in Heathrow we were settling in on the next flight to Russia, when the captain told us that it was 1 degree celisus (that’s just a hair over freezing) with blowing sleet mixed with snow. A perfect welcome for a boy from south Texas.
It was an uneventful flight with the plane not even half full. Looked mostly like Russians returning from their shopping trip to London. Guess the little jump in oil prices gave them cause to celebrate.
As we popped under the overcast scud layer I could see the white ground below. “Yep, just wonderful!” I thought.
Taxiing past the helicopter graveyard and some old, old apparently abandoned Poulkva passenger jets, I could see some things haven’t changed. But there was progress; the big new glass building, a hotel I think, was closer to completion. Exiting the airplane I knew the captain’s forecast was correct, it was cold! After a short wait we heard “Irina” called from the crowd. It was Igor’s parents, Valodia and Sevtlana, here to pick us up. All was well.
Fortunately Valodia had replaced his little Lada, which could hardly accommodate 2 adults and one suitcase with a larger Land Rover. We squished all the 250 lbs of luggage and ourselves in, then headed home.
As we were driving on the beltway everyone kept asking me where we were. Like I haven’t been there in 8 months, last year I only drove the highway a couple of times, I couldn’t see out the frosted over windows, we seemed to always be squeezed between large dirty trucks obscuring all front and side vision and of course I hadn’t refreshed myself as to how the Russian Cyrillic alphabet works to decipher the road signs – “Irina I don’t remember where we turn”. But Valodia pressed forward, accidentally took the right exit and we arrived safely at Lunacharskogo – end of the trip to the East.
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