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.
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