Real Russian Report - American Expat in St Petersburg

Ice Crisis

2011-02-20T06:36:00.005-06:00

Living With Ice & Snow – Lots of It

St Petersburg was originally founded on May 16, 1703, the day Peter The Great threw the first dirt, or more likely muck, over his shoulder on a dank, swampy island at the end of the Neva River. It was a barren, uninhabited, place originally called “Hare Island”, certainly not a place where the aristocratic gentlemen and ladies of the old capital Moscow had any interest in moving to. But when you are the boss you make the rules and the rest is history.

So now it is one of the newest major cities in the world and it is the closest to the North Pole of any of the world’s large, great cities. One would think, that knowing where it lies, yes it does get cold the closer you get to the North Pole even with global warming, someone during the last 300 years might have considered the “Ice Issue”.

Even I, not an engineer, not a climateoligist, not a rocket scientist, just a salesman, after only 1 year of having a house in the cold Rocky Mountains, clearly understood that in the winter ice causes problems. Whether it’s on the roof or on the driveway or on the sidewalk, it is at best inconvenient and at the worse deadly. So why can’t the Russians here in this self proclaimed most advanced urban environment deal with the “Ice Issue”?

You are probably thinking, what is this Potrick complaining about. “A little Ice here and there, it’s nothing to worry about. Have another vodka and chill out”.

I beg to differ. Yesterday, a normal day just like any other in the frozen or thawing north we made a journey to the city center. Yeah I’d heard about “Ice Issues”, but didn’t think too much about it, we have our own problems out here in the burbs.

Daily we deal with our own “Ice Issues”. First it starts with snow, lots of it. Of course snow is not ice; yet anyways. Dark and early every morning our building workers are out shoveling the 20 foot entrance walkway clean as a whistle. When that’s done, there done.

Great work guys! Gets us right out to the sidewalk aua (also used as) street without a worry about any “Ice Issues”, but from there you are on our own. The sidewalks aua streets are a bit risky. It’s there one encounters the out-of-control idiots speeding down our street aua sidewalk who don’t know the difference between a Lada (Russian’s favorite car for those who can’t afford a luxury import) and a snowmobile.

Then there are always the guys that think they are only temporally stuck in the snow & ice. The standard Russian vehicle extraction procedure (I think it comes from the factory with these instructions printed on the dashboard) is;

1-transmission to forward & gun motor to 7000 RPM

2-transmission to reverse & gun motor to 7000 RPM

3-repeat 1 & 2 until

a – vehicle is hopelessly stuck and needs professional help, or

b - vehicle unexpectedly blasts out of the snow/ice impediment endangering any living creature within a 30 meter area

4-if 3-a occurs get vodka and begin celebrating day off from work

So we mostly prefer to use beaten down paths, short cuts, that lead to where ever it is we need to go. But it’s getting out of the street where the next challenge will smack you.

With each run of the plow more snow is pushed and/or piled to the side of the road. The sidewalks aua streets quickly resemble deep, white canyons more than transportation conduits. And so every Russian walker, mostly elderly pensioners like myself too scared to drive in this insane place, during every walk will at some point come face to face with The Wall!

The towering, intimidating Wall of what previously was beautiful, white, fluffy snow is now a hard pile of ice. In your heart you know the risks; slipping, sliding, sprained or broken body parts, or worst of all embarrassment of a fall. It’s a formidable obstacle blocking access to your favorite short cut. But if asked why they try climbing such a dangerous pile of ice the answer is simple: “ it’s there, and the producta store with the best kolbasa and kupusta (sausage & cabbage) is on the other side.”

Cultural Oddity - Every Russian has their favorite short cut to get from point A to Point B. Seems they intuitively know the shortest, fastest, easiest way to get where they are going. If you are later trying to go from A to B and forgot the exact way of the short-cut, don’t, I repeat “DON’T”, ask another Russian how to get to the short cut that you used last time. Every Russian knows best and has their own short cut. You will be forced to listen to the following, in Russian of course: “you are crazy, that is the longest way. Listen!! You must go this way…., forget what that other guy told you, he doesn’t know!!! Understand? Dos Vedanya.”

The old pensioner approaches the high, steep ice barrier and knows there is no faster way. Stops, looks up, takes a deep breath, lifts their cane and flips the toggle on the bottom turning a simple cane into a one-legged ice piton. Now pensioner is ready to go forward as he/she has done so many times before; a wall of ice will never stop a Russian on a shopping mission.

The assent begins; their cataract-crazed eyes search each foothold making sure to avoid an ice trap (an icy foot step covered by a thin layer of new snow). Slowly, carefully they scratch their way to the top. Finally practice and patience win the day, at least this part of the day. The pensioner reaches the summit and is on their way without incident. Of course a little unexpected assistance from a foreigner who happens to be around and isn’t familiar the local code of “don’t help anyone” is always appreciated.

As the trek continues and the day warms up, maybe above freezing, the morning snow turns first to slush, and then to water. The hard packed snow of early morning is now a foot or more of some kind of wet, slushy, cold concrete, which you must walk through. “Are your feet wet yet dear?? I sure like my ugly Columbia boots I bought 5 years ago at Burlington Coat Factory! Here let me give you a hand.”

Yeah it’s a mess, none of the side walks are plowed and you’re not getting any where fast; but don’t worry, another hour it will be 3:00 and the sun and thermometer will head down. Then we’re back into the ice mode where a light layer of dirty snow hiding a solid layer of newly formed ice below. Don’t expect to walk anywhere fast on this stuff either.

Everywhere in the world they have modified infrastructure to accommodate handicapped people in wheelchairs. All the curbs now are little ramps so a wheelchair can easily roll up and down. Like all good intentions there are always unexpected results. During the “Ice Crisis” I have learned that if I don’t want to be come a handicapped invalid for life stay away from the handicapped curb ramps!!!!

What’s the problem you may ask? These things are basically miniature ski jumps with the landing zone in the middle of the oncoming traffic lane. The other day when walking I approached the street curb, stopped as normal to wait for the crossing light, but my forward motion continued! I was sliding forward down the handicap ramp headed for the road! Panic!!! I couldn’t stop and cars were zooming by, especially the ones that were making a turn. Irina stretched out her arm to rescue. Franticly stretching and grabbing I snagged her hand stopping my slid into the street. If her glove had slid off I am sure I would have become another news story “Foreign spy stopped by great, patriotic, hero using his Russian Lada to halt capitalist spy’s escape. Government promises hero a new Mercedes replacing Lada damaged when running over both legs of foreign pig.” Now I approach curbs cautiously and stand way back from these dangerous good intentions.

Finally the door of producta store is in my grip, carefully I pull open the door and enter. BAMB, SPLAT and I’m hitting the floor butt first with back and butt to follow. “What’s going on?” I wonder as I end up in an embarrassing position at the store entry. “What did I forget? There’s no ice in here.” Then looking down I see it. “Ahhhh that #@**!!!#** Russian favorite, Italian tile, slicker than ice when wet. Can’t ever get overconfident here, danger is everywhere.” I think getting up off the floor.

So yesterday we venture into town for Advanced “Ice Crisis” Indoctrination. It was just like taken the watermelon wagon to town. We knew all the survival tricks in the country, but now it was bright lights and big city. A whole new game.

Of course we had heard the news over the last weeks. “2 killed by falling ice”. “Mother narrowly escapes death while and child in carriage is killed”. “Family run down, 3 killed, while walking in street to avoid ice danger”. Famous Moscow entertainer refuses major performance invitation; scared of ice threat – “Only idiots and alcoholics would dare walk in that city” she exclaimed. The headlines just go on and on. I think there have been 100s people killed from ice sickle impalement so far this year.

Of course there are strict regulations about clearing ice off the buildings. But, hey this is Russia. Who obeys any laws and who’s the city ice sickle inspector? I am sure he is spending his corruption money while stamping “OK – pass no dangerous ice sickles here” on the building’s inspection reports.

Last time we were in town didn’t notice any ice danger. “But wait! We were on Netskie Prospect the main boulevard where all the foreigners hang out.” Don’t want any tourists going home with bad impressions or dead; no problems here keep moving.

This time we were in a different part of the city and danger was everywhere!!! There were small 10-20 inch long ice sickles hanging from wires, medium 20-30 inch long ice sickles hanging from balconies and windowsills, and then there were monster ice sickles 3-6 feet long up on the roofs.

“Strange” I thought “this is one of the major shopping and business areas of the city and this is really dangerous.” But of course there were the normal Russian precautions preventing danger and possible injury – little red & white ribbons tied to poles, saw-horses or whatever might hold them up (until the next little breeze) to warn people of a direct drop zone.

Oh and then there are the inventive entrepreneurs seeking sales while mitigating risk who used their computer printer to run off an 8x12 drawing of an upward pointed finger. This I suppose was to tell the potential customer “look up at ice sickles, if not falling come on in, but don’t doddle”. “Boy do I feel safe now! Just don’t look up”

I couldn’t stand it – I looked up while walking along the sidewalk with no warning ribbons. “Oh my….! Irina MOVE TO THE CURB!!! NOW, FAST!!!”

There were small, medium and kinda large ice sickles all over the building we were walking under. “Quickly we must walk single file, you first and I behind about 10 feet.” Learned this in USMC, don’t want one grenade or booby trap taking out 2 guys. “Irina, this way if ice hits one of us the other can call emergency rescue. I hope it doesn’t hit you, cause I’m afraid it would take hours for them to find someone that could understand my Russian”.

The lesser problem, which wasn’t death threatening but would be a major inconvenience, was the closer you walk to the street to avoid the drop zone the more likely you are to get sprayed with slush, slop and street water by speeding cars. But such is life in the Ice Crisis. Oh well we leave in March and just to add to the cheer a friend dropped by last night and told us that the weather in February is forecast to be even colder –25 to –30 degrees F. Just wonderful!

NEAR MISS – Irina’s longtime friends Tamara and her daughter Vicky live in an old building in the old city center. A few days ago a panicked Tamara called and told Irina about Vicky’s near death experience. Tamara is very loving and protective of her only daughter and living relative so she was extremely upset.

The other day, just like every day in the winter Vicky was leaving for work. Just like so many days in the winter the weather was gray, light snow falling, the sun still had a couple of hours before it could be detected above the horizon (you don’t actually see the sun the dark gray sky just takes on a lighter shade of gray), temperature was –5C or so – everything normal. Vicky pushes the interior buzzer to activate the unlocking mechanism on the thick, heavy steel security door, struggles to push it open and starts to take a step outside. As her foot hits the slick, icy pavement a loud Swooooooosssshhing sound is instantly followed by a wind hitting her face. Not more than a foot or two directly in front of Vicky’s face she sees a 4 foot ice sickle coming straight down like a missile out of fuel free-falling from the fifth floor. It hits the ground, and disintegrates with a large Craaaaassssh. Large and small ice sickle cubs, chunks, pieces and other debris fall all around her feet and shaking legs. Quiet then just as quickly returns, only to be broken seconds later by Vicky’s hysterical screaming.

Unable to find the keys with her shaking hands she punches the intercom’s access code paging Mom for help. The receiver at the other end hits the floor as Tamara flies down the 3 floors to her beloved Vicky. Together they manage to get back to the apartment where Vicky collapses for the day and Tamara begins her phone champagne calling city hall to find the party responsible her only daughter’s near death experience and sue for pain and suffering.

Of course Tamar’s actions went nowhere – resistance in Russia is futile!

DIRECT HIT – “Potrick, I want lettuce and tomato salad for dinner tonight!! I miss it!”

“Irina, it’s 5:30 already! If we go to OKey we won’t eat until 8:00 or later. Maybe we could go tomorrow during the first part of the day. Besides we still have some cabbage slaw that we need to finish.” Lettuce and many other specially items can not be purchased in our neighborhood so it requires either walking for 30-45 minutes one-way or catching a minibus to get to the big supermaket in our area, OKey. Not only is the walk/bus kinda a pain the store itself it always packed, and just like HEB, at rush hour it is a veritable mad house. Supermarket shopping is still kind of a novelty and Russians drive their shopping carts about the same as their autos – offensive, reckless and without courtesy. So I wasn’t anxious to make the trip and was happy when Irina agreed to postpone the shopping excursion. Besides it’s right next to the metro and is more convenient to combine our trips.

A little after dinner from Mamula’s bedroom, where Irina and her mother spend their time listening to the news on the radio, I hear “You won’t believe what happened!!! OKey, it’s OKey”

“What’s OK?” I am wondering as I amble towards the news/bed room.

“NOT OK, OKey the supermarket!!! The roof collapsed, lots of people are injured, and some were killed. Just happened this evening a little while ago!!”

“Boy Irina, it’s a good thing we decided to eat cabbage rather than go for the greens. Lets check the TV and see what they may have to say.” Sure enough right about the time we would have been there the roof collapsed in the milk department. Probably would have made it out OK, because we were headed for the veggie department, but one never knows what one may remember they need when one’s eyes survey so many sumptuous temptations lying in easy reach.

Turned out that only one person was killed, but over 30 were injured. Don’t know if the injuries were due to the collapsing roof or by hit and run shopping cart drivers. The collapse was due to snow loading on the roof. According to a worker we later met while he was working at another OKey store they apparently they didn’t want to pay workers to clear off the roof. As Irina reminds me of the old Russian truism – “cheap pays twice”.

So it looks like we now have to double the time it will take to go to a specialty food store. But wait there’s more!!! Soon thereafter we find out that our only good neighborhood store, Oasis, is selling out. No telling when they will shut down or who will take it over. Now we understand why the wine and liquor sales area was converted to household cleaning items. Oh well only a week plus 3 days to go.

The Saga of Studien

2011-01-17T13:16:00.003-06:00

Christmas At Home In Russia

Christmas was a coming and we had big plans. We would all be at the dacha with Vicky, Igor, and Tolic. Irina could hardly wait. Visions of snow quietly falling, walking in the country, sledging with Tolic, opening presents under the big “yolka” (the Russian fir tree always decorated for Christmas), eating all of the holiday favorites, including 2 ducks we were planning to cook. Yes big plans were afoot

I was a little under the weather right after arriving, but by the end of our first week recovering quickly. Then disaster strikes.

Irina, who never ever gets sick, started feeling dragy, sneezing and finally coughing. “No problem dear, I was feeling just the same and got over it in a few days”. I am always the one to get sick in Russia, but was sure Irina would be back to her normal busy self in a few days. It had, after all, been a rough trip getting here.

After 3 days Irina is still spending most of her day in bed resting. Her only mandatory chores of the day are changing Mamula’s toilet in the morning when she wakes up and then doing the same at the end of the day. I was pretty much responsible for getting the food, cooking and taking care of everything else. Needless to say with my rusty Russian, I wasn’t doing a lot if it involved talking to Russians.

My English-speaking contact at the grocery store was no longer there so I was on my own there. The girls at the “apteka” (drug store) were getting to know me pretty well as every day I would go in search of a new wonder drug to cure Irina’s cold/flue/pneumonia/ bronchitis or pampers for Mamula. Between Irina’s writing the orders, the girls limited English, and using my finger to point I was able to keep the sick bay stocked with drugs. I noticed that they still had the advertisement for live leeches in the window, but figured blood letting was not going to help Irina’s cold and I like Humphrey Bogart in the African Queen have no liking for those slimy blood suckers.

Then Vicky calls and Irina reveals that she is feeling kinda crummy, but is sure that by next week she will be back at 100%. Vicky listens skepticaly. Last year Vicky got sick and ended up in the hospital missing the biggest holiday party of the year – New Years. She didn’t want a replay. And she of course was concerned that Tolic might catch something. “We’ll see how you are doing Monday” Vicky says.

Towards the end of the week Irina starts showing some improvement, but still is coughing. During the weekend Vicky calls “Mama, Tolic is getting sick, we probably won’t go to the Dacha.”

Irina is terribly disappointed. “Ok, but what to do?”

Next day Vicky calls. “Mama how are you?”

“Much better Vicky, I think I am fine - cough, cough, cough”.

“Mama, Tolic is much better so we will go to the dacha. But you are still coughing you should probably stay home. We’ll see.”

“Vicky I am sure I will be fine by next week.” Irina was getting much better and just had a little dry cough which was probably due more to the cold, dry air than any virus, cold or other contagious condition.

So things were in limbo as Monday rolled around the daily report read; Tolic recovering, Irina recovering, Potrick recovered, Vicky and Igor no problems yet. Ahh, but the day was young, early Monday morning.

Mid morning the phone rings, Irina answers. It’s from Vicky. “Mama, Igor is sick. He went to the hospital to be checked. We won’t go to the dacha.”

I am starting to think this is some kind of dacha yo-yo. We go – we don’t go – we go – we don’t go. Where will it stop? Monday afternoon Igor’s diagnosis is he will live of course, just a mild sinus issue. And guess what the phone rings. “Mama, Igor is a little better we will go to the dacha.”

Irina coughs then replies “I think we will just have our Christmas here.” And that is how we ended up at home on Christmas Eve eating studien with Tanya, Irina’s old friend.

So Tuesday the Russian Studien saga began. We were going to have duck and a Russian special called Studien at the dacha. Since no body was going to the dacha we needed to make it at home. And the movie tells the rest of the story.

Old Raw Random Experiences 2005-06

2011-01-01T12:06:00.003-06:00

07/07/05

Amerikan Komrades,

We have been keeping busy. Nothing in Russia is easy so we are never at a loss for things to do. And there is always something exciting going on.

"THIS IS A BUNCH OF SHEET"
Like the simple task of buying sheets for the new bed - it only took us probably 2 full working weeks to get some, and they still are not exactly right. There are "Euro-standards", "Russian-Standards", "French-Standards", and whatever. There are no twin, double, queen, or king beds; rather you buy a bed in 10 centimeter increments. Buying the bed was whole another story, but will have to tell that later. We bought what was represented as a popular size (kind of like American queen size). Turns out it was not exactly, and we have wondered all over this city of 4 million looking for sheets that fit and are "attractive".

We would walk into a store, tell the sales people that our bed was 200cm by 160cm and would like to see what sheets they have in our size. Their first question was "what size blanket do you have?" We just couldn't understand what in the heck a blanket has to do with buying sheets. But it turns out that all of the sheet sets have a duvet that a blanket must fit into and for some reason that seemed to be the starting point. I kind of thought it made more sense to find sheets that covered the mattress, but not here.

So we buy a blanket and sheets to fit; assured by the blanket sales lady and the sheet sales lady that it would work perfect for our bed. Get home try it and of course it is too small. So everything goes back, fortunately I had purchased the items with my Visa and it was easier to get the credits (only took 5 people to approve and settle the return and credit). But then of course they didn't have the larger sizes we needed so we had to resume our search in different stores. Finally found something that came close enough to fitting that we wearily accepted it.

Oh yes, none of the sheets are fitted and have elastic that holds them to the mattress. Not sure why this technical breakthrough has not made it to Europe.

I think the best way to buy a bed in Russia is find sheets you like and then buy a bed to match.

"A HEAVY MATTER"
Another fun adventure was the bathroom scale. How many Russians does it take to sell a scale in a store like say "Bed, Bath and Beyond". The answer is "alot".

After checking around we decided on the scale we liked, so I walked back into the store (without Irina-she was busy looking at clothes), pick up the scale and head for the checkout counter. Whoooa I am almost tackled by the lady that works this aisle (1). Stupid me; I thought I could just go to the check out, pay and leave - NOT So. She stops me, realizes that I don't speak Russian and pulls me over to this other little station. The guy that works this station didn't speak any English (2) so he calls over another guy that has a little English ability (3) and they proceed to unpack the new scale and want to test it. So I say OK and stand on the scale and am told to "get off of it". They bring over a vacuum cleaner from off the shelf and weigh it instead, not sure why they picked a vacuum cleaner. But after checking the weight twice and coming up with the same amount (not sure if it was a correct amount) the government testing form is officially stamped, signed by the worker and me. On to the to the check-out counter. The aisle lady (1) escorts me to the check out line, doesn't want me to pick anything else up I guess. There the check-out lady (4) takes my money and hands we off to another lady (5) that takes my scale and me to another counter where another lady (6) registers my sales receipt or something. Once all the paper work is completed she hands me my new 10$ scale and lady #5 escorts me to the exit. But before exiting there is some security guy wearing the standard attire, camouflage fatigues and side arms, who is guarding the exit gate. He (7) checks all my paperwork, the scale and once satisfied everything is in order and I am out the door.

No problems of unemployment here - if you want a job there is one
available. The irony of the whole thing is that the scale once we got it home and stood on it varies +/- 7 pounds. If you want to weigh less lean forward, feeling a little light, no problem just lean back.

"IT WILL BE A COLD DAY IN HELL"
So next item we needed was a new refrigerator. Irina's 20 year old
'Soviet Standard' refer was struggling along and just didn't have enough room for all the food needed for 3 hungry, hard working, people. So we went to the local "Best" like appliance store-El Dorado, looked at all of the brands,carefully comparing features, size, whether it would fit in the kitchen and through the doors, and, of course the all-important country of origin. Again there are lots of choices from all of the different countries of world. Decided on a German made model, Liberman.

Got it delivered in 3 days. The delivery truck stops out front and I watch them unload the refig, it was a big one; over 2 meters tall. I don't see any dolly just one guy, a big guy. The little guy with him tips it over a bit and the big guy loads it on his back and proceeds up to Irina's second story apartment, using the stairs of course since it wouldn't fit into the elevator. I told the guy I wouldn't want his job.

Got it all set up, seemed to work and gave us a lot more storage. So about 2 days later we go back to El Dorado to get our guarantee paperwork all in order. While the guy was stamping the guarantee with all these official looking stamps Irina asks him about some frost that seems to be forming on the back wall.

"OH that is a problem" he says "you need a master (that is Ruskie for service rep) to look at that". So we walk over to the service desk and get the number of service company that would check it out. Go home and try to call the company. Nothing but busy signals for about an hour or so.

Finally get through and they say "we don't work on Libermans - call this number....". So we call the next number and after many tries they say "we don't work with El Dorado anymore because they don't pay their bills".

"Uh Oh" we are starting to get a little concerned now. So it was back to El Dorado to talk to the service desk people and see what was going on. So we talk to this lady service manager on duty and she calls and gets the same answer from the service companies they supposedly use for our refrigerator. Then goes into the back office and talks to the Director, comes back and says "everything has been taken care of, a master will be out in 3 days to check the refrigerator".

3 days later no 'master' shows up. So we call the Liberman refrigerator office in Moscow to see what might be going on. They say "Oh did you get your guarantee stamped".

"Of course" Irina replies and tells her where the guarantee was stamped and what it said.

The Moscow office says "No, that is not correct. You need another stamp and the phone number of the service shop on the guarantee". She did say that the frost on the back wall of the refrigerator is normal, so it doesn't appear to be defective. But without the stamp there apparently is no guarantee. So it is back to El Dorado for more paper work.

This time we don't have the helpful lady manager we end up with some other jerk guy. And he refuses to stamp the guarantee. Says that a master must inspect it and will then stamp it. I am starting to think there is a lot of BS being dropped on our head and get a little upset with the guy. He finally promises to get a master out to the apartment and clear it all up. One thing we were starting to notice is that there is always a line of people at the service desk returning defective items. Even though I don't understand Russkie I am smart enough to see that they are not pleased with El Dorado's service desk.

So the day after the master was supposed to be here, guess what? No master again and the phone at the service company is always busy. So Irina and I get on the tram and head to the service office. It was in the old run down building and had to walk up a couple of flights of stairs to get to the office. As we walked up the stairs more and more people were just hanging around.

"Strange" I thought, but we walk on into the office.

In the corner again there is some kind of service disagreement in progress. A big tough looking guy is in a major shouting argument with someone behind the desk. Irina says it is something about not getting any service since April.

I see these types of guys every day all over the neighborhood and most of them have a bottle stuck in their pocket and are drunk. Another interesting thing that came to mind was something I started noticing during our search for apartments. All of communal apartments where these types of guys live had full body heavy punching bags and weights lying around - what do you expect where it seems like 40% of the people are employed in the "security" business. So I was a little nervous and not sure how this might escalate, fists, chairs or guns. But Irina asks another person behind the desk something and we get ushered into another room, hopefully out of bullet range.

There we met two ladies who seemed to know that we were suppose to have the master shown up. It would be in a couple of days. But I did find out why the phone was always busy. The lady was either talking on the phone or when she left her desk just took it off the hook-Russian customer service at it's best.

Then we are told that they really aren't authorized to service Liberman refrigerators, but someone would come out and take a look. We asked "would the master stamp the guarantee" and guess what? They said "no, the store must do that". Are we getting a run around or what?

So Irina asks to go to the bathroom and before coming back finds a manager with the service company to talk to. Then she gets the real story, but he said he would never admit this in court or anywhere for fear of his life. "El Dorado is not reliable and it is best not to deal with them and our service company is not authorized work on these refrigerators in St Petersburg. In fact we were sold an old model and El Dorado has no contract to sell these Libermans in Russia, they probably got it in the black market."

"Woooo" I think "we are really getting scammed, no wonder all those people in the service building were so pissed". I decide to call Visa and see if I can cancel the charge, but we are returning in 3 weeks and may not have enough time to settle all this mess. Probably will just hope German Engineering lives up to its reputation and we don't have any problems.

So at 10:30 pm I get Visa and they say "no problem, send us a letter and we will credit your account and debit El Dorado's account, then we will send El Dorado a letter and see what they have to say". How sweet it was talking to an American again!

I could see this drawing out for a couple of months and we decide to first call Liberman's Moscow office and see if they can help us any more and then call or visit El Dorado and tell them we plan to cancel the deal through Visa. So Irina calls Moscow and strange enough they remembered her from her fist call. Well it started slow but when she told them we had talked to Visa and were canceling the order she starts moving up the chain of command. The Liberman person says they want to check some things and will call back in 30 minutes. "Right" we thought. But sure enough some guy from the Moscow office of El Dorado calls and says he will take care of everything. Next we get a call from guy at the local El Dorado that we had talked to earlier, who seemed a whole lot more polite now, who tells us the master will be here tomorrow with the guarantee stamp. Strange how his story has changed. Then another guy from the service company calls and says he will try and get a master over here after 4:00pm today. Suddenly we are getting more service than we can handle.

So it looked better, but in Russia you never know. When we were sitting discussing our options earlier this morning Irina was very concerned about taking this too far. She says "they will just kill us! They know where we live, our phone numbers and they will just have someone in a car run us over - they do it all the time". Hopefully that will not happen and all will turn out OK. The phone rings and it is the master, he wants to setup the appointment!!! Irina talks to him and confirms that the frost is normal and he says that he doesn't have the stamp needed for the guarantee; we will have to get it from El Dorado. So we decide to call our new friend at El Dorado and see if he will stamp the guarantee. Strange - now he will do it!!! So call the master back tell him not to bother coming and we go back to El Dorado and get the guarantee stamped.

End of the refrigerator story - I hope. It has been working and has seen a lot of food cycled through it.

"GOD WATCHES OUT FOR THOSE TO DUMB TO KNOW BETTER"
You probably all know about our aborted new apartment search. How after spending almost a month and a half looking at new and old apartments we decided to put it all on hold - too many questions and problems. Well yesterday Irina was reading an article in our neighborhood paper about problems with new apartments.

The first part told about how the law is changing and the only government inspections of new apartments in the future will be to insure that they will not collapse (at least not before all the apartments are initially sold). Everything else is the buyers responsibility.

The next part of the article described problems in new apartment buildings. You may remember that when buying an apartment here all you get is a concrete cave with electric wiring and windows - that's it! Everything else to make it habitable is again the buyer responsibility and costs extra. According to the article (and some of my observations) these concrete caves, which start at around $110/sq foot, have the following minor issues:
1- 90% have unlevel concrete floors
2- 80% have walls that are not square or plumb
3- 60% have leaky or unsealed windows
4- 60% have problems with the joices between floors and moisture dripping
5- 50% have leaky roofs
6- 30% have ventilation problems
7- 20% have inadequate insulation, mold and fungus problems
8- Don't expect the elevators to work, to have any hot water and possibly cold water for the first 18 months after the building is completed.

So what do you think the chances are that things will improve now that there will not be any governmental agencies inspecting the new buildings.

"A REAL REAL ESTATE HORROR STORY"
Two weeks ago we all spent the weekend at Igor's, Irina's son in law married to Vicky Irina's daughter, parent's Dacha (country home). It was an great visit to the rustic countryside, no indoor plumbing, no running water, no screens for bugs, communal sleeping and eating. But plenty of fresh vegetables right out of the garden, a real Russkie "Banya" with birch leaves to beat sweat off your body, plenty of wonderful Ukrainian food and Russkie vodka. Quite enjoyable.

While picking berries I noticed that right next to Valodia's (Valodia is Igor's father) dacha is another dacha which looked to be in pretty good condition and abandoned. Later I asked Valodia about it and apparently the owner wants to sell and I could probably buy it for a couple of hundred $s. Then put another 3-4 hundred into it and we could have a very nice place next door in the country. In our liberated state after a couple of vodkas that didn't sound too bad and we kicked around the idea of being summer farmers in Russia.

The next day in a more sober state I was told about the witch and that having THAT dacha would be a very, very bad idea. "What witch problem" I asked and got the story. Not hard to believe in a land where "old village Babushkas" provide perfectly acceptable alternative medicine.

Igor's brother is apparently married to this lady that both Vicky and Igor feel certain is a Ukrainian witch! Irina doesn't know about the witch stuff but thinks she is absolutely disgusting. No one can understand how Igor's brother who apparently is a decent, but not very bright, guy could be married to this older, ugly, ugly lady with a couple of kids from a prior marriage. So they are all convinced that he is under a spell. And in fact she apparently told Vicky that she has "ways to get what she wants, especially from men and that people in her village told her these secrets".

Vicky and Igor are so scared that they opened Igor's mother's camera so all of the pictures of me would not be available to her. I guess witches use things like that for their spells. Vicky also said that she wanted a flower from her wedding bouquet, this was before Vicky really knew her, and she said she was so glad she didn't give it to her. No telling what the witch could have done with that flower.

So needless to say, it has become very clear that real estate in Russia brings with it all kind of risks, most of which are not even imagined by the civilized western mind!

"WE ARE FROM THE GOVERNMENT AND ARE HERE TO HELP YOU"
One last little story about Igor's day. Yesterday while working in his office he gets a call from the building security. "The FSB is in the building!!!".

What is the FSB you wonder. Well best as I can tell it is a hold over from the branches of the KGB, which is suppose to fight "economic crimes". Kind of like our IRS, FBI, and others rolled into one. Apparently there was one business in the building that they had papers, like a search warrant I guess, to question and search.

So why was Igor panicking? His name wasn't on the warrant. Apparently these guys work kind of like a Mafia Shakedown. They have the papers to search one office and then,since they are in the neighborhood anyways and wanting to maximize government resources and operate more efficiently, they just go ahead and search everyone else in the building . It doesn't matter that they don't have warrants for the other people, it isn't a legal operation anyways. They seal the building entrance and then proceed from office to office.

Igor was there alone and his first job was to delete all the files on his computer. I can tell you why that was important, but not on the internet - it is not secure. His next job was to divide the money he had in his office, the majority hid on his body and the remainder in his second office. Since Russia still operates like most 3rd world countries, everything is in cash, businesses generally have a lot of cash sitting around - not checks.

So Igor locks the doors and soon the guys outside are beating on the door. This went on for 3 hours. I guess if they don't have a warrant they won't normally break the doors down, but will stay there forever. Finally Igor decides to open the door and these heavies rush in, put him against the wall and ransack the office looking for money. They find the half in the second office, tell him "this will be enough today", take it and leave. And they did this same thing to all the offices in the building, no wonder the panic!

The Russian Government at Work. What to do? Nothing is the answer, because if you resist they will return with a search warrant and WILL find that you are committing an Economic Crime. And then they will take everything. Of course the money they take goes right to the government coffers - RIGHT! Not a chance it ends up in the goon squads pockets. What do expect from a out-of-control barbarian civilization built on corruption.

So now Igor has to call his clients tell them that their money had been confiscated and he will either have to pay them back, which will mean everything he makes for the next couple of months goes back to his clients, or learn how to walk with only one knee.

This all reminded me of a story Igor told last weekend about a "job offer" he had received sometime ago and didn't accept. Apparently someone, a "connection", offered him a job with a quasi-governmental agency. There really wasn't any job description, he would just pick it up "OJT" (on the job training). The only minor issue was he had to pay the "connection" $250,000 to get the job and another $250,000 after the first year. (I know for my friend Doug this sounds just like a normal recruiting operation - but the "connection" was not a recruiter) All he needed to do was figure out how to use the position to exhort a sufficient amount of $s from common citizens to pay his connection and himself. Of course they don't fire you from such a job, they just kill you if have a bad your annual review. Igor just decided that such a line of work he could not do, and declined the offer.

Such is life in Russia, always an adventure. The days are getting shorter, the leaves are changing to a splendid gold and there is a touch of fall in the air. We are ready for a change, but the Island will surely seem dull.

Till we meet again, soon I hope

07/10/05

OH YES, how much do your cigars cost?? The 3$ Cubans are OK, the 9$ ones are really great; especially with a little vodka. They are strong, but smooth. I am wondering how to get some home, not really. Told Irena, who said she would put them in zip locks in her bags, that it wouldn't be a good idea. Probably send her back to RU and fine her $1,000s of $s. So we will just have to settle for Dominican Republic, which are milder. If they are cheaper here I will bring some back for you, to be used only when you par a hole, of course that doesn't happen very often as we all know.

Last night on Russkie TV they had a big special about the toys coming from China. What immediately came to mind was our trip to the Chinese toy store in Austin with Lacey. Apparently there is a lot of contraband toys sold to Russkies on the far east border with China that are terrible!! All that stuff about rendering you impotent from breathing the fumes from Chinese toys is only second to the fact that they are sending stuff with mercury, heavy metals (remember them from A.J.s), and other assorted poisons in the paint, etc. Sounded really bad, and I thought it was probably only RU, but you better not let Lacey go back to that store on Guadalupe St. You better check your angles to make sure they are not contaminated.

All: We are just enjoying the summer weather, low 70s, and starting to think about RTUSA (Return To USA). Mamula gets her interrogation by the US Consulate heavies on 7/18, if she fails then she stays-no question. If she passes then we have to decide if she goes or stays. Not sure what to do, lots of issues to consider. Heck, if a Dennis like storm heads for CC, there wouldn't be anything to return to anyways.

Well got to get another vodka shot and get ready for dinner.

07/11/05

Yesterday went to the Naval Museum which was interesting until we got to the Soviet period of history. Mostly propaganda about how great they were. Irina was getting mad since she could see that there had not been any changes made to the exhibits since apparently before the fall of the communist system and a lot of the old history has be discredited now that everyone knows what actually went on back then. I was upset because they always want to charge foreigners 10 times what the Russians pay and then they don't even have anything in English so I can understand what they are displaying. Oh well we cheated and just bought 2 Russian tickets and they didn't catch me this time

07/13/05

I seem to remember that there is a way to get rid of flies using a zip lock bag with water. Am I correct about this? Please give me the complete details. Using your theory about flies one would believe that it would be raining here all the time. We need to keep the windows open and for some reason screens were apparently not invented in Russia so they must not be something the comrades need - hence no screens and lots of flies and other flying bugs.

07/16/05

Irina just walked in with the Soft Scrub cleaner that she bought the other day and exclaimed "theis is conterfit - this was not made in America. Look at the label it was just printed here in Russia and stuck on!" Sure enough looks that way to me too. Oh well, that is Russia - the last frontier of the barbarians.

03/14/06

Food: In the restaurants it is just like the furs, you generally get what you pay for. At home I think they are improving. Last time it was almost impossible to find lettuce. Now it is available at this little kiosk at the metro all the time. So we are happy that we can make normal salads, instead of just cabbage, tomatoes and cucumbers. But we still eat lots of cabbage and potatoes. Vegetables are the most scarce item; they have them here but you must go to special stores which are a long way off and carrying your grocery bags in the metro didn't sound like too much fun. Then meat is a little different also. We bought what I thought looked like some nice steaks and I thought we would pan fry them since we don't have a barbeque. Well I was told that you don't want there to be any blood in the meat here so I coooked and coooked it till it was dry and tough as a rock. Irina does much better with her stroganoffs. We quit eating chicken last month after the avian flue scare. Now all the poultry is loaded with chemicals to prevent the flue. Also have given up Sausage all the time after Vicky found this article about the chemicals that goes into it. We now have a little chart of all these "E" numbers that are found on the packages. Of course they don't tell you what the chemical is they just put this "E" number in the list of ingredients. The chart then tells whether it is considered dangerous, a carcinogen, etc. Now we started checking all our food and find that "E" numbers are everywhere.

Airport Sh*thole of the Year--Schipol Or????

2011-01-01T10:28:00.007-06:00

Christmas Week 2010 and Continuing

Christmas week was a disaster for air travelers all over the world, Amsterdam, London-Heathrow, Paris, Frankfurt, New York, Moscow. Didn’t matter where you were, snow and reverse “Global Warming” has been wrecking havoc worldwide. I hope none of you have been impacted by the disastrous air travel delays. But after watching the local Ruskie news I am glad our time in the disaster was spent in Amsterdam.

Now most people would think that snow could not be an unexpected event around this cheerful time of the year. But as the Dutch lady standing in line with us at Schipol said, “for the last 10 years we have not really seen such snow”.

“Ummmmm??” I thought. The little art museum in Schipol showed winter scenes painted by famous artists throughout the last 400 years and strangely they all depicted snow, frozen canals, and the difficulties or fun encountered during such winters. I can even remember back in the 70s and 80s when all of the scientists were scaring everyone with the “Coming Ice Age”. Heck, we even had flights canceled occasionally in Denver during the winter. So what is going on now??

In retrospect, our stay in Schipol was frustrating, but certainly not as bad as what we are seeing everywhere else. The British government is proposing to fine British Air (BA) if it cancels flights because snow closes the airport. There’s some brilliant typical civil-servant thinking!! Next maybe they will fine BA if the sun doesn’t come out and melt the snow.

Not-to-worry, world-renowned “British Engineering” to the rescue – planes will simply be equipped with retractable snowplows and the landing gear will have a skis or wheels option. No more costly runway plowing and delays. Think of all the money that can be saved!! I can only imagine about what the pilot’s winter landing checklist would be like. Maybe something like this:

Pilot - “UH Heathrow tower, this is BA-000(triple zero) on approach, request current runway and snow depth.”

Tower – “Cheerieo, BA- triple zero, Heathrow runway snow depth reporting 47.5 inches. Snowplow deployment recommended. However neither I nor British Government accept any responsibility for this recommendation, should you encounter any unexpected problems, including but not limited to: property damage, loss of life neither I or the British Government shall be held liable. You, as aircraft commander, shall bear all responsibility for any and all incidents until relieved as aircraft commander. The final choice is up to you. Cleared to land on 18 East”.

Pilot – “Roger Heathrow tower, BA- triple zero will be dropping plow and skis for landing.”

Co-Pilot – “Captain - Gear up and locked, dropping skis…….., skis down and locked. Holding plow for base.”

Pilot – “Roger skis down locked. Uh, Heathrow Tower BA- triple zero turning base, skis down and locked.”

Co-Pilot – “Prepared to lower plow Captain.”

Pilot – “Lower plow.” BA- triple zero slows and the nose pitches violently, the plane then shutters and groans as max power is added to overcome the drag. “Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen, as you can see there is a wee bit of snow on the field. We will be landing soon using our newly installed snowplow and skies, please make sure your seatbelts are securely fastened. We hope you will chose BA for your next flight, if there is one.” Quiet falls in BA- triple zero’s passenger compartments, a few passengers grab their barf bag, others hug their children and/or spouse/or significant other, some calmly take out their cross and begin praying.

Co-Pilot – “Plow, deployed, down and locked, landing checklist complete Captain.”

Pilot – “Heathrow Tower, BA- triple zero, plow down and locked cleared to land on 18 East.”

Tower – “Roger BA- triple zero, good luck, hope you make it.”

And so goes life when petty well-intended government bureaucrats implement rules and regulations providing for peoples’ safety and comfort; forgetting there are always unintended/unexpected consequences.

Global Warming, it was fun while it lasted. But, unfortunately it looks like we will all have to learn how to live with winter again and the transition will not be easy.

Moscow, Domodedovo & Sheremetievo Airport

The local news is saturated with reports of the catastrophe at Domodedovo & Sheremetievo (D&S)! Updates of the tragedy are continually interrupting our favorite TV programs. “When will this stop!” Cries Irina. Of course it has snowed virtually everyday since we arrived and doesn’t look like spring is just around the corner.

“It looks like the “Chaos in Schipol” is contagious” I tell Irina. “But it appears to have mutated and is much worse in Moscow. You would think they would be used to snow, lots of snow”. But I guess they aren’t – not enough snow plows, not enough plane de-icer, and not a clue of how to handle the strandees.

The Russians are getting restless. Tension is building. All we saw in Schipol were a few people pushing to the front of the boarding line. But Moscow is turning bad. There are reports of violence; strandees attacking airline service people, blocking the boarding of flights demanding to talk to Management and destroying property.

We have heard there were no working toilets, no food, no water, no garbage pickup, no power, no place to sleep and no way out! Mothers wanting to change their baby’s diapers were refused because they couldn’t provide immunization records showing the baby had been vaccinated for certain diseases. It is a fluid situation changing from day to day. If something gets fixed, something else breaks down. But it appears that the Sh*thole of the Year Award goes not to Schipol, that honor will be D&S’s.

“Hey Irina, look at what this guy from Euro News is saying:

”One last thing: European airports and airlines put a heavy price on passenger safety. But in Russia, for example, the priority is getting the planes off the ground. Passengers there fly at their own risk.”

(Euronews 20/12/2010 19:33cet)

http://www.euronews.net/2010/12/20/arctic-weather-prompts-airline-criticism/

“I knew I didn’t want to fly to Moscow!!!”

“Not enough plows, not enough airplane de-icer”. These usual government responses refuse to defuse the situation. But the line is wearing thin when strangely KLM is flying and Aeroflot can't make it into the air.

“Why isn’t Aeroflot flying?” Russians are rightfully asking.

And the repetitive response seems to be “no plows for the runway” and “no de-icer for the planes”.

“How could that be? We always have snow in the winter, and fall and spring” many are asking.

"Duhhhh is this Russia or what?" I might suggest they start by checking the spending habits of the individuals responsible for buying the de-icer or the snowplows.

"Duhhh do you think they might find a public servant's life style is a little richer than their humble salaries afford?" No possibility of corruption here, keep moving, keep moving. What, with “Global Warming” we don’t need no stinking de-icer (or plows).

Old Vald, the director in charge of purchasing the airport’s de-icing fluid is no dummy. He sees that on his watch for the past 2 years they only used 10,000 gallons a year and his yearly budget is for 20,000 gallons. So, with Nadia his drinking buddy and seller of de-icer, they agree to fix the purchasing documents to show 20k gallons bought & delivered but only actually buy 10k gallons, the amount normally used. Old Vald of course charges the government for 20k gallons and then makes the normal split. 70% for him and 30% for drinking buddy Nadia.

Vald and Nadia are not unique; this mindset is endemic worldwide. The Brits claim this is a “once in a lifetime” event. All I can say is that these people must have a very, very, very short lifetime experience and by virtue of possessing such a mental handicap should not be allowed to hold any position of responsiblity.

“Let’s be clear: if we invest more money in winter resilience, that means less money to invest in other things,” said British Transport Secretary Philip Hammond.

(Euronews 20/12/2010 19:33cet)

http://www.euronews.net/2010/12/20/arctic-weather-prompts-airline-criticism/

Sir Philip, I am sure, was referring to investments in his salary, his Dacha, his banker friends, etc., etc., etc......

But the poor Russians situation seems especially pitiful with no end is in sight. Remember winter doesn’t end for almost 3 more months.

Ps – after writing this Irina just advised me that indeed one of the airport’s Director of Supplies has been put on involuntary leave while the authorities investigate.

No, I don’t know if the Director’s name is “Vlad”. If it by chance is that would be a coincidence as all names in my blogs are just made up from a fantasy in my mind.

Schipol - Chaos in the Cold - Part II

2010-12-20T12:29:00.008-06:00

T-DAY +3 – Sunday 7:30 GMT 12/5/10

Wakeup from the best sleep in days, at least 2 days I know for sure. Look outside. “Huuummmm, not snowing, overcast, things look more dreary here in the daylight. Irina!!!! Lets get up and get going. I’m hungry, General Wou’s extravaganza has worn off”.

“Ok, Ok Potrick. Don’t shout so loud.” And Irina pulls the covers back over her head. Knowing resistance is useless; I climb back under the warm down duvet and wait for the 8:00 wakeup call.

Seems like only seconds later; BZZZZZ, BBBZZZZZZZZZ, BBBBBZZZZZZZ!!!! “Potrick what is that horrible sound” Irina sleepily asks.

“It’s our wake up call, move-it, move-it. Out of the rack! We have things to do and places to go. Irina don’t go back to sleep!” Getting Russians up early has always been hard, but today we have another full agenda, no slacking or snoozing. Get back to the airport, get our boarding pass, call Vicky with an update, and get the heck out of this Schipol .

After our walk to the Chinese restaurant last night I knew there was no breakfast place around, so we are stuck with the Zankenburg morning special. “Irina, better dress warmly. I am sure it will cold down there in the breakfast salon.” With scarves, gloves and coats we are finally on our way. Stop at the desk, pay 18 Euros to enjoy the hotel’s epicurean specialties, and then walk into an abandoned breakfast room.

“Lets see what we have here. Cold corn flakes cereal; no, not this morning. Umm, the usual sausage and cheese; no, ate too much of that yesterday; my system will be stopped up for weeks. Aaahhh, my favorite, a hard-boiled egg; I’ll take one of those. Some kind of hard-tack crackers; no, not with my egg where is some bread? Here we go, a little toast would be great.” Pop’er in the toaster, minute’s later burnt toast pops out. “Well plain bread, a little butter and jelly will have to do. Geezzz, I don’t see anything else”, grab some coffee and get started. Irina has about the same luck as I do building her breakfast.

4 minutes after sitting down, I’m finished with the 1^st course. “Irina, I’m still hungry and I will go carefully scour the area, maybe something was hiding.” Nope, nothing here, have to lower my expectations. Maybe some of these hard-tack crackers, probably leftovers from the Dutch 1600’s exploration voyages around the horn of Africa. Have to try’em otherwise I will be starving shortly.

“Yes, Potrick, it’s not like Italy is it.”

That’s kinda an understatement I thought sitting there in a cold, minimal breakfast spread, by our selves gray skies with wisps of snow falling. Then some fellow strandees came in to cheer things up; after a while we struck up a conversation. A very nice Belgium couple on their way to Kenya for a little holiday. “That’s a place I have never wanted to visit” I thought to my self. (FYI A few days later in St Petersburg watching TV news Irina saw they were having riots in Kenya. We wondered if our breakfast mates were caught up in it. Again I thought “that’s a place I never want to visit!”) A little more coffee to amortize out that overpriced breakfast, and we headed back to the room to clean up and make our 9:00ish shuttle to Schiphol

T-DAY +3 – Sunday 10:30ish GMT 12/5/10

“Schipol my favorite, how I missed you.“ Walking back into the terminal “Irina, don’t you feel like you have returned to your home???” But it looks a little more cheerful this morning than when we left last night. “Lets see where do we need to go to get our boarding pass and get the heck out of here!”

A perky little blond KLM service girl smilingly directs us to Desk 17. I thought she either has the gift of quick recovery from a hard night or she wasn’t on duty last night. I wonder if everyone’s mood has improved.

Arriving at the corridor leading to Desk 17 my mood instantly went back to the Schipol mood of last night. Schipol welcomes you to join us in another 1000+ person line to obtain your boarding pass. Your wait time will be….Unknown!!!

“OK Irina it’s back to last night’s playbook, you get in line and I will make sure we are in the right place and you wait here.” I wander down to the end of the corridor and actually see the Desk 17. It was just another airport service center, there all pretty much the same: about 6 windows all staffed with friendly, smiling, helpful KLM servers. “Just like last night” I thought.

I found a uniformed Schipol server around the Desk 17, asked her whether this is the place to rebook and get a new boarding pass.

She quickly came back with the expected disappointing answer, “Yes, but of course you must wait in line!”

“Seems like some things never change, maybe lines have some kind of culturally ingrained DNA for these people or maybe some kind of Socialist/Communist thing” I speculate.

Irina loves standing in lines to pay her bills, thinks its cheerful and an opportunity to see life. The concept of using the computer to pay bills and quit wasting hours of her life in line just doesn’t seem reasonable. All these 1000s of people here last night and again today don’t seem upset either. Yeah it's gota either be a DNA thing or many years of training.

They all have socialized medicine where one can easily wait hours/days/months/years/your life for a medical procedure. Hey, what the heck I am sure 4 or 10 hours waiting in the airport is nothing to these socialist/communists. Americans have a little less tolerance for this inconvenience. I can’t imagine anyone in So Texas waiting in lines like this unless at the end you get a free ticket to the Super Bowl and the Dallas Cowboys are playing.

Turning away to return to Irina and the back of the line I notice a bunch of electronic boarding pass dispensers, “Maybe I can rebook at these rather than stand in the line” hopefully I dream. There’s the KLM service lady in the area I’ll ask her. I didn’t notice the line of 8-10 people waiting to talk to the same service lady. “Compared to 1000s, it’s worth the time to wait for her time.”

A bit later it’s my turn. I relate the situation: flights canceled, need to rebook, and get a boarding pass. “Can I do it on these machines?” I ask her.

“No, these will only print a boarding pass if you are booked on a flight ” she explains. “You need get back in the line for Desk 17 – Next….”

“OK, I wonder if I can find Irina in this mass of humanity?”

After walking and walking, there she is still almost at the end of the line right where I left her 20 minutes ago. Join her and explain the bad news. “I really don’t know how we will make our flight, boarding will start in a couple of hours and you have not even moved 10 feet.”

“What to do” Irina replies.

Yeah, she’s right might as well just go with the flow and relax. I start talking to the guy next to us in line, kinda a geeking looking person working on his computer while it is balanced on push rail of the baggage cart. Said he is trying to change some tickets to Cancun or something. “Ah, Cancun! The weather there should be a lot nicer than here, we were there a couple of years ago in December. Very nice, you’ll love it. What are you going to do there, hang on the beach or see the sights?”

“Actually I’m going there for a business convention” he replied.

My brain goes into hyper search mode. “What was going on in Cancun on the news lately? Dang it, I know I heard something…….Ahhhh Yessss. The global warming fraud convention. All the hypesters, at least those that still believe in the fraud were meeting there. He quickly confirms my suspicions and I just say “I am sure you will have a great time there, just be careful and don’t loose your head to the drug gangsters.” How long can one bite one’s tongue? It’s going to be a long wait – “Potrick change the subject and keep your mouth shut”.

“So how about these delays and lines for everything?” I ask the global warming hypester.

“Actually I called KLM in America and got my flight rebooked last night, no waiting there, got right through. I am just here to change some other flight arrangements since I have nothing else to do, besides I find lines an interesting way to pass time.”

“Bingo – Confirmation, socialists, True Global Warming Believers, they all like to wait in lines, what else do they have to do in life, watch the sea level rise??”

“That’s interesting, I hadn’t thought about calling the US. Tried last night to get KLM, impossible, on hold forever.” I said and then thought maybe I could try the help desk on my new American Express card. They are supposed to offer that type of services. “Irina, I am going to call the US and see if be can get rebooked, then we could just go to the boarding pass machines and get out of this line. Just stay in line, I’ll be back.”

Found the phone and tried to figure out how to use it. Ten minutes later finally got AMEX and the service rep said she would see what can be done, just need to call back in about 15 minutes. Returning to Irina, who had moved probably 5 feet forward I told her they might be able to help.

Twenty minutes later after our little group in the line has pretty well bonded, Irina and I ask them to save our place, watch our bags and we will be back after we phone. Finally re-connect with the service rep and she tells me there are no flights into St Petersburg for the next 2 days! Irina is kinda excited that we will get a little vacation in Amsterdam at KLM’s expense. Then representative tells me we can fly to Paris today, spend the night and tomorrow fly to St Petersburg. “That’s better than 2 more nights here” I say. “Let me check with my wife. Irina…..”. I relate the options.

“Absolutely not Potrick!!! You know the French, they would never let me out of the airport, we would be sleeping on the terminal floor at Charles DeGaul!!!” At least here I have the 24 hour visa and can stay in a hotel.”

“Ummmm, mame, the French option is not going to work for us. I guess we will just have to work through our problem here. Thanks for your help, goodby.”

“Potrick, we have another problem!!! I just realized it is 11:30 and my 24- hour visa expires in half an hour. I must go to the immigration office and get another visa otherwise I violate the rules. If I don’t I will be come an illegal alien and never get another visa into Europe. Quickly lets go!!!”

Swinging by our place in line, tell our baggage holders we have another problem and will be back as soon as its fixed. Leaving them “I wonder if these guys are starting to think we are terrorists?”

You have heard that irritatingly, incessant TCA warning “Don’t leave your baggage unattended. Unattended baggage will be taken to the bomb squad and blown to bits. Thank you. The current threat level is ORANGEISH RED, DON”T……..” Just realized Schipol doesn’t have all that background BS. How nice, but how can they control the terrorists, don’t they realize the danger they are in?

So we search for an immigration office and this time it was easy. A new visa is obtained in a matter of minutes. Things are improving, now if we could just get this line moving faster.

Returning to our personal baggage handlers we notice that everyone has bottled water. Apparently KLM is watering and feeding the strandees (aka “waiters” since all they do is wait in lines) to keep them from getting restless and start some kind of revolution. “Potrick, I am thirsty can you find me some water.”

“Yes, dear I’m thirsty too. Will check it out”. Wandering around I see that people have not only water but other snacks. Looks like all the good stuff doesn’t get much further than the first 75 meters of the line. So I grab the Schpol survival treats and return to our position bearing gifts.

Another hour and it’s getting close to lunchtime. Although I haven’t been involved in much strenuous activity that pitiful breakfast ran out about an hour so ago. “Irina, we are not going to make the flight today. I hope we will go tomorrow. But the good news is that we will be getting some lunch. Look they are handing out sandwiches!!! Lets go get some, I’m starving.”

What a cornucopia of free stuff, I’m starting to like this socialism. But of course there is always a price to pay – and ours is another day stuck in Amsterdam. You know, even free stuff gets old after while if you can’t do what you want to do.

The hours keep passing – about 1:00, only 4 hours waiting in line and we are getting close to the end. Then some TV station shows up and picks me to interview. Unfortunately Irina was off somewhere or she could have given the interview. By that time I didn’t have much good to say about the situation, other than we appreciated the immigration office late last night giving people 24 hour visas so they could leave the terminal. I am sure nobody wanted to hear some old angry guy from So Texas complaining about their Schipol.

At last we get our number and in 15 more minutes we are talking to another KLM blond, booking babe about our situation. She sweetly says “oh you are already booked for tomorrow’s flight and here is your boarding pass.”

I listened to those words and couldn’t believe what she just said. “we are already booked!!!!” WTF have we been standing in line for the last 4 hours for!!!! We could gone to the boarding pass machines, put in our names and received a boarding pass 4 hours ago – contrary to what the DS KLM babe at the boarding pass machine area told me 4 hours ago.”

I asked the blond boarding-pass babe “ could we have gone to the boarding pass machines” pointing to the area about 20 meters away “ and gotten our boarding pass?”

“Why Yes, I guess you could have, now that I think about it.” She replied.

Whoaaa!!! Now I was just a little upset looking for a wall to ram my head into. This has got to be the biggest display of incompetence that I have ever seen or been in. Instead of 20 people handing out food and water they could have had one person with a mega phone go down the line and tell people they could try the boarding pass machines to receive their flight confirmation and boarding pass. It’s a good thing the TV people interviewed me before I found out this tidbit of information or my interview would have been nothing but lots of BLEEP-OUTS. Maybe it’s just me, all the socialists don’t seem upset, probably “just another typical day – what’s another line? At least were not working!!”

T-DAY +3 – Sunday 14:30ish GMT 12/5/10

But wait there is more! Next we were told that we should proceed to the Stranded Flyers Service Desk at other side of the airport and receive our hotel assignment, and Care Package (some kind of survival stuff for strandees/waiters). “Irina, that’s were we were last night with Paul and Tayna. If the lines are as long as last night’s, it’s back to the Swankenburg and another General Wou extravaganza.”

Arriving at the baggage area we see the Stranded Flyers Service Desk and there is no line. I pinch myself to be sure I wasn’t dreaming. Well 4-5 people were waiting, but that’s no stinken line for Schipol. We quickly get our billeting assignment, chow tickets, and transportation orders before the mirage vanishes.

“Irina, I think we need to get to the hotel first and dump our bags then see what we might have time and the energy to do.” So it’s off to the Ibis hotel. A quick bus ride; check in, check out room and realize how tired we are.

“Irina, I think it’s too cold and too late for town. Lets just go back to the Schipol mall, look around, maybe get a drink or something to eat.” You exit the airport through a nice shopping mall so it was something easy to do and hopefully interesting. Without knowing the area and having our heavier winter jackets going to town just didn’t sound like a good idea.

The mall was nice, nothing real special and, as always, prices in EU are just a tad more than we are used to. Finally headed back, discovered that the Ibis’ main business is servicing strandees/waiters or low price salesmen meetings. The cafeteria which accepted our meal ticket reminded Irina of Soviet times and me of my freshman dormitory. No threat to General Wou here. We spotted a number of our Russian travel companions going for thirds and the young chick that attached herself to our clan was back at it, hustling the young guys.

Enough is enough. Lets go back to the room and for excitement brush our teeth with toothpaste to close out the day. Gota be ready to go tomorrow.

T-DAY +4 – Monday 8:00ish GMT 12/6/10

“Irina, I slept terrible on this bed. The mattress has all these little holes in it, like swiss cheese – really weird and hard as a brick. Lets get up and get going.”

Throwing the curtains open I look outside to a view of nothing but gray!!!. “OH NO IRINA ,FOG, really thick fog.” I listen for the sounds of any planes taking off or landing. None.

“I don’t like the looks of this Irina, planes can take off but if it is really bad they may not be able to land here. And you know what that means, we could be stuck here again and I would have to sleep on that hard Swiss cheese mattress again!”

“Potrick, I can’t worry about that now, I’m hungry. Lets go to the cafeteria and see what they have for breakfast.”

Might as well, can’t be worse than last night and can’t do anything about the weather. Breakfast turned out way better than the Zwankenburg 18 Euro stale toast treat. Maybe things were starting to look up. Went back to the room to clean up and check weather on the TV – nope, need to buy a TV card to watch. Tried the Internet – nope, no access need to buy an access card. Was scared to try the toilet may have to pay for paper. Seemed like the mattress wasn’t the only cheesy thing about the room. Packed and left.

T-DAY +4 – Monday 10:30ish GMT 12/6/10

Arrived back at our home away from home – Schipol Airport. “Irina don’t you just feel at home here now, its so comfortable, we know where everything is, and the way the fog looks we may make this our home for a few more days.” The fog was still a concern and I could see that some flights were getting delayed.

“Potrick, we have nothing to do, nothing to read, lets go to the library.” We ambled down the aisle to this little airport library. Sat down and browsed through a few interesting books on Amsterdam and the Netherlands.Pleasant way to spend some spare time.

Potrick reading

Less industrious strandees

Watched a weather report on a nearby TV and the Paris Airports were closed today due to snow. “Irina, did you see that? If we had gone to Paris yesterday we would have been stuck there today. Good thing you have that visa problem. Lets head toward our gate and see what’s going on”

T-DAY +4 – Monday 12:30ish GMT 12/6/10

“Well, it’s still foggy and lots of flights have been delayed. But it looks like ours is still on time and we even have a plane at our gate. Irina, I think we’er gona get out of here!!!” It was looking ok, but after the last 3 days I won’t believe it until we lift off.

All the familiar faces from the last 3 days were milling around in the gate area. Approaching boarding time I can tell the Russian are again getting restless. The PA system crackles “Ladies and gentlemen we are ready to start boarding for St Petersburg…..”. The Russians are getting excited and on the move, herding their way closer to the gate. “Ladies and gentlemen at this time we will be boarding 1^st class, Elite Status……”.

The end of the announcement wasn’t heard as a Russian guy yells “I don’t care about 1^st class, I been here 3 days I am 1^st class and boarding now!!” At that point orderly boarding collapsed.

As always I make sure Irina and I are close to the door. “Irina, lets go. Just push into line or we won’t get any overhead.” So we shoved and moved with the masses “butt to belly” all the way to our assigned seats. Staked out our overhead space and threw our bags in, then relaxed and prayed we would get out of here.

Shortly thereafter engines were started, we taxied and left Schipol. See you in 3 months and hope we don’t have any trouble then.

T-DAY +4 – Monday 22:00ish GMT 12/6/10

As the old song goes “Back in the USSR”. Well not exactly but the airport compared to Schipol does have a certain USSR look & feel even still.

Next stop, immigration and the usual inquisitive examination of my passport; in particular, matching the picture with the person standing in front of them. For some reason Russian Immigration Officers reviewing the passports are always young girls and never has my approval been accomplished in less than 5 minutes. I smile, frown, look serious and if lucky they waive me through without calling another officer in for a second opinion. Tonight I was lucky; she passed me through in 4 minutes.

Baggage actually started rolling out quickly and soon our first bag appeared. “Well at least we have our clothes Irina. If you want take your carry-on and this bag on out. I will be there soon as I get our other bag with all the Tolic toys and gifts in it.” Before I could finish the sentence Irina was through customs and vanished.

20 minutes later it was evident that I was just seeing the same bags going around the conveyor belt and none of them were ours. Finally word came “that is all, no more.” What was that I said earlier about “luck” as I was walking to the lost baggage booth?

Fortunately the girl at the baggage booth spoke English asking for my documents. I handed them over and she handed me forms in quad duplicate saying “you viell please feel thesz out”.

So I started meticulously as possible answering all the questions about the bag, it’s contents, size, color, etc, etc. “They obviously don’t have copiers here,” I thought. “but I am sure every Russian has one to go with their computer at home. Oh well.”

Finally finished and handed the papers to the lost baggage booth babe. “Sir, you need to fill theez in here” and returned the papers.

One more time “Miss, here you are. I hope they are complete.” She looks at the documents and then goes to some kind of folder. I’m thinking this is progress.

“Mester Krisco, we have your bag. It arrived last night.” She told me. Well our luck is changing, this is good news. We proceed to the baggage holding room and I see it over in the corner. Irina was scared to death that if it sat there overnight all of Tolics toys would be stolen. Well it had some kind of security plastic bands holding the zippers closed so that is about as much as one can hope for in Russia; we’ll check it all at home. I signed the paper work and headed out into the Russian cold.

There was Vicky, Tolic with a big smile in his new crown and cape Irina made for him, and a happy Irina. We were back finally.

Footnote - During the past 2 weeks since arriving in Russia it seems like almost every day we are hearing reports that many the major hub airports are closed for weather. I hope it's over by March.

Walmart Says “Poka, Poka” (bye, bye) to Moscow

2010-12-18T07:20:00.007-06:00

The News As We Think It
2/16/2010

What the system says:

http://rt.com/business/news/walmart-russia-hq/

What we think:
Walmart Says “Poka, Poka” (bye, bye) to Moscow

Arkansas hillbillies find cultural clash spoils investment opportunity. Insiders privately relate that the demise of the venture was likely centered around two causes. 1 – failure to bribe work with the real Moscow powers; and 2- failure to adequately understand the unique Russian market.

Failure no. 1 came as a surprise to all, as the Arkansas hillbillies were believed to have had everything firmly in place with Yuriy Luzkov, Moscow’s Mayor. With Luzkov’s recent and unexpected demotion, things turned sour for the hillbillies.

The turn of events was a surprise to everyone as the Arkansas hillbillies were thought to have possessed the highest level of sophisticated corruption skills, acquired under the tutelage of the master, Bill Clinton during his governorship of Arkansas. Apparently the hillbillies will go back to class before they try going up against the “world masters”, Russians, again.

Failure no. 2 was a cultural and market research oversight. It is common knowledge that retail product selection in Russia is predicated on two simple criteria will the product: 1 – improve the buyer’s peer prestige; and 2- is this product the most expensive available. Support, warranty, energy ratings, crash tests, ease-of-use, consumer ratings, mean-time before failure, etc are unimportant to the average Russian consumer’s product selection process.

Close observations have revealed that Russians will never purchase anything unless they can smugly tell their comrades “this is the most expensive, best, top-of-the-line (whatever) that can be found in all of Moscow”. Secondly the purchased item must shout and radiate exclusiveness so as to encourage jealousy and/or raise the new owner of the (whatever) to a higher more prestigious position amongst his/her peers. Unfortunately the Walmart label failed miserably in satisfying these basic consumer needs.

An unnamed consumer research organization, just prior to Wall-Mart’s capitulation, was rumored to have provided the Walmart executives with a guaranteed solution. Only partial details of the proposed plan have been leaked out. But apparently part of the quick fix suggested the following:

1. during the week of May 1 – May 10 (when stores are closed for the holidays and everyone is either drunk or at the parades or both) all merchandise would be removed from the store shelves.

2. all “Made in China” references would be removed from said merchandise;

3. “Hand-made in Italy” would be attached to all said merchandise and all new merchandise subsequently stocked on Walmart shelves.

It is believed that Walmart was in some stage implementation when the problems described as “Failure no 1” crashed their plans. The doors were closed, their reputation was tarnished and the hillbillies headed back to Bentonville with their heads hanging low.

And that's the news today as we think it!!!

Trip Two To Russia 2010 Schiphol – Chaos in the Cold

2010-12-15T08:36:00.011-06:00

Sometimes it seems like I am living in interesting times, or maybe just have bad luck/karma. Lately I figure it is some kind of strange combination of both. But as long as God blesses me with good health, a sound mind, and a wonderful wife, Irina, things aren't that bad. Just chalk it up to unexpected adventures.

After the Hell in Helsinki trip in spring of this year I was a little gun-shy of returning to Russia. My ex-KGB contact who had always come through before couldn’t pull off a new visa in Helsinki and didn’t even call Irina to tell her he was sorry or explain. Now we had to find a new way to get me in country.

Irina and Vicky put their heads together and out came the “Home Stay” visa. Under this little-used option someone you know in Russia who is a Russian citizen, like maybe your wife, can invite a reputable person, like maybe her husband, to stay in the citizen’s home for a duration not to exceed the lesser of 1-three months, 2-the citizen’s patience, or 3-the visitor’s bank account. Since Irina is the model of patience and life in Russia is not too expensive if you and the Russian citizen exercise extreme discipline and three months is more than enough time to enjoy the quaintness of the country, we went for it.

So the girls got started on the invitation (all aliens enter Russia by “invitation” only) paperwork, which is always a major task in Russia. After carefully completing pages and pages of questions covering every aspect of the invitee’s life and character to insure one is worthy of a visit to Russia; and a like amount of questions delving into inviter’s ability to host the invitee and present the State in a proper and acceptable manner the document was submitted to the OVIR (a holdover from old Soviet times – the government agency responsible for knowing at all times exactly where every legal visitor or citizen is).

Summer came and went, fall was fast approaching and a trip to Russia had faded from my mind. One quiet day in October the phone rings. I pick it up and hear “Potrick, its Vicky I got your invitation today!!! You will be coming to Russia in December and staying all winter, isn’t that wonderful.”

“UHHH, great Vicky, now I must work quickly to get a visa. FEDX the invitation to me”. Maybe FEDX will lose it, if not I still have to get the visa, which after Helsinki, is no slam-dunk deal.

Well, I guess I didn’t make it into “undesirable aliens” database somewhere deep inside Russian’s computer system, because my visa arrived with only the expected minor hassles. OK, are we ready for a little chill time in Russia during “high tourist season” – Dec through February? Hey, thousands of Swedes with King Charlie 7, French with Napoleon, and Germans with Adolph also chose high tourist season to visit . Besides I will have my finest South Texas cold weather gear and will arrive without marching orders via the renowned Dutch hospitality of KLM. Lets get going!!!

As the week of departure arrives both the inviter and invitee closely monitor the weather and only notice low temperatures in the teens and small snow showers. “No problem!!”

Tday-1 - Early Thursday night – 12/2/10
Operating under strict orders that all of the suitcases must be “zipper ready” at 18:00 (local time) as clock struck and I yelled “Attention on deck, stand by for suitcase inspection”.

“Yes Potrick, quit shouting, they are ready”

After careful inspection I am please to announce, “Outstanding Irina, I can’t believe it, both of our suitcases are not even close to 50 pounds. What are we forgetting?”

“We have everything we need Potrick, remember all my winter clothes and most of yours are already there. Maybe I will go to town and see if there are any other toys that Tolic (the grandson) might like.”

“NET, NEIN, NO!!! IRINA, we already have one big suitcase stuffed with toys and the carry-on’s are full also!!! Don’t they make toys in Russia??

Irina agrees, enough is enough and we restfully spend the remainder of the evening dreaming of troika sleigh rides through the snow-covered forest bundled under warm bear blankets.

T Day – Friday 13:00GMT** 12/3/10
(** GMT is Greenwich Mean Time is the way all pilots standardize their time to avoid the confusion of Time Zones. GMT is the time at Greenwich, outside of London, and local times are adjusted:
Corpus local time (i.e. 7:00am) + 6 hrs = (i.e. 13:00) GMT
Amsterdam local time (i.e 14:00) – 1hr = (i.e.13:00) GMT
St Petersburg local time (i.e 16:00) – 3hrs = (i.e. 13:00) GMT
Are you confused yet? It help’s to remember which direction the sun usually come up from whether you subtract or add. )

Early revelry, quick breakfast, last minute tasks, shower and then secure the hot water heater. “Man, I am starting to sweat it’s really warm here this morning!” So I unbutton my warm long sleeve shirt and cool down. About the same time Robert arrives ready to haul us to the airport. “Things are starting to smooth out,” I thought.

“Ummm, no one at the airport, probably due to scanner scare or groper fear.” Quickly got the bags checked all the way through from Corpus Christi to LED (St Petersburg, Ru). And headed for the gate taking the “Groper Option”. Heard scanners are a danger for people like me prone to skin cancers and thought this option might be more entertaining. Anticlimactic, must be a low threat day at CRP.

We arrived early because last trip I got screwed when I paid Continental $50 for my one bag to check it all the way to Russia. The sweet lady at Corpus check-in swore that according to their “Standard Operating Procedures (SOP)” I pay the fee to Continental, they tag the bag to LED (St Pet. Ru), and pass Brit Air’s share of the fee on to them. “Easy, no problems” she claimed.

Arriving at IAH(Houston) I preceded to the Presidents club for refreshment and then on to the BA gate. While quietly sitting in the gate area I was surprised to hear my name paged to report to the Gate Commander’s desk. “What’s the problem I asked?”

The BA Gate Commander told me “we have problem, there is no record of a payment for your luggage, we can bill your credit card here if you like”. Surprise!! I tried to explain that I had already paid in Corpus and showed them my receipt. The Gate Commander didn’t care about some stinking receipt from Continental, he demanded immediate payment and I demanded a supervisor; but it was all to no avail. After my futile discussion with the supervisor the Gate Commander snickered “You can either pay BA $60 for your bag or we leave it here – your choice and BTW we don’t use Continental’s SOP”.

“Those Brits are always so proper, understanding and to the point,” I paid the second time for my bag and vowed never to do that again.

But today things were just going wonderfully. Turns out KLM doesn’t charge for the 1st bag so we didn’t pay anyone for our bags. We just spent a relaxed time in the Houston airport. Did a little looking around at the shops, got a light lunch, checked e-mail and Amsterdam weather and casually ambled down to board. Every thing looked great for an early December flight.

The flight was about as comfortable as you can expect riding in the cattle section; OPPS excuse me I meant the Economy class. But our luck continued, we had an empty seat in our 3-seat section. Things were working out great!

T-DAY+1 – Saturday 07:30 GMT 12/4/10 (17.5 hrs awake time)
Touched down right on time, morning in Amsterdam. Light snow and no new accumulation. From Amsterdam we again chose a later flight because it was more convenient for Vicky to pick us up. No problem, there were plenty of shops, attractions and even a small art museum with pieces from the Rijksmuseum to pass some time. Tiring of the sites and expensive shops we found the reciprocal lounge that offered us comfortable place to wait for our 11:10 GMT boarding time. It was an average lounge with a panoramic view of the airport, roads and fields across the way and the light wispy snow falling outside.

About 10:00 GMT we noticed that the snow was picking up a little, but nothing unusual for this time of the year. “Potrick, isn’t it just beautiful, I miss it so much being always in hot, boring Corpus Christi”.

“Yes, dear”, as always, was my standard answer.

T-DAY +1 – Saturday 10:15 GMT 12/4/10 (20.5 hrs awake time)
Preparing to head for departure, I ambled over to the club’s main desk to confirm our gate. The ladies were busy on the phones, I waited, I noticed the beautiful snow was now looking more like a nasty white out. It was really coming down, what a difference 10 minutes can make. Finally the lady hung up the phone and I asked about our gate. She looked a little disturbed and said, “I don’t know, they just closed the airport!”

“Not good” I thought. “Is our plane at the gate?” was my next question.

“Let me see”, and she started scrolling across her screen. “No it’s not arrived yet --- heavens appears like it won’t be here until 14:30 GMT”.

“Whoooa, that’s trouble”. If our plane had already landed and been at the gate we might be able to leave quickly when the airport reopens. But if it is not here it may never get here today. Luck looks to be a changing.

Walked back to Irina and gave her the bad news. Looking out the window and seeing the snow quickly piling up on the roads I had my first fearful feeling we might just be stuck here for the night.

Irina remembered we needed to immediately let Vicky know that we would be late before she leaves for the airport. Unfortunately we don’t have World Service Cell phones so I suggested we just e-mail her and sit tight to see how things go in the next hour or so. Maybe we will have more info in a while. “I’ll go ask where we can find phone to call Russia.”

Now there was lots of activity around the lady’s desk. As we walked up I heard her say that the airport would reopen in 30 minutes. “Things were getting kinda squirrelly, but maybe we will get out of here close to schedule. After all this is a world class hub airport in an area where they do have snow in the winter, so this shouldn’t be too big of a deal” I thought. They didn’t have any cancellation or delay info at the lounge so the consensus was “grab our bags, go buy a phone card and see what’s going on at the gate, then call Vicky”.

T-DAY +1 – Saturday 11:00 GMT 12/4/10 (21 hrs awake time)
Left the lounge, got a phone card, found our gate and arrived just in time to see that our flight had been delayed 2 hours. Called Vicky and gave her the bad news, now it looked like our Russian arrival would be 20:00 GMT (8:00pm Ruskie local). “Looks like it’s gona be a long day, might as well go back to the club and get some snacks and drinks,” I suggested as we made the 20-minute hike back to the club.

We nibbled on Dutch pastries, ham and cheese, gulped down strong coffee to fight that tired and run down feeling you sometimes get after being either awake or uncomfortable for 24 hours. Time flies when you are having fun and soon it was time again to head for the gate to make the 14:00 GMT departure.

T-DAY +1 – Saturday 13:00 GMT 12/4/10 (24 hrs awake time)
Dejavue? Arrive back at the gate just as they are delaying the departure another hour. “Hummm. Lets see that’s 3 twenty minute walks, or one hour of hiking and hauling baggage out of the last 3 hours.” Irina always likes to walk but this getting a bit excessive. “Irina, lets just walk to the nearest chairs and see if we can get a little sleep during the next hour”.

We found a spot and my head immediately went to the full backwards tilt position. A bit later I half woke up and found my self with my mouth wide open. You know how ugly someone looks in that position, I was embarrassed. Grabbed my wool scarf and wrapped it around my mouth and returned to the full tilt position for a few more minutes of half-sleep.

Next thing I remember was Irina shaking me and saying, “wake up, we must go, they are queuing for the security check”.

Shook my head and remembered where I was, unwrapped that hot scarf from my mouth, grabbed the bags and took my place in the security line. Snow looked about the same as when they closed the airport, but I was optimistic. Maybe they just over-reacted and got things cleaned up. Besides the arriving flight was pulling into our gate; maybe we will get out of here.

Walking up to the security guy Irina suddenly remembers that she needed to call Vicky and tell her that the flight was leaving. She asks the security guy if the plane was really going. “This guy doesn’t have any idea what is going on, just hurry, call Vicky, tell her it looks like we will be leaving and get back so we are not the last ones boarding the plane” I tell her losing my place in the line with all the bags. Irina goes and makes the call.

Finally we were all on the secure side of the security check and the gatekeepers started checking passports and boarding passes. The boarding area was full of restless Russians anxious to get going. As a number of them had their flight canceled the day before and they were in no mood to spend another night in Amsterdam.

I could just smell the growing herd mentality and loss of control in the boarding area. One of the gateway keepers opened the door and walked down the jet way out of sight. Instantly 10 or more Russians run through the opened door and followed him down the jet way. Just as quickly they come running out of the jet way, chased by the gateway keeper loudly scolding them. “Irina, we need to get closer to the jet way door or we will never get any overhead space for our bags.”

More good news! Arriving passengers started deplaning. The service crew and pilots who gave a thumbs-up to our crew followed them. I started feeling good about getting to St Petersburg tonight. “Better late than not at all” I thought.

We waited and waited. Finally the crew boarded the aircraft. “Irina, looks like we’re making progress”. 15 minutes the service crew returned. “Uh-Oh!” Now I again smell trouble.

Over the PA system comes the message “Attention, attention we are awaiting a message from KLM regarding this flight before we can board the plane and proceed.”

“What the hell is that all about?” Never have I heard such a message while waiting to board. “Maybe there is some kind of terrorist threat” was my first fear.

T-DAY +1 – Saturday 16:00 GMT 12/4/10 (27 hrs awake time)
The gateway keeper cleared his throat over the microphone; then said “KLM has canceled all flights until further notice!”

“What does that mean Potrick?” Irina asked

“I don’t know, but we’re not flying tonight, shsssssss Irina. He is saying something else.” The gateway keeper announced that we would be giving passengers a ticket with information on it regarding lodging and rebooking. Now I smelled desperation and fear!!!

This guy standing next to us grabbed his KLM info card, grabbed his wife and started running down the concourse. “Irina, lets go!! Quickly, quickly follow that guy (the guy who was now 20-30 yards down the concourse running) he must know what to do.” And so we now retraced our 20-minute walk to gate in about 7 minutes. Things were heating up!!!

We didn’t know where he was heading but he appeared to know, and we followed. Hopping on the escalator had a chance to catch our breath. Approaching the bottom the sign “Immigration Exit” comes into sight. “OH NO, Potrick” Irina exclaimed. “They will not let me out, my Europe visa is expired”.

Yelling at Irina “We will see, come on; move it, move it!!!” we catch up with the guy we were following. Turns out he isn’t Russian but Belgium and tells us we need to get out of here ASAP and go to the place where KLM gets everyone a hotel or we will be sleeping on the terminal floor.

Irina explains her visa problem and his reply “be tough and demand a 24 visa or you sleep on the floor”.

Fell into the line for “Non-Europeans” along with hundreds of other outcasts from the 3rd world and wait. Finally I make it to the immigration guy’s window, he quickly checks my US passport and waves me right through. Then I tell him about Irina’s visa problem, he frowns, and wait as she gives him her visa. He quickly reviews her passport and smugly says “Her documents are not in order; she can’t pass through to the EU”.

I start making a scene and demand that I see the supervisor. He picks up his phone and a few minutes later a 7 foot tall guy in a green immigrations uniform with side arms and handcuffs shows up. Physical contact didn’t look like a good option in the “be tough” attitude, so it was back to logic and pleading.

Baush, the 7 foot immigrator explains “Eet is impossible to let Irina through without a boarding pass for a plane leaving Amsterdam in the next 24 hours – against regulations”.

Irina puts on her saddest face, “But I live in the USA and have a Green Card, can’t you pleeease let me through”.

“No exceptions Madame!” Baush sourly replies.

Irina doesn’t take the answer “No” easily. “But sir, I am 55 years old, I live in the USA, I don’t want to stay in your Holland! I flew for 24 hours without sleeping and will get sick if I sleep on the floor.’

“Maybe you can find a chair to sleep on Madame. If you get your boarding pass maybe I can help you then” was the final answer from the Immigrator.

“OK we will try to get a boarding pass and return” I dejectedly said.

T-DAY +1 – Saturday 17:00 GMT 12/4/10 (28 hrs awake time)
Turning to leave I hear “excuse me” in a slight British accent from a tall guy.

“Oh no, wonder what this guy wants now” then I notice a woman by his side. “Yes” I replied. Apparently this couple overheard our conversation and have the same problem. Paul, the tall Brit, tells me is married to Tanya and she also doesn’t have a visa to enter the EU either.

“Follow us Paul I will tell you what we need on the escalator. They are not going to let us out of the terminal unless we have a boarding passes for our wives. This is what we are going to do. Remember that long line that we ran past getting here? That is the Transportation Desk where you re-book. When we get to the top the girls will head for line and you and I will run to the hotel inside the Terminal and check if they have any rooms. You Ok with that Paul?”

“Yes, but I doubt they will have any rooms” Paul replys.

“Yeah, I know it’s a long shot but at least the girls will be in line and we can search for other options.” Exiting the escalator “Ok, girls, you understand everything? We will meet you back at the line, I’m sure you won’t get to the desk before we return.” We split and head for our targets.

Passing an Information Desk where people are stacked 3 deep trying to get some help, “Lets skip it Paul this will take too long, lets keep going I saw a sign to the Mercure hotel earlier today we can just follow the directions”.

Finally locate the hotel entrance and walk in. Kind of a weird looking hotel lobby and I was wondering if this was one of those Japanese cubical airport type hotels I had seen in some magazines with a cot, sink, and toilet; more like a jail cell than a hotel room. But we didn’t have to worry about staying in a cell. The sign on the desk of course said “NO ROOMS”. Didn’t even bother waiting for the multi-tasking overmadeup young receptionist girl to get off the phone and finish polishing her nails. We head back to our girls.

In the 30-40 minutes we had been gone the girls have made some progress. They were maybe 20 yards of people behind them and only 70 yard of people in front of them. Waving to them, “We’ll join you”.

At end of the line a KLM rep is talking to a bunch of people. We moseyed up to see what the buzz was and hear something like “boarding passes….. no….can’t…..”

“Wonder what’s going on Paul? Lets make sure we are in the right line.”

We barge our way in, nice having Paul along, to get close enough to ask her if this is the line to get a new boarding pass. She starts “it is normally, yes, but tonight KLM is not issuing any new boarding passes.”

“WHAT!!!! We MUST have a new boarding pass or immigration won’t let our wives out of the terminal!”

“Nothing I can do, go talk to immigration.” The cute blond KLM rep turns and calmly replies. “Next”

“OK girls it’s back to Baush, the immigrator. No boarding passes tonight the KLM girl tells us. It’s back to begging at the Immigration Exit”

Irina seldom takes “NO” for the final answer when she is looking for “YES”. “I am going directly to the desk and ask about my boarding pass”, she heads for the desk. Barging in front of the guy at the information desk Irina tells the lady “I must have a boarding pass or they won’t let me out of the terminal tonight and will have to sleep on the floor.”

“Madame, where are you going?” The desk girl asks.

“St Petersburg, Russia”

“AHHHHH, Russian” the desk girl snidely & loudly exclaims. “ WHAT!!! You expect to be let into my country without visa!!! WHY??? If I go to Moscow without visa they will not let me in, why should we let you into my Holland??? Go, get way I have people to serve.” Irina humiliated and mad slinks away heading to the Immigration Office.

T-DAY +1 – Saturday 18:00 GMT 12/4/10 (29 hrs awake time)
Back at the immigration zone where we had started an hour or so before Baush looked busy. “Baush, we got a problem, no….”

“I know, I know for you we will make a one time exception, give you a visa and let you through. It will just take some time. I am doing visa for 3 Africans now, I will do yours next right after we finish them.” Baush told me.

Looking around I noticed the usual group of suspects: Africans, Chinese, Mongolians, Indians, Russians, Kurgistanians, Tackistanies and all the other 3rd worlders. We were all in the same fix now just milling around the immigration office window hoping for a stinking 24hr visa to get out of this stinking Terminal.

Waiting there our little group of 4 starts getting bigger. Girls find a lovely old lady, Nadia, probably 70ish, dazed, wandering around with no idea what is going on or what to do. They take her to Baush. “She is with us and also needs visa”. Next a couple of young girls on the make and a Russian guy whom I think the young girls were hitting on join our group of outcasts.

Paul starts telling about his earlier dealings with KLM; being on hold for 4 hours trying to get them on the phone last night. I decide to try Baush’s phone and call the KLM service # on the card they had given us. No luck immediately got the usual message “Due to unexpected heavy call volume your wait time will be 10 minutes…..” After 20 minutes hang up. I’ll try one more time. Another 10 minutes wait time, just hung up and gave up. “Paul, looks like the same problem tonight, but I don’t have 4 hours to wait on hold.”

An immigration officer starts telling us how hotels just love nights like tonight – they get top dollar for all their rooms. The Indian girl says she heard there were no rooms left in the city. Rumors are rampant!!!

Finally with visas in hand our little troupe of untouchables whiz right through the gate and into the EU. Next stop the KLM Service desk to get our hotel, hot meal and warm, comfortable bed.

T-DAY +1 – Saturday 19:00 GMT 12/4/10 (30 hrs awake time)
Rounding the corner and heading towards the Service Desk I can see there is an angry, tired mob around the 4 KLM uniformed guys manning the stranded travelers service desk. As we move forward the extent of the disaster reveals itself, some kind of line snakes back around the corner as far as the eye can see. “Well guys this looks like the place where we need to be. Right in with this crowd of thousands. Girls wait right here, don’t leave, and Paul and I will check it out.”

“Paul, lets not have a replay of the ‘boarding pass line’ we’ll make sure this is really where we need to be and that they are giving out hotel rooms.” We disappear into the mass of stranded humanity. We confirm with the first strandee this is indeed the line for tonight’s free room and board. Yeah this is it. Then we turn the corner to see the Mother of all lines; as far as the eye can see strandees standing, sitting, laying around all in some kind of line while waiting to be courteously and promptly served by those 4 KLM reps at the service windows.

Paul is really discouraged as we return. “Potrick”, he says “I have been here before, faced the same situation. Went on our own to find rooms. We were lucky and found a halfway decent room. But!!! The SOB airline refused to reimburse us the full amount, which wasn’t much and it took over 8 months to get our pitiful refund.”

Walking up to our little clan of strandees Paul relates the bad news. Tanya, Paul’s wife, listing confirms that after their last experience with KLM they don’t want to try to find hotel on our own. “I will go see for myself what can be done, you men stay here” and Tanya vanishes in a mass of strandees.

“Paul, seems Tanya is like Irina both suffer from a Russian logic - men are apparently too unreliable.” The others in our clan, discouraged, start drifting away. The young Russian guy calls a friend to pick him up and the young girls go looking for new targets-of-opportunity.

Suddenly Tanya’s smiling face is seen emerging from the mass of human strandees. Maybe she’s bringing good news and hope. “Paul, Paul I found a Russian man who is close to the front of the line, he is a wonderful man, he will let us in with him!!! We won’t have to go the end. We will just join him quietly and secretly one-by-one, we will say we are family or something if any one asks.”

Paul’s face reddens, takes on a very serious look and firmly he says, “My Dear, WE are not butting into the line!!! That is unfair, foul play! What about all the others behind us, they are sure to become angry and we will all get thrown out. No! Tanya WE won’t do that!”

I thought Paul was displaying that admirable character British Character trait that of late seems to have disappeared – fair play. Irina and I both agree “butting into that line could cause a riot. These people have been there for hours, they are tired, hungry and unpredictable”. Tanya reluctantly agrees. But she decided she would sneak Nadia, our old lady of the group, in so she hopefully will find a room in the inn.

While Paul and I were waiting for Tanya and Irina to return from their mercy mission, it began to appear that it was all for not in any event. Rumors were spreading that KLM has no more hotel rooms to give out; all of the hotels they work with are full! Tanya and Irina return and confirm the rumor.

“What to do now??? Why don’t you guys stay put for a few minutes and I will see if I can leave the terminal and find any other purveyors of hotel rooms around.”

So I head for the exit and notice a couple of guards. “Whoa I better check with these guys to make sure I can get back in,” I thought. Sure enough the guard tells me these are “one-way” doors, once you pass through you can’t re-enter the terminal here. Bad news “All this security sometimes really stinks” I thought. “Is there any hotel info or representatives outside where we could try and make reservations?” I asked. He said there was, so I returned to clan to see what we will do.

Huddling with Paul and Tanya it is clear that after their prior stranding they refuse to leave the terminal and would sleep on the floor if they couldn’t find a better place. Paul tries to convince us to do the same.

I, however after about 30 something hours of traveling, was not about to sleep on the floor of the terminal. Moreover I knew Irina would file divorce on the spot if I suggested that option. Irina is just not the type to curl up on the cold tile floor, after using the public toilet to wash up in and prepare for the evening, using our carry on luggage as a pillow all-the-while surrounded by a hoards of Africans, Chinese, Indians, Russians and others. No, we would venture out of the terminal, into the unknown and seek our fortune and warm bed. Exchanging e-mail addresses we part ways hoping to see each other tomorrow at the departure gate.

On exiting I turn my attention to finding the “wall of hotel advertisements” with direct phone lines to them. Yes! There they are, but lots of people were waiting to use them. No problem right next to them is the more civilized Hotel Reservation Kiosk. “What? Only 15 or so people in line, after today this is no line!!”

Beware, line length doesn’t always portray the whole story. After 20 minutes the same guy who had been talking to the service rep when we arrived is still dallying around with his hotel selection; either too picky or no rooms – probably too picky. “This is not working out well,” I think. Looking around the “wall of hotel advertisements” was thinning out. “Irina stay in line I will try and call a hotel”

I could see all the normal hotels, Hilton, Marriott, Sheraton, etc and the guys calling all seemed to hang up rather quickly. Bad sign, probably no rooms. I moved on down the board where there were a couple of local hotels. Grabbed a free phone, picked the least sleazy of the group, the Swankenburg Hotel, and called. Obviously a Dutch place, the pics of the restaurant and rooms looked normal and it had a free shuttle – “Yes, I need a no-smoking room for 2 for one night, do you have anything?” I asked the lady at the other end.

From the other end of the line came a surprising “YES”.

I wasn’t going to quibble nor worry about the prestige level of the accommodations “How much?”

“69 Euros”

“My name is Potrick Chrisco and I will take it!” YES! I was scared we would be stuck for 200+ Euros. Maybe things are improving, but I will wait until I see the hotel to confirm a change in our karma.

As soon as I hung up people surrounded me, simultaneously asking “who did you call???”. I gave them the info and told Irina to get out of that stinking line we don’t need their stinking help. Which by the way - the same guy was still talking to the service rep.

Grabbed our carry-ons, and stepped out side for our next surprise. Smash, right to the face a cold brisk wind and pellet snow were pounding us. Just wonderful. “Don’t worry Irina, they probably have some kind of covered, sheltered area for us at the shuttle stop.” I could see there were some across the street. But the Swankenburg’s stop was at the end and the only protection from the elements was a light pole. “Where is that frigging bus??”

Standing behind the pole to block the wind, I thought “STUPID YOU! You should have called the hotel back, asked how many rooms they had open, discuss what kind of payment I could get for filling those rooms, and probably had ended up having them pay me to sleep there. Oh well, just another missed opportunity; maybe next time I am stranded in Schiphol. Tonight I just hope the place is OK.”

T-DAY +1 – Saturday 20:00 GMT 12/4/10 (31 hrs awake time)
Finally the Swankenburg shuttle, a beat up old van arrives. “Hope it’s heated”. It was, kinda, most heat came from all the bodies squeezed in to the van. I, the hotel finder for all these people, barley got a seat in van.

A quick 20-minute drive through the winter wonderland countryside and we arrive in the small village and our hotel. Irina could barely stay seated she was sooo excited seeing snow, charming small Dutch houses covered with snow, kids out playing in the snow, idiots out riding their bikes in the snow.

The Swankenburg was a jewel; the hotel room was perfectly cozy, just needed a little more heat. Freshened up and headed for the Chinese restaurant we had passed about a block away.

Irina was in heaven, snow and Chinese food everything she loves. Sloshing through the snow we only saw a few kids out and about. “I hope it’s still open Irina, or we are in trouble. Quit peeking in all the houses, lets get there before they close….. Irina! Forget the real-estate ads on the window, we will go to bed cold and hungry if you don’t hurry.

Finally peering in the window I could see life. Tried the door, still open and the little Chinese lady ushers us in. A pretty big restaurant and only one other group, things must close early on a snowy Swankenburg Saturday Night.

Since arriving in the morning we had only snacked a little at the airline lounge so looking at the menu Irina suggests the 5 course General Wou extravaganza. What the heck, sounds good to me. 5 courses and a few wines later things are mellowing out, but we still had the walk home through the winter wonderland.

I ask for the check and Irina starts talking to the waiter/owner maybe also cook about EU economics. “OH NO, we’ll be here another hour”. He jumps right into Taxes, 15 minutes later Irina moves to Health Care, and after another unknown period of time I finish it up with Currency Exchange – I review the bill and convert Euros to $s. We pay, we leave, we walk to the hotel, we brush our teeth with no toothpaste, we crawl under down covers.

T-DAY +1 – Saturday 22:00 GMT 12/4/10 (33 hrs awake time)
Day one+ in the bag, we sleep like babes.

To be continued

Russian Life - Mule’n Food

2009-06-27T10:00:00.006-05:00

June 27, 2009

Early this morning while brushing my teeth, I hear from the kitchen “Potrick, Potrick we have no food!!! What can we eat?”

“Yes dear, I’ll be right there to see what we might have for breakfast.” Another day, another crisis, I’m sure there has to be something we can have.” Opening the refrigerator with ease and scavenging around I saw no milk (so the kasha option is out), no yogurt, no cottage cheese, no bread, no fruit, no pirogue, a little remaining Italian sausage. “Yeah there isn’t much here Irina.” Then I spied the eggs, we won’t starve or have to eat sausage, ginger root, beets, buckwheats, carrots, cucumbers, or hotdogs and ketchup this morning!!! “Irina how about a cheese omelet?” I yelled.

“That would be ok”

So I opened the refrigerator with ease and started gathering the makings for the omelet.

I digress but you might wonder why “I opened the refrigerator with ease”. Well 2 years ago when we returned to Russia we were told about “the accident”. Somehow the handle that opens the refrigerator got knocked off the door. I knew when be bought this “top-of-the-line German production single compressor refrigerator” that the weak link was the handle design. And my fears were realized; all that remained of the handle was an inch broken plastic detruding from the door. One could still open the door by pulling on this plastic stub. But if the door was shut just before you again attempted to open it the sealing system that sucks the door closed required some real leveraging to get the door back open. For two years we called and searched everywhere trying to get the problem fixed. However it seemed the service people for this refrigerator had all left Russia and returned to Germany. But then before returning to Russia this time Vicky, who also got tired of trying to open the door when she was over visiting Mamula, found the parts supplier and ordered the handle. A quick three months later we received the parts and I got it installed, not bad for Russia. Of course they cheated us and said we had to buy both handles, the one for the frig which was broken and the one for the freezer which was OK. So I guess we just have a back handle in readiness for the next accident. But now it truly is a small pleasure to open the refrigerator door with one finger and peruse around for something to eat.

Back to the breakfast crisis; hidden back on the top shelf I found tortillas, we had a little cheese and some hot peppers so it was going to be a “South Texas Breakfast Burrito” morning. For just scrounging around for anything to eat it was delicious. We enjoyed a rare treat and discussed what we were going to do about solving our real food crisis.

(Irina’s comment: all Pat writes is so much exaggerated, it is all just for fun and interesting reading but not the exact reality of life of course)

“Potrick, Mamula got this letter about a food package for veterans. Maybe we will go see what it is and get it.”

Sounded like some kind of Russian meals-on-wheels without the wheels, but what the heck, it’s free lets check it out. “OK, lets go see what they have. By the way, what is this for some kind of monthly giveaway they just started?” I asked.

“No, they are just doing it to celebrate the start of the Great Patriotic War. Probably some politician’s trick.”

“That’s weird,” I thought. Generally they celebrate the end of the war and victory, not the starting of wars. “Irina lets see there was the 1st war with Germany, the war with the Japanese, probably 10 wars with the Turkish, the Napoleonic war, Peter the Great’s war with Sweden, somekind of little war with the Finns. If we get food packages for the start of every war we could get a package every month or more, that could really cut down our food expenses!!!” Unfortunately Irina didn’t think that the politicians would go that far. Oh well lets get what we can and we got ready to go.

I was waiting at the door with my shoes on ready to go (since slippers are the only acceptable foot wear worn in the apartment the last thing before leaving is to dawn one’s shoes at the door), “Irina, are we going or what?” I yelled.

“Potrick, I can’t find Mamula’s passport! I’ve looked everywhere. Maybe it was stolen!”

A couple of nanny’s ago we had one that stole Mamula’s “workbook”, that is we think she stole because it has been missing ever since. A person’s “workbook” is one step above or one step below one’s passport, depending upon what you need at the time. The workbook is an old Soviet record of every place and length of time you worked. In Soviet days and up until it was recently replaced with computer records it was very, very important because your pension was calculated from its entries. Its loss was not so terrible since Mamula wasn’t going to add any more work time in the book and her pension was already on the pay records. But whoever took it might also be able to somehow claim benefits under Mamula’s pension. Her passport was much more important to us now since any time you have to interface with the bureaucracy the passport must be presented.

Mentally rounding up the usual list of suspects, Irina first text messages Vicky who is vacationing again in Greece. Luckily she was close to her phone and quickly replied that she didn’t have it. Next suspect: “Ahhhh, Sasha, (our last nanny) I’ll call her” Irina said. I didn’t understand the conversation but noticed that Irina headed for the drawers where we keep important stuff, opened the door and then quickly pulled out the missing passport from the same place she carefully searched 6 minutes prior. Another mystery solved, another crisis avoided, ready to go, I’ll go put my shoes back on.

We kinda knew where the pickup location was so we decided to walk, not far maybe a mile or two. And for about the first time in a month the sun was trying to come out. The weather was looking nice so a little walking without jackets and mud would be pleasant. We walked past the flower sellers, stopped, looked, noted prices and continued. People were all out in their summer outfits, a fresh smell in the air of all things blooming - Ahhhh…..it was a great day in Russia!

OK, where is this place? We arrived at the expected location. Only one other lost guy in the waiting room trying to find out some kind of information from the hundreds of type written pages pasted to the walls everywhere. Looks bad. Checked the office doors, all locked. We knew where we wanted to go; we knew this was the local government office; but we didn’t know if this was right government office since there was no number on the building. Our other lost Russian was not looking for the War Fever Food Distribution, no help there.

So back to the street. Irina heads for the traditional Russian reservoir of local knowledge, the old babushkas. They were out there just sitting on a bench next to the lovely small flower garden surrounded by the dilapidating government building, the new restaurant/gambling casino’s flashing neon signs and the 4 lane highway/tramline. Such babuskas life is to watch everyone and know everything about the their little local neighborhood. If something was happening they would know. Meanwhile I sought an answer that didn’t require using my pitiful communication skills; just walked over to the next building looking for an address number. We both enjoy simultaneous success! It’s the next building over.

Approaching the building I knew were on the right track. Old veteran looking people were trundling out the door with a big full plastic bag in each hand. We entered what looked like some kind of large typical Soviet style revolutionary rally and/or lonely-hearts dance hall. A large, sterile room with gray walls, gray floors, dirty grey-whitish ceiling, dirty windows allowing only a gray-brownish light in. The only color came from two 10 foot high piles of War Fever Food Distribution bags (one bright orange the other black), the 40 dark, dark violet, blue couches. The big room was otherwise empty except for two gray-blackish tables from which the young girls in their high heels and colorful Italian like mini skirts ran the operation.

And so begins the normal “dealing with Russian bureaucratic agencies” ritual. Looking around, Irina asks loudly “sto poslledniy” (who is last in line) and falls in behind the person raising their hand. In the mean time I relaxed on one of couches sitting along the walls; or tried to relax. These were the most uncomfortable couches I had ever sat on; they were more like high-backed, padded punishment pews from a 1650 Puritan church. Designed to ensure that the comrades stayed awake and would jump out of their seat with pleasure to clap and yell their approval of any commissar’s political blather. Or, when converted to the dance hall any boy would prefer dancing with the ugliest girl in the town rather than sit on these horrid couches for long. Luckily I didn’t have to sit for long. The line was short, the documents all in order and quickly reviewed, the Halloween like War Fever Food Distribution gift bags handed out and we were on our way.

“What is in these bags? They must weigh 25 pounds apiece.” I thought.

“I don’t know. Lets look.” Irina excitedly replied as she undid the knot and started pulling stuff out. “Russian macaroni! Oh in Soviet times Mamula loved this with butter and sugar. Oh here is a bag of sugar! Is this a bag of flour, looks like it is so old the printing has faded? What do you have Potrick?”

“Our favorite, two bottles of sunflower oil. We can do lots of healthy, fried stuff now. A bunch of cans in here: peas and somekind of fish. All looks good to me Dear! But it’s kinda heavy, I hope the bags don’t break.” And so Potrick “the mule” who carries the heavy load and Irina start for home.

“But wait! Irina lets make a quick run to the store to get those things I need to finish up the wiring project.” We were only a 10-minute walk from our favorite Russian type “Home Depot” store and had been wanting to get there for the last couple of weeks.

Just a quick detour, in and out. But as we exit the store I noticed Russian summer arrived. “Whoa the sun has finally come out. Irina, I think I will be too hot. I will take off my winter shirt and put it into the food bag.” Standing in the smoking area outside the Russian Home Depot I start shedding some of the excess clothes I had put on when we left our cool apartment. This food hauling his heavy work I feel like a mule!

Actually it is normal for Russian workers to change clothes. Workers arrive at our apartment in their nice street clothes, dig into their tool bags to pull out these really stinky, dirty things, and change into them while they are working. After a hard day sweating on the job they switch back and head home. Of course when standing next to a worker heading home on the metro you don’t know if its’ him, or her, that stinks or the clothes in the bag they are carrying. Makes no difference the impact is the same. So I am sure no one was offended by my changing clothes outside the store.

Approaching the street to catch the trolley home we sadly see our #55 pulling out. “Oh no, it will be another 20 minutes before the next number 55 arrives! My arms are already starting to feel like they are about 5 inches longer. We must take the trolley or my knuckles will be dragging on the ground by the time we walk all the way back home.”

We wait a few minutes and only the ubiquitous #100 trolley, which is not exactly good for us, approaches. “Lets take this one Potrick. We can get off at Engelsa and Ecenina and then catch a bus. That will be quicker than waiting, beside I am getting hungry for lunch, it’s already 2:00.”

“OK, I agree.” So we board the trolley with our 40 pounds of War Fever Food Distribution food and the 8-foot thin, bendy, plastic sticks things for the project. Thank goodness there weren’t many people on it. Well weren’t many people when we started; but we stopped and took on a big load of riders. Of course the old lady conductor comes running up to collect their money and stumbles over my bright orange bag which stuck only slightly out into the aisle. Immediately I am loudly chastised and probably threatened with expulsion from the trolley. I was not in a happy mood and just snarled back “Yeah, yeah, ladna”. I am sure she had no-idea what I said, what language it was, or whether I was just some idiot not to be messed with; she just moved on and took her money.

It’s a quick trip to our stop and as we exit the trolley Irina notices that the big #13 Electric bus, which is the one we wanted, was just leaving. “Irina, now we need to wait or try a mini-bus”. Rumbling up the avenue came a small, rusting, smoking, dented, dirty mini-bus. I could see it was pretty full, but Irina waves it down anyways, pulls on the broken handle, opens the sliding door, disregarding the normal smell of fresh body odor, she looks in and decides there is enough room to squeeze in 2 more people with all their stuff. She was right, but didn’t consider the comfort factor. “Oh well, it’s a short ride. Just don’t poke out anyone’s eye with those sticks you are holding”. I told her

She starts pushing and squeezing between people heading for the back seat that looked open. Once there she discovers the seat is broken, no seat for her and her building equipment. Fortunately I ended up in the last seat by the entrance door and could set my two 40 pound bags of food on the floor of the mini-bus. “Got money honey?” I asked so we could pay the guy to haul us about a quarter of a mile.

“I can’t get at it with all this stuff, here take my purse” Irina said from her half crouched, half standing position standing in the tiny aisle of the crowed mini bus holding on to the greasy seat back for dear life. I hate paying these guys because I have to put on my glasses to figure out what money to give them. I start fumbling around looking for 52 Roubles. The 50 is easy it difficult finding the little 1 Ruble coins. Irina tells me to hurry we are all most there. “Yes dear, I am looking!” Simultaneously I give the driver his money and Irina yells at him to stop so we can get off. We all lurch forward as he hits the breaks. We exit alive, survived another mini-bus ride.

“Well the # 55 trolley would have been more comfortable, but we are almost home” I said. Another block or so and our first mission of the day is accomplished.

Once in the apartment we rip open the War Fever Food Distribution bags, grab the can of peas, open them up. Accompanying our caned peas the cook will today be serving warm leftover buckwheats, which fortunately were 2nd choice for breakfast or the lunch peas would be unaccompanied. “Presto” lunch is served.

Enjoying our relaxed lunch and flexing my sore arms Irina reminds me “we still have no food, we must go to the store!” Yes shes’ right we can’t live long on War Fever Food Distribution food.

“We need so many things, we must go to Okey, they have everything. But Potrick you must help me, it’s so hard to carry those heavy bags.”

“Yes, dear I’ll go but you know I hate that store” I dutifully replied.

Okey does have a much better selection of food than our local stores and it is cheaper, so much for the good news. But it is too far to walk and once inside its’ like the LA Freeway at rush hour. Thousands, at least it seems like thousands, of Russians pushing their shopping carts the same way they drive their cars, fast, rudely, forcing their way into places too small to go, and with lots of crashes. Long lines, people stacked up four or five deep at every vegetable bin fighting over the best beets, workers pushing crates loaded with food ready to run down any unsuspecting shopper in their way, self-help food charge labels machines which never seem to work, and tooooo many choices, we always overbuy there.

Regardless whether the food charge labels machines work or not, don’t even think of trying to check out without weighing your produce and sticking a charge label on the plastic bag. That is the best way to be loudly and publicly humiliated by the a checkout clerk while she takes your unlabeled bag of the most carefully selected, best tomatoes in the bin and slams them on her counter behind her cash register. You’ll never see them again. “Next item please, and hurry, there are others in line waiting to check out.”

Shortly after our recent arrival in Russia we stopped here to pickup a few items. Irina, still suffering from jet lag had not made the transition from shopping in the HEB and shopping in Russia. She forgot to weigh and label her veggies. Eyes drooping, half awake she placed her plastic bag of tomatoes on the counter. “What is this” the checkout babuska screamed “No price label, stupid”.

Irina apologized and told her how she just returned from America and how it is done there America. She was tired and just forgot. The checkout babuska thought she was making up this impossible fantasy; she just couldn’t grasp such a foreign concept where she would have to weigh the veggies at the checkout. How could something like that work? And reminded Irina that she was now back in Russia, as if Irina couldn’t tell the difference.

It was back on the trolley heading for Okey. Looked at my watch, 4:12. “This is going to fun, just in time for the after-work rush hour. At least we have a list and might get out of there without doddeling.”

As we walked in I could see it was just another normal day at the Okey supermarket: a feeding frenzy of somekind going on over by the fruit bins, don’t head that way. First try at getting the weight and charge label machine to work fails of course, didn’t seem to recognize the sale price and charges me double. What to do a long line is waiting behind me; “I’ll try again later” and move on. Pushing my cart back out into the traffic zone I’m too slow, before checking the right lane my cart gets bashed in the side by some speeding shopper. Major traffic jams on the soups aisle detour required. Another sideswipe of my cart by shopper talking on cell phone while driving shopping cart, fortunately no eggs in our cart. Irina gets lost, have to call her on the cell to find a rendezvous point. Find Irina at the yogurt section reading the labels trying to decide which of the 15-20 different types available meet our country-of-origin, fat content, acceptable ingredient content, expiration date, and price requirements.

“Irina, the fish looks good, lets get some. After all it is even healthy!” Looking over the big pile of supposedly Norwegian trout laying on a wooden table in ice they seemed to be fresh. But then I have never bought whole fish before too messy to deal with. I seemed to remember that clear eyes, red gills and no stink were some items to check. These seemed to pass the test.

“Potrick you stand here, I will get in line and when it is my turn I will tell the lady to go to the table and you will show her which fish we want. Understand?”

“Of course dear, but why can’t you walk back and point out your favorite fish?” Too much trouble I guess, so I stood there waiting as I watched Irina move closer to the babuska taking orders.

Standing there dodging the crates of food coming out of the storage area another lady moved over to the adjacent salmon fillet section. I noticed out of the side of my eye that it looked like she was bending down getting her nose right up to the fish. When she noticed I was watching her she jumped back up and I smiling asked “eta horasho?” (are they good?). Wondering who is this old guy with such a strange accent, she replied “da ya tak duma” (yes, I think so). I didn’t have the heart or the vocabulary to tell her that we have reliable reports from good sources that the fillets are always made from the old fish which weren’t bought before their eyes glazed over, their gills dried out and their bodies became stiff as a log. Vicky told us to never buy a fish without a head. Easy for her to say, she knows how to easily clean fish, I don’t.

“Opps its’ Irina turn to order, quick find a good looking trout!” I’m franticly checking as best I can without touching the fish and then smelling fishy all the way home when I hear Irina shouting something. I look up and notice that the service babushka has walked over to some container behind the counter, pulled out some who knows how old of a fish, slips into to 3 plastic bags (to prevent the smell from getting out I presume) and slaps it down on the counter. I guess its’ not up to me to pick a good one.

When I get back to Irina she was upset, but what to do. The service babushka wouldn’t even let her look at the fish. Just said if you don’t like it give it back. Well from what I could tell peering through 3 plastic bags it’s eyes seemed OK, we’ll just keep it.

“OK I think we have spent enough time in Okey, dear. And the bags are going to be heavy. That’s almost everything on our list that we need from here. Lets go, I’m getting tired.” And we head for the check out counter. “Wonder-of-wonders, we find a clerk with no line!! She must just have come on duty, quick.” I am thinking things are going OK. Then a green pepper shows up in a plastic bag with no charge label. A little chastisement from the checker, guess she just started and wasn’t up to speed yet. “Opps how many packeets (Russian plastic bags for carrying your food) do we need, better be only two since I have only two arms to carry them in”. And we throw two bags in with the food since one must buy their grocery bags, unless you remember to bring your old ones from home, which we didn’t of course. I load the bags, and Irina fumbles with the money to pay, providing the exact small change always speeds things along and is about the only thing that might make the checkout girl smile.

So Potrick the mule is loaded down again with pounds and pounds of food headed for the public transportation back to the apartment. One more gauntlet to run: the street venders around the mini-bus loading zone. It’s hard for Irina to walk past without looking, touching and maybe buying something from them. “Potrick, maybe we need some strawberries? These look so good!“

“Irina, is it strawberry season, we don’t want to buy stuff that has been stored in the gas warehouses for 6 months, they look awfully red and large, maybe too much fertilizer or growth hormones.”

“NO, the strawberry season is beginning, these might be OK. And these guys say they have Azerbaijani tomatoes. Lets buy!” How could she resist such Southern, as in Azerbaijani, charm?

“OK, dear. Pile some more into my bags”.

Irina orders a half-kilo (that’s only another pound, nothing for a food mule) and the lady starts digging into her strawberries piled behind the table not the fresh, beautiful, sweet smelling ones on her display table. “Stop!!” Irina exclaims, “let me see the bag. I don’t want these” as she starts picking out the rotten ones slipped in and starts filling her bag with the beautiful strawberries from the display table. The lady frowns at this, but weighs, calculates the price and Irina pays.

As we leave Irina just shrugs her shoulders and tells me “Southerners will always cheat you a little, it’s their nature”. Her father grew up in Baku, he knew their character, he taught his daughter well.

Getting off the minibus at our stop we head for the next food supply facility, the barnyard. Not really a barnyard any more, used to kinda be when I first came. But now its’ just a few of the remaining proprietors working out of a small store; even less than a store, for some it’s only a door with a service window in front of what would be called a “walk-in closet” in most places and small display of the veggies in the windows beside the door. Another Southerner operation of course.

Here we buy the heavy stuff like potatoes, carrots, onions, red beets all by the kilo. My first visit was a major blunder. I stupidly bought only 3 onions, just enough for our evening needs. Upon returning I was severely chastised for not buying at least a kilo or two. “We always need onions” rang in my ears ever since.

Irina purchases another 4 or 5 kilos of veggies, piles them onto mule Potrick, we take a couple of steps and then turns to me with a curious expression on her face. “We were cheated!” She exclaimed! “There is no way that those potatoes and all cost 150 Rubles.”

“Quick! Lets go back and straighten it out.” I said

“No, it won’t do now. I had to tell him before we left the window. Just another Southerner, they always cheat you. But I don’t mind so much that is their national character, my father told me so. They are a kind of ‘cheerful cheaters’. I go to our stores for everything left on the list.” And Irina headed towards Oasis and possibly on to Petarichka (the 5 Store), our smaller, local grocery stores.

In the mean time I am lugging the heavy stuff to the apartment door. Only a 100 or so meters to go, I think can make it. But the 2 flights of stairs could be a problem. I make it and the unloading begins. About the time I finish putting stuff away, Irina arrives with the last of the groceries. Potrick is not the only one that Mule’n food; it is an equal opportunity, family entertainment activity.

7:30 pm as I relax my tired body with a cool refreshment, I thought. “Sometimes it would be nice to have a car, no more mule’n food, might not spend all day going to grocery stores, huummm.” Snapping back to reality “Nope, not here. Mule’n food is good exercise and what would I do with that extra time?”

Russian Life - Good Advice

2009-06-14T04:07:00.016-05:00

From the Archives - Circa Spring 2006

On Monday I was reminded of some sage old advise that I believe my friend Lynn's father gave to him and Lynn passed on to me some time ago: "the less you pay for your alcohol, the more you pay in the morning".

Sunday was Easter II, Russian Easter is always 2 weeks after Western Easter. So we were doing the normal things that people here do: hardboiled a lot of eggs and colored them; made a traditional egg & cottage cheese dish; got some cakes that had eggs in them; and then ate eggs all during Easter day. Of course we had a few other things like ham & beans, fish salads; lots to eat. And of course we had a little wine to drink.

Wine is becoming something of an international problem. Russia of course doesn't produce any wine now that the southern part of the old USSR has gone its own way. So all the wine is imported from somewhere, we think. French, Spanish, Italian, Chilean, South African, Australian, Moldavian, Georgian labels are what you see on the shelves. But wait! Recently on the internet Vicky finds information alluding to the fact that lots of the wine is not really wine at all, just powder mixed with water and alcohol. And there is no shortage of empty wine bottles to put such a vile mixture in.

Bottle recycling is big around here, big that is for alcoholics. There are hundreds of dingy, back-ally type recycling operations where you will always see a line of old pensioners and alcoholics who are there to trade a bag full of beer and wine bottles they collect during their brief period of sobriety for a few rubles. Then of course they buy more alcohol and the recycle process starts anew.

Mostly one sees beer bottles being recycled. That’s the easy trade since on any given morning looking out the kitchen window during breakfast one can always spy people walking with a couple of cold ones in there hand. I’ve always wondered “are they heading home from the night shift and getting ready to settle into a few TV soap operas, or heading to work for the day shift and getting ready for dealing with the boss lady?”

So, again, I wondered could these recycled wine bottles be used for Russian bathtub wine? Sounded reasonable, after all this is Russia. We started scrutinizing the wine bottles loooking for anything suspicious.

Inspector Irina quickly noticed that the back labels were missing from some wine bottles. Strange, this is where the winery promotes their product. But wait, there is some kind of Russian label on the back telling “who knows what”. OK, Irina surmises “if the bottle has an original back label it is less likely to counterfeit, we will buy. No label or Russian label – no buy”. Then when we closely looked at the front labels we realized that some of them looked very "amateurish", probably printed on someone's ink jet printer in the back office, and again only a Russian generic label on the back. It is becoming more and more difficult to find wine bottles meeting our strict label criteria.

Then it happened; official confirmation of foul play in the wine biz came a few weeks later. Last year I developed a real liking for the Georgian and Moldavian semi-sweet wines. Suddenly they were nowhere to be found. The mystery was soon solved. The info babes on the 6:00 news, by the way Russian info babes are definitely the most beautiful in the world, are showing swat teams in full combat gear rampaging through unsuspecting grocery stores rounding up all the “Southern wine production”. Horrified owners tried to find an explanation and shoppers just moved to another aisle where it was a little less crowded.

The info babes looking very serious continued talking so fast it was hard for Irina to catch what was going on. The jest of the story turns out to be, that following an "official inspection" it was discovered that wines from these evil “Southern Countries” didn't meet Russia's Adult Beverage Bureau’s high quality standards. The unofficial speculation is that there is some problem going on between the Putin government and Georgia and Moldavia. Kinda like cutting off the gas to the Ukraine last January, the coldest winter in the last 30 years, because of a pricing dispute.

Anyways the wine from those countries all but disappeared, except from some of the small “hole-in-the-wall” purveyors who themselves were “Southerners and had a “leetle” stock left. Their wine was the best we had found but the supply was drying up quickly. It was getting serious because Georgia and Moldavia had been major exporters to Russia. The whining continued for a while and then the Georgian President on TV (that’s Georiga the country’s TV, not Russian TV, we watched on the internet) tells the Russians. "Yes, some of the wine exported to Russian may have been lower quality, but what does it matter? Russians would drink red water with s..t in it if they thought it was alcoholic". I have cleaned up the quote to make this suitable for family reading. Following that tactful diplomatic statement I don't bother looking for Georgian wine in Russia anymore.

So needless to say on our Easter II table was a supposedly Estate bottled, 2004, Chilean merlot. It carried only a generic Russian back label, as nothing else was on the shelves in our local store. I enjoyed my first glass. “Not bad for red water with alcohol and sundry other contents,” I thought.

Soon thereafter Vicky and Igor arrived and what should they have with them but "Kagor" - church wine. They got it from the church where the priest personally blessed the bottle as you handed him the Rubles. It was Easter II so I thought Kagor to be more appropriate than suspect Russkie-Chilean merlot. Only problem Kagor came in a plastic 1 liter bottle, an unsealed twist top and absolutely no labels front or back.

Considering all the recent flap over wine quality and high production standards I should have been more cautious. But I remembered that last year Igor had brought similarly packaged wine from Moldavia and it had been very good. No one else really liked the sweet “Kagor” wine; they were all drinking my Beefeater & tonics, vodka, or Cizano all of which had proper labels on the bottles. So I remember having about 4 glasses during the evening of this unidentified elixir, which really tasted very good, not like "s..t" at all.

After the grand celebration we all got the remaining eggs and once again did the final Easter egg tradition. We cracked the eggs against the other’s eggs and said “Christ has risen” and the other person replies, “He has risen indeed”. Being out of eggs, out of adult beverages, out of food the afternoon winded down. Vicky, Igor and their friends headed off for bowling, leaving Tolick with us; babysitting - our normal duty.

While tidying up and waiting for them to retrieve little Tolick I started having a lot of heart burn. Not being able to spell "relief" with Rolaids I settled for the Russian substitute - 4 black coal pills. Irina had previously revealed to me the magic like quality of coal pills some months earlier. They are actually black coal which when chewed up turn your mouth and tongue a really ugly black; kinda like eating a charcoal bricket. Just make real sure you rinse your mouth after use and before going out in public. But they can virtually absorb or neutralize all kinds of bad things in your stomach. Irina said that the KGB's legendary drinking prowess over their CIA cohorts was built on these little pills. Took the pills, they helped, the parents returned, and we all headed to bed. It had been a good celebration.

Next morning we were up early, 9:00 or so, I took Chico on his morning walk and returned for a breakfast of yogurt, musli, fruits, cheese, black bread covered with homemade baby strawberry jam and black coffee. Finished, took care of the normal morning chores and then that nasty heart burn returned. Took more black coal. Irina headed to Vicky's to help with the baby. Fortunately I stayed home because stomach cramps soon set in. I laid down bed for a bit until I decided it was time for a SIB (Self-Induced-Barf).

Felt a little better but it was not to last. Had this terrible taste of rotten eggs and about 15 minutes later, right in the middle of phoning Irina, I rushed to the toilet for another round. Well this went on for the next couple of hours and I was thinking "what a really weird hangover - but why this terrible rotten egg taste".

Irina returns from babysitting duty and says "what is this terrible smell? Rotten eggs!" Then she gets to the room where I was lying and discovers the source. "Disgusting smell!!"

I told her "I think I am having some kind of reaction to all those Easter Eggs we ate yesterday". My system has always been a little sensitive to eggs.

She exits the room thinking "Yeah - Hangover".

While laying in the fetal position trying to figure out what is going on I’m thinking "rotten eggs & sulfur - a bad mixture. Wait remember? Wine always has in tiny, little print on the back label ‘Caution contains sulfites’. What are sulfites? like hydrogen sulfide. Did we make them in high school chemistry class, or was that sulfates or sulfurics or let's see is that 2 hydrogen atoms and one sulfur atom, or - oho time to head for the toilet

I never knew what sulfites were or what they do. Of course the wine I was drinking didn't have any labels at all, who knows how many sulfites it might have had or what was in it. Anyways, maybe the two combinations of sulfur from the eggs and wine's sulfites are creating one of the many sulfur acids I last experimented with in high school chemistry. Sure smelled that way.

Irina returns and as in all situations like this has the answer "lets go to the hospital". First, I didn't think I could make it. Can't walk that far today and if we caught a little bus packed with people there would sure be a lot of mad Russians if I turned it into a stinking "vomit comet". Second, I wasn't to the point where I wanted to go into a Russian hospital and have them do anything that might require me to be put under - like maybe pump my stomach. I would have settled for some Pepto Bismo, but Russia doesn't have any.

Desperately I though how to respond and then I remembered "Isn't that medicine we got when Chico (our dog) was poisoned still around?” It was, and she brewed me up a batch. "Ummm, not too disgusting. Tastes like undercooked rice in water." Twenty minutes later, time for another toilet run.

By the end of the day my system was virtually empty, except for Chico's poison mix which I kept taking. But then I felt like I was running a little fever. So out came the old-faithful, Industrial strength Soviet, under-the-arm thermometer. "Yupp, 37.8 - IRINA. What is normal again?"

Irina calls Vicky relating my condition and their immediate diagnosis - "FEVER, HE HAS BIRD FLUE!!!" It was everywhere on TV at the time, another wonderful import from China.

I tell them "No way - bird flue is a respiratory problem, not stomach". But I started thinking maybe it could have mutated into some kind of stomach virus. Oh yeah by the way, we have almost quit eating chicken because of all the chemicals they feed them to ward off the bird flue. And there is a real concern about eggs being contaminated also. And by-the-way meat, of course, is out because of Mad Cow. Oh and don't dare eat anything from the Ukraine or Belarus because of the leftovers from the Chernobyl disaster can still be found.

Anyways it was getting late and I was in bed. Irina was forced to sleep on the sofa because she couldn't stand the smell.

The next morning had to get up early because the remodeler boys were coming over to replace the linoleum in the kitchen. So we all got up, including me. Actually I didn't feel too bad, just a very sore stomach and weak from all the vomiting. Made it through the day and finished reading my book so it wasn't a total loss. Still had a sore stomach but by the evening it is almost normal, what ever that is in Russia.

At the end of the day, I agree with Lynn's father's advise. Actually always have, just stray a bit from time to time. But if this was all the result of a hangover I am never, never going to drink any wine again; well at least not from an unlabled plastic bottle when overdosing on hard boiled eggs. However, will never know about the wine because nurse Irina poured all the remaining Kogar down the drain. I was disappointed, I thought I might take to the Russian Poison Center and have it evaluated. But I will just be satisfied with feeling better and surviving another day in old Russia.

Russian Business – The Great Toilet Paper Holder Saga

2009-05-16T13:57:00.000-05:00

May 11, 2009

“Potrick, Potrick!! I am tired of this old toilet paper holder. It’s soooo old. We need new.” Were the sounds coming from the toilet room about 10 days ago.

“YES dear, you are right as always; probably.” And so began the great toilet paper holder saga.

Irina had a point, the home-made Soviet Standard toilet paper holder was old, was kinda ugly, and had an aged yellowed look detracted from the toilet room’s recently installed royal reddish wall paper. Definitely a decorator conflict!

More importantly it had one design characteristic that I also particularly didn’t like; you could call it a environmental design flaw. It was an “L” shaped kinda thing with the short part of the “L” mounted to the wall. The other open-ended part stuck out towards the door so you could just slide the roll on and there the paper sat ready for use. However, the way it worked in real life after you finished with the paperwork and headed out of the little room, your leg generally knocked the paper roll of the holder and paper ended up rolling down the corridor. This was especially a pain when the cat was around, a small problem quickly could turn into a major mess as the cat found a new toy; but with the recent demise of the cat that nuisance is no longer an issue. Other than this small design flaw it was perfectly serviceable, it fit into the toilet easily without taking up too much room and it had no working parts that were likely to fail. These are always important points to consider when contemplating a new project in Russia. But Irina was insistent and the search for a new paper holder commenced.

A few days later, while heading to a mega home stuff store we came upon a small hardware/building stuff store. “Irichka, lets go see what kind of toilet paper rollers they may have.” Up the stairs we went to this dingy, cluttered “Mom & Pop” store that had little bits of everything scattered all over. Actually, like many Russian stores, there generally are a number of vendors operating under the same roof, each selling their own specialty items. So if you asked a sales person where to look for something and that something wasn’t what they sold the answer is always “I don’t know”. After sifting through tons of stuff we didn’t need, we found what we did need – two different paper holders. Plus they were the standard American style with a spring-loaded dowel to hold the paper roll! “Heey these don’t look too bad, what do’ya think Irichka?”

Irina wasn’t too excited, I could tell. They were obviously Russian Production and I didn’t particularly want to carry it for the next 3-4 hours. “Ummm, their OoK, but we will keep looking.” Our outing continued and took us to a number of our favorite home supply stores; Doma Homa (my translation of “Domovoy” the actual name) was the first large mega store. Irina looked at lighting fixtures and I looked at toilet roll holders.

I didn’t know how to explain “toilet paper holder” in Russian so I just wandered around the plumbing supply area. Finally, way back in the corner I found their bathroom fixtures. There seemed to be like 10 choices of everything except toilet paper holders. The options were model A or model B, both categorically rejected for their faulty design. These had the same flaw as the one we wanted to replace, plus they were expensive. European, of course. Looking further I finally spied what I was looking for. Then the price hit me like a hammer. “Yikes!! 2,200 Rubles for a standard chrome plated toilet paper holder!!! That’s over $60!! Must be Italian, specially priced just for Russians. Not something an American pensioner would be interested in.”

I returned found Irina still staring at the ceiling looking at all the hanging lamps. “Do you have a crick in your neck from looking at all the lamps, dear?”

“No, there is nothing here Potrick. AND I CANT BELIEVE. All of the lamps only use these tiny little energy saving bulbs. They won’t give us any light!

“Irina, what are you saying here is one with standard size bulbs.”

“Potrick, look! That is Russian production! Ugly!! I want European and they only use the tiny bulbs now, which probably won’t make much light. Terrible, what to do??” It appeared as if our shopping day was getting off to a bad start.

“OK, maybe it is just here at Doma Homa. Lets go to the other store by the Grand Canyon.” The Grand Canyon, in St Petersburg is not a canyon, it is a high-end shopping mall with a “Home Depot like” store attached. Again it was the double whammy, no acceptable toilet paper holders, no ceiling lamps, at least not the type we were looking for. “Irina, we may just have to lower our standards if we are going to get anything at all.” And so we decided, Irina bought a lamp with the tiny bulbs and I bought the toilet paper holder from mom and pop. We got home and the first thing was, of course, hang the new ceiling light for Irina. Always beauty over utility for a woman.

Hanging a light fixture would be a snap I had lots of prior electrical experience. Back before my Kirby Salesman days, my summer job title had been “Non-Union Electrician’s Helper”. In those days, even before the global warming crisis, summers in Austin, Texas were hot and working in a “Non-Union” outfit most of our jobs were residential electrical remodeling. One of the primary duties in the job description of a “Non-Union Electrician’s Helper” was “fishing wire”. I liked fishing, so the job didn’t sound too bad and besides it would be cool down by the lake. Driving up to our first job, looked around, saw no lake, no river. Not wanting to sound too stupid I kept my mouth shut and thought “Well maybe we just won’t be doing any fishing today”.

After we unloaded the truck, got set up, and lined out the work to do my “Non-Union Master Electrician” splained fishing to me. “Here bowa, take this drill, this fishing whar, git up thar into the attic, crawl over to this here wall, dreill you a hole tween these here walls. AND BOWA DON’T screw up and drill into the room!!! Thein you drop your fishing whar down to me were I’ll be a waitin, I tie on yor whar and you pull er up. Thein carry the end of the whar to this here wall and dreill you a nother hole tween these here walls. AND BOWA DON’T screw up and drill into the room!!! Jest drop that whar down to me and thein you come on down. Oh yhea, don’t fergit to staple down the whars up thar fore you come on down.”

“Uh, This is not exactly the fishing trip I had expected.” I thought while climbing up into the attic. As my head poked into the attic space I could see lots of fiberglass insulation and a ceiling so low I would be forced to climb on my hands and knees. Oh yes the temperature was probably 120 or 130 degrees. Got all my gear up and started the crawl to our wall. He didn’t mention anything about falling through the ceiling into the room, but I bet that would not be appreciated any more than drilling into the room. Found the wall, drilled the hole and dropped my fishing line down to my “Non-Union Master Electrician”. He was down there waiting in air-conditioned comfort, flirting with the lady of the house who was still in her morning robe, and takes his time tying the wire onto my fishing line.

Finally yells “Take her up bowa” and gets back to his flirting.

I drag the wire to the next wall, drill the hole and drop it down. Again interrupting my “Non-Union Master Electrician’s” flirting with work I yell, “the wires should be down there, I am heading back down!!” Grabbing all my gear, carefully trying not to fall through the ceiling, I drag my self back to the ladder. The closer I get the cooler it becomes, as my legs start down the ladder it feels like I was descending into an ice box with a soaking wet tee shirt on. “Man, 100 degrees never felt so cool” I told my “Non-Union Master Electrician”.

“Well bowa you did good, git yourself a little water hear” he said. “We’a needing to git going on to the next job.”

Still in her morning bath robe the lady of the house smiled, revealingly waved good-bye, and shouted “I’ll give ya a call if I have any problems!”

My “Non-Union Master Electrician” got a big grin on his face. “Yeees Maame, anytime day or night!!!” And we headed for the next job.

Had our lunch under a tree and I drank a lot of water; didn’t expect the next job to be by the river or lake. Arrived at an older house, looked around just in case there was a lake or something. “Nope, no lake and it’s a lot hotter this afternoon, I wonder what the first signs of heat stoke are?” I pondered thinking about another fishing trip to the attic.

My “Non-Union Master Electrician” tells me to get all the fishing gear out and that this would be a lot easier. After I had everything that I thought I needed he yells to me back at the pickup truck “Bowa, git that there hoa in the back there.”

“Hoe? What do I need a hoe for?

My “Non-Union Master Electrician” enlightens me. “Bowa, see this here house has a crawl space under the floor. It’s a lot easier to run yor whar under the house, and a lot cooler. That’s why we’re a doing it in the heat of the day. I always try to look after ma hepers. The only thing, ya need to keep a keen eye out fer oil them little critters that also like the cool. If ya see a snake jest use the hoe to shu it off, or kell it. Oh yeh, watch out for them black widder spiders. Let git a going.”

We walked up to the door and my “Non-Union Master Electrician” rings the bell. We waited, no answer, rang again, and waited; finally hear “I’ma coming, hold yer horses”. The lady of the house opens the door dressed in her itsy-bitsy-teeny-weenie bikini, she apparently was out back sunning herself. We checked the layout and I then headed for the underground. My “Non-Union Master Electrician” headed to the back yard to further discuss the installation.

I never liked caves, or spiders, or especially snakes. “Why didn’t I just go to summer school this summer” I was thinking while dragging all my electrical equipment, my flash light and hoe as I belly crawled to the fishing location. “YIKES!! WHAT’S THAT MOVING OVER THERE??” Grabbing my hoe and assuming some kind of defensive position laying on my stomach, I peared into the darkness straining to see what it was that was moving. What ever it was, apparently it had slithered away. “Maybe just a lizard” I hopefully thought. Swatting the spider webs out of my face I proceeded to the fishing location.

As I finally got to my fishing location. “Boss I’m here, I’m gona drill my hole “ I yelled laying on my back with the drill set to start the penetraton.

“Ok, Ok, I’ll be rawit there, just a minute.” He breaks off his discussion in the back yard and heads into the house. “OK, dreill you a hole tween these here walls. AND BOWA DON’T screw up and drill into the floor!!! Thein push up the fishen whar to me, I’ll tie on the whar and you pull er down. Thein carry the end of the whar to the side of the house out by the back yard, I’ll wait fer ya thar.”

I am lying on my back on the ground ready to drill. Check the location looks OK. All right pull the trigger to start the drilling. Immediately I levitate off the ground, my hands grip the drill, I can’t let go, I am just shaking. Finally after what seemed like a lifetime the drill falls from my hand, I fall back to the ground and the shaking stops. “What the hell is going on here!!! A big shock. Whoa that was scarry.” This of course was back in the days when every plug only had two barbs, no ground wire. I was the ground and was lucky I didn’t get killed. “BOSS, boss” I yelled “I just got a big shock down here from the drill!!”

“BOWA YOU OK?” He yelled down.

“Yeah”

“Ok bowa, come on out of there”

“Great he’s gona go down under there and drill the hole, I can get the heck outa here.” I thought. Wrong!

As I returned to sunlight he just told me “Yeah bowa, you gotta be reeel careful under them houses with electricity. Git back to the pickup and git one on those 2x10’s. Lay on et and yeh oughta be fine. Oh, and try to find a dry spot to dreil from.”

“Sho nuff, Boss knows.” I drill my hole, pull my wire, carry my flashlight and hoe to side of the house where the outside electrical panel was located. As I got closer I could hear voices and laughing in the back yard. I yelled to my “Non-Union Master Electrician” that I was ready to give him the wire.

“Ok, Ok, bowa, lea me jest finish rubbing this here sun tan oil on the Misses back”. So a few minutes later I hand him the wires and start hauling all my stuff from under the house. After loading all my gear I head to the back yard to see how he was doing. He was doing just fine on all points, electrical business wrapping up and monkey business wrapping up.

Still in her itsy-bitsy-teeny-weenie bikini, albeit a bit more on the pinkish side than earlier, the lady of the house smiled, revealingly waved good bye, and shouted “I’ll give ya a call if I have any problems!”

My “Non-Union Master Electrician” got his by now usual big grin on his face. “Yeees Maame, anytime day or night!!!” And we headed for shop – closing time.

Actually fishing wire wasn’t the only thing I ended up doing for the next two and a half summers, we did all kinds of residential work. So I generally feel pretty good about working with household electricity. But the point of this story is that what we have here in Russia is not exactly the same, not even close. While here I don’t have to deal with heat stroke and the most dangerous critter I might encounter is a “dust bunny” not snakes, spiders and the such there are other challenging problems.

As we were putting the light up I noticed that all the electrical wiring here appears to be aluminum, which we did use a little back in 1964 before it was banned in America. Too dangerous, causes fires. My only thought was “well this building is concrete, the wiring is all encased in concrete, so what kind of fire could it cause, not gonna worry about it. The lights work, no sparks jumping and blowing of circuit breakers, normal for Russia production.” I suspect even my old “Non-Union Master Electrician” boss would be proud of the work I did.

Coming down from the ladder to admire the new fixture, however I didn’t notice an expression of joy on Irina’s face. “What do you think Irichka?”

“I don’t know Potrick, it looks a little big for this room and the 5 bulbs put out sooo much light. Maybe we could try it in the living room and replace that very, very old lamp there.” So much for our concern about those little light bulbs, the room was as bright as a tanning booth!

So, dutifully I climb back up the ladder, remove the fixture in the bedroom, then do the same with the very, very old fixture in the living room and re-install the new light in the living room. Again, “Potrick, I don’t know, it looks so small here in the living room, we will see.”

While Irnia was evaluating whether the new light fixture was OK, I finally got to return to the original problem we were trying to solve. Do you remember? The simple task of replacing the toilet paper holder.

I had hoped that I would be able to use the holes that were there for the old Soviet Standard holder, but New Russia in rejecting its past and moving into the capitalist world rejected the old standards of yesterday and the holes needed for our New Russian toilet paper holder didn’t even come close. Best I could do is hope to cover them up with the base of the new toilet paper holder. I unpacked the new toilet paper holder looking for the installation instructions and a template to tell me where to drill the holes. The only thing that fell out of the package were 4 big, long screws, wall anchors, and the attachment hardware. “Ummm, I suppose I will just have to eye-ball it, no template, no instructions”.

Actually I didn’t expect to find any instructions, any Russian would be embarrassed for life if he was caught looking at the instructions on how to put something together. They all know better than the instructions could ever explain. I have actually witnessed two adult Russians struggling for hours trying to assemble a baby bed. And when I suggested looking at the instructions for a little help was at first rudely ignored and when I persisted, was told they knew what they were doing. Maybe there was a breakdown in the translations, but in any event it got late and Irina and I had to wish them “good luck” as we left. We said “we will be looking forward to seeing how the crib looks when it is assembled”. How long they continued we do not know. Maybe after we left they snuck a look at the instructions since there was no there who would actually see them using instructions.

So on with step one. Drill the first hole for the attachment hardware. I could hardly wait! I finally would get a chance to use my new tool! The perforator! “What is a perforator”, you may ask, I did the first time I heard about them. Well it looks just like any other normal looking drill, the general shape is the same, but then you notice how big this drill is; it’s big, real big, it looks like a normal drill on steroids! After all we’re not drilling wood or sheetrock here, we’re drilling concrete! Every wall, every floor, every ceiling in old Soviet Standard Russian apartments is concrete. A man needs a big drill with guts! And the guts of the perforator comes from not just turning the bit, but turning and banging the bit into the concrete, it’s actually a miniature jack hammer.

So I look into my perforator case for the bit. “Umm, the bit I need is only a normal drill bit, not a perforator bit. Dang! Oh well I’ll try it.” Fifteen minutes later I had a hole that was less than ½ an inch deep and I needed 4 holes about 1 1/2 inches deep. “This is just not going to work, will take too long. These screws are so big! My visa will expire before I get these holes drilled.” And I put my new toy, the perforator down.

Suddenly it strikes me. “How big are these screws anyway? How thick is the wall?” Got my centimeter measuring tape out and measured, “Hummm, the screws are 4 centimeters long, how wide is this concreted wall?” Got the kitchen chair, stood on it and measured the thickness of the wall (we have a hole at the top of the toilet rooms wall for venting). Bad news the Soviet Standard toilet wall was only 4 centimeters wide and the screws are 4 centimeters long! “How could these guys sell a Russian Toilet holder with screws that would go through the Soviet Standard Toilet wall? Typical Russian production! Irina! Irina! I need new stuff to finish the toilet paper holder job, we will need to go to the store tomorrow.” Tools put away, mess cleaned up thought I might have a vodka, the work day was over.

In the mean time while I was working on the toilet paper holder installation Irina was pondering the new light fixture. “Potrick, I don’t like, it’s just too small for the living room. We must take it back.”

“OK, dear. I agree, and the old one is quite interesting even if it is 25 years old, I like it better. We’ll look some more for the bedroom. OH, by the way, I need more stuff to finish the toilet roll holder.”

One of the pieces of the New Russian capitalist retail system that has been slow to come is the “no-hassle return” concept. It is never easy and only a few places offer to take returns. But Irina said we could do it. So I carefully repack everything, tape up the box and we trundle off to the store. The store of course is about a long, long walk so we wait on the trolley, which after standing in the cold blowing wind finally arrives. As we get to the store and walk in we are immediately ushered to Security. We are third in line so I’m thinking this won’t take long – wrong. The security guy has to check off each item being returned against the receipt, mark it, and do other stuff that I didn’t understand. Of course the guy in front of us looked like he was returning his whole project, his cart was full of items to be returned. I could see it was going to be a morning spent at the security checker. So I told Irina I would go ahead and see if I could find what I needed. At some point, finally, without even having to take his gun out of its holster, his job was done and he allowed Irina to enter the store and proceed to the return counter.

I headed to the screw section in search for a simple “flat head” screw shorter than the width of our wall. And it didn’t need to meet the old “CCCP – Nuclear Bomb Survival Rating”. One thing that I have noticed in Russia is that so many things appear to be “over built”. Maybe everything was bigger and stronger than it needed to be for a purpose. Maybe Russians had some secret system where they rated everything on its ability to continue working in the event those rascally Americans nuked them. No doubt a working toilet paper holder would be on the top of the list of things one would want to survive “the big one”. So it better stay attached to the wall at all costs.

Where an American might use a ¼ inch bolt the Russians use a 1 inch bolt to hold something. Like our sleeper couch with a 1 inch bolt for the mechanism to pull out the bed; that bolt would never break. But of course they forgot to engineer in a way to keep the nut on the bolt. So after a while the nut falls of it’s 1 inch bold, system fails, sleeper couch no longer works. Normalnie!

Once I got to the screw section, I found hundreds of thick, big, long, oversized ones. But a simple little flathead was not in their inventory. Dejected, I headed back to the return counter to see how Irina was progressing. I found her at the end of another line.

“Potrick, Potrick! We have a problem.”

“Oh, no.” I thought, “They probably won’t accept the light back because we opened the box.” I had a sinking feeling that the tanning booth like light was going to be a permanent fixture in our bedroom. “Oh, well in winters we will be able to easily see everything and a little tan wouldn’t be bad.”

“Potrick, I don’t have my passport!” Irina cried in despair.

“Always, I mean Always, carry your documents!” I thought. “One never knows when one will need to produce them.” I could already see another trip to the store, the security line, the long return line: it was spoiling my mood. But then the unexpected happened. The older guy in front of Irina, took pity. He said she could put her return on his passport. I was getting a little confused with all these rules and ways to get around them, but I hoped it worked. I had no interest in returning to the store to return the light again. But it worked out and the guy restored my faith in Russians. We got our money and headed for the next store to look for a simple little flat head screw.

Walking home I remembered the “Mom & Pop” store had some kind of homemade display boards with hundreds of screws glued to them. You just pointed to the screw you wanted, get your little order paper, walk over to the Kassa (the pay booth), wait in line, pay, get a receipt, bring the receipt back to the counter where you saw the item, wait for the clerk to finish what ever she is now doing, give her the receipt and she cheerfully gives you what you wanted to buy 20 minutes earlier. One of the guys there even spoke English. “We’ll stop there, I am sure they will have what I want” I told Irina. Irina was tired and cold, but reluctantly agreed.

Unfortunately “flat head” screws were not to be found on the display boards. They had every kind and size of wood screw, which the lady tried to convince me would work. “Yeah I thought it would work just as well as the 1 inch bolt holding the couch together.” I thought. “Thank you, no we won’t buy.” And left for home, no toiler paper holder today, it was getting too late.

Another day another hike to another store in search of the holy grail of screws – the “flathead”. We leave early, about noon, hoping this will be the day. Get to the door and pull the handle – nothing happens. We look at each other a little confused. Try the other door, same result. “What’s going on here? They are closed.” My first thought is that they are going out of business because of the crisis. Another Russian tries the doors, probably thinking I didn’t know how to open a door. Same result, but she goes on to the door around the corner. Again same result, all doors are locked and she just stalks off grumbling something untranslatable. Then I ask “ Irina, isn’t this Victory Week, they are probably closed for the holiday”. Now our project is on hold for the next 3 days. I am kinda getting used to pulling the toilet paper off of the roller as it sits halfway down the mop handle, maybe we don’t need this new one.

Four days later, all the holidays are over for a few weeks, the store is open. Proceeding directly to the screw aisle I see “flat head” screws. “YES, Russians do know what a “flat head” screw is!! OK where is the size I want? Nope too long, no too short, too thick, oh no! I don’t see the size I need, I can’t believe this, every size but the one I want! Someone is punishing us for wanting to replace that old Soviet Standard toilet paper holder.” I collect my senses, “get a grip, settle down, lets see if something will work.” I start analyzing the alternatives and finally select a smaller screw than what I had really wanted. As I walked home I started thinking “what if the head is too small and I need some kind of washers to make it work, where will I find them? Maybe it’s too thin and the toilet paper holder will fall off the wall, or worse yet what if a large guest’s leg hits the holder while leaving the toilet room and knocks the holder off the wall!!! STOP! It’s OK, relax its Russia, it will work, I’ll just make it work one way or another.”

“OK, Lets get this job done!” Insert my new perforator drill bit, fire up the perforator and WhamO the hole is done in about 3 seconds. As the old “Non-Union Master Electrician” used to say “Boa, yeh gotta have the rite tools!”. Don’t have no template, don’t need no template just guess and go. 10 minutes later the job is finished and our shiny new chrome plated Russian Production spring loaded toilet paper roll holder is operational! “Irina, Irina come look!”

Russian Culture – The Dog Society

2009-05-10T12:36:00.002-05:00

From the Archives – Spring 2006

As I was lying in bed with the Grip II Chico was concerned; but he was more concerned about who was going to take him on his 3 walks a day in the freezing cold. Well of course Mamula wasn’t going to, so the job fell to Irina. A problem of sorts. Irina by nature is not a morning person (and in Russia neither is Patrick) and Chico, to the contrary, needs his morning piddle and poop. So was the beginning of a new adventure for all.

One thing in Russia is very noticeable to me – there is no diversity! Diversity that is, as defined by our last X-Presidents wife. Virtually everyone has the same color skin and round eyes. In our neighborhood, which probably has 10-20,000 people living within 4 or 5 blocks I have seen only 2 black Africans, maybe 5 Orientals, no Hispanics, no Latin Americans, no Puerto Ricans, no Jamaicans, no Eskimos, no aborigines, no Arabs, no Indians (American or Eastern). Except for the “Southerners” which are people from the southern countries like Georgia, Azerbaijan, Uzbekistan and other “stan” countries which have a rather swarthy look and speak with an accent noticeable only to Russians, everyone is Slavic or Nordic descent. So there are no real societal lines by race as there is in the USA which serve to break down into societal lines.

Under the Communist system everyone got thrown into the same big pot. In our neighborhood you have people from all different ages, different economic levels, educational levels, ect living in the same buildings. We all shop in the same grocery store, the kids all play in the same park and go to the same school, we all ride the same metro and little buses and never say anything to anybody except possibly to a neighbor living in our entrance. We all cautiously walk up to the steel entrance door, enter our secret code to enter, making sure there is no one around that could see our code or walk in with us. Quickly enter and close the door, check for shadows, which could be all kinds of unspeakable bad things. Then walk up to the second floor press the buzzer three times, the secret buzzer code, and have Mamula unlock the inner door, peer through the peep hole and make sure it is friend, not foe, and then unlock both locks on the outer steel door,.

People are by nature more social and as such seek out others that have similar interests. Then they form little groups where they feel comfortable and can discuss common interests. Irina found such a group when she started walking the dog – The Dog Society. Every day at least twice a day the Dog Society meets in the playground behind the school. The dogs play and the people discuss matters of high importance “Your dog has diarrhea what to do?…..” Of course we had a celebrity dog: Chico - the Mexican/English Spaniel from America! He was cute, but sure was dumb! Well maybe not dumb, but certainly naïve to all the aspects of surviving in the harsh Russian environment. We had already found out the hard way about all the poisons lying around everywhere, and at least Chico now always goes out with his muzzle to prevent a reoccurrence. But what about all those unknown dangers?

After Irina’s first morning with the society she just couldn’t wait for me to wake up. She shakes me out of my fevered stupor to tell me all about meeting all these wonderful interesting people and their wonderful dogs. “And Chico played so well with all the other dogs, I even took him off the leash and let him run.”

“Good, I am glad you and Chico had fun” I said. “Now I think I would like some more aspirin and go back to sleep”.

Some time later, I can’t remember when since I was delirious with a high fever, Irina comes in shakes my bed and wakes me. “Chico can eat kasha! Everyone says that they feed their dogs’ kasha so Chico can have it at breakfast with us. Oh, they also feed their dogs vegetables, fruit, and of course meat, cheese, bread, eggs, sausage….. And we must change the dog food we are using…. And this vet is excellent… And there is some disease the comes from dog poop that can kill a dog in an hour if he touches it…..And this lady has such a cute little Charpe puppy (actually a very, very ugly dogs with wrinkly skin) that they want to give away…”

That shocked me into my senses enough to say, “NO WAY – we can hardly handle the dog we have much less another one. I hope you didn’t do anything crazy”. Visions of the Internet page we saw after getting cute little Chico that said “one of the most difficult dogs is a Spaniel….” were dancing in my delirious head.

“No – of course I wouldn’t do anything without asking you first” Irina said. “But they are soooo cute and then Chico would have a playmate”.

“NET!!!!” my reply, and then asked to be left alone.

But now Irina had new comrades. She was out every day learning and learning and learning about having a dog in Russia. And Chico was getting some good exercise running in the snow playing with the dogs. Then all of a sudden, a cry goes out “call your dog!!!” Irina doesn’t know exactly what is going on and of course stupid Chico is oblivious and certainly not trained to come when called. Unfortunately Chico had a doctor’s excuse for his last training secession back in Corpus, he was being neutered, missed the last classes and didn’t seem to respond to “Chico come” very well after that.

“What is it” Irina asks.

As Chico was running toward the trees with his little tail just a wagging, one of the Dog Society answers “over there by the trees – DANGER, DANGER, a rotwiler, no leash, call your dog”. Of course all the well behaved and trained dogs return to their masters when called; but no, not the Mexican/English Spaniel from America. “A rotwiler killed another dog recently, the owner didn’t have it on a leash and was drunk, the dog attacked and just mauled the other small dog for no reason”. Irina was panicking and started to run and get defenseless, little Chico; remember he is muzzled to protect him from the dangers of poison. The Dog Society lady screams “Stop! Don’t even try to rescue your dog, a wild rotwiler can kill you also!!!”

Chico was on his own! They started the ritual sniffing. Seems like every dog in Russia is a male (I don’t know where they all come from without any females), and males don’t generally get along – so the odds were looking bad for little Chico. Irina could only look on from a safe distance and from time to time uselessly call “Chico come”. But of course Mexican/English Spaniels from America never seem to respond to voice commands. Wait! Seems the Russian rotwiler didn’t have a taste for Mexican food today, he is just moseying on. And little Chico heads back to his new Dog Society friends.

With all the dogs back in the fold and happily playing the Dog Society starts educating Irina about the dangers of different dogs and how one must be always vigilant. Especially rotwilers and pit bulls pose serious treats and should always be avoided. Then the Dog Society knew which dogs played together well and would raise the return alarm if an unwelcome dog is spotted.

BC, that is “Before Chico”, I never noticed how may dogs there were here in our village neighborhood. Now with Chico we are constantly checking the area while walking him. There are dogs everywhere: homeless dogs which you can always recognize and which are generally harmless, dogs on the leash, dogs off the leash, dogs pooping, dogs piddling, big dogs, little dogs. While it was cold, cold winter one never noticed the poop on the ground; magic, it snowed at night and was gone. But then spring, no snow; just melting snow and guess what started reappearing – dog poop! It was everywhere; surveying the usual dog walking areas I estimated that there was not one square meter anywhere without dog poop. So after a morning dog walk I suggested to Irina “do you think it would be possible for the Russians to carry a little plastic bag and pick up their dog poop like in America?”

Twenty minutes later after Irina quit laughing she said “first: you know of course rules in Russia are only made to be broken. Second: don’t you remember each time we go to the grocery store, unlike HEB, we have to buy plastic bags. Who would use such a valuable item to put dog poop in it?”

“Well I guess it was a dumb idea. Chico and I will head out for our walk and see if we can find a clean place to walk and poop” I dejectedly replied. It was a bright sunny Saturday morning and the snow was melting everywhere revealing its hidden treasures. I was concentrating on trying to walk and avoid stepping in half thawed dog poop and Chico had his nose to the ground sniffing desperately to find a place to relieve himself. We were busy and not maintaining our normal diligent lookout. Then it happened, I look up and see a big pit bull about 30 meters away, headed in our direction, pulling his master at the end of his leash. His master, this tall, thin, “string bean” type of guy, was weaving and wavering as if blown by a strong wind – obviously drunk at 10:00 am. I could see the slobber in this 90 pound pit bulls mouth, as he spots Chico and starts snarling. Chico, through his muzzle, starts barking back and the hair on his back stands up. The hair on my back was standing up also by now, as I quickly checked for exit routes and was pulling Chico away; its amazing how strong little Chico is when digging in all four paws. “OK- the kids slide is about 30 meters we, I, can climb out of the pit bulls reach and hopefully pull Chico up with me”. We quickly head to the slide sloshing through the soft snow and soft dog poop – no time to check where I am stepping now. String Bean, the pit bull’s master is yelling at his dog while staggering around, half tripping while his drinking companion struggles to hold him up. My vision is this pit bull pulling his leash free from String Bean and treeing little Chico and I at the top of the slide. Of course since there is no real Law and Order in Russia so we would have sat there until String Bean sobered up and took the dog home or the pit bull found another victim to chase. Fortunately String Bean with his drunken assistant was able to control his dog and went on their way. Another close call in Old Russia.

As the “mud season”, that is when the snow melts and there is nothing but mud, a little brown snow and bogs remaining, the dog society broke up. Walking the dog became a real chore and the goal was get out and get in as quickly as possible. Otherwise, you were dealing with disgustingly, dirty dog in a small apartment with no place to clean them except the bathtub. So Chico and I got into the routine: suit up, go out piddle and poop, return, get the tub filled with water, undress the dog, wash the paws, wash the dog jacket, dry the paws, dump the tub into the toilet, unleash the dog, and he is done until the next trip outside. From the day or our arrival Irina had this mantra: “Chico needs shoes”. But every time we looked in our local pet store they, of course, had none in his size. Now I was taking up the mantra also and we searched all the stores around for pet shoes. Finally in this upscale petstore in a new glamour mall, to our surprise we found some shoes. So now we were ready for “mud season”, added the shoes to his suit up and headed out. Chico walked kind of tentatively with his new equipment but didn’t complain. About 4 minutes into the walk he looses the first shoe and then I notice the others are just about ready to fall off. So we spend the walk adjusting the equipment until we get it right. What a difference that made! Cut the clean up to almost nothing.

Russian Life - The Big Deepfreeze

2009-05-10T12:13:00.004-05:00

From the Archives - January 2006

During the last 200 years a few hapless foreigners have ventured to Russian during the winter. Each was unlucky enough to be there for the worst weather in the last 75 years. Napoleon in 1812 visited Moscow and lost his Grand Army of France, German General Fritz Floyd in 1942 visited Stalingrad and lost the Second World War; and Patrick Chrisco in 2006 went to St Petersburg and almost lost his mind.

The first day in Russia we get up around 10:00 and notice that the apartment is a bit on the cool side. I have never experienced “cold feet” from jet lag so I suspected that the weather hadn’t warmed up since last night. Sure enough, even with the sun up and shining brightly outside thermometer is still hovering around –25C, no solar heating here. But it was clear blue skies with no wind and a few hardy souls were out walking, exactly where I will be as soon as I get the dog dressed and ready for the morning poop & piddle run. First I have to get Chico into his South Texas custom-made fleece; Irena’s handiwork – a purple piece of fleece from Michales, with a couple of holes cut out for the legs and Velcro strips sewed to the two pieces as they joined on the top of his back. It didn’t look that great, in fact I think he was a bit embarrassed, but hopefully it would keep him a bit warmer. Next I suit up; underwear, sweater, boots, jacket, gloves, scarf, thermal skull-cap. “Yup think that’s it, lets go.” Chico runs out the door and heads for the snow, finds some white stuff and immediately turns it yellows. Then he starts realizing he is not in South Texas and begins romping around in the snow. Lots of new smells, I guess dogs can smell frozen things, and trees to check out. It is fun for about 3 minutes and then Chico’s paws start freezing up, another thing that doesn’t happen in South Texas. So we head back to the house for our big breakfast, Chico running on 3 legs alternating paws in the air to thaw out.

Mamula, Irena’s mother was already up and had the auxiliary home heating system running – every burner on the kitchen stove top was going full blast. Since natural gas is free here, unlike in the Ukraine where there currently is some kind of pricing issue in progress which I hope doesn’t lead to a war, this seems like a normal answer. I was just a bit concerned about the fire hazard, but no one else seemed worried so what the heck I’ll try it. We started the day with the standard Russian winter “Super KKKK” breakfast: Kasha, Klabassa, Kleb, and Koffe (oatmeal, bread, sausage and coffee); warming and tasty. The kitchen was the coziest room in the apartment!

The biggest problem was the cold air pouring in through the double-pain Soviet Standard windows. Irena says “we must tape the windows TODAY!” So our day’s works was set – go to the stores and get the supplies we needed to tape the window joints. We bundled up and braved the cold around noon the warmest time of the day. Trundling along the road looking for the wide masking tape we needed to hold out the cold. Found it after going to the third store and headed back for lunch, about 3:00pm. Got the windows taped, not a real attractive fix but immediately felt the temperature in the apartment go up “what maybe ½ degree”. Oh well we had Vicky and Igor coming over for dinner so it would be another warm group of family all together.

Once again the kitchen becomes the center of life as we get the dinner ready for Vicky and Igor; all the burners going full blast. They arrive and we share a vodka toast to all. Irena thinking that baby clothes and things are unavailable in Russia, brought one large suitcase filled with baby stuff. So we opened gifts and enjoyed the evening. Shortly after they left we were left in the dark as the lights in the building went out! There had been warnings on the TV about shortages of electricity and sure enough it hits our building. Looking across the courtyard we could see the lights of the other buildings still burning brightly.

Candles are not as popular in Russia as in the USA and Irena only had 4 or 5 to light the apartment; one for each room. Just cozy and romantic. It was late and since we couldn’t read or really do anything we headed to bed.

Before getting into bed I checked the light switches to make sure they were off just in case the power came back on. Crawled into bed and it was warm. I in my long sleeve tee and fleece pants and ma in her flannel PJs had just settled in for a long winter’s nap. Quickly to sleep everyone fell; until out in the living room I heard such a clatter I asked Irina what was the matter. The TV was blaring with screams and gun shot while every light in the house was shining white hot! From my warm bed I reluctantly climb and to my amazement what do I find – “Wait a minute Christmas has past and this sounds too familiar”. In the good old U.S. of A all light switches work with “up” being “on” and “down” being “off”. NOT SO in Russia it is just the opposite. In fact as I thought about it later while trying to get back to sleep, lots of little things work just the opposite here. Like whatever turns clockwise in the US, using a key to lock your door or turn on your car, works just the opposite here. Maybe it is that way all over Europe and not just Russia – don’t know, will have to see. Turn everything off, back to bed and sleep now.

It’s nine o’clock, no light outside, no sunshine, no point in getting out of bed. What is that whining I hear from the other end of the room – Chico! I have to climb out of my warm cocoon, get dressed in the dark, and quietly get Chico out of his kennel and ready for the morning walk. It will be a quick one, just checked the outside temp – 27C. Out we trundle, I don’t think Chico likes it any more than I do. He quickly piddles, I actually thought it might freeze before hitting the ground, and poops and we head back. People are starting to wake and get into the day, we had lots to do.

Survival shopping was our first agenda. Made our list and checked it twice: candles, food, flashlights, a warmer jacket for Chico. That’s enough for one shopping trip I thought. “Wrong” – food and a jacket for Chico were easy, but finding candles and flashlights required venturing further from home. That would have to be an “after lunch trip”, we needed to head back and warm up a bit. Finally after 3 stores we find the rest of our supplies and head home. Just in time. The day is over 4:00 pm, the sun is going down, Chico needs to go out and the electricity will probably go out any time now.

Sure enough Friday night about 6:00 pm out go the lights. This time we are more prepared. Light all the candles, cook some pemonie (something like little raviolis) and enjoy candle light dining. Then what to do? Not enough light to do much and without the auxiliary electric heaters the temperature starts dropping. My solution is head for the shower. Still lots of hot water and after about 10 minutes the little bathroom warms up nicely. I think I know why all the Russians liked the banyas (steam baths), they were probably the only warm place in the winter. That done its off to bed.

This morning the lights didn’t come back on. Listening to the old Soviet public radio station, which strangely works with out electricity or batteries, we get the word that electricity will probably be off all weekend. That is bad! The electric heaters are the difference between a cool-comfortable and cold room. OH WELL, at least the hot water and heating was still operating, in some places the pipes were freezing and people were losing all heating. Inside temp was running around 60F, just sat around with lots of warm clothes on during the day. We saw some apartments that had lost heating and they looked like ice caves. Ice completely over the windows and flowing down the outside walls.

Get breakfast and discover that we are running out of matches. There is our task for the day, find matches. Without them we can’t light the stove or the candles. So we gear up and head out searching for matches. In this miserable cold we end up walking to three or four stores before finding some. There is an old Russian proverb – “you will never find two things you need in one Russian store”. So the catch is which store will have what you are looking for, you never really know that important fact when setting out on a shopping adventure with the temperature hovering around - 25. So I take special delight whenever at day’s end I can proudly say “I am in Russia and I have accomplished two tasks today!”

Ah but today’s task, and a vital one it is, find matches. I thought a little Bic propane lighter might work, but “No, you can’t light the oven with a lighter” I was told. So wanting to keep peace in the family I wandered around in –25C weather looking for “spitkizies”. When finally finding them and returning home we noticed that they were so cheap that they didn’t light half the time. It was then that I showed how a piece of paper could be tightly rolled up, lit on fire and used to light the oven. Everyone was convinced that a lighter might work. So back I went to look for a Bic lighter, which turned out to be much easier to find than spitkizies. I accomplished my task for the day. Bring on the night!! By the end of the weekend we were getting into a groove dealing with no electricity and then the lights came back on – “welcome to the 20th century”.

After living in Colorado for over 27 years I learned certain rules about cold weather. One was when it was at 0 F discretionary outdoor activity ceases – let the crazy tourists from Texas go skiing and enjoy that type of weather. I was quite surprised when I took Chico out at night, which was mandatory, that parents would be outside with their little toddler children playing on the steel playground equipment. Some kind of early childhood cold weather survival training I guess. Another rule “if you don’t have it you can’t wear it”. Always take your gloves, hat, and layered clothes when you venture outside. I practiced this one religiously and after about a week or two actually figured out how to tie my scarf so it kept the bottom of my face covered from the cold. Then in the sophisticated city center what do you see, stylish young girls lightly dressed and walking around with their midriff uncovered. Star graduates of early childhood cold weather survival training I guess. One of the most painful lessons is failure to abide by the rule that lotion is mandatory. I always try to obey this rule but get skin cracks anyways. The heal and finger cracks are the worse and I often end up with band aids on 3 out of 5 of my fingers. Oh yeah and then my nose dries out and starts bleeding when I forget to put a little Vaseline in it. After 5 years in sunny South Texas I had forgotten all these little rules, who needs them. But some things like riding a bike always come back even if you haven’t done it for years.

Russian Life – Trip to Russia (with the dog)

2009-05-10T12:08:00.001-05:00

From the Archives - 0940, January 16, 2006

Welcome to Europe

First leg of our winter trek to Mother Russia is complete; the three of us arrived in Frankfurt, Germany! We know all three of us arrived because we saw Chico’s pet cage going down the baggage loader. But I guess we can’t confirm that we all arrived alive yet, didn’t actually see Chico. Will have to wait till Russia.

Our arrival to Frankfurt was running late because of snow. As we taxied in it was coming down pretty good and then I thought about my jacket in the checked baggage – hope it arrives in Russia. For some reason this, the biggest airport in Germany, can’t ever seem to be able to park it’s planes at jet ways. So we faced the blowing snow in our face walking to the waiting bus. Now I knew winter in Europe is not the same as sunny south Texas.

With four hours to wait Irina’s first move was to the Duty Free shops for a “lettlee shooping”. After 8 hours of flying at the very, very end of the bus (we had the last seats on the plane, always the roughest ride and don’t totally recline). I was less than excited about wandering through all these high priced discount stores, but I dutifully followed. Finally she tired and I convinced her that we ought to set down a bit and get a little food and water. OK so luckily a guy was leaving his table just as we were walking up to “Goethe’s Bar” and snagged seats at a table. A lovely German girl, using perfect English, gave us a menu and we started perusing through it. I stated losing my appetite and thirst the deeper we got into the menu. “Lets see a small bottle of water – 7 Euros, a cup of coffee – 6 Euros, spaghetti – 12 Euros; YIKES!! WAIT, a large beer only 4 Euros, and even better yet a bratwurst for only 6 Euros.” That sounded great to me, a beer and hotdog for about $13, Irena can splurge and get the cup of coffee for another $8. I think we can get out of here for less than $25.” I didn’t really want a beer that early in the morning but my budget couldn’t afford the water.

As we were sitting enjoying our little lunch, Irena says “there’s a Russian”. Then a few minutes later the same thing “there’s a Russian”. After a while I am also able to pick them out and then I realize we were looking at the escalator right above gate 59, our gate to catch the plane to St Petersburg. But it is a little strange that these people that I am going to be living with for the next 6 months are so easy to pick out in a crowd. Is it their face, or their clothes, or their attitude, or the way they walk; no actually it is their big jackets. Just “Follow the Furs” to the Russian departure gate. So we soon head down to gate 59 looking strangely underdressed. I only had my little fleece on and every body else had full length, heavy, heavy looking jackets, mufflers, fur hats, boots. “UH OH – I sure hope the bag with my new Corpus Christi Burlington Discount Coat Factory jacket arrives. Otherwise I am going to be in deep trouble.”

Tooo late to worry, its time to board. Once again no jetway, just another cold bus ride to the waiting plane. “Oh well – at least we are not in the last row in the plane and the seats recline a bit. ON TO Russia.”

Touchdown 18:15, January 16, 2006
Welcome to Russia

From the window I can see the lights of St Petersburg and it looks like snow on the ground. Duh – its January and we are only stones throw below the Artic Circle. Good news/bad news:
Bad news first - Captain comes on and says we will be landing soon and the outside temperature is –27.
Good news – That’s only something like 8 below zero Farenheit, I think.
“My bag with my brand new, never before tested, Burlington Coat Factory Discount Store jacket sure as hell better show up or I am in deep, deep trouble.”

As we taxi in there is no snow falling – more good news. St Petersburg Airport hasn’t changed. In the summer it has a cold, old, sterile ambiance look. In the winter it is just cold, cold, cold – you are walking so fast to get your luggage and get the heck out of there you don’t have time to notice any other amenities. So we scramble as fast as we can to get to the front of the passport control line. Just as in HEB you pick the shortest line and as the saying goes “the first will be last, and the last will be first”. I pick the shortest line and end up waiting like 20 minutes as the guy in front of me gets grilled and then rejected.

So as he is standing back outside the “green line” I ask him what is the problem. “My passport picture doesn’t look like me” he says. “I have been here 5 times in the last year and this always happens”.

“UH OH” I think. That has happened to me too, but I was never sent back and told to wait. They always seemed to figure out that I really am the person on my passport even though I was about 15 pounds heaver, no mustache, no little goatee.

The cute young immigration girl in the next line over jokingly says “Elvis” as the guy she was checking had an Elvis Presley looking haircut and she sends him right on through.

“Just my luck” I thought “I not only get the slowest line I also get the line with the “Inspector from Hell” and I don’t even have my new Burlington Coat Factory Discount Store jacket with me”. So with trepidation I walk up to the window, look up and sure enough – this gal is one tough looking inspector, no smile, just serious business. A holdover from the cold war I suspect. But surprise. I get quickly approved and we are on the way to the baggage claim.

Unknown to me Igor, the son-in-law had already corrupted the baggage handlers for us. As we wheeled up our two baggage carriers to handle the 4 checked bags at about 55-60 pounds each, plus dog cage, plus the dog door blocker, plus 4 carry on bags, these guys in orange overalls come from baggage area with our dog cage and one of our bags, not the bag with my Burlington Coat Factory Discount Store jacket however. Irena rushes up and sure enough Chico is in the dog cage and is alive! She immediately lets him out and Chico immediately starts jumping and peeing all over the baggage area. A little jump here and a little pee here, another jump and another pee, another jump and another pee. Things were getting a little saturated, but then he had been in his dog cage from 1530 the day before and not wanting to spoil his house hadn’t relieved himself. Everything settles down, Chico is happy, Irena is happy and I am cautiously happy waiting for my jacket. In a few minutes the old babushka looking cleaning ladies show up and move into action with their mops, brooms, scoopers, look over at us and scowl.

So finally Chico settles down and we realize none of the other luggage has showed up. In fact no luggage has showed up and we had been there a good 20 minutes. Our corrupted baggage handlers show back up and tell us there “is a small problem – not too worry. The luggage is here, but the container is frozen shut and we can’t get it open.” I am thinking “OK, here we are not too far south of the North Pole, middle of winter, and they have a problem opening baggage containers, wouldn’t you expect this type of problem and be prepared if you lived here?” But no, all of the people start getting a bit agitated, once again you can tell the Russians, because they are the most vocal about their agitation. Since we knew what was happening I thought it would be and easy thing to just make an announcement about the delay. Irena went over to some women that seemed to have some kind of official function with the airport and asked them if they could tell everyone what was going on. The answer of course was “NET”. Something like that would take an order from the “top” and they weren’t about to do anything without instructions. Just sit and wait, at least we knew the problem.

About an hour after landing our luggage is all finally in our hands!! I open the bag with my new Burlington Coat Factory Discount Store jacket, put it on and walk confidently, bravely out the door to meet Igor and his father Valodia. Soon as I pass the threshold I get blasted with the cold air and the wind. Even though I didn’t have my handy REI zipper attachable mini-thermometer with the Windchill calculator on the back, I knew it was probably about –40. My face and hands immediately went to the frostbite mode!! Quickly we loaded the bags and got into the cars.

I decided to ride with Valodia since he had Chico and I thought Chico might need some friendly voice from the front. Valodia, Igors father is a big, burly rough looking Ukrainen who speaks no English, but since we spent the weekend at his datcha last summer we got along OK. We were a little slow getting the car turned around and when we got to the exit gate there seemed to be a bit of a problem with paying and raising the gate. I didn’t know what was going on, but it appeared that Valodia didn’t have his ticket and they wanted more money than he had. I offered my $20 American, but he waved his hands and said “Net”. So finally he digs into this secret compartment of his billfold and comes up with the cash. Of course everyone behind us was getting upset and honking. But he just casually climbs back into the car and we start heading home.

Normally it takes about an hour from the airport to Irena’s apartment, but this was rush hour so I knew it would take longer. Chico and I just settled back and relaxed. Well after about 10 minutes in bumper to bumper traffic I notice that the head lights don’t seem to be on. I of course don’t know the Russian word for “light” so I start thinking up and saying words like “Net lumina” – no that must be latin; “Net lictha” – no that is German. Couldn’t think of any other words, tried a little sing language with no success so just sat there, enduring the dark and increasing cold . I am starting to get colder and colder. Then I realize “The heater in the car doesn’t work!!!” Twenty minutes later he figures out that the lights weren’t on as we headed down a dark street and switches them on. But doesn’t seem to notice that the heater isn’t working. Maybe it is working and that is as warm as it gets.

Valodia prouldly bought his new Russian Lada last summer. Igor had pleaded with him to buy some other foreign car, but Valodia was a patriotic Russian-Ukrainian and only a home grown Russian car would be good enough for him. A Lada, the car of choice for every old Soviet party lower-level boss, was of course his choice also. But the Russkie bosses all got the big tanksize Lada’s and we were in this little match box weaving in and out of rush hour traffic. That is when we were actually moving faster than 2 kpm because of traffic jams. It was a cold, long, 2 hour ride, on top of which I really needed to make a head call during the last hour, but finally I recognized some old neighborhood landmarks and knew we would be there soon. Sure enough we pull up to Irena’s apartment and realized that I don’t remember how to get in. It’s dark outside I punch a couple of numbers on the security pad but nothing works. I yell, but no one hears. Valodia uses his cell phone and calls, Igor shows up. Of course they immediately get into a minor disagreement about the parking fee and I, wanting to get into a little warmth, carry my bags and Chico up to the apartment.

Just like “Old Home Days”; Vicky, Mamula, Irena are all in the dining room with a big spread of Russian food laid out. We eat, talk, laugh and finally every one leaves and I assume a horizontal position on the bed and am immediately asleep. It was a long trip, but we made it.

Russian Life – Victory Day

2009-05-10T10:19:00.004-05:00

May 9, 2009

BOOMB! BANG! KABOOM (bigger boom)! RATAAATAT, RATTAATAT! KAPOW!!!!

Weer’ just watching TV on Victory Day; celebrating the end of the Great Patriotic War. That’s commonly known as the WW2 for the rest of the world.

All you hear on TV are bombs, machine guns, hand grenades, rifles, tanks, planes, ships, machines;
and people screaming, people crying, people yelling, people threatening, people whispering;
and opera singers, folk singers, rock stars all singing beautiful old war songs;
and champagne corks popping, people in diamonds clapping their hands, politicians talking, oligarchs looking on smilingly ;
and people crying, wiping tears, laughing, hoping, making love, having babies, dying.

Out the window all you see are cars racing down the walkway;
and young girls in skin tight jeans hurrying somewhere in high heels going “click- clack-click-clack”;
and couples quickly pushing their baby crib heading home out of the sudden rain;
and teenagers running, laughing, holding hands without any thought of raincoats ;
and little green leaves finally showing themselves under a cold rainy gray overcast sky.

We toasted a few times with vodka,
Vodka is for remembering the dead;
We toasted a few times with wine,
Wine is for remembering you’re alive;
We’ve settled into the TV programs,
TV is for passively passing time;
We’re glad that we’re alive!

You can’t count your blessings too often.

Toasting you,

Potrick & Irina

PS:
You would think they would learn. Karl II (Swedish) with Europe’s biggest and best army in 1700 failed; Napoleon (French) with Europe’s biggest and best army in 1812 failed; Hitler (German) with Europe’s biggest and best army in 1941 failed.

The only way to conquer Russia is simple. You get 10,000 Mongolian Tartars, 40,000 horses and start the run from the east in early Spring.

Russian Business – Beeg Bead Beezness

2009-05-10T09:39:00.002-05:00

May 1, 2009

Irina, mainly out of boredom in Texas, started beading. It was a great idea, she suddenly had something to occupy her time and provide new places to shop daily since the old shopping grounds of the past 4 years were either out of business or not carrying any interesting goods. We had grand plans of bringing this new concept to the backwater, forests of Russia where the average Russian woman probably spends 27 hours a day thinking of how to dress and look good. Jewelry from America should be big hit on the fashionable streets of the ancient capital of the Tsar. So we loaded all of our jewelry stuff into one suitcase, weighing in just a little under the 52 pound max and headed for virgin markets!

Aside from lugging the heavy suitcase, my first concern was customs. Would they let us really bring all this stuff into the country without some kind of business tax or permits? Of course the Americans don’t really mind what you ship out of the country as long as it is not explosive or drugs. And Russians don’t care what you bring into the country, including explosives or drugs. It’s the honor system, in a country that doesn’t understand “honor” or “system”, so you just cruise through the exit that says “Nothing to Declare” without even having to say “I have nothing to declare”. I guess if by some strange chance they should stop you, you could either say “sorry, I made mistake” or hand the guy a twenty move on.

“Potrick, you are such a worrier!” Irina of course scolded me with. So we easily made it through our first hurdle and now all we had to do was line up our material suppliers and set up our selling operation. I could smell “money, Money, MONEY”; or was that the cabbage pirogues they were selling outside?

Our initial concern was where to find the supplies in St Petersburg that we would need to replace our inventory. The sweet lady who gave us lots of advise in Texas said “Oh, don’t worry I am sure you will find everything you need make your beads in Russia. Everyone in the world loves beads!”

“Yeah. But Irina, what about all the small little things we need like wire, connectors, crimps? Have you ever seen that stuff anywhere here in St Petersburg?” Without these small little things it would be impossible to make necklaces or bracelets even if you have all the beads in the world. So as we wandered about the area we kept a keen eye out for places that might sell the things we needed. Our first discovery was accidentally made when searching for thread in a sewing store. While Irina was over at the thread counter waiting in the line to be served I spied what seemed to beads. Not having my correct glasses I couldn’t see behind the counter very well so I walked around the side to get a better look.

“VOT ARE YOU DOING? GET FROM BEHIND MY COUNTER!!!” Came from the other end of the counter as a rather large sales lady immediately stopped her conversation with another customer and rushed at me.

“I am sorry, I am sorry, I just wanted to look closer” as I backed out from behind the counter. But I had made the discovery; “They have beads, not great but will do”. As the sales lady determined that I wasn’t attempting to steal her stuff and she realized that I was a foreigner her attitude softened. I got Irina over and we looked at a few of the items. Prices were cheaper, beads looked cheaper, but very limited selection. This could get to be a boring business if we can only find these few beads to string into our high fashion necklace line.

Later the phone rang. Vicky was on the other end excitedly shouting, “Mama, Mama beads, beads, I found beads!!! You must go to Ploshet Moshet (my translation) there are ladies selling there at the Metro. I also spotted more of them at Chornashefka”. Sounded like we were on to something here now. It was too late to get there today, tomorrow.

The next day we get up early, 9:30. Get breakfast, feed Mamula, wash dishes, make bead, shower, shave, dress and look at my watch. Just as I suspected, my stomach was right. It’s lunchtime. So back to kitchen, find some lunch, feed Mamula, wash dishes and look at my watch. Just as I suspected. “Irina, what time do those bead sellers leave Ploshet Moshet? It’s a one fifteen now.”

“Potrick, 2:00, I think. We must go fast”

“Waiting on you my dear.” Finally we are out the door and walking like we are late to catch a mini bus. Perfect timing we walk up and the bus arrives at the same time. “I think we are going to make it.” About 25 minutes later we arrive at Ploshet Moshet and start looking around. “There! Over There! Looks like a bunch of old women with beads in their hands.”

We found them at 2:01 and unfortunately they were packing up getting ready to leave. “Something about the police, we leetle corrupted them, must leave 2:00 before they return.” Was the rough translation Irina gave me, as she was digging her hands into the last lady’s pile of beads, searching for something, I don’t know exactly what. The last bead lady is starting to get a little anxious, looking around nervously, while trying to get Irina’s arm out of her beads and wrap up the canvas tarp on which the pile of beads laid. At the last moment Irina’s arm surfaces with two or three strands of kinda interesting looking beads. And then the tarp was closed up, put into a big bad and the table quickly folded up. Once the sales operation was shut down the bead seller relaxed, I guess the heat was off when her sales operation stopped. Then she began negotiating with Irina on the 4 strings of beads Irina found interesting.

The prices were a little less than Texas, but not dirt-cheap. But then nothing is ever cheap in Russia, especially now with the Euro and Dollar exchange rate higher. If the item is imported and priced in a foreign currency the Russians raise the price to make up the difference and just to keep things easy to calculate also raise the price of the crappy Russian produced goods. But they were big stones, looked basically OK and the girl said we could exchange them. So Irina buys and the girls are gone.

Once home in a less hurried state and with my double glasses on I could see some minor flaws, nothing major. But we were a little suspicious of these newly found treasures.

So we had located a source of the raw material. Next job; find a marketing outlet. “Irina, there’s always the table out in front of the metro” was my first thought. “Lots of foot traffic and looky lues”. But then we remembered the last couple of times we were at our Metro, there were no vendors; actually seemed deserted and depressing. We kinda looked forward to sifting through those old babushkas’s highly treasured goods imported directly from Finland as a good option to the stores’ Russian or Chinese Production. Finding some entrepreneurial 80 year old lady selling flowers or herbs from her garden shows that the country had really left it’s past behind. We suspected their abandonment of our metro station had something to do with their failure to provide adequate corruption dollars to the appropriate authorities. Anyways looked like the Ozerkie Metro outlet option was closed.

As we nosed around the stores we found some that indeed sold jewelry much like Irina’s. But no one was ready to take on a new “untested foreigner’s” goods. Then by accident we came across a little jewelry kiosk in front of a grocery store we were walking into. Irina struck up a conversation with the lady running the operation. She sounded interested; told us to bring some samples and would see if the boss would also be interested.

“Yes!” A glimmer of hope appeared on Irina’s face. Maybe we can penetrate this difficult market. Next day we took some of our best goods and left them; understanding that the boss would look at them later in the evening to look at them.

Next day, bright and early, we were back at the kiosk. “No, the boss didn’t get by last night, come back tomorrow.” The kiosk lady said. Next day it was the same story. On the third day I was getting a little concerned. As we came up to the kiosk the face of our friendly kiosk lady was missing, replaced instead with some big ruff talking, half bearded, kiosk lady. Irina asks about her jewelry.

“Da, da, da! I have your jewelry. Here, we don’t like it, you take it.” Was the new kiosk lady’s reply as she frowned and slammed the necklaces down on the little counter. I of course didn’t know what was being said, but I got the tone of voice from behind the counter and could see Irina’s face fall to the floor.

As we walked out Irina said. “We will never sell this stupid jewelry here! Why did I bring it all the way here?” Confidence had hit rock bottom.

“Irina, these people just don’t recognize good stuff. I am sure someone will see your talent.” Actually I felt that their jewelry was pretty boring. Generally just one color stone, no imagination, or color coordination and as usual in Russia “the bigger the better”, taste and beauty are unimportant points. But Irina thought their stones were better than ours, not much we could do about that. And of course they had connections, we didn’t

A couple of days later we were in a much more upscale store and saw they also had a small jewelry sales section. Irina immediately got into a friendly conversation and ended up getting a lot of good information about the beesness. Again there was no marketing opportunity; they just bought from some big manufacture that turned out stuff for the masses. But, she told us about the gem and jewelry show in a few days. “Great! There we will see what’s really going on here.” I told Irina.

The day of the big show arrived. Irina gathered up her precious Russian gemstones purchased from the Ploshet Moshet Metro street vendors. Were hoping to trade them on our way to town. Arriving at the metro we looked around and they of course again were nowhere to be found. “Just a bunch of gypsies” I thought. “Oh well we had bigger fish to fry today” and it was onward to the show.

Walking up to the building it didn’t look too big and we really had no idea what we would find. As we entered through the huge, tall doors we were immediately transferred into “bead and gem fantasy heaven”! There were hundreds of booths and tables selling everything imaginable. “O man this is big, we could spend days in here and not see it all” I thought.

“I can’t believe!” Irina exclaimed as she ran for the first booth selling all kind of amber! “Tooooo expensive Potrick”
She exclaimed, moving on to the next booth. Three hours later after doing my “Fighter Sweep” (that’s an old military term meaning quickly check out the situation, find the best targets, attack and move on – a concept not in Irina’s consciousness). Only a few unique booths, rest mostly junk, was my overall impression.

My favorite was a table where the lady was selling stuff from Nepal and Tibet. She spoke a little English, which always segues my impression to “more favorable”. I bought a few little items and thought about discussing going on a buying trip with her husband to those exotic far away places. “Not now, will go to their store and see if it would be possible. That would be really cool.”

“OK, but now I am ready for lunch. Where’s Irina”. Oh still at the booth where I left her at 30 minutes ago. Something about a compulsive need to touch every bead. I could see, convincing Irina that we need to take a break for lunch was not going to be easy.

“Irina, I am getting into a low blood sugar situation, feeling dizzy, I need food. Let’s find the canteen.” I begged.

“I’m coming, Potrick. OH, OH wait. Come look at this!”

“We’re not making any progress,” I thought. “OK, Irina. But then we go to eat. You know how irritated and grouchy I get when I don’t eat on time.” It was the administration office that Irina was standing in front of, looking at the notice for registering to sell at the next exhibition.

“Potrick! Maybe we can set up a table to sell our necklaces at the bead fair next month!”

“Yes that would be great.” I said temporarily forgetting my blood sugar state. “Lets check it out.” As per normal, everyone was on tea break and we couldn’t get any info. So I was in luck. “Irina, we’ll eat and come right back.” Yes I wasn’t going to faint from starvation.

Or so I thought until seeing the canteen food fare. Under the glass appeared various options of unidentified fried stuff, generally accompanied with what appeared to be some kind of cabbage and potatoes. Moving forward the options looked like deliciously greasy sausage, accompanied by a slice of dried looking cheese on stale black bread. “Heh, looks like we are in cholesterol heaven” I thought. Close your eyes and pick curtain A, curtain B, or curtain C. After careful examination I chose chicken cutlet. Well it looked good under the glass counter. What I ended up getting had maybe a ¼ tablespoon of chopped chicken under a cup full of fried stuff. But cabbage and potatoes were normalnie. A little Russian survival food and I was ready for another 10 hours.

After a quick trip to the toilet to try and wash the grease off my hands we’ll head out. “Whoooa, glad I’m not a woman, there must be twenty people lined up to get into the women’s toilet”. Quickly in and out, it’s back to the admin office. “How great would that be to get a booth at the next fair” I told Irina. We were both excited about the prospect. What had been an abandoned area 30 minutes ago was now a beehive of activity. People were lined up at the door. People were writing up booth applications on the side of the walls, on the floor, on anything that was flat. “What’s going on?” I asked.

Irina questioned the guard, there’s always a guard in Russia; he of course knew nothing. Irina finally found someone willing to talk and discovered that all of the booths were taken for the next show. Everyone was filling out the backup applications in the remote chance that someone cancels. Hopes dashed again. Marketing the necklaces from Texas just didn’t appear to be in our cards.

“OH well” Irina said “lets go see if the gemologists are back from their tea break and we can check out our Ploshet Moshet beads”.
Another service kiosk another line, so we wait.

But then an interesting connection materialized, a perky young girl came in behind us holding a handful of necklaces with price tags on them. What is going on here? Turns out she made the necklaces and just wanted the gemologist to confirm that the stones used were indeed the same as advertised when she bought the raw beads. I guess no one can be trusted. While standing there, waiting I prodded Irina to pump her for more information about the bead business. Unlike most Russians she was friendly, outgoing, and openly willing to discuss the beed business. She apparently knows since she had been in the business for 10 years and now had her own store.

This gusher of information was very interesting. “For Russians doesn’t matter if beads are fake, just say they are real and charge the highest price. Russians will buy. If tell Russians you don’t know if real stones, they leave, go buy at next booth where they lie.” Sounded like the normalnie Ruskie marketing plan to me – cheat and lie! Unfortunately other information she revealed painted a bleak picture – it’s impossible to just sign up and get a booth at the show. One needs documents, lots of documents, triple stamped certificates from dozens of government offices, tons of paperwork and then of course a little corruption money before even being considered as a vendor. Navigating any government bureaucracy or corrupting officials is not one of Irina’s talents and Irina has no desire to develop this skill so late in life, so our hopes of Beeg Bead Beezness in Russia dropped another notch.

Irina was really into her discussion and I had to interrupt “Irina, we’re next, lets see if we can get some good news for a change”. Overly optimistic, we walked in and handed the gemologist girl behind the table with microscopes and other laby looking equipment our beads.

She first picked up the sting of amethyst. “This one OK” was the quick answer.

“Hey, that’s a good start!” I whispered to Irina. But then the amethyst was the one string we least suspected of being bogus. Next up was the green string, advertised by the Ploshet Moshet street hawkers as “very expensive Chrysoprase”.

The gemologist girl takes the suspect beads into her hands, carefully feels them, shines some special kind of light through them, puts them under the microscope, confers with her associate. Her serious expression revealed a more difficult prognosis. But then came the verdict. “Glass, all glass, no stone”. And so went the rest of the inspections: our beautiful facetted smoky quartz – glass; our elegant onyx – glass; and so it continued. Walking out the door, we quickly told our sad tale to the perky young girl who had been behind us.

“Normalnie here.” She said.

Well our day at the big bead fair was faring as well as our other attempts at getting a Beeg Bead Beezness in Russia off the ground. We suspiciously looked a little longer at the hundreds of bead strings on the tables and then came to a real anomaly. Two black guys (that’s kinda like African-Russians I guess, which one rarely sees around here and they are often found in the same state as newspaper journalists that criticize the government, that’s dead by accidentally falling out of the 7th floor hallway window when you live on the 4th floor) were manning a table selling only malachite. I figured they had to be honest. We curiously looked, touched, clicked the beads together and thought maybe they were real; they certainly were beautiful and cheap. But our hearts weren’t in it any more; we set them down, walked away and kept on going out the door, headed for home.

As we got off the mini bus in front of our apartment I saw the local little free enterprise zone set up in the parking lot next to our grocery store. Today we had a fish vendor selling fish so fresh they were still struggling to breath, a half a dozen old babuskas selling socks, underwear, slippers, used books, pillow cases, Finnish soaps, mops, brooms, blouses, arts and crafts, etc. “Irina I bet these entrepreneurs didn’t get hundreds of documents and certificates to run their little operation, some corruption money probably. But maybe we should consider a leetel Bead Beezness in Russia.” I half seriously said while thinking about lugging our growing bead inventory back to Texas in 2 suitcases that would now be required.

“Maybe” Irina replied.

Russian Business - The Rug Cleaner

2009-04-26T07:58:00.002-05:00

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.

Russian Life -The Automobile Garage

2009-04-24T08:14:00.011-05:00

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.

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?

Russian Life - Anna Patrovna – End of the Line, RIP

2009-04-22T07:54:00.012-05:00

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.

Russian Homes - Trip to the Country House (Dasha)

2009-04-17T07:10:00.006-05:00

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 locker”. 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

2009-04-17T06:43:00.002-05:00

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.

Russian Life - A Sad Homecoming

2009-04-17T06:42:00.001-05:00

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.

The Trip to The East

2009-04-17T06:37:00.001-05:00

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.