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!”
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Russian Culture – The Dog Society
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 s
tores 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.
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 s
tores 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
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 jo
ined 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.
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 jo
ined 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)
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.
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
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.
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
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.
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.
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