Moscow Redux

Moscow again. So I've been here for 3 weeks now and it's been (insert Jennifer Grey 80's pseudo-swan diving into the arms of Patrick Swayze HERE) the time of my life. Embassy life is MUCH different than living with a wonderful yet slightly batty old Russian woman, both for the good, the bad, and the ugly. Not really. The ugly just means that I don't have any old Russian pointless arguments anymore, meaning that my language is starting to suffer. But there are definitely pros and cons of living on compound and working at the Embassy. So lessssss-go

Plumbing:
Pros: It works. I did a sacrificial goat slaughter to the Toilet Gods as soon as I saw the American toilet in our apartment. Then I did a jig-of-joy just in case. Also the refrigerator/dishwasher/washer/dryer are all completely functional and free for my abundant usage. It's like a little water-haven. Also, in the summer Russians turn off the hot water (the water system is collective in Russia and people don't have their own water heaters) for two weeks to clean the pipes. Lucky for this spoiled little embassy worker, the embassy housing on compound has hot water heaters, so we don't have to deal with the minor inconvenience of not showering for two weeks.

Cons: Because I don't have to brave the Plumbing Gods, I've turned a little high-maintenance. I get whiny when the shower doesn't have enough pressure and snippy when the water isn't just the right temperature. I miss the rugged individualism I gained when braving the twists and turns (harhar) of Russian plumbing. Each day was an adventure! Now I have succumbed to the monotonous life of a lazy Westerner.

Apartment
Pros: Dude, our apartment is huge. Two huge rooms, a dining room, huge kitchen and amply endowed living room (I got bored with the word "huge"). We practically don't know what to do with all the space. Of course, I've made my room more homey by strewing my clothes about the room with wild abandon. It's not at all like a tiny Russian apartment. Also it's located approximately 4 minutes from home-door to butt-at-desk, ergo I can roll out of bed at a health 8:45 and still make it to work on time at 9.

Cons: It's not at all like a tiny Russian apartment. Living with a crazy babushka definitely made life more interesting. Plus the house was cozy and cluttered, like a true home should be. It should have a slight funk to the air, instead of the sterilized embassy imported American ay-er, ay-ay-ayer. It was home-y. I miss it.

Food
Pros: I get to eat not-gross things when I want. I don't get yelled at about using the wrong utensils, and I can eat pasta with my hands if I want (it's been known to happen). If I want to eat those grapes with that soup, then by gollygee I will do so without being severely punished. Ah the luxury! The freedom! The power! On a same-same-but-different vein, I often get free food from the office. For instance, after a press-conference that the embassy just had at ITAR-TASS, a leading Russian news agency, we were supplied with a banquet. Delicious salmon dish perfectly cooked, and veggies and meats and fruit as far as the eye could see. And with the obligatory deluge of toasts, for which Russians are so famous, my wine glass was never empty. Also, the embassy community organization CLO does an excellent job of supplying all workers with food sporadically throughout the summer/year.

Cons: Munies. I have to purchase all of my own food, which starkly limits my food intake. I've grown accustomed to the delicious dinner of: a tomato. Sometimes two, if I'm feeling especially Hungry-Bear. And pasta. Delicious plain unseasoned pasta. It gets old quickly. Also, it was nice to not have to prepare food. I am, all-in-all, a pretty lazy individual. I will not eat for days just because I don't want to get up and boil some water for my pasta. Or go to the grocery store. I'm being left to my own devices, and doing so has kinda-sorta murdered any sort of healthy or regular diet.

Russian Language
Pros: I don't have to use it.
Cons: My Russian has definitely taken a hit by working at the embassy. Although I'm taking Russian classes, I function almost completely in English at work. Similarly, all of the friends I've been making have been Americans, so I don't have many opportunities to practice Russian. Luckily in Public Affairs we speak Russian more than the other sections. My desk-neighbors are all Russian, and they humor my attempts to speak as I violently murder the Mothertongue. Also I go out of the office a lot and organize things with Russians, so I get a little practice. Though it's nothing like a full-immersion experience, к сожалению.

Work
Pros: Oh-em-gee I love it here. I am so happy I chose U.S. Embassy Moscow over CLS Kazan. Not only do I get to be in Moscow, a place with which I'm very familiar, but I also get to work in one of the most hub-bubbing embassies in the world. It's huge, important, and the FSOs love giving interns responsibility, which is sometimes hard to find in internships. I go to wonderful receptions, hobnob with people from a wide range of professions, and work with brilliant, albeit sometimes bizarre, people. Also, the free ticket perks for the Public Affairs office only makes it that much better. So does the ever-flowing stream of alcohol on Friday afternoons. Embassies love to party, and to that I say "Let's keep this party going!"

Stay-tuned for: the crazy-fun "best weekend ever" post about my rompings in Vladimir et Suzdal

Babushka-isms

Her: What's your last name again, I forgot?
Me: Durina...
Her: "Oh that makes sense. You know what дура is, right?"
Me: "...как дурак" ["like durak?" Durak is an idiot...see here for great list of possible translations. http://translate.google.com/translate_t?hl=&ie=UTF-8&text=basically%0D%0A&sl=ru&tl=en#ru|en|%D0%B4%D1%83%D1%80%D0%B0%D0%BA]
Her: Of course like дурак. That's a good last name for you.
Me: *gasping for air from shock/laughter*


I love her.

Babushka-isms

Babushka: What's that?
Me: It's a bracelet.
Babushka: That's terrible. It's so ugly. You look like a gypsy. Take it off at the dinner table!
Me: ...okay.
Babushka: And you want to be a diplomat! Diplomats don't look like gypsies!

I'm waiting for the day I look like a Chechen. New goal.

Things You Shouldn't Do Unless You Are Jenny Durina

I've decided to start a new segment, because I feel like I get away with a lot of stuff that our fearless RD tells us we shouldn't do. I know this will catch up with me soon, so I'll relish in the moments of freedom now.

Things You Shouldn't Do Unless You Are Jenny Durina: Give sass to the Moscow Cops at 1 am.

Why You Shouldn't Do It: The Russian PoPo are notorious for being sneaky little buggers and extorting bribes from people all the time. They usually claim there is a fine for something, and they just charge however much money you have. We were advised to take 1 of 2 courses of action when confronted with this situation. 1) Argue and start crying like a baby until they lose interest and leave you alone. 2) Pay them. Option 1 is used when it's daylight and you're around a lot of people, Option 2 is used when it's nighttime and the PoPo stick is looking extremely menacing in the pale glow of the evil copper's eyes. Our main advice, however, was to never speak or make eye contact with the police. It is very forbidden to speak/argue/smart mouth a cop.

What I Did: So a few of us are in Red Square around midnight or 1 am and it starts snowing. It's more-or-less the first real snow we've seen in Russia. The atmosphere is romantic and lovely and christmaseyrainbowsareshootingoutofoureyes so we start dancing to celebrate being in Russia by St. Basil's Cathedral in the snow. We are the only ones there. Then a cop car housing 2 bellicose PoPos drives up and stops next to us. Here my innate diplomacy skills kick in.

Coppas: Why are you dancing? What's the holiday? You shouldn't be dancing!
Me: IT'S THE FIRST SNOW! That's why we're dancing! IT'S THE FIRST SNOW!
Coppas: MUMBLEMUMBLEMUMBLEMUMBLE (I could glean that it was not okay for us to dance in Red Square. Disrespect or something. Probably they were just protecting us from Zombie Lenin's nightly lurch around the city).
Kelsey, my brave warrior-ess: Uh huh, okay. Yeah. We understand. Uh huh. Okay
Coppas: *drive away in a fury

Later...
Me: Kelsey, what the heck did they say?
Kelsey: I have no clue.

Babushka-isms

Her: Zhenya, you don't know how to go to sleep! What's wrong with you?
Me: Huh?
Her: This is how you go to bed: you take off your clothes (insert taking off clothes gestures and partially actually taking off clothes...weird), put on pajamas (gesture gesture gesture!), and curl up (gesture) in the blanket, and then you go to sleep.
Me: (sarcastic thoughts: REALLY?! WHAT A NEWFANGLED IDEA!)Yes, I always do that when I go to bed.
Her: No you don't. You do it wrong.
Me: How the heckamonga do I do it wrong?
Her: *walks away without saying anything else*

It's good to be home. I'd like to state: I'm American, not special needs. While it is often difficult for an elderly Russian to distinguish these two things apart from one another, I am sure they are not the same.

Hiatus

Shall be gone starting tomorrow at 10 pm (Moscow time. 8 hours ahead of DC. For those who aren'ts so good with the maths, that's 11 ahead of California). I shall be cruising the Volga looking for a Russian English Jewish Musician/Ballerino (RAHM) to husband. This expedition will last approximately 1 week (6 days and 12 hours, to be approximately precise), and on said cruise (I'll be on a boat an' going fast an') I will be without le interweb. I'm sure you're all crying softly in your lonely corners thinking "Why God? WHY? How will I get through life without Jenny's constant complaints and hilarious banter?" Fear not, dear readers! Imagine all the tales I can accumulate in an entire week on a boat with ample amounts of alcohol and boredom! And strange new places. I always do dumb/embarrassing things in strange new places. Cast your woes aside, dear readers, for I shall return with an arsenal of vignettes.

Now: Something to think about while I'm away. I know I'll be thinking about it.

Infernal Dance of the Metro Commuters

It's high time I wrote about ye olde transportation here in Moscow, namely about the metro. I was reminded today that I have yet to address the metro system after a particularly harrowing experience with train doors.

But first, a general overview:

The metro is GORGEOUS.

This is what a more-or-less average ceiling looks like--an extensive art project tiled so as to resemble heaven. In the words of one of my classmates [about this station, Mayakovskaya], "I want to have babies with it". As soon as you step off the train, you walk into what seems like a museum's atrium and there is often a statue or two greeting you at some entrance (probably of Lenin. They seem to dig that dude or something). The entire interior is marble, with matching sets of marble columns that line the platform. Some of the walls of the platforms, like at Pushkinskaya, are engraved with extensive cameos of people or scenes pertaining to whomever or whatever the station is named after. Further, at Pushkinskaya, there is a smattering of engraved quotes emblazoned on the walls. I have yet to go to the newest station, Dostoyevskaya, but I can hardly contain my excitement; I've heard it's hauntingly beautiful. Then there are the couch-seats that I encountered yesterday on my way home from Moscow State University, or the museum cars that have actual art exhibits inside the trains. These aren't silly prints that look like adds, but fully framed art works inside glass cases mounted on the train walls. Also the metro is surprisingly free of trash, albeit the lack of trashcans. But that's a city-wide phenomenon; there's not very much trash on the streets, but I have yet to find any sort of receptacle. Where does it all go? Do I eat my candy wrappers? Do I line my coat with my trash to keep me warm? Or do I just not consume anything? My vote is for the nice crinkly wrapper-lining.

The next important Moscow-metro characteristic is the volume of people. Holy cow, there are a lot of them! Moscow's population ranges from 10-20 million people, depending on who's counting. For instance, I have been invited and encouraged by the government to participate in the census. They even go as far as to inform me that "Census takers will not request documents such as passports, visas, etc." Anyhoo, people. HOLY YOWSAS! Rush hour is like the A.D.D child of New York City on meth and a London crack addict. There are about 50 bajillion people (pretty sure they import them just to overcrowd the metro) all running around trying to be big-important-like and thinking they are the пуп-земли--poop-zemliy--center of the universe. I have been punched by an unhealthy amount of people (hint: getting punched by a stranger in the metro once is not healthy), and too many strangers have grabbed my shoulders and shoved me aside. Every time I leave my house to brave rush hour I ask, "Will I be trampled to death today, or will the sheeple let me live another day?" Sometimes I baaaaaa quietly to see if anyone responds. They don't. However, there's a coolio-bopper sort of rhythm to the metro: If you're part of the chosen flock, you all sync to each other's footsteps and join in the Infernal Dance of the Metro Commuters. Here Stravinsky, write THAT.

Then there are the crazy babushkas. Old Russian women are FIERCE and will make sure you know, as referenced to in previous posts. God forbid you be the person sitting down when a babushka gets on a full train. Not only will she demand your seat, but you will probably be caned so as to not forget your insubordination and idiocy. Not that I blame them. On the contrary, I aspire to one day be as able to instill fear in the heart of a nation like these small hunched women do. 

Once you've decided to try to squeeze your way into a car, the (not)fun begins. Riding the metro requires a person pass three dangerous trials, not unlike those in Indiana Jones in "Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade", including the last one where you age really quickly and all your flesh falls off as you turn almost-instantaneously into dust. That hasn't happened to me. Yet.

The First Trial: The Guillotine
Not only are there about 20 people (first accurate number, besides the Moscow population) trying to squeeze into an already packed car at each set of doors, but the metro is also on a very prompt time schedule. Trains arrive about every 1.66 minutes, so they are all on a very tight schedule. Therefore, it is a mad dash to play people-tetris before the doors angrily and decisively slam closed. Today, I made the mistake of trying to get onto a train as the doors were closing. These aren't some sort of cute slow-closing doors like on the DC metro, but instead evil jaws that snap shut on the weakest victims. I call them the "Guillotine" because if there were dull blades on the doors, they would slice me in half without the slightest hesitation or resistance. I was caught between them and luckily was able to maneuver my bruised shoulders all the way through. However, my purse and foot was caught, and I tried desperately to pry the door open with my bloodied fingers. I was trapped, awaiting my horrific death. Channeling the power of the annoyed passengers (one dude was pissed the train wasn't moving, so he pushed the doors huffily), I grandiosely took my final breath and in one super-human feat of determination, squirmed my entire person+purse through the jaws of death.

The Second Trial: The Angry Rave
During rush hour, it is rare not to play the "Oh hello stranger, let's press our bodies up against each other!" game. Even worse, they keep the metro heated to a frigid BAJILLION degrees Celsius (mewmwemwemwemew....that's the sound of my American vocabulary slowly dying. Not with a bang. That's my poor attempt to emulate a whimper. Via blog). So now I'm pressed up against this creepy old man who has really bad B.O. Excellent. I often imagine what would happen if I passed out or lost my balance and fell while on the metro. I have narrowed it down to 3 possible scenarios. 1) There would be mass violence, as my fall would take down at least 7 angry babushkas. 2) No one would notice, except when someone's stiletto got stuck in my trampled flesh. They'd probably be annoyed by that. 3) They'd call the police and have me deported or jailed for disturbing the peace ie their commute. In this scenario I also get tuberculosis.

The Third Trial: Exiting the Train...of Life
Getting off the train is also a fun little dance. First, you do a fancy little sacrifice and dance to the Metro Gods, who are super chummy with the Toilet Gods. I like to call this dance the "Metro Shuffle N' Hustle". If you are in the middle of the car, or worse sitting down, you have to tap about 20 zillion people on the shoulder and ask if they're getting off at the next stop. This is to ensure you can get off the train in time to escape the ever-alert Guillotine. If the person is not getting off, then you do a fun little awkward-rub-up-against-each-other so you can switch places. This dance gets harder the more sardine-like you are packed. For instance, today I got hit by 3 babushkas because I had to squeeze past them doin' the Metro Shuffle N' Hustle.

All-in-all I feel the system separates the weak from the strong, and ensures a highly effective schedule. This all being said, I love the Moscow Metro. Not only is it an adventure and I feel accomplished each time I exit alive, but there are so many interesting people. Also, I don't ever wait longer than 2 minutes for a train. Eat it, WMATA. I'm fairly sure if there was ever "track maintenance" like that in DC, there would be riots in the streets, mass mutiny, and general chaos.

*Salutes* General Chaos!