Call of the Oven: Life as a Video Game

On Sunday the temperature took a nose dive past the zero mark, ushering in winter.  Well, it is the end of December- it had to happen at some point.  There’s something very magical about sub- zero temperatures, it kicks up your metabolism and influences women to go on baking and cooking sprees.  Baking is tricky thing for me, despite my best efforts; I really kinda suck at it, especially brownies.  Ask anyone.  They either turn out soupy in the middle and rock hard at the edges or flat and tasteless like those gross things they try to give you in hospital cafeterias. 

Anyway, despite my misgivings, I couldn’t resist the Call of the Oven as I sat and pretended to lead a discussion group.  We were discussing happiness, and naturally food came up, since food makes billions of people happy, and it was about then that I decided that I was going to show my oven who was boss and make M&M cookies.  After all, not even I could mess up a simple sugar cookie, I mean, this is cookie making 101; even 10 year olds can make these things.  Challenge accepted.  After looking up the recipe online I realized that I would need brown sugar.  Understanding that I would need to go to the store for a very specific ingredient caused a wave of anxiety to course through my entire body.  Sure, it’s a simple enough thing, and I’m sure that on any other day when I don’t need it I would be able to find it everywhere, but now, at this moment when I really needed it…would I be able to find it? Unwanted memory flashes occurred: memories of hunting for black pepper, insulin…razors, hell even beer.  How did people in Soviet times ever make it 80 years?!    

Taking a few calming breaths I tried to laugh at myself and convince my brain that I was over reacting, it’s just brown sugar, how hard could it possibly be?  I went to Megas, one of the coolest supermarkets around because they usually have everything.  Usually is the operating word here.  They had brownish sugar cubes which looked like something which got rejected from space.  No deal.  I wasn’t about to spend ten dollars on questionable looking sugar.  Then I went across the street.  No sugar at all. Great.  This wasn’t looking so easy now.  So then I thought I’d just walk up to the giant flea market, because it’s where you find stuff when you run out of options.  I try booth number one.  No.  Two.  No.  Three?  No.  Then I got to thinking, this wasn’t just a sugar hunt, this was becoming an epic freaking adventure.  If I’m going to have to spend this much time, energy and risk losing my sanity then I should at least have a dragon or a magic sword or at the very least a wizard guide who can assist me with the locals.  Someone needs to design a game about hunting for basic products in Russia.  In this game the characters would have to battle a babushka or two using the stale black bread as weapons.  Then as you level up the quests would become more complex such as trying to buy a computer or any electronic gadget where you have to have your receipt stamped and torn by three different people for no real reason, but then at the end you are rewarded with a charmed bottle of vodka which you will later have to exchange for a ticket to Kazan or some other place. 

I’m hoping this making my readers smile and perhaps you think that I’m exaggerating a little, but sadly I’m not.   Not even a little.  It took me three hours to find brown sugar.  And yet, among all the stalls and tables and cardboard boxes of people selling random effects; at any given time you can be sure to find sushi paraphernalia.  I wonder if the Japanese know about the Russian love of sushi.  Although I think it’s more than love, it’s almost like a compulsive desire to serve sushi at the most unlikely places.  Places such as: Beer shops, fast food places where they specialize in kebobs and fried meat things, traditional Russian eateries, Chinese restaurants, and even my favorite Ukrainian restaurant serves sushi even though they don’t offer fish on the menu.  This of course will be another level of the game, the eating level. 

Speaking of life as a video game; today I had to take a taxi and instead of making life easy, the driver decided it would be a good idea to drive up to the door to meet me.  Since all walkways are covered in ice, I could almost appreciate his attempt at trying to make my life easier, but as I glanced at the Tetris style nightmare which was the parking lot, I couldn’t help but question the wisdom of this action.  I didn’t want to be late, hence, this is why I called a taxi in the first place, but since I was already seated I figured I would relax and let the driver work his magic; and the whole time all I could image was a Tetris grid.  Perhaps I am dating myself a little, but I tend to always think of Tetris when it comes to things such as packing or driving or even dancing.  Perhaps I need to make a life sized controller and this would resolve most of the traffic congestion in the city.        

Going back to Sugar Quest, yes, happily the sugar was good and the cookies turned out.  They were soft and sweet and everything which a cookie is supposed to be.  I’d love nothing more than to recreate my success a few more times, and if I’m ever feeling really brave I may try brownies once again.  

Just Another Day in Paradise

ESL attracts all kinds of people, but I think I can more or less say that there are three main categories: the people who genuinely love travel and adventure, the people who can’t function in their own country and the people who are married to either a foreigner or a travel addict.  I’d like to dedicate this blog post to the people who can’t function in their own country either because of radical political beliefs, religious beliefs or general strangeness or obscure social anxiety. 

On Wednesday I met, or rather saw a much older American man in the office.  I smiled in greeting and went to make a more formal introduction when this came out of his mouth, “um, IZ-ven-Ite, MOZHA YA…” (ExCUse ME, MAY I)- the capitals are to imply emphasis, Russian spoken by an American.  I know this is me pot calling the kettle black, but come on, if you’re going to speak a different language, please try to copy the tone and sounds.  It’s like when white preppy people try to speak slang or Spanish.  So I blinked at the guy wondering why on earth he was shouting terrible Russian at me only to realize that he was trying to talk to our office manager, Ludmila, who doesn’t speak a word of English.  Fine.  He’s trying to talk to her, so I walk away, feeling slightly insulted that he didn’t even acknowledge my existence.  I don’t often come across Americans in the middle of Siberia, so I’m always a little too excited when I see them and puzzled when they don’t return our assumed friendliness.  I should note here that Ludmila is in her mid-fifties, and I wouldn’t quite put her in the babushka column just yet, but she’s close.  As I said earlier, she doesn’t speak English, but at least she tries to speak slowly and clearly when it comes to dealing us non-native Russian speakers.  Daniel, the American must be a bit older complete with glasses and questionable fashion taste.

So there I am, sitting in the back of the office, trying to read my book when I hear this conversation, again the capitals represent shouting and accent:

Daniel (American man): UM, MoZNA, PASSWORD?! (may I have the password?)

Ludmila: SHTO?! (WHAT?!)

Daniel: Y VAS PASSWORD? ( you have the password?)  PASSWORD?  What is password, or yes, PAROL?  Y VAS PAROL?

Ludmila: ZA SHTO?! (What for?)

Daniel: Sorry.  Y vas INTERNET?!  (Do you have internet?)

Ludmila: DA!  Y NAS INTERNET, TEBE NUZHNA PAROL! (Yes! We have internet, but you need a password)

Daniel: Da!  Parole.  Shto Parol?  (Yes, password, what’s the password?)

Ludmila: Y NAS INTERNET!  ETA RABOTAET! (WE HAVE INTERNET !  IT WORKS!)

Seriously, shoot me now.  So there they are, shouting at each other when they were sitting opposite each other at a desk.  It was like a conversation from South Park making fun of old people.  At some point two of my younger colleagues joined me in the back of the office with the same eye-roll and trying-really-hard-not-to-laugh expressions.  However, when we all made eye contact with each other we couldn’t help but giggle a little.  Under my breath I asked one of them if I had that thick of an accent when I speak Russian and they both assured me that I did not, which made me feel better.  It is always frustrating to me when people don’t understand me and I’ve always thought it was my fault because of poor pronunciation- and while that may be the case some of the time, the rest of the time it’s because don’t want to understand.  Anyway, so after another five minutes of painfully loud shouting for no reason about the internet, I stepped outside.  I was also in need of laughter, so once I made it out into the hall I let myself go.  I was escorted by Constantine, a co-worker. 

Naturally we could still hear these two desperately trying to communicate with each other and yes I wanted to help but a part of me was enjoying the shouting match plus, I just wanted the guy to ask me for help.  Yes, I know how that sounds and at the end of it all, he never did.  Realizing that they had moved from shouting about the internet to shouting about the printer, we both decided that perhaps we should go and assist them.  Turns out, we didn’t need to.

Ludmila: ETA NASH KOMPUTER!!  PRINTER TAM! (THIS IS OUR COMPUTER ((ahem, it’s the only computer in the office, fyi)) THE PRINTER IS THERE)

Daniel: OK!  Kak work?  (and I love it when people mix Russian and English is the craziest way possible) How does it work?

Ludmila: AH!  JUSTINA!  KAK PRINTER PABOTAET!?! (Ah!  Justina, how doesn’t the printer work?)

Me: *taking a calming deep breath, it’s not as if this is the first time she’s ever printed something, why on earth is she asking me?* Bam nyzha parazhdite za 45 seconda, teperni, pozlausta (You have you wait 45 seconds, just be patient)

Ludmila: *now walking around in a tiny circle looking like a lost bird* pochimy kak dolga?  Mozna buit nuzhna remont?!  (what’s taking so long?  Maybe it needs to be repaired?)

Again, I’m confused, yes the printer is old, and in the grand scheme of things 45 seconds isn’t that big of a deal. What’s more, this not the first time in her life that she’s ever used it! She is the office manager after all, if anything she should now more than I do about how these slightly outdated machines operate.  Once the magical paper was loaded and the machine decided to wake up, everyone seemed happy.  I was looking for any reason to get out of the office so I took sanctuary in my classroom which was finally open.      

Now that I finally had a few moments of quietness I wondered about Daniel.  Where had he come from?  Was he really a teacher or was he just a native speaker?  It’s just a matter of time before schools learn that just because there are native speakers of English, it doesn’t mean that everyone can teach it, or that native speakers always speak properly.  Yes, I’m talking about all those people who use double negatives and ‘me and my friend’ when it’s really, ‘my friend and I’ and so on.  He didn’t quite strike me as teacher-teacher, but perhaps my own ego got in the way. 

So yesterday, which was Thursday, I saw him again and once again tried to be friendly, and once again I was ignored.  Was it me?  Perhaps.  I get it, not everyone likes to be friendly with other natives, Russian usually hate each other when they are in different countries, perhaps this is the same thing; and while a bit strange, I can almost appreciate it.  Then he asked me about the translation class. 

Daniel:  Where’s the book for the translation class?

Me: Are you talking to me?

Daniel: Yes, where is it?

Me: I have no idea what you’re talking about.  Perhaps it’s on the hard drive, isn’t that what Lilya told you?

Daniel: WOW! You said too fast.

Me: Um, what? 

Daniel: WHERE IS THE BOOK FOR THE TRANSLATION CLASS?!

Me: ASK LILYA!

Daniel: You don’t have to shout at me.

I need a beer.  Just another in paradise. 

Vegas vs Reality (Wedding Bliss part 2)

Vegas: waking up at 9am and thinking 'OMG I either need another drink or a new liver.

Reality: waking up at 7am and taking a shower and going to work.

Vegas: strolling around with a liter of some frozen cocktail from store to store thinking that it was the most natural thing in the world.

Reality: um, not doing that.

Vegas: Butting into other people's conversations because they are talking about how slutty a girl looks, and you totally agree.  Or offering your sincere compliments to a woman wearing seven inch spike heels, because let's face it, if you or I wore them, we would hurt ourselves.

Reality: offering a compliment to a girl wearing four inch heels because seven inches simply isn't seen in the real world.

Vegas: actually getting a free shot poured into your mouth by a hot bartender.

Reality: um, again, something that usually doesn't happen in the real world.

Vegas: dancing until dawn and thinking what a great dancer you are

Reality: ha, well, okay this happens a lot too.  

Moral of the story:  Vegas is fun.  It's a city which doesn't apologize for being honest about selling and promoting sex, alcohol, and all kinds of other less than desirable behavior.  Mix in some childhood friends and viola, it's a perfect recipe for lifelong memories.  As I expressed in my previous post, happiness comes in waves.  Seeing one of my life long friends get walked down the aisle by Elvis and then spending the next numerous hours doing shots with her family and dancing in crazy high shoes is something that is almost beyond words.  We can't choose our blood family, but we can choose our family which consists of friends and if you're really lucky family.  

Mushiness aside, on my last night in Vegas, as I shivered my way back to the hotel, I think I was almost glowing.  It's been a long time since I've felt so connected with people, and it's been even longer since I had laughed that much.  Truth be told, I was a bit relieved to get out of the city because neither my kidney's nor liver could handle another day in that place.  

Upon arriving in New York, I somehow found enough energy to get out of JFK (no easy feat for anyone who has experienced the entity known as JFK airport) and revisit one of my favorite American cities.  I love New York and no one is ever going to convince me that the people are rude and generally suck, and no one is ever going to convince me that Chicago style pizza is superior to New York.  Unfortunately, it was starting to snow when I arrived and I simply wasn't up to walking around Central Park.  Walking around Central Park in the snow sounds like fun and perhaps even romantic, but not when you're going through alcohol withdrawal and haven't slept more than 5 hours in days; so instead I found an amazingly inexpensive cafe on Lexington and set up camp.  For a mere $7 or $8 I got eggs, bacon, latte and hash browns- in other words, breakfast.  We all know how I feel about breakfast.  Breakfast is amazing.

As I sat in the cafe and listened to people around me I couldn't help but feel a sudden sense of  loss.  For five days I had been surrounded by my friends and the constant banter of people around me, and then suddenly it was quiet.  Yes, it was quiet in New York, and I realize how it sounds, but it was just that, quiet.  This silence would just intensify as I approached Siberia.  It was welcomed and annoying at the same time.  In Moscow I kept trying to make small talk with the guy next to me, but as usual, no one wanted to chat about nonsense.  We are not in America any more.  Pity.  I had forgotten how much people love to chat with strangers, I think it helps relax a little.  Just to be clear, I'm not that annoying person who sits next to you and talks about my cat; I could if I wanted to, but I've also been sat with a people who don't shut up, so I get it.  But would it kill people to smile at a joke or agree about the awesomeness of the coffee? 

Also, I am back in Siberia, in reality.  Going from non-stop walking and drinking and dancing to non-stop walking and working and hoping and being so grateful that the hot water is still working.  This reality isn't so bad.  It still hasn't really snowed, not the heavy, snow crunching, giddy OMG-let's-build-a-snowman snow and I'm actually kinda relieved about it.  Things which I throughly about Siberia is nothing severe really ever happens here.  No blizzards, no tornadoes, no ice storms, and no drunk polar bears.   

 

Wedding Bliss (part 1 of 2)

They say “home is where the heart is.”   I’ve always wondered what this means, or to be more exact how this applies to someone with a restless spirit like mine.  Is home a physical place or a mental or spiritual place?  And is your heart this beating thing in your chest or this thing which makes you cry when you see a slaughtered elephant on your computer screen?   I’ve often struggled with this question and the other question: “are you happy?” 

I firmly believe in balance, and I believe that happiness one hundred percent of the time is a ridiculous notion.  That would be like a serious overdose of serotonin for your brain and we all know too much of a good thing is a bad thing.  Why?  Because as humans we simply can’t deal with too much of one thing at a time.  Case in point: I flew half way around the world to see one of my childhood friends get married.  Before the wedding I was joking that yes it was her wedding, but it was also my vacation and a break from living in place which I am quickly getting tired of.  However, landing in New York and having the most random conversation with the attractive customs officer I realized that what I needed more than anything was that: humorous and silly conversations about nothing at all. 

Las Vegas gave me just that, and more.  As much as I like my private time, I also enjoy people, and I had actually forgotten how truly amazing and friendly Americans are.  Despite our less than ideal government, people around the world usually like us because of our uncontrollable urge to smile, make inappropriate jokes and abuse the word friend.  Case in point: on our second night in Vegas (well, my second night, the first for the happy couple) we went into this bar advertising stripper girls dressed as devils.  You can imagine the disappointment when they weren’t there.  Anyway, everyone was getting drinks and I was just sitting there in my happy bubble just enjoying the moment, when I saw a guy trying to get his friend to take this weird looking shot.  She didn’t seem excited about it, so I told her to just get it and it looked like fun.

Me: Do it!  You’re in Vegas!

Her: I don’t know what it is.

Me: Doesn’t matter.

Her: No, you do it. 

Me: What? 

Her: Please, I don’t want to.  Plus, I think you need this shot more than I do. 

Me: Don’t be silly, I wouldn’t want to insult your friend who bought you a shot.

Her Friend: No please, be a pal and drink it.

Me: Fine.

Turns out it was a Jaeger and something else.  So for the next five minutes this group of people were our new friends.  They also had an extra shot to which I made Justin drink with me. 

Each night in Vegas is a smear of laughter and memories, and naturally some stand out more than others.  Rewinding a bit was the first night, after three planes and more than 5000 miles; Justin, Misha and I were blinking and staring at the city lit skyline from Mandalay Bay on the 64^th floor.  Surreal doesn’t even begin to cover it.  In the morning we had all just been in Moscow, a city famous for grey buildings and a serious love addiction to the rectangular shape and absolute fear of anything abnormal- and now here we were in Las Vegas with all of its sparkling lights, replicas of New York, Egypt and Paris all crammed together, yet somehow tasteful and breathtaking.  The word euphoria comes to mind when such moments are almost beyond words.

Moving onto and fast-forwarding to the wedding day itself.  As per tradition the night before we were on Freemont Street, the whole wedding party, with only one mission: making sure that the couple had a great time and consumed as much alcohol as possible.  Freemont Street is really one of my favorite places in Vegas because 1) it’s much cheaper 2) it’s where all the super freaks come and play 3) they have music videos on the ceiling.

On this night I brought the champagne which I had brought from Russia.  None of us are really champagne drinkers, but a special occasion calls for something equally special, and since we also didn’t have cups, we just decided to pass the bottle around.  I was quite relieved that everyone liked it and it had the desired effect of elevating people’s mood.  As we were slowly, and I mean slowly, I think a turtle could have covered more ground than we did, we took in the scenery around us.  There were a trio of nun who felt the need to show their breasts, nice.  Then there was a transgender woman with even bigger boobs which just made our whole party simultaneously massage our shoulders because we just couldn’t imagine carrying that kind of weight.  Across from all the boobs was a man sporting pink fairy wings and a G-string.  You know what really makes me laugh about all of these people?  Since they were all wearing make-up which requires a mirror, they all looked in the mirror and thought ‘damn, I am so sexy!’ and in their own way, they totally were.      

Krasnoyarsk Weekend Getaway!

Me: So Gabi, what should we do for your birthday this year?  It’s going to be hard to top last year’s repelling and medavukha adventure in the middle of Altai.

Gabi: True, true.  There’s always Yekaterinburg.  We haven’t been there yet.

Me: I would love to go there!  But it’s so far!  It’s 24 hours by train and I have a 12 hour patience level with trains.  That leaves Krasnoyarsk.

Gabi: Yes, when I was there in the summer it looked nice, but I didn’t see the city.

Me: Plus, according to this website, maybe we can push through to Abakan!  That’s near that village where the Jesus of Siberia lives!

Gabi: Oh!  Let’s research it!

This conversation took place about a month ago, and tragically, Abakan was just too far to get to.  In case we all forgot, Russia is an enormous country with the world’s slowest trains.  We naturally decided on Krasnoyarsk since it’s the perfect distance away, 12 hours by train.  After endless hours of reading travel website and blogs about this place, thank you Lonely Planet, TripAdvisor and Ask.com I was put in charge of finding and booking a hotel while Gabi was assigned booking train tickets.  When in doubt, divide and conquer.  Who would have thought a weekend trip would require so much work?  Oh yeah, we are both obsessive compulsive planners, so we are OCP. 

We were lucky and got our own private kopay car, which meant we could stay up all night chatting and not having to worry about our neighbors.  Once we finally arrived in Krasnoyarsk, we were greeted by fairly warm, yet very humid weather.  There are four train stations and we weren’t quite sure how to get to the hotel, and in a random moment of bravery I asked for directions.  As a rule, I really dislike having to ask strangers for help because most of the time I get snarled at or ignored; but not this time.  Just to be clear, I didn’t have enough credit on my phone so I wasn’t able to call the hotel myself.  Anyway, so she not called the hotel to ask for a concrete address, she then wrote down bus numbers and the bus stop which we needed.  Wow.  Then at the bus stop the conductor told us which stop was ours and we were greeted with open arms at our hotel.  For a moment I forgot where I was.  It was amazing.  The hotel was bit further from the center than I had hoped, but overall, it was everything and more: it was warm, real beds, a café and it was free from Soviet furniture.  After a much needed nap and shower we were energized and ready to do some real exploring. 

Like all tourists, we wanted to see everything and we wanted to see it NOW.  Then we climbed onto a bus and…sat in traffic for over two hours.  Krasnoyarsk is smaller than Novosibirsk and yet it feels so much bigger: it takes thirty minutes to cross the center, but not because it’s big, well it is, but there’s nothing to really see, the whole city is just spread far.  Our main mission was to find a museum, and somehow we missed our stop and wound up on the furthest side of the city and after standing on bus for so long and being pressed against the glass for so long, well, we needed to stretch our legs.  Only after about ten minutes of wandering in the dark did we think that perhaps this was not the wisest of decisions since we managed to lose our path back to the bus depot.  Great.  Happily, one thing which is really great about Russia is that bus stops are usually quite frequent, so we just hoped for the best. 

Fast forward to the end of the night, and by end I mean 8pm because it was pitch black and we were cold and hungry after wandering around for an immeasurable amount of time in search of a café.  Instead we found a super market and decided that it was high time for some real nourishment since we clearly weren’t going to find it in a café where one is usually served lukewarm soup and cold questionable sandwiches.  Gabi went on a fruit and yogurt buying spree and I went for the salad and water; she’s sweet and I’m savory.  The biggest question of the night was whisky vs vodka and let’s be honest, vodka just isn’t as fun as it used to be.  So we went with cognac and champagne instead.  And chocolate cake.  Lots and lots of cake.  I can safely say that not only did we suffer from regular hangovers, but from sugar and insulin shock for sure.  However, how often does indulge in decadence and bourgeois treats?  Dinner for the night included a cake roll- brownie thing, dark chocolate, cognac and 1870 champagne; followed by watching the end of a Soviet movie about a girl named Olya and her inability to love her husband and then killed herself.  It was a good night.

The next morning, Saturday, we decided to try and get an early start so we could see Chasovnya, the cute chapel on the 10 ruble banknote, and naively we thought we could take a bus up there.  Silly us.  It required a taxi.  Chasovnya itself is on the top of a small hill which overlooks the city and every day at twelve sharp they light a cannon which either wakes half the city while scaring and annoying the other half.  Why?  Because it’s tradition. 

Later in the afternoon the hunt for the elusive museum was resumed.  Since this was officially Gabi’s birthday I didn’t want to be downer because I really had no interest in museums, except for perhaps the Literature Museum, but that didn’t seem interesting to her.   So once again we were searching for the museum and the equally intangible city center.  The ‘center’ consisted of giant government buildings and no shopping or cafes or anything which is generally associated with a city center.  There was however a giant Lenin statue, not city is complete without Lenin.  Throughout the city we spotted bushes shaped into animal shapes, like what they do at the zoo, so it was a nice change from the usual square and rectangle what everyone loves, but aside from that, it makes me sad to say that the city is quite drab and shabby.  One day I will stop hoping to see a truly ‘Russian’ or ‘Siberian’ city: all unique culture, tradition and architecture was lost 90 years ago.

After a quick lunch we finally succeeded and found the Tvagenski Museum which for some reason was decorated with Greek and Roman deities along with Egyptian pictograms.  Curious.  Inside the museum was filled with an old ship which was a replica of the ship the Tsar was transported by to see his newly conquered lands hundreds of years ago.  Then there were some impressive displays about the tribes of Irkutsk, Abakan, Krasnoyarsk Kray and so on.  What did Greek gods and Egyptian art have to do with the native people of this region? 

After the museum it was time to return to the hotel and get ready for a night out.  For once we were cool enough to have reservations and weren’t snubbed by face control or other nonsense like that.  The club was called Koloradski Papa; and the building was amazing.  The staff were dressed in Soviet clothes and kept asking the customers why they were drinking and if they could join them.  In case you hadn’t noticed, it was a theme restaurant, and not a lazy eye roll-OMG-I-hate-my-job theme, but real enthusiasm and humor.  Once again, where were we?  Never have I been to a club in this country where the people are happy to show you around (it was a huge place, four dance floors) talk you through the menu and explain that there are drinking games and prizes.  We played a few games, but didn’t win.  The music was great, and it wasn’t just American stuff either, about sixty percent was Russian, which is impressive these days. 

Around four or five in the morning we got back to our hotel for a few hours of sleep and then we were off to see the Stolbi.  Volcanic rocks which you can climb on.  Except that it rained and it was muddy and cold and much further than we expected.  Krasnoyarsk is a ski town, not resort style such as Aspen or Vail, but the equipment is quite new and modern in summer and autumn it’s possible to ride the lift up a mountain and either walk down or ride down.  The cold fresh air was a nice way to clear away the cobwebs from the night before.  It’s so nice to be able to escape the monotony of the city: the daily bus rides, nasally offensive people, mindless chatter of co-workers…we desperately needed this trip. 

There’s something magical and almost indescribable about being on a train or bus or even plane going somewhere new.  It’s this excitement and energy which drives me on and makes me stare for hours on end at maps and wonder what’s going on there.  Krasnoyarsk reminded me that Russia isn’t so bad, not everyone is a jerk and not everyone thinks that foreigners are the anti-Christ coming to invade and take over.  Returning to Novosibirsk was nice simply because traffic isn’t as bad and this city is more glamorous (did I really put Novosibirsk and glamorous in the same sentence?) and easier to find coffee shops and supermarkets.                 

      

Russian Reboot

In case we all forgot, it’s hard to live in a different country.  Heck, it’s hard to live in your own native country, but that rant is for a different day.  The hardships of living in a foreign country are different for everyone, but the unifying factor is generally food and the way of doing business.  Food, of course is universal.  There are days when I wish more than anything that I could just have breakfast which I don’t have to make.  Sure, most people are probably asking themselves, breakfast?  What’s so hard about that?  The answer: everything.  Americans are raised with the notion of breakfast, if you don’t believe me, watch Breaking Bad.  Even when it’s just cold cereal, there’s something very comforting about cereal and cold milk and juice.  This kind of breakfast is possible to find in various countries, but not always.  In Mongolia this was a fantasy never to be realized.  These days, in Siberia I would love nothing more than an omelet or even more exotic, a breakfast burrito.  Here’s a Russian omelet: runny eggs, seriously the FDA would have a panic attack, and barely cooked tomatoes.  No onions, no veggies, no cheese and no black pepper at all.  I can more or less live without the frills, but runny eggs?  That will just go on the Ridiculous Paradox List.  Ice is bad, but uncooked eggs are just peachy.  And French Toast.  Yes, I have become the French Toast Master, but still, even I get tired of cooking.  It’s not like it’s hard, it’s just eggs, milk, vanilla, cinnamon, sugar and bread, but   still, if people can’t even thoroughly cook eggs…I’ll let you continue my thought for me.

  

From the tone, yes, I’m hungry and deeply annoyed.  At some point I’m really going to have to question my decision making paradigm, but until I do, I’ll just have to complain.  Last week, I made the impulsive decision to stop by my favorite place in the city to buy coffee for my friend.  Imagine my surprise when that barista was so excited to see me, along with two other men, one of whom I had never met before.  Given my sour mood, I couldn’t tell if they were being sarcastic or genuine.  They not only complimented my ‘sexy accent’ (this still makes me smile, I forget that Russians either love or hate my accent) but invited me to stay for a traditional Chinese tea ceremony.  Globalization never ceases to amaze me.  After receiving such a compliment, how could I refuse?  It’s had really been a while since I had a real conversation in Russian about something other than English grammar or buying food, so my manners were a little rusty.  I can’t say the tea was amazing, because green tea is green tea to me, but the company was amazing.  I have noticed that there are two types of Russian speakers, those who communicate clearly and those who don’t.  It’s really that simple.  People who communicate clearly don’t yell, don’t use exotic structures and aren’t arrogant, and these people are so great to talk to.  I appreciate it when people want to speak to me without wanting or expecting from me, as in wanting to practice their English with me (which is really torturous when I’m not working because it’s always something like, “I very really no not English”) or wanting to know why I’m here.  The people I was sharing tea with wanted to talk about the medical uses of tea and the weather and other random topics.  I found myself relaxing and realized how anxious and stressed I’ve been recently; like a coiled snake.  When I left, I was honestly sad to depart from my favorite place, because I don’t get to go there very often. 

As I walked home I felt as though I were seeing the city for the first time in weeks.  I call this Russian Reboot.  For the first time in weeks I had connected with people that I didn’t know and would probably never see again, which is fine.  Half of the beauty of traveling and living abroad is for such moments of pure Zen.  You find yourself laughing and sharing stories with people whom you don’t know, but you don’t care because for a minute you are friends and understand that language isn’t that big of a deal.  I needed the reboot because even the most optimistic people get weighed down with nonsense with babushka logic (which is non-existent), toxic fumes being pumped into your lungs on a regular basis, lack of hot water, people not caring about being late and the list just continues.  The Reboot allows me to see past these things and really appreciate the changing leave colors, the humor of the street vendors and the occasional good humor of the bus conductor.  The Russian Reboot also reminded me that despite the lack of cooked eggs and normal food, at least I’m spared from the nonsense of the American government shut down.  It could always be worse.   

Facebook and the English Language Whore

I’ve been giving a lot of thought about what it means to be an adult.  Justin tells me it’s about a savings account with more than $30 in it.  I think it’s about having a place to call your own, like a house or overpriced condo.  Then, another friend of mine posted this same question on her Facebook page.  Freaking Facebook.  Seriously.  People who scoff at it are now considered lame or anti-social and then there are those who abuse the crap out of it.  Some really great examples:

OMG I’m eating sushi!

My kid peed today, I’m a proud mama.

I’m in jail and trying not to freak out. 

 This is how I feel right now.... SLAP !

Not to mention the non-stop flood of people taking pictures of bread, pasta, fish or whatever else people eat these days.  Now that I am saying that I don’t care what people are eating or what their kids are doing- perhaps secretly we all do.  Isn’t the point of these websites to feel cool for about thirty seconds and to give quick updates on a massive scale to save time and hassle of making a real phone call?  How many times have I posted about floods in my city or coffee tragedies or political stuff?  That answer is a lot.  But do people respond to my posts?  No.  Do I respond to theirs?  Most of the time.  Am I feeling hurt and irrationally ignored?  Absolutely.  Is this unreasonable?  Yes, yes it is. 

Perhaps my favorite thing about Facebook is the psychological drama which comes with it.  Within a minute of meeting someone that you feel combatable with, someone will ask you if are on Facebook, or VK here in Russia.  I know Americans over use the word ‘friend’, we like to think everyone is our friend, it doesn’t matter that we just met in the bathroom of a night club or standing line at the supermarket; but here, in Siberia, people will ask me to friend them just because we met and I speak English.  It’s bad, even by American standards.  Why should I friend you on my social website when I don’t even know you?  And then the look they give you when you decline is even more priceless, you would think that you just killed their dog.  Does anyone remember the good ol’ days when people would have to sit down and write, and in, pen and paper, write real letters to each other?  I occasionally do this, and I really enjoy the process.  What I don’t enjoy is spending a few hours laboring over perfect penmanship, resisting the urge to add unnecessary smiley faces and ‘LOLs’, go through the torture of the Russian Post Office only to not have my letter or letters received.  Then it just makes me appreciate e-mails more. 

Returning to the subject at hand, almost on a daily basis, when young people ask me where I’m from and I tell them I’m American they will ask to be my friend on social media, not because they think I’m just that interesting or want to get to know me, no, they just want to say they know a native English speaker or they want to practice their English.  In situations like this, I can’t help but feel like an English language whore.

Person: “Um, I want, do I can practice English with you?”

Me: “Of course, it will cost you though.  It’s 1200 rubles to study with me.”

Person: “Oh it great!  I no want grammar though, just speaking”

Eye roll.  Sure, you just want to pay to listen to me, then give me money after I do all the work of desperately trying to understand you, pretend to care about microscopic progress and you give me money for no real reason.  Ew.  And at the end of the day, that’s what most ESL teachers feel like.  Going from house to house, or meeting in café’s or offices, it doesn’t matter, but you go, speak for an hour or so, and people give you money.  Your clients are always happy to see you, and you smile and give them what they want, English.  On a perverse level, at least in the darkness that is my mind it’s like a verbal blow job:

Person: “I very happy to see you!”

Me: “Thank you, but it’s ‘I’m very happy to see you.’”

Person: “Oh sorry (pronounced surry) I just happy to hear voice. 

Me: what an awkward thing to say, “okay, let’s get started.  Did you do your homework?”

Person: “Sorry, busy.  But I can to do it now.”

In my head I’m thinking, ‘sure you can, I mean, we’ve only been doing this for the theme for the past month, I’m so glad that I’m getting paid to do the same thing over and over and over again.  Sheez.  On the surface it sounds great!  No office politics, no nagging boss, no waking up at the crack of dawn and no taxes.  However, there’s not real stability, no real connection to people and real sense of accomplishment.  Perhaps I am over thinking and over analyzing this.  After all, how many professions allow you to show up wearing jeans, not pay taxes, and simply hire you based on your nationality?  It’s reverse racism at its best.