The Hunt for the Perfect Cup of Coffee

The other day I was sitting in Traveler's Coffee (a better version of Starbucks,in terms of quality) with a friend of mine listening to her order a cappuccino in a very anal and American manner.  She wanted cinnamon, but not so much that the foam was the color of burnt sienna, she wanted to make sure that they used cream, and not 2.5% milk and she wanted it hot, not lukewarm.  I should be use to this, where ever we go, she likes to question the menu and confuse the waiters who really don't care about their jobs or their customers; the last thing they want to do is listen to a foreigner demand what she wants.  Normally, this drives me crazy, we're in a country where customer service and quality just really don't exist, and if and when you can find it, you are so surprised that you don't know how to appreciate it.  I'm ashamed to admit that I've just learned to t live with it.  And really, is it so much to ask for?  I mean, really, all she ever wants is a properly made, hot, cappuccino; it's not as if she were wanting Brazilian Special Dark Roast, or elephant coffee beans imported from Thailand.  I usually tease her about her simple request and then internally scold myself.  There we are in a coffee shop, paying anywhere from 130-170 rubles ($4-$5) and we have to demand HOT coffee.  If anyone should be ashamed of themselves it's the customers who get ripped off every single day.  When did it become okay and natural to be served cold coffee?  Especially here where people freak out and panic about ice cubes and cold water?

Ironically, Traveler's Coffee, according to Gabi (my beloved friend) make the best cappuccino in town.  And this is has been seriously researched.  There are a lot of choices in the city: Chaska Cafe, Kofe Hause, Kafemolina, Chaklinitza, and Dubinka just to name a few.  As for me, I find Traveler's Coffee completely over priced and really, really, REALLY slow service.  Perhaps this is why coffee is always served lukewarm, the people move so slowly that it really takes about ten minutes before you are even served so naturally the coffee has cooled off.  My personal favorite is Chaska Cafe for two main reasons 1) it's half the price of Traveler's and 2) they don't ever argue with me.

Now, you may be asking yourself, what do you mean, argue?  Well, let me explain; first and foremost, I don't eat many sweets.  I hardly ever eat cake, if I do eat it, it's usually under duress because I don't want to be rude, I don't buy boxes of chocolate, and I don't enter candy stores unless I'm with a kid that I have to bribe.  So I don't eat sweets that often.  That being said, I do get my sugar fix from coffee.  I'm allowed to indulge in sweet coffee and the last thing I ever expect is people, namely baristas and waiters whose job it is to listen to me, tell me what I want.  I can't even count the times I've had this conversation:

me: latte please, large
waiter: do you want sugar?
me: yes please, 3 spoons
waiter: no
me: excuse me, what?
waiter: it's too sweet
me: so?  I like sweet coffee
waiter: it's not healthy for you

Just remembering all these conversations just annoy me all over again.  Why ask me how much sugar I want and this disagree with me about it!?  Seriously!  Better yet, just don't ask, I'll do it myself.  I'll be the judge of what is and is not healthy for me.  I don't think eating cake first thing in the morning, but do I tell people not to do it?  Well, I kinda just did, but you get the idea.  It's called the service industry for a reason.  So there we have it, my friend doesn't want her coffee lukewarm and over seasoned with cinnamon, which I forgot to mention, she has to pay for (5 rubles of 50 grains of cinnamon dust) and I want to place an order without someone judging me.




Now if we move away from the big coffee chains and explore smaller private coffee shops, the chances of finding a better cup of coffee greatly improve.  When I first came to Novosibirsk I was exploring the area known as tsnrani rinok, which is like a giant flea market and it's the very best place to buy spices and vegetables.  Near this area I came across this tiny coffee/ tea shop and wouldn't you know it, they also serve hot, strong lattes and cappuccinos.  They don't argue and the price is a fraction of the cost of the big guys, 60 rubles, about $2.  Sometimes less.  So this is my advertisement for Purerto.  I don't know if it's an Italian name because it's defiantly not Russian.  This is the one place where they not only care about coffee, like a lot, the beans are freshly ground and they use thermometers just to make sure the temperature is right, they also care about tea.  Here, I'm allowed to relax with a steaming hot cup of coffee and flip through all the fashion magazines I want and not be scolded for my love of sugar.

Why this rant and passionate demand for coffee?  Is it the process, the smell or is it simply the idea of coffee that makes people so agitated or calm?  Case in point, referring to my friend again, she simply cannot function without coffee.  She always jokes that she needs coffee to make coffee.  I enjoy coffee because I really love the rich, smooth and subtly bitterly flavor of the drink.  I love the soothing effects that come with coffee, yes, I do wake up and I can almost feel the neurons in my brain activating.  

Beyond just the caffeine effect, this drink brings people together.  People relax around each other and laugh more, girls stop talking about work and talk about shoes or hair.  Men laugh about women's problems and plot to over throw their bosses.  It's different than beer since the conversations don't spiral down to food talk and zombie invasions; instead they (ideally) migrate up to cat and pet stories, religion and everyone's favorite, politics.  So you see, if you don't have a hot, well balanced cup of coffee how can you expect those around you to be open and be cheery as well?  Coffee is more than just a hot liquid, it's about society.  

 
  

Public Transport and Beer

I’ve been a little bit too negative over the past month about my host country, so in an effort to clear the air and let the rest of the world know that this place isn’t so bad I’d like to address a few issues which are just nice about being here.

 

Public Transportation

 Let me back up and start out by saying that Novosibirsk, and most of the world has a better public transportation system than my hometown of Denver, Colorado.  First, in Denver, the busses are usually late and they don’t really work on the weekends, and when they do they stop at crazy times like 6pm or 7pm.  They don’t really go out the ‘burbs and when they do, it’s only about once an hour.  That coupled with the fact that they are expensive, anywhere from $1.75- $4.25. 

Now, let’s compare that to the Russia, and in particular, Novosibirsk.  Here, the busses start at 6am and go until 11pm; now true there isn’t a set schedule, but they just come every 5, 10, or 15 minutes.  You pay 17 rubles, which is about $0.75 and even though you may be stuck sharing your personal space with a woman who hasn’t seen or touched a toothbrush in about week, in the end it’s worth it.  You don’t have to walk miles on end to find a bus stop, and you don’t have to worry about waiting for hours on end either.   

Plus, on the bus you can see every person from society:

 1) the rich girl who can’t drive and even though she’s decked out in Gucci and Versace using her i-Phone and pretending that she’s too good to be there

2) next to the spoiled yet beautiful girl is a couple who escaped from 1986 who have matching mullets, complete with the woman wearing unflattering jeans and the man wearing something trying to be a plaid vest.  This couple never got the memo that matching haircut were never, ever in style for a reason

3) a group of teenagers from jamming out to music and not caring what anyone thinks

4) a guy with dreadlocks and ear tunnels who could pass for an American hippie

5) a random collection of old people (these need their own subcategory)

a) the old man with gold teeth whose hands are covered in fading jail tattoos

b) the babushka with cart of mysterious cargo who is the size of a sumo wrestler, complete with a scarf around her head, three sweaters and will insist that she is cold even though it’s 20C

c) the tiny, frail babushka who can barely walk and you really just want to give this poor woman a wheelchair because she clearly needs it

d) the old man also with a cart of stuff who looks like he can give birth to triplets

e) the mega old man who is wearing an old military suit

6) the women with strollers who will go out of their way to roll over people’s toes and yet yell at you because they are the ones who are troubled

7) the woman who demands a prize and a seat for carrying a kid who can clearly walk, but she’s too busy over coddling him to realize that the kid is 6 years old

8) all the men who are drinking beer on the bus; seriously, it always makes me smile when I just on at 8am and see three guys drinking beer

9) the annoyed office workers who would love to get to work without being late or getting their suits dirty

10) the other fashionably challenged people from all ages who think socks and sandals are a good idea; these people also think that leopard patterns and polka dots can be worn together, or tracksuits and high heels look sexy

Really, the only thing that’s truly painful about riding any form of public transportation is getting on or off the bus.  People love to panic and bottle neck and just stand near the door at all times.  This is not Tokyo, Beijing, Chicago or Mumbai; there is no reason at all to push and panic and push people out of the way to get on or off the bus.  Relax people.  Just take a deep breath and relax.

American fast food with a Russian Twist

As a rule I try and avoid fast food places because I’m American and I think it’s bad form and terribly cliché for an American to eat at Carl’s Junior.  However, about a month ago I was so hungry and so tired of getting ripped off in Russian cafes where the salads are just mayo and oil, and really, what’s the difference between a shawma or chubreiki which are already drowning in fat and are of zero flavor and offer no nutrition whatsoever?  So I gave in and ordered a hamburger. It was amazing and for the first time in ages, I wasn’t hungry!  As I sat there trying not to inhale my food I noticed something which we don’t have in American fast food eateries.  Beer.  Yes, in Papa John’s you can sit and actually eat and drink beer.  In all fast food places it’s possible to sit and eat and drink beer.  You have to admit, it’s quite handy.    

Memories of Altai

I was scrap booking the other day and came across some pictures of Altai, the mountainous region in eastern Siberia.  People refer to Altai as if it were this magical place that only a few can get to.  There is what's known as Altai Kudi, which is the Spirit or God of the Mountains and even western travelers refer to this.  I personally didn't feel any such thing, I just like the name Altai, it's has a very romantic sound to it.  Last year Gabi (my dear friend from England) and I were offered a trip to Altai for the low price of 4000 rubles, which is about $200.  Four days of hiking, repelling and caving, along with banya, and endless amounts of medovhuka (fermented honey alcohol).  We would have been crazy to turn down such an amazing offer, so we jumped at the chance.  Talk about the ultimate birthday day trip.  

Before we could go, obviously we needed some training if we were going to on this amazing adventure.  Neither one of us had extensive experience in repelling or climbing for that matter, so we found ourselves with our instructor, Alexander or Sasha for short, in an abandoned hospital in a forested area.  Despite the graffiti, the urine smells coupled with the stale beer smells; it was a great place to practice climbing, knot tying and repelling.  The last time I had ever repelled I was at Outdoor Ed when I was about 12, and while it looks easy, which it is, but first you have to let of your fear.  In my head I'd be a natural pro and scale the wall in 30 seconds flat because we were jumping from the third floor.  Ha.  No.  It didn't happen like that.  After Sasha got me all suited up I sat in the harness for about 5 minutes just trying to control my racing heart.  Was I really going to do this?  What if he didn't tie the rope right?  My mother would surly kill me if I killed myself in Siberia in an abandoned hospital surrounded by a sea of vodka bottles.  How cliché would that be?  So there I sat, dangling from the third story window trying to get the 'what if's' out of my head, all the while Sasha is climbing and up and down trying to get me out of my crazy zone.  
Him: Justina, pashli (пашли!)- let's go!
Me: Yes, yes, I'm coming.  (when in fact I just clung to the rope)
Him: Pashli, vsyo budet horosho
Me: (rolling my eyes) Yeah, yeah, that's what everyone says just before everything hits the fan
Gabi: Don't worry dude, I went through the same thing last week.  But I trust him.  

And that's all it took.  I took a deep breath and finally pushed off.  The sensation of almost being in free fall is almost without words.  Adrenaline and instincts just take over and can you believe that I was sad when I got to the bottom?  I hugged Sasha when my feet finally touched the ground and I just wanted to do it again.  Then it was Gabi's turn.  She was much more graceful than I was, but she was one training session ahead of me.  

So once or twice a week we were practice climbing and repelling.  It was all we could talk about for days, and at nights we would watch YouTube videos on how to tie knots.  How did the world ever exist before YouTube? 

Fast forward to October 25 and that night we met up with our traveling companions: Nikoli, Sasha, Little Sasha (Sasha's son), Larissa, Gabi and me. First we had to be picked up from the metro station.  We were led to a Neva car, which looks shoe box on wheels.  After being tossed around in this car, we were transferred to a Waszik, which I kept calling a Wazo, so from here on out, it’s a Wazo.  A Wazo is something that escaped from the Cold War and had an affair with the Scooby-Doo van; it’s green, rectangular (again, square) and although it’s far from attractive, it gets the job done.  There were 7 adults and Sasha, the little boy.  We also had Team Sasha: Sasha out guide, Sasha his son, Sasha one the drivers who we decided was an anti-social alcoholic and Sasha our host.  There was Nickoil, Larissa and Gaby; Larissa is a red haired, chain smoking wild spirit who never shuts up and Nickoli is Sasha’s good friend who is also a master climber and adventurer.  We were all piled on our backpacks and snuggled, prepared for the seven hour drive when Larissa pulled out a water bottle filled with cognac.  Sweet.  Now we’re talking.  I was starving.  I had fallen into the habit of only eating at 9am and then again at 11pm.  Naturally I was starving.  So I was happy when she pulled out the bottle and even more thrilled when she pulled out meat and bread. 

As I was sitting in this questionable vehicle with people I didn’t know, sharing a bottle of cognac out of a water bottle did I realize that I was actually doing this.  I had been so wrapped up in work, almost to the point that I despise most people- I almost forgot that I’m living in the middle of Siberia!  Not only that, in the middle of the night I was headed to an unfamiliar place placing my life in the hands of my roommate whom I’ve only known a year.  This is amazing.

 

At some point we finally arrived in the region of Chemal.  After spending several hours freezing and trying to get comfortable in less than ideal circumstances I finally fell into an exhausted sleep, only to be startled awake by traveling up a mountain with no roads.  Being thrown around in what can now only be called a sardine can would become the norm for us for the next 30 hours.

 

When we arrived at the ranch thing, honestly I can’t think of what to call it, it was a house with no running water or electricity so I want to call it a dacha.  However, there were stables for the horses and a banya and an outdoor gazebo for the summer, so perhaps it was a ranch mixed with a summer house mixed with vintage living?  Anyway, as I said, no running water which meant an outhouse from hell.  This also meant hygiene was going to be sacrificed after two hours which would really start to wear on my nerves along with everything else.  After we met our host, a man lovingly called…ready…Sasha!  To try and organize them all, this guy was called Sergeivich.  He was what one would expect in such conditions: chain smoking, quite thin, gold teeth and unclear and less than perfect Russian.  I had such a difficult time understanding him. That coupled with the fact that I was emotionally and physically exhausted.  I collapsed on what I thought was a bed only to find to my mounting dismay was a piece of particle board with a questionable blanket on top.  Perfect.  Of course it wouldn’t be real bed.  Why would it be? 

I was allowed to sleep for about twenty minutes when I was startled awake by Larissa’s voice shouting ‘davai!  Krasata!’  Krasata would become our new favorite word after this trip.  Since this was Gabi’s birthday trip, and since we were in the middle of nowhere in Altai and since it was also nine in the morning…it seemed like the perfect time to try some homemade samagon.  My stomach turned at the very idea of drinking moonshine so early in the morning.  Plus, since all I had been doing is working, I hadn't drunk alcohol in a while, plus, still lack of food.  But who am I to be rude and turn my nose up at tradition?  So down the rabbit hole we fell. 

After the samigon I did feel a little better and before I knew it there was soup and tomato sauce with garlic for bread- I was happy.  After the birthday shots, Sergeivich pulled out medovkha, which is basically fermented honey.  I had never had anything like it before, it was quite good, it didn’t taste like honey or alcohol, but it had the same effect.  After two shots of that and some hot food I finally felt more like myself (the friendly me, not the bitchy me who I was in danger of becoming) and wanted to explore.  I pulled on my awesomely ugly yet surprisingly boots and strolled out into the cold sunshine.

 

The mountains remind me of the hills in Golden.  Nice, but not nothing that will imprint themselves on your memory, or not my memory at least.  Yes, they are nice.  Yes there was a little snow.  No, I didn’t hear the great spirit of Altai called Altai Kudi.  

Anyway, so I walked back inside and Gabi asked for my help with translating.  Yeah, up until this point no one really spoke to me and these days my Russian speaking skills are all about grammar.  Things like: ‘every English needs a verb,’ ‘what is this?’ ‘we use this tense to talk about facts’- I’m so out of practice with real conversations about trees and hair that I was kinda useless.  In any case, there were more shots being poured and I needed to get out of my head for a while, so I joined in the fun.

That night we went to the banya, which is basically a steam bath or sauna.  It was nice to feel clean after such a rough trip.  So once again, I was trying to relax.  The next day we would be descending down a 50 meter cave. 

The next morning we got all geared up and I was feeling great.  I still didn’t really sleep well, but the medovkha helped calm me a little bit, but overall, the weather the warm and everyone was in good spirits.  We piled once again into the Wazo and we were off. 

We made it about a mile before we were stuck in the mud.  Not the snow, the mud.

  One of the Sasha’s had put on some chains and we were still stuck.  After getting unstuck, we jumped back in and we were once again thrown around like ice in a cocktail drink.  It was pretty fun; I just kept getting thrown against the window so my back wasn’t happy with me.  Gaby was freaking out and at some point I got thrown onto the floor and landed on the bags- I just decided to stay there because it was so much easier.  After about 4 miles we got stuck.  Again.  This time the guys had to pull down some trees and pull out the shovels to free the Van-of-Possible-Death.  I was reminded of the time I was in Mongolia with Tia and Sasha and the group and we got stuck in the sand.  After many minutes we were once again free, but the van didn’t stop.  So we had to walk up the steep hill which killed my good mood; after about five minutes of trudging through snow and mud I lost feeling in my toes, not from the cold, but from the pressure on my nerves in my foot. 

At some point I took in the view, which was finally becoming noteworthy.  The pine trees were covered in enough snow to look like something that Thomas Kincade would appreciate and there were deer and rabbit prints all around which meant that there was life in these mountains after all.  At long last we finally made it to the cave; which was little more than crack in the ground.  Again, out came the medovkha.  Our main guide, Sasha, asked us not to drink the night before and I agreed that I wouldn’t.  However, I saw him take a shot and then Gabi, but I declined.  My body temperature was cooling down and it just seemed like a bad idea.  I said I’d wait until I ascended from the questionable hole.  Gabi was far from calm, Gabi has a phobia of caves, but this was therapy for her, so I tried to cheer her up a little.

  

When all was said and done, Nickoli went first, then me.  I was quite bored watching Nickoli and Sasha tie the knots and secure our ropes and I just wanted something to do.  As my foot slipped off the first rock and my headlamp hit the rocks did it FINALLY occur to me what I was doing.  I saw the rope sliding through the rek, (not sure if that’s Russian or English) and felt the rocky wall beneath my feet and I wasn’t afraid.  Yes, I was quite terrified when we were practicing at the hospital, but this was different.  This was beautiful.  Not Cave of the Winds beautiful, but beautiful in a way that was new and pretty much unexplored.  I was surprised at how quickly I reached the bottom of the cave, which is called Baltilka, which is Russian for bottle.  Nickoli was there to help unhook me and I all but shouted with glee, ‘vsyo cobdnii!’ and I hugged him.  He looked at me like I was freak, but I couldn’t help it.  I was happy.  My headlamp scanned the small area, and to be honest, there wasn’t much to see.  The only impressive things were small black furry things on the walls which turned out to be bats.  I also had never been in a bat cave before and no, Carlsburg Caverns doesn’t count.  These were wild bats in a wild cave.  They were so cute and tiny, and also asleep.  Nickoli was busy trying to deepen the cave by chiseling into a corner and throwing rocks in my general direction.  Again, not sure what to do, I decided to stare are the walls of the metamorphic rocks, at least that’s what he told me they were.  Anti-social Sasha soon joined us, followed by Gabi, then Sasha guide and seven year old Sasha.  Honestly by the time everyone else made it down I was bored and getting cold.  Gabi was still having anxiety about the interior of the cave, but I was more interested in making the long climb out.  As it turned out Anti-Social Sasha was more inexperienced than we were, and Nickoli had to give him a ten minute lesson on how to leave a cave.  Um, at some point didn’t it cross this guy’s mind to do that before descending into a cave?  Seriously, where the hell is my Logic Shock Collar?!  So while this guy was making the turtle climb up the wall he felt the need to kick at every wall and rock he came across.  He somehow found a nest of rocks that needed to be liberated, so he did, right down on the rest of us.  Gaby and I were standing near leg. the wall, we thought out of harm’s way, and since it was fairly dark it was hard to tell what was really happening- all I remember is seeing a rock the size of a basketball bouncing our way and I twisted my body around Gabi’s to protect her and took the rock to my upper thigh and hip.  The pain shocked me. 

What surprised me even more was the no one cared.  Gabi didn’t even thank me.  As usual.  I should know better when it comes to things like this. 

Anyway, so after Sasha showered us with rocks and anger it was my turn to climb up.  Since my leg was throbbing, this complicated my climb, along with the fact that my Crow was loose and wasn’t holding the rope properly.  I didn’t realize my other problem until Nickoli pointed it out when I finally reached the top.  My arms were shaking so badly that I could barely hold the cup of tea Sasha handed to me.  After I sipped some of the tea he handed me the bottle of medovukha, which I happily accepted. 

It seemed to take ages for Gabi to climb and then we had to wait for the father and son team.  As expected, the little boy couldn’t make the climb so Nickoli had to assemble an SOS rope apparatus.  We watched him heave and pull for about ten minutes in stunned and fatigued silence before it occurred to us to help him pull.  It was really a two person job anyway; the Jurmiour had to be adjusted after every pull; so while I adjusted this pulley thing Gabi pulled.  After what seemed like hours, but it was probably more like five or ten minutes I finally saw the top of little Sasha’s head.  He was so tired and grumpy that he couldn’t even muster the strength to pull his leg up over the rope.  I couldn’t even do it, I was able to pull him up over the rope, but I didn’t have the energy to completely pull him to safety.   They make it look so easy in the movies, let me tell you, it’s not easy.  Nickoli stepped in while I rolled out of the way.  Gabi I high fived each other for a days work well done. 

Oh yeah, we had to actually get back down the mountain.  Damnit.  All I wanted to do was take a hot shower, but since this Russia Land of No Showers, I had to wait and deal with a banya.  I was covered in mud and dust and my muscles were already tightening and protesting my decision making abilities.  The trip down the mountain was filled with even more body tossing adventures.  When we clamored through the door we were greeted by applause and…ready…medovukha!  I was really anxious to see my battle wound since my leg was really, really hurting.  You can imagine my surprise to discover that there was no mark.  Typical.  How could I forget that I don’t bruise?  What really annoyed me was that when I retold this story to the Russians, mainly Sasha, again no one asked if I was okay and the guy who caused the rock slide in the first place didn’t even apologize!  I was trying to remember as I climbed up where in the world he would have found all those rocks, and to this day I still can’t figure it out.  Neither could Gabi because we tried to promise each other to not drop rocks on the rest of the team. 

In the banya Gabi and I took turns checking out each others scratches.  I managed to get a collection on my back, but I can’t figure out where they came from, along with some on my stomach.  She had some impressive bruises on her inner thighs from the harness, and I still had nothing on my leg.  I was pissed because I really wanted some attention and a battle wound; something I could be proud of.  Yes, I know how silly and childish is sounds.  Whatever.

Back inside the main cabin everyone was still drinking.  I couldn’t help but notice that Nickoli and Larissa had been flirting ever since they met.  Just to fast forward through the night when I tried to go to bed and get some much needed sleep, I also saw her climb into her bed.  Since the beds were lined up camp style, we were all neighbors.  Gabi and basically shared one bed and everyone had bunk beds.  At some point a random cat joined me and just as I was experience some kitty love I heard Nickoli climb into bed with Larissa.  Really?  No way.  We were less than three feet apart.  I had an instant memory of Dances with Wolves when that couple was having sex and Kevin Costner didn’t know where to look or what to do.  This was me.  A whole new level of awkwardness.  At first I was trying to be naïve and hope that perhaps they were just snuggling.  Ha.  I heard everything.  EVERYTHING.  Even the declaration of the ass and the how great the ass was.  Again, at what point did my life become reduced to this?  Gabi was at the other end of the cabin for some crazy reason encouraging Rock Slide Sasha to keep playing the guitar even though he totally sucked.  It occurred to me that she was doing this to offer background noise for the rest of us.  I was so happy when she finally joined me in bed:

Me: OMG dude, I’m so happy you’re here! (whispering)

Gabi: Um yeah, I don’t even know what to say.  Can you hear what they’re saying?

Me: (giggling) no!  I feel like I’m 13.  This is so awkward!

Gabi: Oh I know!  I- uh, had an incident…

Me: Oh no, you’re expecting a visitor are you?  Because that would really suck for me.

Gabi: (laughing) no, well, I’m not sure…

Me: (laughing) What?!  Hell no, who?

Gabi: um, Sergeivich.  I don’t even know how it happened, but he felt me up.

Me: ew, and no!  Crazy man. I can’t believe those two are talking so much.

Gabi: I know.  But I think it’s logistical now.  (more giggling)

Me: Just so we’re clear, we’re in the middle of Altai- listening to people…uh…

Gabi: Yep, welcome to Altai.     

       

The Botanical Gardens

There’s nothing that makes a person feel more alive than really taking in the simple beauty of nature.  I was finally able to make it to the Botanical Gardens outside of Novosibirsk last Sunday.  Like most things around here, you have to have a strong desire to go somewhere or do something since the idea of community outreach or advertisement is relatively new; so after a bus rid and marshrutka ride we found ourselves in the middle of nowhere.  Literally.  Happily, the ‘middle of nowhere’ is usually somewhere between your intended destination and a little village.  I spotted an ever present mini market so I wasn’t too annoyed about lack of signage, the weather was still beautiful and you could hear birds chirping.  It’s not possible to remain in a sour mood when the sun is shining, the temperature isn’t burning and you can hear friendly wildlife. 

The lush green trees were breathtaking.  I used to be really good at identifying trees, but over the years I’m afraid I have lost my touch.  Yes, most of Russia is covered in birch trees, but that’s not to say that there other forms of vegetation here.  For example, oaks and cotton and what I can only describe as lipa trees.  Like all cities it’s hard to appreciate how beautiful this world really is, and the only way is to drag yourself out of the city. 

Upon entering the Gardens and marveling at the sheer size of the massive trees and overgrown flower beds, we were met by an amazing lack of sound.  Yes, we weren’t even able to hear the noisy highway just a kilometer away, and that’s always nice.  I noticed again that none of the trees or flower beds had the name plates identifying what they were, which was distressing to me because I love information like that so I can sophisticated at parties and job interviews.  Despite the lack of education in a place that's supposed to be all about education, like I said, the Gardens were wild.  

What are you looking at?  I think it was a cactus, but I can't say for certain.  All of the flower beds and mini parks were in desperate need of some TLC and as is usually the case, when I asked why this amazing place was in such shambles it was 'because the government doesn't care and give money.'  

I'm not saying that people have to over manicure their land like the English and the Americans, but at least pretend to care a little.  You can blame the government all you want but you know who makes up the 'government'?  People.  

I'm not going to turn this into a political rant, this is about nature.  In case we forgot, and let's face it, we always forget how breathtaking and miraculous this small planet of ours is.  

This is a leaf.  A LEAF that is five times bigger than my hand.  The moment of Zen is realizing that this moment is beautiful.  The only thing or things which were missing from this mini paradise were squirrels, chipmunks and animals in general.  Since I'm from Colorado I've always taken animals for granted, because well, they are everywhere.  A squirrel is hard to come by around here, which is strange because this should the perfect place for them, and forget about seeing rabbits.  Or even a deer.  People tell me it's because people hunt them.  Really?  People hunted squirrels to extinction?  Extinction is a strong word, extreme hiding.  Is a squirrel even worth hunting?  A few wild animals every now and then would be nice, that's all I'm saying.    

Moving on from the wild beauty of nature...well wild beauty in a different light.  Rain.  Lots and lots of rain.  

Normally, weather doesn't bother me, but when it floods every day, well, I was pretty sure that this is what people in Brazil and Thailand deal with every day; and I'm sure they are fine with it.  The streets of Novosibirsk can't handle much, let alone torrential floods on a daily basis.  

   

These are all taken on different days, but you get the idea.  So that's it, on any given day a sudden downpour can occur or you can stumble into an almost tame wilderness.  

  

Pancake Rant

I woke up this morning and decided to make pancakes, not crepes, not blini, but real fluffy pancakes.  One problem, for some reason something so easy to make takes about an hour and a half and by the time you’re finished you too annoyed to even want the thing you created.  Like so many Americans, I go through fazes when I really miss American food like pancakes, key lime pie, gravy and broccoli cheese soup.  There are days when I’d give a pint of blood for I-HOP or even a Denny’s.  Yearning aside, something like pancakes should be easy to make here, should being the operating word here.

About a year ago when I was in Moscow with my mom and dear, dear friend Justin in a Georgian restaurant, my mom was venting about not being able to find cold water in kiosks.  Yes, it’s 90 degrees and yes there is cold beer- and there is water there, but it’s not cold.  How did/ does this happen? Refrigeration equals cold, that’s how it’s supposed to work.  Justin answered, “You see, you need to get the word ‘should’ out of your system here.  This is Moscow, and any time you want to use logic you should be zapped.  They should make a logic zap collar for this place.”

Fast forward to me trying to make pancakes for the zillionth time.  I started this project because I have all these berries and thought I’d amazing and make compote or at least a fruit sauce thing to put on top of the pancakes.  My berry knowledge is very limited, I can successfully identify about 6 types and figured that I had acquired blueberries and currents; however in retrospect I’m now thinking they are something quite different.  The ‘blueberries’ have a strange spiciness to them and the red ones are a little sweet but more sour.  No problem, I’ll just use the technique my mom taught me when she thought I wasn’t paying attention, I’ll add a little salt.  Then I added some sugar and this amazing sauce did eventually make itself, but the berries are still strange.  Taking some Justin advice I stopped playing with it and decided I would leave the berry thing alone and create the fluffiest pancakes ever.  Only to remember that my stove isn’t level and the oil tends to gather in the part of the pan.  Damnit.  I started this whole endeavor at 11am and it’s not 1pm and I have a small batch of tea saucer sized pancakes and questionable fruit sauce.  As much as I’ve love to blame my kitchen, it’s possible this culinary fail is my fault, and not the ingredients fault.  So this is my zap moment.  Blueberries are not blueberries and red berries are not always currants.   

However, a zap moment for Russia is salad.  There is great debate about what makes a salad.  In my book, a salad is fresh vegetables you can see and identify topped with a little dressing.  Here, it’s canned vegetables drowned in mayo and sour cream.  Say what you will about generalizing American food, but that kind of salad is far from popular and is generally avoided by all children.  Salads should be healthy, not give you a heart attack.  Everyone knows that if you want to have a heart attack you eat fried macaroni and cheese or something from Paula Deen’s cookbook.   

This brings to mind another culinary disagreement which I will blame on ingredients; my battle trying to make my beloved broccoli cheese soup.  I learned a while ago that Russian cheese has two very important things missing from it, salt and a melting point.  Russian cheese simply doesn’t melt.  I’m sure you’re thinking, ‘but it’s cheese, of course it melts’ and if you think that, you should be zapped.  It doesn’t melt, it congeals and becomes a blob that will someday spring to life and declare war on yogurt.  Finding cheese that melts requires a lot of reading and patience because in all supermarkets there appears to be about 50 types of cheese, but upon careful examination, you’ll quickly discover that 30 are all the same.  I got tricked into buying чеддар- cheddar only to skip home and discover it was a weird yellow swiss cheese.  Just because it’s yellow doesn’t mean you can call it cheddar.  And just because the label says it says cheddar doesn’t mean it really is. 

Keeping that in mind, you really have to ask yourself how strong the label laws are if things are packaged as one thing and they really sold as another?  Russians are really quite anxious about buying domestic vodka for fear that they will be sold something like isopropanol alcohol or something even worse.  I used to laugh off this concern as people being genetically pessimistic and paranoid, but after reading several articles in Russian newspapers and other various places I’m beginning to think there may be something to these concerns after all.  The only logical thing to do at the end of the day is to get a cow and make your own cheese and then you can be sure that your dairy products are the best in town.           

Живая Вода- Water of Life Festival...FAIL

The other day, after my weekly yoga class, the yoga teacher was kind enough to point out a poster advertising an ethnic Russian folk festival called, Живая Вода (pronounced zivaya voda).  I was naturally curious about it and ran home to Google it.  They had not only one, but two web pages, one in remarkably good English and the other, of course in Russian.  For the record, here's the English website:
http://runknown.com/festival-of-ethnic-cultures-water-of-life-2013 which looks amazing.  I feel like I've fallen into rut over the past several months of doing nothing more than going to work, going home and on rare occasions, seeing my friends.  This looked like the shot in arm I needed to reconnect with my love of foreign cultures and travel in general.

I passed this joyous news onto my English girlfriend and a few other people who may have also been interested, most weren't but a few were.  My friend, Gabi, had told me about this breath taking festival that she had gone to in Omsk a few weeks prior and to honest, I was (and am) a little jealous.  She described seeing about 3000 people dancing around a fire which took 45 minutes to start since they only using dry sticks and stones to start the bonfire.  I don't care who you are, if you can start a fire without using matches or gasoline then you get alpha male points.  Anyway, with this mental picture already established, the bar was set quite high for the festival I saw advertised.

After a week of planning, Sunday morning came and three bus tickets had been purchased to go to the small village of Kolyvan, which is about 40km outside of the Novosibirsk.  Gabi was running late which was no surprise to me since that girl would be late to her own funeral, so it was just the two of us.  The bus ride itself was uneventful, and we arrive in Kolyvan in about an hour.  There were a few people also going to this festival and once we arrived, no one knew where to go.  I was thinking that since the festival was so big and old, surely there would be signs...ha, silly me, for a moment I forgot where I was.  No one actually puts up useful signs, only one small one which you can only see if you're on the street of the festival.  After asking about five different people we pointed in the proper direction.  At some point we made friends with a babushka who was also going the festival.  I found her to her to be delightful.  Since we had to walk about kilometer, she decided to tell us about a winter folklore festival which she had been to last year.

Finally, the moment of truth, we found the tiny sign and saw some tents, and we had arrived! I sent an excited text to Gabi and then I let my eyes take in the sights around me...

Yes, the town itself is quite picturesque and cozy, but as for the festival, well, you can see for yourself.  At first glance I thought was I was just being too harsh, but upon further inspection...well, I saw this.

What about this is exactly 'ethnic Russian'?  At no point did someone pull out a balalaika or Altai flute or even a cool violin thing that I don't even know the word for.  Instead, we were subjected to off-key Celtic music, which I'm sure all of Ireland would be offended by, less than smooth and rehearsed Indian music and some guy trying pull off throat singing, but it sounded like a bear and a walrus and attempted to mate.  In a word or two, I was disappointed and completely disillusioned. 

Once I got over my shock and tried to shoo away the gloom that accompanies shock and disillusionment, I tried to find the positive.  The positive was this- Russian hippies!  The festival was calm and relaxed, as you can see, lots of people were running around half naked, not that I blame them since it was remarkably hot that day.  In true hippie style, there were drum circles everywhere, and people doing questionable yoga, people selling trinkets to protect auras and henna tattoos.  In retrospect, I should have gotten a henna tattoo since I've never had one before.  No one was drinking and almost no one smoked, so it was clean and calm. 

After an hour, my other friend Maria, showed up.  She was little more prepared that I was and came with blankets to sit on, my only preparation was to bring Mohitos and water.  After spending another hour desperately trying to enjoy the bad music and overall laziness of the 'festival' Maria saved me by offering to show me how to make a flower garland.  Now I can safely say that I've picked wild flowers and made an interesting piece of head gear.

My main complaint is this: you can't say that you're going to host an ethnic festival and not have ethnic people there.  Hippies don't count as ethnic and bad Indian music and even cheaper jewelry doesn't count either, it's just insulting.  

Babushka vs Spy

It’s a nice 90 degree day and despite the stale heat, it’s a beautiful day.  As I was standing on the crowded bus, trying my best to keep myself calm and collected, I saw this babushka make a mad dash onto the bus with, you guessed it, two enormous bags.  It didn’t matter that there were other people boarding at the same time, and it mattered even less to her that the bus continued to idle for another two minutes which meant that the rushing was completely unnecessary.  This got me thinking about babushkii in general.  Yes, I know every traveler from Moscow to Kurdistan has a story about a babushka, and most of these stories are hilarious as they are special.  There is the story of the babushka freaking out because a girl was sitting on a bench in the winter and she thought that her eggs would freeze.  There’s the story of an old woman giving an uncalled for lecture to a guy because he had dirty shoes.  There’s the ever classic story of not one babushka, but several shouting at some students because they were speaking any language other than Russian.   And my personal favorite, being spoken to firmly because I had the misfortune of snagging my nylons; it was after all my goal to waste five dollars by ripping my nylons on purpose. 

Now you may be asking yourself: why do they care so much?  Or for that matter, do they really care or do they just need something to talk about?  The Soviet Union is but a dim a memory for many of the young people these days, so perhaps the aging generation is desperately trying to make their voices heard to validate the years of conformity.  Just like rebellious teens that make it a point to dress wildly and shout obscenities; the senior generation has to pass judgment on those they simply don’t understand.  Like countless people it must be a shock to wake up one day and realize that the world which you grew up in is long gone.  These women were raised in an era where people had a handful of patterns and materials to choose from for clothes, impressively long lines for eggs and milk and were really allowed to form personal opinions; imagine the astonishment to see their grandchildren, especially girls, running around in what can only be described as porn style Soviet school uniforms where the skirts barely conceal butt cheeks.  We now live in a world where we have access to vast quantities of information, no one is afraid to criticize the government (correction, you’re allowed to grumble and you better not be someone in office) and traveling is open to all those who which to deal with the paperwork.  In other words, it’s a brave new world.  In this world no one cares a girl is sitting on something cold, a young man under age 30 will be annoyed about being dirty, but won’t panic and no one will lecture you for speaking a different language.  Will they stare at you?  Absolutely.  Will they tell you to shut up?  No.  Will they think you’re a spy?  Well, something never change with time; but once people accept that you are a spy you may continue with business as usual.       

Let me backtrack a bit about The Babushka; first thing’s first, what exactly is a babushka?  It’s a fun fact that all foreigners who come to the post-Soviet world use this word instead of the English word ‘grandmother’.  Why?  Perhaps it’s because elderly ladies from America, England, Australia etc are just, for lack of a better word, different than they are in Ukraine, Russia, Kazakhstan and so on.  The typical body type of a babushka is square with massively wrestler type arms.   She will have either a classic color of hair such as brown or blonde, but just to walk on the wild side; it’s not unheard of to see babushki with purple or magenta colored hair.  Keeping this imagine in mind…imagine her with gold teeth and a shawl wrapped around her.  It sounds like I’m describing a stereotype.  I’m not doing much to promote the open-mindedness which I pride myself on, but bear with me.  The purple haired babushka which wears just about every color combination and pattern known to man is my favorite.  She is the one who will happily shout at a young person and demand that they give her their seat on the bus, but at the same time, she will happily give up her seat a pregnant woman.  She will be upset that you don’t speak Russian, but if you’re buying tomatoes or milk from her she will undercharge you by ten rubles (about fifty cents).  If you are invited for a meal with her, she will spend all day cooking for you and be offended if you get full and it’s just possible to eat another piece of cake.  Paradoxical?  Undeniably.  And with these clearly generous yet confusing people, they can be summed up in one word:  Russia.  

Nothing annoys me more than being pushed on an already overcrowded bus by an old woman who hasn’t used a toothbrush in about a week only to told by the same woman that I should somehow move some more because she has to make room for her bag.  Speaking of bags, even young people will ask, what’s in a babushka’s bag?  Potatoes?  Slippers?  Body parts to be sold on the black market?  Perhaps precious metals to be melted down for some nefarious purpose, but whatever may be in those ever present suitcase style bags, they are clearly heavy as they are ugly.  If you’re going to be running all around the city with such huge bags and pushing people with them, at least have the decency to push people with a fake Louis or knock-off Gucci bag.  Since this happens on a weekly basis it more or less makes me crazy.  After all, once again, who do these women think they are?  Yes, they do have their charm but the charm is like a light switch: they’ll be fine one moment and go off at the bus conductor for driving one meter further than normal.     

My friend and I were discussing a curious situation about crossing the street since the lights didn’t seem to be working and as usual the drivers had no idea what to.  She just scanned the streets for a babushka and decided to cross when she did.  I naively asked her why and she just shrugged her shoulders and said, “when in doubt, just do what the babushka does”.  This made me laugh and I told her that I wanted to make t-shirts with this funny yet very accurate piece of advice.     

You may also be asking yourself, ‘yes, the streets are filled with bi-polar babushki, but where are the grandfathers?' Notice the language shift?  We don’t use the Russian word, ‘dedushka’ we simply say old man or old guy.  The easy explanation is that we, as in travelers, don’t have the same experiences with them like we do with women.  Yet the sad truth is that most of men just die younger; and perhaps this statically depressing fact is what also drives the women to act as they do.  Whatever the case may be, Russia wouldn’t be Russia without babushki.