Show some Love for the Olympics

There are a few questions people continually ask me which never get old: 1) Do you like Russian vodka? 2) Do you like our Russian snow? 3) Do you like Russian people? 4) Russia is a bad country, yes?

This blog post is going to address the last question, is Russia a bad country?  How does one even begin to answer that?  After spending a day shopping and dealing with nonsensical people from time to time, I do have my moments of severe annoyance but I can’t in an honest answer say that this is a bad country.  Does it bug the crap out of me that people insist on putting plastic things over their shoes because janitors don't know how to do their jobs and clean the floor, thus making it quite challenging for you walk?  Yes.  Does it take all of my restraint to stop from strangling the cashier who can't be bothered with putting my groceries in the bag even though that's what's she's there for?  You bet.  And does it take Buddha-like patience when it comes to dealing with the post office?  Absolutely.  These annoyance are more cultural than anything, and if these things didn't bother me, I'm sure something else would.  There are people all over the world who are lazy and don't feel like doing the job for which they were hired.  Does this mean that the whole world is bad?  Think long and hard before answering that, because we can always find something worth smiling about and something which bring us a little joy.  Therefore, no Russia isn't exactly the Wild West or Wild East if you will; if it were, then there wouldn’t be so many immigrants here.  There wouldn’t be so much Hollywood and intrigue.  My personal belief is that Russia is a victim of their own stereotypes and preconceived notions about what foreigners think about them. 

Case in point is the Olympics.  Was there corruption?  Well, you can’t break the world budget without a little income on the side.  Was there massive grumbling and complaining the need to take the torch into space and under Baikal?  Absolutely.  Just to play the devil’s advocate, when was the last time anyone thought about doing something that extreme?  I think the other countries were just jealous that they didn’t think of it first.  Despite the enormous financial burden that was imposed on the people of the world’s largest country, there was genuine excitement in the air when the Olympic flame came through the humble city of Novosibirsk. 

Then came the day of the opening ceremony in Sochi.  Yes, I like so many others read the posts by the reports who were speaking ill of Russian hotels: no water, no floors, questionable beds etc.  But then, the Games opened and the world was silenced for a whole hour as Russia presented their best ballet dancers, singers and unique creativity for the whole world to see.  Let’s be honest, the media were holding their breath and just hoping that something would go wrong; and to be truthfully, perhaps a fair amount of native people were also thinking that.  Happily nothing of the sort happened.  Only one lighting thing didn’t work and you would think that an entire building had collapsed.  Seriously people, you’re going to ignore the mind-blowing choreography and pure exquisiteness of the show over a few light bulbs? 

Where does all of this bad press come from?  Decades of propaganda from the faceless people who tell us that we should be scared of everything un-American?  This is an easy answer.  After all, these were the same faceless people who told us smoking was fine, and then changed their minds.  Gay people are evil and corrupt and then changed their minds.  Genetically altering foods will save the world, and are now having to explain why people are unnaturally aggressive and developing cancer at an alarming rate.  Propaganda is the mechanism which makes the world go round, and over generalizations are loosely, and I mean loosely based on facts; but still, at some point people really begin to believe their own propaganda.  For decades it was East vs West and it can be argued that it still is that way.  It’s funny how quickly everyone forgets their history or glosses over ‘the bad stuff’.  The West is not some fairy-tale land were people just ride around in BMW’s and eat fast food (well, perhaps in LA they do) but that’s just not how it is.  And the East is not a place where bears roam the street and the mafia drives around in black cars.  It hasn’t been that way since the late 90’s.  Everyone knows that, except for perhaps the people reporting the news. 

Returning to the topic at hand, so yes, after years of being told that the West is a land of puppies and unicorns, and sometimes even flying cars which run on tea; people at some point in time began to believe it.  Then on the flip side, once all of the political and imaginary boundaries were open, there came the flood of images of the Evil Empire.  And then everyone believed it.  I’m trying to recall what I was taught in school, because it was very different than what my mother was taught.  I never had to learn what to do in case of a nuclear attack, yes, I’m sure all my well-read readers will roll their eyes at me; but let’s face it, how else do you calm a population with such awful weapons?  We’ve sure come a long way since the days of hiding under desks and political discord; instead we fight cultural wars via Buzzfeed and Fox and other nonsensical media outlets. 

Tragically yes, people do start to believe in their own cultural propaganda and adapt to facts that perhaps you weren’t aware of.  For example, Vladimir Putin wrote a letter to the New York Times warning Americans not to be so egotistical, which is totally pot calling the kettle black.  Doesn’t every country want to be great?  Isn’t that the point of establishing boundaries and boarders, to stick out your tongue and declare that you are the best?  If sticking your tongue out doesn’t work, you could always invest in a chemical weapon or two, which generally catches a little more attention.  Speaking of pots and kettles, isn’t it funny that not even China received as much ridicule or scrutiny the way Russia has?  It’s not right and it’s not fair.  The moral of the story is this: Не та́к страшен чëрт, как его́ малю́ют (the devil is not as black as he is painted).  Russia not the evil empire, nor is it exactly paradise.  Tell me a place that is without problems and I will be quiet and apologize.  Until then, the press just need to remember that they are supposed to be objective and not to over exploit problems which aren't even problems.  We all just need to take a minute to take a breath and relax.  After all, they are hosting a fairly important international sport competition and at the end of the day, we are all guests in this huge country, and the last time I checked, it wasn’t exactly polite to constantly insult your host.  

Attack of the Clichés!

Siberia is cold.  It’s cold in Siberia.  Thank you very much Sherlock.  I hate it when things people often say because there’s nothing else to be said turn out to be true.  So yes, I will finally have to admit that it’s below zero and quite cold outside.  Yes, people have to actually wear fur to stay warm, both real and fake, although thanks to the wonders of modern science and animal rights groups one has to really question if fur and leather are really superior to cotton and polyurethane and other synthetic materials.  And alas, even hats.  Those wool, jewel encrusted fashionable hats that every woman, except for me can wear.  I have to admit, the Russian people really know how to bundle up in style.  In Colorado one simply applies two or three shirts of various thickness and colors, coordinating hat and scarf and viola, you are set.  Not to mention the flat boots, fluffy coat and sometimes mismatched glove; it doesn’t really matter since you’re going out to your car which will be nice and warm and won’t have to worry about spending outside in the cold.  Obviously, if you’re going to be outside for hours on end, you put on a matching ski-suit and all your fashion problems are solved. 

However, here in Mother Russia, or Siberia to be exact, fashion requires a bit more thought and consideration.  For example, if there is a lot of ice a girl can get away with wearing a spike heel with the idea of actually chiseling the ice, which actually works.  However, if the ice is covered in snow, this is a bad idea due to friction and the lady in question must lower the heel either to a wedge or flat surface.  Men on the other hand only have to worry about how much fur or fleece they need on the inside of their shoes.  The only thing that really matters to the men is if their shoes are clean or not.  Rain or shine, ice or snow, shoes must always be clean. 

Moving up from the shoes, there’s the issue of tights or long underwear.  Clearly, mean wear long underwear and not tights even though the same word is used in the Russian language.  The humor about super heroes running around in tights is beyond them. Anyway, this is where the fun really begins for Russian ladies; the variety of thickness and design of tights is simply overwhelming.  It’s quite a pity that more people don’t take the time to consider their leg wear more often; it can be an interesting experience to say the least. 

Then there’s the endless selection of sweaters.  For some unknown reason, all questionable designs and patterns which have been rejected by Europe, parts of Asia and all fashionable civilization wind up here in Russia.  We’re talking pea green mixed with orange flowers, diamond shapes in hues of burgundy and teal and horizontal stripes of yellow, Pepto pink and sea green all demanding your attention.  It’s as if a child labor force rebelled and sent a giant finger to Russia.  Sadly, most of the men think this is normal and the women do nothing to correct this huge injustice to their men.  Dear men, please stop wearing sweaters which make you look like douchebags, pedophiles or rapists.  The serial killer look went out in the mid-eighties.

Last but certainly not least are the coats.  It’s a coat wonderland.  Do you want a purple coat with a red hood?  Done.  How about a black knee length coat with lace and sparkles?  Done.  For the men, how about a military camouflage overcoat complete with fake badge and serial number?  Done and done!   

For all these reasons, there’s the cliché about Russian women being beautiful and Russian men looking like…well, looking like crap.  It’s not really their fault.  Women are still treated like dolls and manly men are afraid of being called ‘gay’ so they go the extreme opposite way and dress like actors who escaped from the 1970’s.      

The cliché about everyone being drunk:

Everyone drinks.  There’s a bit of bi-polar disorder when it comes to drinking; something like, “no, I don’t drink, but on New Year, all Russians drink too much vodka.  Or on birthdays.  Or in night clubs…”  and my favorite “drinking isn’t healthy.”  As if this answers the question about whether or not people like to drink socially or not.  Either way, every country had a love/ hate relationship with alcohol.  In America it’s a strange paradox, somewhere between ‘drinking is evil’ and ‘PARTY!’  Here, in Russia, it’s very similar.  The big difference is food.  For Americans drinking is a sport, or in some cases a mission.  If we’re going to a bar, we’re going to drink and play pool, we can’t be bothered with eating a salad covered in mayo nor can we bother with dinner.  Please.  It’s Saturday night, it’s time to drink and dance.  There shall be no food served!  Food can only be consumed after two in the morning.  Thus a typical night at a night club consists of shots, chased by beer, followed by a mixed drink or two.  The more the merrier. 

In a Russian night club you are expected to sit at a table, order snacks which are usually pickles, tomatoes, some unknown meat thing and if you’re really lucky, questionable salad which is really just a heart attack waiting to happen.  Then you only do shots of vodka, whisky or beer.  That’s it.  Mixing is frowned on and considered dangerous- and then you dance.  Then you drink and eat and dance some more.  The major advantage of partying in Russia is that nothing ever closes.  You can keep drinking until the sun comes up, which as it happens, people do.  There’s also the nice loophole about being able to drink in public.  I have to admit, there is a great and liberating freedom about drinking a beer in the park with your friends, or drinking on the subway or bus.  On a serious note, in parts of the city and country the government has been trying to curb this enthusiasm for drinking in public and has been trying to ban people from doing it, by issuing fines and tickets.  Most of the time you can sweet talk your way out of it, or offer a bribe.  Who doesn’t love a little corruption every now and then?   

Hat Police in Siberia

There are few articles of clothing which I throughly dislike: hats and scarves.  I have more less made my peace with scarves simply because they are pretty and very trendy at the moment, but hats....no, I can't say that about hats.  Hats look fashionable on everyone else except me, I either resemble a 12 year old boy or a criminal, and that's just not a look I'm going for.  Happily, there are wonderful things called hoods which are the best of both worlds and I can deal with these.  Besides, this winter in Siberia has been surprisingly warm, or mild, it's been around 20-30F degrees for months, which is a nice change from 2013 when it was -10F for months on end.  

Since it has been so warm I haven't felt the need to invest in purchasing a much needed pair of gloves or hat simply because it's not cold enough for me to require these articles of clothing.  I'm fairly hot blooded and I like to feel the weather, that mixed with mild claustrophobia demands that I can't wear more than two layers of clothing.  My philosophy is simple, if I'm not cold, I don't need to bundle up like a marshmallow. 

On New Year's Day we (a big group of people whose names aren't super important) were sharing a table with another group of people who were curious as to why I wasn't a hat and Gabriella wasn't wearing pants.  She was wearing two pairs of tights and a wool skirt, again, keeping in mind it was only -8C (17F) and no wind, neither of us were cold, plus, hello, winter coats!  I can’t decide if it’s because they are really concerned or they are just curious.  Their curiosity becomes instantly hostile when I tell them that I’m not cold.  Somehow me not being cold has insulted them and their ancestors.  I am then peppered with the usual ‘where are you from?  Oh America?  America doesn’t have these temperatures, do they?’ At which point I roll my eyes, or sigh heavily or lose my temper and all but call them idiots.  If we had been standing in sub-zero temperatures of course my attitude would have been different.  In case the world forgot, America just suffered a Polar Vortex, Siberia is like a tropical paradise at the moment.  

Since it was New Year's Day, we were drinking and they were drinking and the thing about drinking with strangers is that you never really know what they are giving you and you can't be sure that you won't quite say the wrong thing.  I am the master of putting my foot in my mouth, so giving toasts in Russian still makes me nervous, even after all this time because Russians are the masters of glaring.  Seriously, they never hide the fact that they don't like you which is admirable if you think about it.  They don't have to go around pretending to like people if they don't, they can just glare or better yet, not say a single word.  Alas, within 30 seconds I had made three Russian strangers hate me because I wasn't cold and wasn't going to apologize for it and 'I didn't have a Russian soul'.  It took Gabriella 30 seconds longer, one whole minute to convince them that she had a Russian soul AND she was one thousand times cooler than I was.  One minute.  I think this is because she is chattier than I am and speaks Russian with a flare that I don’t possess.  She knows more street slang and rougher words than I do, plus she’s blond and English which makes her more appealing than me. 

Maria (I'm pretty sure this was her name) first decided that I was a terrible person because I wasn’t wearing a hat and drinking rum.  Gabi on the other hand is total vodka drinker and happily accepted the drink which was offered to her.  My liver and kidneys were thanking me for sticking to my ‘no vodka’ policy.  At the end of the day alcohol is alcohol, so who cares what it is?  Apparently she cared, as did her three older male companions.  Seeing as how I couldn’t keep up with the nonsensical conversation about snow and ice, I zoned out and began studying the detail of the wooden bear which was carved.  Gabi snapped me out of my zone by inviting me to frolic in the snow, which honestly took some coaxing, if I’m not being perused by a monster or babushka, I see no point in running around for no reason; but alas she succeeded and it was fun.  We decided that snow covered cars needs some hand prints and smiley faces, and being the terrible vandals that we are, decided to take pictures of our endeavors.   

Funnily enough, I'm not even sure why I cared so much about what these people thought.  It's not as though I'll be seeing them again anytime soon.  Perhaps at times I do try and consider myself as an ambassador, desperately trying to break the stereotypes that Americans are fat, lazy and stupid and I feel terrible for no clear reason if people continue to believe this.  

Returning to the topic about hats, such situations are not uncommon for me.  Paradoxically, girls can wear hats and micro-mini skirts in similar weather conditions and this is considered normal.  A hat is a magical device which protects you from...the cold?  Sneezing and coughing on people doesn't cause illness, not wearing a hat causes illness.     

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.