Planet Russia

Squash Caviar, Why Russia is Awesome, Etc.

2015-09-05T11:40:00.001+03:00

In perhaps my laziest blog post to date, I sit at home on a rainy Saturday morning and write about the comments from a previous post.

Truth is, after my recent post about "Things you CAN buy in Russia but NOT in America", I did expect some folks to add to my list, but I did not expect the additions to be well, so spectacular.

Here are a few of my favorites (somehow all related to food/drink):

1) David mentioned: "Ketchup in flavors": That comment deserves its own book. I was planning to go to the store to write down all the ketchup flavors, but since this is a lazy blog post, I just went to the local online grocery delivery service, The Platypus, and here are some of the ketchup flavors that I found: Ketchup flavored Ketchup, Ketchup for the Grill and Shashlik, Garlic Ketchup, Lecho Ketchup, Bavarian Ketchup with Green Onion, Tomato Ketchup with Chunks of Tomato, Spicy Brazilian Ketchup, Mexican Ketchup with Tabasco Pepper, Admiral Ketchup, Tatar Ketchup (NOT Tartar), Spanish Ketchup with Cayenne Pepper, Curry Ketchup, Neapolitan Ketchup with Basil, and Ketchup with Sugar Cane. To name a few. I should also mention that said Ketchup usually comes in a squeeze bag, much like its arch-rival, The Miraculous Mayonnaise of Mother Russia. Makes you wonder why we put a thick liquid in a glass bottle and then are perennially baffled at why extraction reaches such levels of complexity.

Curry Ketchup In A Squeeze Bag. It's a thing, you see.

2) Alert Planet Russia subscriber Christina wrote: "19% Alcohol Beer". I'm guessing that's a thing. I honestly don't know. And surprisingly, on The Platypus site, there were actually fewer types of beer than ketchup. Just shows you where things are headed. I reckon 19% beer is for the same type of people who drink espresso. "Let's keep our kidneys unencumbered from fluid and get straight to the point". What I would personally add to "19% Alcohol Beer" is "2 Liter Plastic Bottles of Beer". If there ever was at any time in human history any level of culture or romance related to drinking beer, I'm fairly certain it has been effectively destroyed by those two items. And here's to hoping that those two items forever remain exclusive of each other.

3) Attentive reader Yuliya noted this gem: "Cabbage spread", but if I understand correctly, she was actually referring to: "Squash Caviar". Not sure if I got that right, but if blindfolded and offered cabbage spread and squash caviar, I would not be able to distinguish between the two. You see, you in the West think you have everything, but you don't. Your paltry store shelves are not graced with the presence of Squash Caviar. I must admit there has been a time or two when I was at the store and was hoodwinked by the Squash Caviar Caper. You see, the very desirable word "CAVIAR" is written in large letters on the bottle and the less desirable word "squash", is written in smaller letters. It is with a certain level of bitterness that I say that this sad vegetable masquerading with its enticing price tag as the Golden Fruit Of The Sea will bamboozle even the most shrewd shopper into a procurement of defraud in a jar. You go home thinking, "Well, it says CAVIAR, so it's got to be good, right?".

The 4-Star Squash Caviar rating has me speechless this morning.

Honorable Mentions:

Ways That Russia Tortures Its Milk: Tvorog, Kefir, Ryazhenka. Um, it's milk that has been, um processed into, er, milk based products. That taste like perhaps they were originally milk. Although they are now thick and yoghurty or perhaps chunky, etc.

Russian Cars: Yep, don't think you can buy those in America. That is all.

Chocolate Butter: Really? You don't have that? What a sad person you must be.

5 Things You Can Buy In Russia But NOT In America

2015-08-09T17:03:00.001+03:00

Just when you thought being an American meant you owned everything in the world, I will prove you wrong.

Following my recent post on Things You Can NOT Buy in Russia, it is within international principles of justice that I now pen the reciprocal column on Things You CAN Buy In Russia But NOT In America.

We will not waste any precious time discussing why these items are not available on your local supermarket's shelves and let's not nitpick about such "market principles" such as "supply" and "demand". And I am not interested to hear about some exotic web-site such as "Amazon" where you can order the items on my list. And please save us all and resist the urge to tell us about the Slavic Market you went to one time. That doesn't count.

Without further ado, as I fight the urge to write "driver's licenses", here is my list of 5 Things You Can Buy In Russia But NOT In America:

1. Fish Jerky: They don't sell that in America. But they do in Russia. It's on the end of the beer aisle. Russians love fish in every possible form. Americans like beef. And we wonder why we can't understand each other on less important issues.

A Fine Piece Of Fish Photography.

2. Sundry Beverages: Namely: Kvass, Kisel, and Kompot. This Triumvirate of Beverage Bafflement has left many a foreigner in a Liquid State of Perplex. I don't have time to research what they are made of, except to say that, much like "Kholodets", they are an acquired taste. I personally enjoy them all. Kvass is the King of Summer and can also double as the broth in a cold soup that is basically potato salad in a bowl with Kvass poured over the top and then some sour cream or mayonnaise. My basic understanding is that kvass is made out of bread mold, but I have never seriously looked into the subject. Kisel is a sweet thick fluid that is pink. Now close your eyes and imagine you are drinking a sweet thick fluid that is pink. There you go! That's what it tastes like. Kompot really threw me for a loop when I first came to Russia in early 1995. I looked at it and said, "The fruit has died and now they put water on top of it". Now I drink the water and then apologize to my fellow expats for using my spoon to fish out the dead fruit for immediate consumption.

3. Individual Cups Of Pickle Juice: Yes, it is another beverage. But this particular beverage also contains medicinal qualities as it will overcome the worst instances of the malady known in the vernacular as "hangover". Some time ago, I wrote a widely read and award winning piece, "The Clever Commuter Commerce Of The Capital City", which was a wide reaching and in depth masterpiece discussing the entrepreneurial spirit on display in the local commuter trains. The zenith of this mobile commercial exhibition was a man with a jar of pickle juice and some plastic cups, plying his wares for the morning traveler.

4. Trips To The Water Closet: Capitalizing on another's need to empty their bladder is certainly a niche business, but it seems to have gained a certain foothold, particularly in the train stations and even some shopping malls. In the 1993 cinema classic "About the Businessman Foma", the tale is told of a villager who visits the big city for the first time and witnesses for the very first time this delightful form of merchantry and decides to take it to his home village. Of course, not all of the locals were equally impressed and one particular gentleman took it upon himself to perform a sit down strike. You can watch here as they try to negotiate him out of the stall:

5. Kinder Surprise: Not Kinder as in "Nicer", but Kinder as in "Kindergarten". This egg shaped piece of plastic is coated in an insanely mediocre chocolate. But inside there is a toy for children. Thus, the name "Kinder Surprise". Our Russian friends will be Kinder Surprised to learn that this seemingly docile treat for the younger generation is forbidden in the United States as according to a 1938 FDA (Fun Death of America) ordinance that inexplicably disallows non-edible joy to be lodged inside edible delight. I know a guy who once took a whole bag of this lethal contraband for some friends, not knowing that they could summon a fine of $2,500 per egg. I suppose if he would have been caught, the term "Kinder Surprise" would have taken on a whole new meaning in his life.

Somehow, I miss most of these things in those rare instances that I'm in America. Illogical, I know, but I guess it's about the same as craving peanut butter or Hershey's chocolate over here. I guess you just don't know what you have until you can't get it anymore.

What else can you buy in Russia, but NOT in America? Comment below.

Things You Can NOT Buy In Russia

2015-07-31T14:28:00.001+03:00

When the sanctions hit, I panicked and ran down to our local supermarket and quickly bought the last ten jars of peanut butter. Then I realized I don't eat peanut butter really, so hopefully the amount I bought would outlast the political sparring of our day.

At the same time, with sanctions aside, together with their shockingly small effect on the local market's shelves, there are certain items that you can NOT buy in Russia. Okay, maybe you can, but I can't, because I have no idea where they are sold. So, if you see I listed something that you CAN buy in Russia, be sure to gloat/teach in the comments. This list is getting smaller and smaller with time as the revelation of various marvelous inventions of the West will all eventually make their way to our shores, such as Twinkies.

I'm sure you will read the list and wonder how I survive here, together with my fellow 140 million residents. But somehow we carve out our hardscrabble existence even without these basic staples.

Without further ado, "Top 8 Things You Can NOT Buy In Russia":

8. Round Bobbers: To be fair, you can buy them, but at the fishing store, they said, "Round bobbers?" "Those run about 180 rubles apiece and are Chinese made, always breaking, so we just don't keep them in stock." I had a whole list of questions related to that particular statement, but since they weren't in stock, I decided to leave the rhetorical aside and simply go with the practical: a purchase of the more oblong variation with pointy ends that requires more threading and knotting than my weak sailing background can afford.

7. Mike & Ike's: I never recall eating a Mike & Ike's anywhere ever while living in the land of purple mountain majesty above the fruity plain. But somehow, whenever anyone writes us and says "I'm coming over, can I bring anything", the first thing my life partner, my lawful wife, my soulmate, if you will, writes back is, "Can you bring us some Mike & Ike's?". And here we are, eating something we can't buy at the store here, sort of feeling we beat the system. Also, no Jolly Ranchers, which explains the lack of smiling on the streets among the local cow herders.

6. Chocolate: Hershey's. There's none of that here*. Also, no Butterfingers, Heath bars, or 3 Musketeers. One time I was in checkout at a Wal-Mart (in America) with a Russian friend and bought them a Hershey's and then watched them take their first bite with a huge amount of expectancy that they would burst out with the chorus of "The Stars and Stripes Forever". But instead, they flatly inquired, "Hm, what do you like about that chocolate?". Also, it pains me to say this, but I don't remember what a 3 Musketeers tastes/looks like. But then I get over it because I remember that most of the chocolate here is pretty much better than anything they sell over there.

5. Beef Jerky: They don't sell that here. Instead, they let the fish dry up, salt it, and then sell it whole, head and all, inside a plastic bag in the beer aisle. It's empty eye sockets straining, as you push your cart by. Because that's sort of like beef jerky, except it's fish, not beef. Well, and I guess the part that beef jerky is not the entire cow dried and salted in an enormous plastic bag.

Russia's version of beef jerky

4. Root Beer:  We don't have root beer, but we do have kvass, which is nothing like root beer. My dear wife makes root beer from a concentrate that she mixes with bubbly water. It tastes like root beer until it gets warm and loses all the bubbles, towards the end of the party, and that's when I usually get to try a cup. I guess I'm usually disappointed because I'm hoping to somehow relive my childhood through each and every cup of root beer, and somehow it never happens. Sad, really.

3. Netflix, Hulu, etc.:  Not available here. Except I hear from a friend that perhaps there is a way to get it here.

2. Stove Top Stuffing and Ranch Dressing:  Basically what I'm saying is that we can't celebrate anything. And we have nothing to dip our pizza in. Until (LIFEHACK ALERT) my wife breaks out her secret stash of ranch dressing mix that she hand-carried in and the fiesta begins.

1. Marshmallows:  Yup, that's right kids. Less s'more's here. There is the laughable charade of marshmallows, known as zefir, which is kind of like if you took a marshmallow and it was a petrified marshmallow. If you roll the word "marshmallow" around in your mouth a few times, you will intuitively understand that the victual in question must also be soft, not crunchy, like zefir usually is. As a matter of fact, roll the word "zefir" around in your mouth a few times. Now you have experienced both its consistency and flavor.

Honorable Mention:  Not for sale, but basically nonexistent: drinking fountains. I thought they didn't exist, but then I saw one the other day, so I took a picture:

Yup, gone are the days when you had to pack your TP and shampoo before flying on over. As a matter of fact, I feel a post coming on about "Things you can buy in Russia but NOT in America". Because that list will be much longer.

*Was just informed that you can, in fact, purchase Hershey's at a certain overpriced specialty store. So, whatever. Also, same store offers overpriced root beer. So, again. Whatever.

In The Moscow Region, You Can Be Carded While Buying A Coke

2015-05-20T15:53:00.004+03:00

I know what you're thinking: "How un-American of those Russians!".

But the Russian lawmakers did it again. They went right to the heart of what makes us Americans and ripped it out. No more sugary caffeinated goodness can be purchased by minors in the Moscow region, as it now falls under the legal category of "energy drinks".

I can't think of anything that's more American than a 16 year old cruising up to a 7-Eleven and ordering a 128 ounce Team Gulp Cola. But no 16 year old Americans and Russians will be buying any Coke for themselves anymore. At least not in the Moscow region.

Normally, I like to think that I sort of have my hand on the pulse of Russian legislation, always aware of what new laws are coming out. But I missed this one, as in typical KGB fashion, it was instituted when we least expected it, in an underhanded fashion during the May holidays.

So, I sort of stumbled across this most curious discovery quite by accident when a friend told me that the cashier had asked for an ID when they were buying a Coke. I didn't think about it much at the moment.

But then I went home, and as I started rolling the whole idea around in my mind a bit, I became just a bit overjoyed. And at dinner that night I was more than just a little delighted to drop this bombshell on my children. I happily declared, "Kids, you can't buy a Coke on your own in Russia, until you're 18!". Now to be sure, I can't think of a single time that any of my kids bought themselves a Coke at the store, and they're only allowed to drink it in rare situations, like when we're hopelessly stranded on the arid steppes of the Gobi Desert and feeling like we need to get a bit more chubby around the edges. I mean our family has been known to eat processed foods and don't know what kale is, but not so much Coke in our home. After delivering the news to my family, the righteous indignation displayed by my 11 year old son did not leave me disappointed.

Why was my son about to invoke the Boston Tea Party? Well, I guess it goes without saying that there isn't anything more American than the Red, White, and Bubbles. This is an inalienable right that we find to be self-evident, all children should be allowed to poison themselves at will. Actually, just the other night at around midnight I was on an airplane with my family eating a delicious dinner,!and my 11 year old son seeing that I was distracted across the aisle, ordered himself a Coke. I saw what had happened too late, and the look of triumph and glee on his face in that moment has now, of course, been somewhat muted by this latest legislation.

I am patriotic myself. Actually, I find I become a little bit patriotic for whatever nation I am visiting. Not sure if that's true Coca-Cola patriotism or not. I do worry sometimes though. Certain things feel confusing over time. For example, whenever I go to an athletic event in America at any level we all sing the national anthem first. It just feels a bit spooky, because you kind of get the sense that if you don't sing the national anthem before each and every athletic event you will somehow jinx our great nation's Manifest Destiny and democracy will cease to be on the march worldwide. Probably I shouldn't have said all of that out loud, because some of you now are questioning my Christianity. And I guess just so you know that I'm not completely lost, I do believe that the Star Spangled Banner should be sung before any sports events that take place in Ohio, at any level. But if it's a mediocre JV volleyball team in Michigan, for instance, I think it's okay just to get to the "game". Let's be fair, a thousand years from now when that JV game is unearthed by archaeologists (the players, of course, living full and meaningful lives after the match but leaving other remnants of the experience behind for posterity), they might draw some very unfair conclusions about the meaning of the pre-game ritual and not completely understand the gravity of what exactly occurred as we observed o'er the ramparts.

Back to Coca-Cola. I think I love this situation of not allowing kids to buy themselves a Coke so much, because whichever side you're on, you will feel very much like you are ever so right. So, please go ahead and comment below with your strong opinion on Coca-Cola, patriotism, children, poison, etc. Your comments, just like nearly everything written on the internet, will do nothing to actually change reality or the Moscow authorities, but will provide cheap entertainment for those who have time to read the comments.

Personally, I don't think we should allow our children to make the decision to poison themselves with cool, caramel-colored, caffeinated, cola goodness. That decision should be left up to the parents.

I want to know what Moscow-region supermarkets unsuspecting American adolescents frequent and to stand by the cash register. Then I want to see them fight for their rights as they have been taught.

And I don't want to give the legislative authorities in question any ideas, but based on this law it might also make sense to make an 18+ age limit for the Happy Meal. And I also read that the law enforcement agencies will be checking on the supermarkets to make sure the law is being enforced. I don't want to give them any ideas either, but they might want to check out the nearby vending machines. Also, the airports for thirsty youthful transit passengers. Just saying.

The Top 20 Things I Miss About Russia in the 90's

2015-04-18T07:40:00.000+03:00

Once every year or so, I get a bit nostalgic about Russia in the Nineties. I only moved to Russia in 1999, but I began visiting in 1995, and it is those years that I affectionately recall today.

The Top 20 Things I Miss About Russia In The 90's

20) Sign language and constant misunderstandings: I mean, now I speak Russian, so I can just say what I want without the assistance of a bi-lingual dictionary or hand motions. No creativity required. This experience helped me once when I got lost in a village in the hills of South Korea. I ended up drawing a picture of a water closet for the local policeman. It's great fun when you don't understand what's going on and simply can't communicate what's on your heart. Or in your bladder.

19) Yellow kiosks everywhere: They've been replaced by supermarkets. My favorite kiosk memory is from my first trip to Russia in 1995. I looked up how to say 7UP in Russian and asked the girl for a "семь вверх". True story. Also, it was a very foreigner thing to do to duck down into the belt level opening to speak to the salesperson's girth. The locals would stand tall and speak to each other through glass. Somehow speaking through glass worked in train stations, banks, and yes kiosks due to a Top Secret Cold War Bionic Auditory Device that apparently everyone was wearing.

They just don't make kiosks in Russia anymore like they used to.

18) Rock Star American Status: This is probably the one I miss the least, but I do miss it sometimes. I was with a group that was doing anti-drugs/AIDS awareness programs in the nineties. My hand is still tired from signing all of the autographs.

17) The Odors: Perhaps there was the Red Guard, but there was no Right Guard. Now the train stations are mostly aroma neutral. It's weird but I miss the sweaty old days... sometimes. After the train stations you would get on a train which carried a similar scent, but with less air. This taxi driver explains predictable aromas in the cramped space of long distance train compartments, but forgets to mention the dried fish (smell) that would be eaten washed down with the mentioned alcohol (odor):

16) Insanely Small Beverage Portions: I remember dying at dinner more than once because dinner didn't come with my customary American Big Gulp Slushy. I guess I miss those thirsty old days the most because of the coinciding adrenaline rush induced by panic of whether or not I would die of dehydration. You would walk around in the heat all day and then come in for a meal that was followed by a small cup of piping hot tea. These days, when ordering a drink with your meal they ask politely, "Would you like 0-3 or 0-5?", which is a virtual bathtub of beverage. And sometimes, deep down inside, I just want a thimble full of steamy tea with my mound of mashed potatoes. And I want to like it.

15) Techno Music: All the time, everywhere. But mainly in buses and taxis and stores and in your neighbor's flat/your flat because your neighbor's volume button was jammed at 37.

14) The Excitement At Overhearing English In A Public Place: You would start stalking your fellow expat around the store and then introduce yourself. Don't do that anymore. That's for sure.

13) Not Being Able To Buy Anything Off The Shelf: You got to meet the lady selling cheese and tell her what you want (charades, Pictionary, Buy, Sell, or Draw.). Then you would take a short stroll and meet the cashier and get the receipt for the amount of the aforementioned cheese. Then back to the cheese lady. Repeat for every item on grocery list. So many folks to frustrate in the ensuing chaos of this mass mercantile shuttle run, and so little time.

12) 3000 rubles=$1: Not because I care about the exchange rate, but because if you don't speak Russian very well and your tab is 48,387 rubles (announced to you verbally, not on paper), you're pretty much just handing the vendor in question a ballpark amount of cash, based on, well, pretty much nothing.

11) Strict Dress Codes: I remember one time in the late nineties I was in a certain provincial city and wanted to go somewhere nice to eat. The cost to eat was probably around $10, but I was turned down at the door by a serious elderly gentleman because of my attire of jeans and sneakers. There is something golden about money not being the point of a business.

10) No Hot Water For Months At A Time: One time a local bicycle factory didn't pay its heating bill, so I was left without hot water for months. Life soon became centered around a boiling process. There was that, and also that one time water started shooting out of my electrical sockets during a spring thaw. It's weird, and I miss it.

9) Valenki and Rabbit Fur Hats: I wore them and I loved them.

8) Open Air Markets: You would haggle away. Now they are dropping like so many flies on the shelf of your local meat vendor. Now just shiny malls everywhere based on the odd newfangled principle of "fixed pricing".

7) No Customer Service: So many plastic American customer service seminar inspired smiles in shops these days. Back in the day, the clerk was doing you a favor to sell you anything, and you liked it. I still pride myself in being able to make Russians smile. But that most useful skill was first honed on the training field of so many stores in the nineties in Russia that operated under the brand name of... "Store".

6) Rugs on Walls: Every picture of me and Russian friends in the nineties took place with us sitting on a couch in front of a wall with a rug hanging on it. I have no idea why this was such an interior design hit nationwide at the time. Sound absorption qualities? Perhaps some manner of babushka bling? Sadly, we will probably never know.

5) Sportsuits With Pointy Leather Dress Shoes: I think no further explanation is necessary on why I frequently pine away in reminiscence of this bold and endearing Russian 90's fashion statement that can still be observed in remote areas of Central Asia to this very day.

I'm staring at this photo and have found myself incapable of crafting a worthy caption.

4) The Magic Of A Chocolate Bar And A Tea Bag: See, I come from a nation that is based on the idea of personal property. Imagine my surprise when some friends came over for something like a party with what I thought was one piece of chocolate. They broke the chocolate into little bits and shared and dipped the tea bag into multiple cups of steaming water. I sat there flabbergasted. But everyone was just having too much of a good time to notice my shock. Those were the good old days.

3) The Medical Care: I have a whole treasure trove of entertaining yet hair-raising medical stories from Russia in the Nineties that are completely inappropriate for a family style blog and thus must sadly remain in the top secret archive of my own head. But none of my ailments couldn't be remedied by my friends through the revolutionary home medical procedure of heating up some small shot glass sized jars and sticking them on my back. My back was transformed into a hodgepodge of perfectly round black and blue marks. This was the result of my skin being sucked into the aforementioned small shot glass sized jars. One time I had this procedure done and then visited some friends and showed them my back. I told them that I had been attacked by someone who had hit me repeatedly with a pin hammer. They believed me because there was no other logical explanation for the crime scene investigation that my back side had become. And the result of the treatment was all of the impurities being sucked out of... wait a second, not sure I get it. But it works. That's what they said when they did it anyway.

2) The Abacus: The cashier would punch everything into the cash register, then into a calculator, but then check the calculator for error with an abacus. I would observe with a careful and studious expression to provide the cashier the very misguided impression that I had even the foggiest idea of what she was doing with the beads that she slammed up and down so many parallel metal lines. Kind of reminds me of yesterday when I was at a bank and they used a counting machine to count the number of banknotes I had handed them. The total number of banknotes I had handed the bank cashier in this situation: 1. Okay, okay, I think the machine also checks for counterfeit bills. Come to think of it, the abacus was nothing like the bank counting machine yesterday. I guess I just felt I had to squeeze in that little extra bonus story.

1) The Simplicity of it All: Yeah, I miss that the most. I had a friend who took his girlfriend on a date to see an automatically opening door at a supermarket. And there didn't seem to be any money to be worried about. And folks seemed to be in less of a hurry. In Russia, most people remember the nineties as being wild. I remember them as being a more uncomplicated time. And I miss that.

We didn't know in the 90's that we were living in the good old days. Today Russia is very different. But maybe these are the good old days too, so let's live like they are. But can we at least bring back the abacus and rugs on walls?

How (NOT) To Bribe In Russia

2015-03-25T17:46:00.000+03:00

"A gift given in secret soothes anger, and a bribe concealed in the cloak pacifies great wrath." -King Solomon

It appears that bribery is an ancient art. And there was a time in the distant past when bribery existed not to grease the wheels, so to speak, but apparently was a system set in place to prevent your ruler from going postal, if you will.

Russia is famous for corruption. And for airtight proof, just watch any recent Hollywood action film. You will quickly notice that the villain is from this great nation, rampant in all things distasteful- and must be terminated by the American superhero. As a side note, that appears to be because in the mind of the American moviegoer, termination of Russians, in general, is necessary and enjoyable entertainment.

At the same time, some Russians' impressions of the US of A, is also based on Hollywood, that Americans struggle with racial issues and upon occasion are a little too loose with the assault weapons that they just so happen to have laying around the house. Oh, wait. What?

So, where do Russians bribe? Well, I've heard of plenty of examples:

-At the doctor, dentist, etc. The word on the street is that this can be the difference between a tooth repair and a tooth removal, for instance.

-At school. This is apparently because capitalism is a part of the educational process.

-At the fire department/sanitation department/zoning department, etc. It's kind of like sending your less favorite acquaintances Christmas presents so that they won't feel like they need to pay you a visit.

-The police/traffic police. "Did you see that sign?" they politely inquire.

-And so on. And so forth.

And so if you are planning on a visit to Russia and you have been "reading up" on how to blend in like a local, chances are, you are expecting flashing the cash to become a way of life. But, I contest, that you might find yourself becoming quite disappointed because in 16 years of living in Russia, I don't remember anyone ever asking me for a bribe.

Now, I'm not saying that no one ever hinted around about a gift concealed in my cloak, but I never remember directly being asked for a bribe.

So, here are my tips so that you never have to pay for a bribe while in Russia:

1) Become very American and become oblivious to hinting. I remember a doctor once came to visit our children. That's what we love about Russia: the doctors still make house calls. After chiding us for allowing our children to walk around inside our home with bare feet and shorts on in complete defiance of the chilling draft, she began discussing the rising costs of groceries and the fact that you can't get out of the store without spending 1000 rubles anymore. I watched in glee as my dear wife (How would King Solomon describe her? Ah yes, "a graceful doe... her neck is like the tower of David.") stood there and simply agree at the high cost of foodstuffs. We never saw that doctor again, but we didn't pay her anything on the side either.

2) Continue to be American and smile with what they refer to in Russia as "the square eyes". You know: "the lights are on but nobody's home". I have a friend from an Asian country. One time when she arrived at a certain passport control, she was scolded by the border control officer that her passport only had 28 pages. She didn't get it. And if you don't either, there is a good chance you are a foreign person and they will pity you for your irreparable mental thickness and just let you go.

3) Make an Absurd Counter Offer. One time many years ago I had a certain law enforcement officer ask me a question: "What are we going to do?". He presented me with this curious inquiry again and again. I looked at him with the square eyes. He pulled out the protocol and held his pen menacingly above it and asked yet again, "What are we going to do?" I queried as to the amount that I would be fined for my alleged transgression. "50 rubles", he said. I explained that although this amount was certainly within the boundaries of reason, paying it would take me half a day and I really didn't have any free time. "So, what are we going to do?" he asked. "I have an offer!" I confidently stated. "What is your offer?" he eagerly demanded. "I offer that you let me go home now", I replied. I think the blend of bluster and idiocy provided an emotional roller coaster ride of sparring sorts that deep down inside we both enjoyed.

4) Play the Long Game. If you've come to Russia as a goal-oriented foreign person on a time schedule, good luck. Just kidding. The word on the street is that you might not need luck if you can produce the cabbage. If you know what I mean. But if you're in more of a "long term relationship" with Russia, like this blogger, and you understand that life is more about the journey than the end, then you can pretty much get out of any bribe situation. Like the time I pretended to fall asleep on a chair in the middle of the night. Or the time I handed them my documents and then went to my car to take a nap (It brings me great pain that I will never know the content of their conversation as I lay in my car pretending to doze away). Eventually, I have found that I will be informed, in no uncertain terms, that they do not wish to ever see me again. Because there are easier fish to fry, methinks. Now granted, sometimes this patience might mean many hours, or even months, or years, depending on what you are hoping to achieve, but there is a special feeling to doing everything right and somehow outlasting your opponent in this extended game of cat and mouse.

5) Expect Not To Pay Bribes. You see, Hollywood's depiction of the US and just about any other nation, including Russia, is equally fair all around. It's not entirely baseless, but it is grossly exaggerated. So, if you come with the basic understanding Russia is not just one giant boiling melting pot of criminal overlords, but in fact is full of folks just looking to live normal lives and provide for their families, you will not ever expect to pay a bribe. And therefore making the square eyes will be easy, because you won't understand any level of hinting.

Again, in none of these examples did anyone ask for a bribe. And the truth is, every single time that I remember being denied by a government official, my paperwork or application did indeed have an error. Now, in my mind the error might have been incredibly minuscule, or the law behind the error might have escaped the boundaries of my limited understanding of basic common sense. And perhaps I might have had an inner feeling that the official in question could have been more helpful to begin with to help me understand the error of my ways. But none of this changes the fact that I had indeed transgressed the written law and therefore I must start over whatever particular process I was entangled in. But if you never give up and keep on filling out the forms in triplicate and then eventually reach the end result you were looking for, the sense of accomplishment is like no other. And you will have a sort of miniature Russian law degree in that particular area that you were working in, which although absolutely non-accredited, will give you real street cred with those who have yet to fill out said forms correctly.

The other truth about bribes is, and perhaps this reflects somehow on my socio-economic class, that I have never seen a situation where a bribe would actually save money. I remember one time we took our four children to the government dentist. Because it is free and although the quality is lower than a private dentist perhaps, it is free, and it's just baby teeth, right? And we have four of them. Kids not teeth. In any case, after this thrifty dental visit, our neighbors asked us how much we paid. Naturally, we had no idea what they were talking about because, as we told them, it was free. "Oh no," they said, "you must pay something!" When we inquired as to the amount, it turned out it is almost as much as you would pay for a private dentist. Another time, I was in a super long line and met a young man who told me he was standing in line for the first time. Until then he had been paying to not have to wait in line. The amount? Thousands of dollars. Granted, the line was super long and I understood he had done this in a different region where the line might be even longer. But maths would seem to indicate that if you were to take the sum and divide it by the hours it would seem to be an unprofitable business, even if you carry the remainder. If you know what I mean. This young man was sort of proud of himself, but I was just sort of standing there doing arithmetic in my head and questioning this young man's educational background.

And please, I beg of you, never offer a bribe. That's a bumbling foreigner thing to do, and I expect you will make a terrible mess of things and indeed you can get in real trouble. And you will be shocked to see the reaction of the person you have made the offer to. It's kind of like a steroidal version of asking a Russian if they want something to eat. They will say "no" because you don't know how to ask.

And isn't it great that in the West there is no corruption or bribery? There are just legal vacation packages for business partners and donations to political causes in order to help them know how to correctly represent the people. But that's different, right?

The truth is, corruption isn't a laughing matter and I'm thankful that my life, for the most part, has been happily free of real trouble with it, but I do know that's not true for everyone. And wherever your opinion falls in the conversation about bribery it's easy to develop sort of a cavalier attitude about the whole thing, so you might do well to remember this mysterious morsel from good old King Solomon: "Be not overly righteous, and do not make yourself too wise. Why should you destroy yourself? Be not overly wicked, neither be a fool. Why should you die before your time?"

Just something to chew on the next time you're waiting in line.

Kamchatka. Or Stay At Home.

2015-03-07T13:52:00.000+03:00

Just say it a few times. Let it roll slowly off your tongue. Now with more confidence, say it again. Kamchatka. You've only thought about it briefly while playing a board game of world domination, but now it is time to seriously consider a weekend vacation getaway. Kamchatka is awaiting, full of surprises, and soon enough you will have enough stories to liven any afternoon tea party for years to come.

The board game Risk has popularized the location of Kamchatka, albeit with questionable cartography.

Kamchatka is the peninsula, jutting into the north of the Pacific. And to get there, you will need to either come by sea, fly, or have access to a dogsled, because there is no road or rail leading to this hidden treasure. More on dog sledding later, for now, I just recommend you book those tickets.

I travel a lot and visit a lot of interesting places, but this is only the second time I have been behooved to write a travel blog. That's because in Kamchatka you can do what this blogger is doing:

And if you don't understand why that's awesome, just stop reading. Because if you don't think relaxing outside in a swimming pool when it's 30 degrees below zero (Celsius) is amazing, just stick with your staycation. I can't help you.

But, if you want to get away to where nearly no one gets away, and in the process open a whole new world, consider swimming in the thermal waters of Kamchatka. I recommend the thermal waters the first evening you arrive. Move over Melatonin, there is a new sleep aid in town. After spending an hour or so in what was described to us as the "heavy water", you will sleep like a baby through the night.

Ah yes, the jet lag: you see, no matter where you are right now, Kamchatka is far far away. It is a 9-hour flight from Moscow. For comparison sake, that's roughly the same amount of time it takes to fly from Moscow to New York City. And even if you look at a map, you might be tempted to believe that Vladivostok is nearby, but it is a 3-hour flight from Vladivostok to Kamchatka. When you fly from Moscow, you keep on wondering when this great nation of Russia is going to end. I am speaking strictly geographically, of course.

I am guessing that the Moscow-Kamchatka flight is the longest contiguous domestic flight in the world. Perhaps there is a longer domestic flight somewhere on our fine planet, but Kennebunkport-Guam is not contiguous. If you know what I mean.

The thermal-spring swimming pool, it turns out, is for the winter visitors, but if you come during the summer you can do this:

The stream that is depicted in this fine piece of photography is ice cold year round. The calm pool to the left is steaming hot. Word has it that during the summer, the big form of recreating here is to go back and forth between the latter and the former. And then vice-versa. I believe that a barbecue nearby and tents is all part of the fun.

And if you don't get it, just stay at home and read about it. I really can't help you. I also can't help you if you don't like fish that tastes like fish:

So, if you're that guy, don't come to Kamchatka. Because you will eat boatloads of fish, and it will be smoked fish that tastes like fish. And it will taste amazing. But if you don't think it will taste amazing, stay at home.

In Kamchatka, sometimes it snows. It snowed when I was there.

A man discovers his car in the snow as a beached ship silently looks on.

Then you will go dog sledding. We went dog sledding the day after the snowstorm hit. My friends Andrey and Anastasiya have set up a dog kennel. They are involved in dog sledding competition, but also have opened up their kennel to tourists, just like me.

The dog kennel.

Oh, I'm sorry. Are you looking at the breathtaking beauty of the volcanic mountains in the background? This is a picture of the dog kennel that Andrey and Anastasiya run. Note that the doghouses are not attached to the ground because they need to raise them out of the snow throughout the winter, until they are literally 15 feet higher off the ground than when the first winter snowfall struck.

This guy will meet you at the kennel and tell stories of the local people and bears, as you enjoy some hot reindeer soup.

If you're a tourist, like this guy, you take a picture with the bear:

Later on, you get to do your selfie of the year:

Then it's off to view some more of Kamchatka:

I know a guy who can organize the dog sledding. I know a guy who can organize airplane or helicopter tours around the volcanoes. I know a guy who can organize skydiving. And I know a guy who knows a guy who can organize rafting.

So, with that, I have the idea of opening "I Know A Guy" Tours for visiting this wild land of thermal springs, volcanoes, rivers, forest, and ocean. Or if you prefer, you can just stay at home.

A big shout out to the unrepeatable Evgenii Shulgin for the finer of the photographs featured in this post.

Russian Driver's License Exam vs. American Driver's License Exam

2015-02-11T21:24:00.001+03:00

One thing Russians never can do enough is compare themselves to America. And with the backdrop of the times that we live in, where there are clearly not enough reasons for us to misunderstand each other and rely on stereotypes to guide our relationship, I present to you the Russian Driver's License Exam versus the American Driver's License Exam.

I have taken care to choose sample exam questions that support the view that Americans are simplistic and Russians are complicated. I also hope, in the spirit of nearly all my blog posts, that the chosen sample questions will create more questions than answers.

As examples for this no-holds-barred standoff, I have used the driver's exam from the nation of Russia and the State of Ohio. My Russian friends, in America, each state has its own driving rules.

You see, I was recently standing in a line, just as I do for much of my life in Russia. This particular line was a two-hour line to register and pay for the privilege of proving to a doctor that I'm not a drug addict. I started chatting with some of my fellow queue occupants, and we began discussing the American driver's license vs. the Russian driver's license. They could not understand why I couldn't just trade in my American license for a Russian license without going to driver's ed and going through the examination procedure. I explained that the driving rules in America are completely different than in Russia. "For example," I said, "in America there is no such thing as the main road." This was a shocking epiphany for my fellow queue comrades, and they immediately asked the obvious question: "Well then, how do you know who has the right of way?" To which, I replied, "There are signs at all intersections." They then looked at each other in awe and repeated, "In America, there are signs at all intersections".

So, without further ado, I present:

The Russian Driver's License Exam vs. The American Driver's License Exam:

How Many Questions And How What Constitutes A Pass Or Fail:

In Russia, you must learn the answer to 800 questions. These questions are broken into 40 different possible exams of 20 questions each. You will be given one of these exams of 20 questions. Answering more than 2 wrong is a FAIL.

In Ohio, I don't know the total number of possible questions, but you will also be also asked a total of 20 questions. If you answer more than 5 wrong you are a FAILURE.

Can You Take The Test In A Foreign Language?:

In America, yes you can.

In Russia, you also can take the test in a foreign language, as long as for you Russian is a foreign language.

Round 1: "Not Being Blind vs. Reinforcing Stereotypes"

Ohio:

Please remember, if you get this question wrong, you only get four more mistakes. I am reminded of a few years back when I had to take the Ohio driver's license test and there was a teenage girl taking the test next to me. She was clearly distraught and kept on moaning while saying over and over, "I just don't know...".

Russia:

Are you required to turn on your left hand turn signal in this situation? Yes or no? Ok, ok, I mainly chose this question because it included a picture of some goats.

Round 2: "Which Headlights To Use vs. How To Yield"

If you got this one wrong, you only get three more wrong answers.

You are planning to continue driving straight. Who should you yield the road to? a) Only the car. b)Only the bus and the car. c) All other vehicles.

"C" is marked as the answer and it is the wrong answer. You only get one more mistake out of 20.

Round 3: "Avoiding Blindness vs. Understanding the Policeman's Signal".

Congratulations. If you answered this question correctly, you have avoided a temporary sight impairment.

Which direction are you permitted to continue driving? a) Only straight. b) Only straight and to the right. c) Only straight, to the left and a u-turn. d) In any direction.

I couldn't be more delighted to inform you that the correct answer is "a".

Round 4: "Exiting."

In Russia, #2 is socially acceptable.

In which direction can you can continue driving from the middle lane? a) Left or a u-turn. b) Straight or to the left. c) Only to the left.

I think the right answer is "a", but I deleted numerous mental files after completing my Russian driver's ed program and passing the test with no mistakes.

Round 5: "Avoiding Death vs. Helping Others Avoid Death".

May I once again remind you that if you got this one wrong, you still get a few more chances? I mean, if you don't die.

What should you do first to administer aid to an accident victim who is lying on the ground without visible injuries, but in an unconscious state? a) Put some cotton dipped in ammonia under their nose, lift their head and allow them to sniff. b) Put some material under their legs and urgently call an ambulance. c) Tilt their had back, open their mouth, if necessary clear their mouth of any foreign objects, check their pulse and breathing, urgently call an ambulance.

I do love the fact that the Russian driving test almost always has first aid questions. It really makes sense, and could be particularly helpful if you are sharing the road with an American that got the answer wrong on their question in Round 5.

Did you keep score?

Who won? Whose Driver's License Exam should be the world standard? Whose drivers would you be more afraid to share the road with? Do you see why Americans driving in Russia should learn the rules?

I Drew A Picture Of An Old Deaf Lady And Got My Russian Driver's License Renewed

2015-02-04T09:08:00.002+03:00

My Russian driver's license recently expired. This was not a huge tragedy, since I am more of a public transportation kind of guy, and my wife uses our car for shuttling our offspring to various educational events and programs. However, after a week and a half of my wife chuckling as she incessantly inquired as to whether I would "need mom to drop me off at the mall today", I understood it was high time to take care of the matter.

Happily, the renewal of the Russian driver's license only requires physical testing. That is, the 800 questions that must be memorized for the Russian driver's license exam are a once in a lifetime event. After that, it's just a matter of keeping yourself physically in shape.

So, two days ago, I headed off to go through the gauntlet of physical examinations required for said license renewal. The first doctor asked me how I felt, if I had any complaints, if I had any surgeries large or small over the past year, such as even surgery on the veins. The eye doctor had me cover one eye and read the bottom line of a chart, then cover the other eye and do the same. There was another doctor, but for the life of me, I can't remember what they asked, but they all provided the necessary stamps to my document that I would later need to produce at the road police station.

The next doctor took my blood pressure and then asked if I had ever suffered any epileptic seizures. I replied "no". She then directed me to another chair and put a curious black cap on my head with numerous wires coming out. Some clips with wires were (I swear I'm not making this up) attached to my earlobes. A light was placed in front of my face. I was instructed to close my eyes and breathe through my nose. An explosion of strobe lights were then directed into my closed eyes. I honestly don't know if it would have mattered or not if they were open or not. I could hear the doctor saying "she was going out for a minute". I don't know if she was gone for a minute or an hour, but the strobe light frequency became increasingly intense, and it seemed like an eternity. I did have the thought that this would be helpful information about whether I would be able to drive with my eyes closed while driving into a blinding strobe light. The doctor returned, and the strobe light test soon came to an end. She then instructed me to breathe through my mouth. There was no strobe light, and I have no idea what was happening. I assume some electric shock waves were being sent through my head, as I felt very hot and experienced the unmistakable urge to breathe much harder than usual. I did get a peak later at the form and did see that I had "maintained relatively normal breathing during the 3 minute hyperventilation process".

With four stamps in my handy form now in place, I headed off to the narcological ward. After a two hour wait in line to register, I went to see the doctor. He asked me to show him my arms which are wonderfully free of syringe marks. He then asked "We do not drink? We do not smoke?" as he applied his stamp to my form. I was in his office for about two minutes.

With this, there was only one stamp left to be applied to my paper and it was from the local psychiatric unit. I was a little confused at how to get there. And at first, I was a little shy to ask fellow pedestrians for directions to the psych ward, but then decided to have some fun with that one, because you know it's not every day you get to ask directions to the psych ward with that little look on your face that says that you need directions to the psych ward.

It was about a 45 minute wait in line to register at the psych ward and then a 45 minute wait to see the psychiatrist. I had asked my wife what to expect. She indicated that they would just talk a couple minutes with me while stamping my form "and she really didn't see the point of it all".

And here I was after nearly 7 hours of seeing doctors and standing in various lines, sitting at the psychiatrist's desk, waiting for her to apply the last stamp to my form so that I could run over to the road police office and get my shiny new driver's license. But I could hear things in the conversation that seemed to set off vague alarm bells in my head. I don't know if she was disappointed in my educational background or grieved by the country of my origins, but now she was saying that I had only been registered in her district for a year and a half, so the "right thing to do would be to send me to the psychologist for testing". I asked her if my wife should return since she had also only been registered in her district for the past year and a half and her form had been stamped without a psychological evaluation. She replied that this decision was "made individually". I really really wanted to say, "Oh, so you think I'm the crazy one and my wife's normal. If you only knew." But I reined myself in with the wisdom that snark and sarcasm are not helpful while visiting a psychiatrist, because you know they might then come and take me away somewhere.

So, there I was making an appointment with a psychologist two days ago for yesterday morning. I was pretty agitated, because they said the psychological test would take at least an hour, and that did not fit in the plans I had for my life this week. I had some concern about the legal part of all of this, so I called a lawyer friend and asked if there could be any problems associated with me being sent for a psychological exam. "Not if you're not a psycho," he replied. Good point.

So there I was yesterday morning, going through a psychological evaluation. She started off by asking if I had any complaints about my memory. Recognizing that there is a time and a place for everything and that this was neither the time nor the place to discuss that I sometimes forget where I park, I replied that I had no complaints. And then the testing began.

Here are the tests I took to prove that I am capable of driving:

1) Audio Memory Test: The psychologist read out ten words. They were: Laughter, Thought, Border, Ring (as in the sound), Cabin, Autumn, Bone. Judging by the fact that she read these words to me ten times and I have now only recalled six, you get an idea of how I did. But out of the ten times she repeated the list, I usually remembered 8 or 9. She then informed me that I was "in the norm".

2) The Comprehension of Euphemisms Test: The psychologist said "The slower you go, the farther you get". I then said, "I understand this to me that it will be safer and I will get farther if I do not rush". "That's exactly right!" she said. Then she quoted a phrase that I didn't understand at all. I think some of the words in the phrase are now dormant in Russian. So she paraphrased it to "You can't stick a needle in a sack". "Because", she helpfully added, "you really can't stick a needle in a sack". By the way, if any Russians reading this can shed any light on this at all, I would be deeply grateful. I told her that they only thing that came to my mind is that perhaps the sack was another person, and indeed, you should not stick needles in other persons. She looked very disappointed and then said "Golden Head". "That means a smart person," I cried out. "Good job", she said as she smiled at me somewhat like my mother smiled at me when I had a successful movement while being potty trained.

3) The Search For Numbers Test: I was handed a ruler and a sheet of paper was placed in front of me. It had 25 squares and in each square was a number between 1 and 25 in a random order. I was to search for each number sequentially between 1 and 25 place the ruler on it and say the number out loud. This was repeated I believe ten times with different sheets of paper that had the numbers 1 through 25 in various sequences. The psychologist was running a stopwatch and writing down my time with each piece of paper. In general, it was taking me about 43-45 seconds each time. As you might understand, this is helpful if a driver needs to quickly find a speed limit sign with a certain number on it. During the last round I could not find the number 17. I asked the psychologist if she was absolutely certain that there was a number 17 on the paper. She quietly wrote a note in her forms which I can only assume read "This clown is horrible at quickly locating the number 17". And my time during the last round was 64 seconds. She then informed me that the average was 42 seconds, but I was still very happily "in the norm".

4) The Visual Memory Test: It was explained to me that I would be given ten words that I would need to draw. I would then need to repeat back those words based on the pictures that I had drawn. The words were: Dark Night, Fear, Anger, Hard Work, etc. I was delighted to hear that I would not be judged on artistic talent, but I would need to explain why I drew what I drew. One of the drawings was "Deaf Old Lady".

A Re-creation of my rendering of the subject of "Deaf Old Lady".

The psychologist inquired as to why I had drawn "Deaf Old Lady" in this manner. I explained that the triangle was indicative of a dress, so that I would remember that this was a lady ("Deaf Old Lady" in Russian is only two words, "глухая старушка", not three as in the English version which is "Deaf Old Lady"), the cane indicates that she is elderly, and the X over the ear represents that she has a hearing disability. "Yes, I see", said my psychologist friend and made some notes. If I ever get to to do this test again with no driver's license hanging in the balance, my drawings might be very different, because that is grand fun. But in this case, each of my drawings were oozing a preposterous amount of normalcy.

5) The One Of These Is Not Like The Others Test: I think this is useful for potential drivers so that they know which ones are pedestrians and which ones are cars. Alas, I again digress. I was shown a series of cards and on each card were 4 objects. I had to then indicate which one of the four was different than the three others. Most of them had like A Cow, A Chicken, A Goat, and A Belly Dancing Mermaid on a Tricycle. The one that really required thought was An Airplane, A Passenger Ship, A Car, and A Hot Air Balloon. After some careful thought, I nailed it. Can you guess the right answer?

6) The What's Your Favorite Color Test: Some small colored cards were placed on the table in front of me in an upside down V pattern. I remember that a charcoal color was at the top. Green and blue were on the left side coming down and black and brown were on the right side. Orange was on the bottom left and Yellow was on the bottom right. I was instructed to choose the colors in whichever order I would like. You know "just any color it makes no difference, but hand them to me in the sequence that indicates that you are a safe driver". I knew black was not the first right answer, so I went with green. My mind was racing. Blue seemed like the next obvious answer, but it was located right next to where the green had just been and what did that mean? I went with blue anyway, and then brown. Because, I thought, brown is a natural color and she will know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I enjoy nature. This left me in a bit of a quandry because yellow seemed quite aggressive to me, but now the left side of my V was nearly completely gone. I went with orange anyway with the additional comment of "for some reason I'm liking the orange". "Mhm", she said, "for some reason you like the orange", and wrote some notes. Then it was yellow, charcoal and black. She then flipped over the cards, and it turned out there was a numeral on the bottom of each one. She then wrote down the numbers in sequence with a plus sign in between them. I wondered if she ever noticed that the sum was always the same regardless of the sequence, but kept my thoughts to myself.

7) You Thought This Exam Was Over Test: I was handed my paper of ten drawings and instructed to state the words that were given for each drawing. Again, I nailed it. I was then instructed to repeat the 10 words that (and I quote) she had read to me ten times already. Again I remembered nine.

I was instructed to wait in the hall wondering if I would ever be allowed to drive again, while the psychologist entered her notes and conclusion in to her computer to be passed along to the psychiatrist.

I was invited into the psychiatrist's office, and she informed me that I was "in the norm". "This makes me glad," I said. "It makes us glad too," she said as she smiled and stamped my form.

It was then after four very short and uneventful lines later at the road police headquarters that I was presented with my new Russian driver's license. I headed home, but after that experience sort of felt that maybe I should maybe first pay another visit to my new friends at the psychiatric ward.

8 (Russian) Things I Do Whenever I'm In America

2015-01-19T08:20:00.002+03:00

1) Genius Cash Amounts At The Cash Register: Allow me to explain. Let's say I am buying a shirt that costs $17.84. If I don't have $17.84 in exact change, I will pay $18.11. In doing so, I will feel a bit like a Mother Theresa/Stephen Hawking hybrid as my mind boggling blend of benevolence and mathematical resourcefulness will have helped this poor cashier live yet another day. If I have no change and I am buying a pack of gum, I might pause with a look of deep shame and say something like, "I am so sorry... You wouldn't have change for a 10, would you?"

2) I Stop My Car (Nearly) Wherever I Want: Let's say I want to change the radio station. Or check directions. Or look for something on the (car) floor. Or just stop. And let's say said behaviors happen when I'm in a massive and mostly empty parking lot or on a side street. What do I do? I just stop my car and do it. Now, I know it would be safer for me to do this if I first pulled off to the side, put some cones around my car and a blinking sign on the roof that says "THIS GUY ISN'T DRIVING RIGHT NOW", but I never do any of those things. I just stop right there with my foot on the brake and go about my business. In Russia, this is completely acceptable. That is because Russia is a free nation full of creative people. The Russian folks behind me simply assume I have lost consciousness due to a medical emergency, and sensing that they will be of no help, simply pull around me. In America, the driver behind me will pull up behind me, come to a complete stop, and exhibit the patience of Job as he (or she) waits 5-10 seconds before laying on the horn. Never mind the fact that the state of Texas is all around us with perfectly smooth asphalt as far as the eye can see in all directions and there is nary an automobile in sight. That driver (behind me) can only see that his future journey leads through that exact section of the universe that my car is presently standing on.

3) Soup Consumption Takes A Baffling Turn: Whenever I eat soup in America I always have to pinch myself and quietly repeat the rules: 1) Don't ask for the mayo. 2) It's okay if there is not a mountain of bread and potato salad. 3) When you are finished with your soup don't say, "That was delicious! What else are we going to eat?"

4) I Look For A Lady Who Can Seal My Wife's Purse In A Plastic Bag At Wal-Mart: Actually, I've never done this. I totally know how to act in America. But I do remember walking into Wal-Mart behind the love of my life. She immediately went up to the greeter and asked in a no nonsense business-like fashion where the lockers are so that she could turn in her purse.

5) I Cut In Line: This is only partially true. You see, America, you don't know how to stand in line. You look like the cattle on a thousand hills studying the chaos theory. It's time for you to close up the ranks. How am I supposed to know that you are wanting to order a McRib when it appears you are simply loitering at the condiment stand? Get up close and personal with the person who is presently ordering, and then I will know that you also came to this fine establishment to eat.

6) Repeatedly Reconfirming Appointments: I remember I was taking some Russian friends for dessert (in Russian: "tea") at a home in America. I had made the arrangements with my American friend a full two weeks before and had not seen him or spoken to him since. I was literally sweating bullets as we pulled into his driveway. Did he remember? Shouldn't I have called yesterday to reconfirm? And then again this morning? What if something urgent had happened in his life?

7) I Secretly Wonder If I Am Being Too Informal When I Use the Word "You" With Someone Who Is Elderly: Unfortunately, I have found no alternative to this word that is shockingly bereft of all respect of age or social class.

8) Discard Paper Products in the Waste Bin: I do this at least once every time I visit the land of the free and the home of the brave. I mean, why else would you have the basket there anyway? If I do this in your home, you may not have even noticed as, and may I address this issue in the most discreet of terms: "the brown side does go on the down side". If you know what I mean. Later on though, I join in your general mockery of the American waste water system as I toss every care aside, together with the used paper projects, into the swirling recklessness that your sewage system has become. Conversely, if you are an American and plan to have some (Russian) visitors and you want them just to discard in the john, remove the wastebasket from the water closet. They (the Russians) will then understand what to do with the TP. It's like a secret code.

What (Russian) Things Do You Do Whenever You're In America?

10 Differences Between Grandfather Frost and Santa Claus

2015-01-01T17:15:00.000+03:00

I remember the first time I saw him. He was standing there on Red Square, kind enough to be available for taking pictures with visiting tourists. This was the mid-90's, and I was visiting Russia for the first time. I assumed that Santa Claus was having a laundry day, but soon learned that despite what you have learned about Santa Claus's worldwide tour on Christmas night, he actually does not visit Russia. The sad mercantile truth is, Santa never visited Russia until Coca-Cola commercials, and even with that, he still refuses to deliver any presents. And in a policy of reciprocity, Grandfather Frost does not bring any holiday cheer to the children of Santa Claus aligned nation. For the large man standing in red that cold morning on Red Square was not Santa Claus at all; it was Grandfather Frost.

After that, I didn't consider this much and whenever the question came up, I would sort of say that "Grandfather Frost is Russia's Santa Claus". But that was entirely misleading as that would be something like saying "Czar Nikolai is the Woodrow Wilson of Russia". True, they both fulfilled authority government positions at one point in history, but they were, in fact, two different personalities (I assume, I have no time for research in this completely rushed blog post), living two very completely different lives. So, shame on me for ever saying that Grandfather Frost is the Santa Claus of Russia and shame on you, if you ever thought that Santa Claus was the Grandfather Frost of the West.

December, January, and February are conspicuously absent from this Moscow mall.

Grandfather Frost is certainly not the Santa Claus of Russia. So, what is the difference between Grandfather Frost and Santa Claus? Allow me to enlighten you:

1) Outer Apparel: Both Grandfather Frost and Santa Claus wear red winter clothes. But that is where the similarities end. Let's take a closer look. Santa Claus wears his pajamas hat. Grandfather Frost wears a hat, that frankly, I am too lazy to describe to you. Grandfather Frost's coat reaches to the ground while Santa Claus's coat is only reaches slightly below his waist with a black belt holding the whole affair together. As far as footwear is concerned, Santa Claus has his pair of trusty black boots while Grandfather Frost usually switches between a red pair of velvety footwear or occasionally felt boots for the exceptionally cold days. Furthermore, Grandfather Frost should have a staff (I am not speaking of paid workers, or an entourage, we'll get to that later. I am speaking of a large wooden stick.). Santa Claus carries a whip for his reindeer.

2) Where They Live: Santa Claus lives at the North Pole. Grandfather Frost lives at Grand Ustyug.

3) Holiday: Santa Claus visits on the night before Christmas. Grandfather Frost, on the other hand, usually begins visiting schools and kindergartens during the week before New Year's, but makes his most focused visiting effort on New Year's day. Perhaps that is because in Russia, Christmas is a religious holiday surrounding the birth of Jesus Christ.

4) How They Enter Your Home: Santa Claus enters your house through your chimney, presumably after smoking some doobies. Father Christmas just walks in through the door, after you invite him. Simultaneously sensible and anti-climactic.

5) Their Ride: Donner and Blitzen? Grandfather Frost assumes they are a German hip-hop duo. For although Grandfather Frost also rides a sleigh (although scuttlebutt maintains he spends most of New Year's eve in taxis), it is not pulled by a senseless herd of wild deer. His sleigh is pulled by three white horses: December, January, and February.

6) Their Entourage: Santa Claus has reindeer, elves, and Mrs. Claus. Grandfather Frost is unmarried as far as I know. He has no chattering height challenged workmen. Instead, he has a strikingly gorgeous personal assistant who goes by the name of Snegurochka. Actually, I'm joking. Snegurochka is his granddaughter. Snegurochka might sound like a horrible name for your granddaughter, but it translates like "Little Snow Girl". And who wouldn't want a granddaughter named Little Snow Girl, or let's say, for example, Sacajawea?

7) What They Eat: Santa Claus, of course, maintains his subsistence on a steady diet of milk and cookies. Grandfather Frost usually drinks vodka and eats a Russian version of potato salad. I have no time for further explanation of this point.

8) Their Demeanor: Santa Claus is jolly and hollow. Grandfather Frost is stern, but fair. Much like a traffic policeman.

9) Their Laughter: They both say, "Ho, ho, ho". But Santa Claus does this mindlessly, as if he has only jelly between his ears. Grandfather Frost on the other hand, usually gives a thoughtful "Ho, ho, ho" that carries the weight of his vast experience with the history of all the children who were ever born in Russia.

10) Winning Their Favor: If you want Grandfather Frost to give you a present, you have to recite a poem or sing a song, etc. This is because Russia is a performance based culture. If you want Santa Claus to give you a present, you must be good all year round. He sees when you are sleeping. He knows when you're awake. So, be good for goodness' sake. This is because Santa Claus is in cahoots with the NSA.

So, those are my top 10 differences between Grandfather Frost. Are there any differences that you can add? Have I misrepresented these East-West colleagues of holiday cheer? Who would you rather have bring you your presents during this holiday season? Comment below.

Your Indoor Best

2014-12-20T10:22:00.001+03:00

If you've ever been to Russia, you've seen them everywhere. That's right. I'm talking about Russian people. And although much ado has been made about Russian people dressing up when they are outdoors, there has been nearly no research published on Russian people dressing down while indoors.

That's right, I am speaking of the Indoor Best of the Russian people. But before we sneak behind the closed doors, revealing national apparel secrets, we must explore the idea of "outer clothes". Yes, that's right. I'm talking about "outer clothes". In short, they are forbidden everywhere except at bus stops and, well come to think about it, that's about it. Unless your gainful employment involves menial labor.

Why? You ask. Well, your outer clothes have been bathed in sundry microbes, parasites, and other unmentionable vermin while you were waiting for said bus, and the presence of your outer clothes poses a pandemic risk for any and all located in the indoor shell of sanitary safety.

This is not a point to be taken lightly. If you think this is a joke, you will be accosted by security personnel while attempting to enter a school room (for example) without first checking your outer clothes at the door. You have unwittingly become a dirty bomb and must be liquidated. Or for an even livelier round of Russian roulette, attempt to enter a maternity ward at a Russian hospital while sporting your outer clothes in a most brazen and foolhardy fashion. This is where the ancient saying comes from: "Fools rush in with their outer clothes on".

Now, as an aside, it is probably worth mentioning the scientific point that, while visiting certain medical clinics, it is considered a legitimate procedure to take off your outer clothes, turn them inside out, and carry them under your arm. If you do not consider it to be self-evident that said outer clothes would be turned inside out, you are what we refer to in Russia as a foreigner. But indeed, this clever ploy has been scientifically proven to confound even the most astute of all outdoor cooties.

But I digress. This is, after all, a groundbreaking publication, not on outer clothes, but Your Indoor Best. The reason this came to mind is because I was recently in my homeland, and I was a bit blown away at all the folks wearing their outside clothes inside. There they were, those American people, walking inside and now outside and now inside again, and nary an item of clothing was ever changed.   It was like they didn't understand there is a clear boundary between the Cold Diseased Outdoors and that Sterile Cocoon you call home.

And now a post that was entitled "Your Indoor Best" will stop talking about outer clothes.

Let's say, for instance, that you are a foreign person in Russia and you think that you have a Russian person who is a friend. Or would that be better put if I said "you have a friend that is a Russian person"?

There is a standard litmus test to find out if that Russian person really truly is a friend. If you visit that Russian person in their home and they are not wearing a combination of a sweat suit and a bathrobe, they are not really a close friend yet.

That is because, and I reveal a top secret of Russia to you at great personal peril, every Russian person wears inside clothes when they are inside.  And the Russian person's Indoor Best is almost always a combination of a sweat suit and a bathrobe. But it is not pajamas.

And no sooner does the Russian person come home than they slip out of their Outer Clothes and their Under Outer Clothes that they were wearing at their place of work and change into their Indoor Best.

You see, the whole idea of indoor clothes and outdoor clothes makes great sense. And mock the idea all you want, the Indoor Best is not just comfortable, it is also comforting. It's almost like you're not home until you've changed into your Indoor Best. For in a sense, your Indoor Best is your home.

This blogger also has learned to wear the Indoor Best. If you are a foreign person and really want to become Russian, don't invest in valenki and rabbit fur hats. You will be picked up by the first law enforcement professional that you cross paths with, for you will indeed need to be saved as an ignorant tourist or a provincial Russian person who has become hopelessly lost while minding his trap lines on snowshoes. No. If you want to dress like a Russian, you must categorize your clothes into Outer Clothes, Indoor Best, Pajamas, and also Work Clothes (even if you work in an office, but that is a different post for a different day).  Recent statistics that I just made up in my mind this Saturday morning prove that the average Russian person changes clothes no less than 5 times a day.

Not sure what set of clothes would work as your Indoor Best? Just pick whatever you would normally wear while shopping back home at Wal-Mart.

And with this there is no cross-contamination between the pancake, bus stop, office, and bed odors and bacterium in life. It's downright genius. For it's not just a quarantine of clothing. It is a simple life hack: dress the way you want to feel. Russia has certainly got that one down.

Good Bye, Bank 24

2014-09-19T10:58:00.000+04:00

It was just last Tuesday morning that my dear wife was passing by the bathroom door. Suddenly, she heard a sound from the inside of the bathroom. It was a groan, followed by: "Oh noooo! Oh no! Oh nooooo!".

That was me. Assuming I someday see my money again, we shall try to pretend that I didn't overreact in the situation.

You see, there I was in the toilet, doing what everyone in 2014 does while in the toilet. I was reading my Twitter feed. And I chanced upon this tweet:

Сегодня Банк России отозвал нашу лицензию. Простите нас. http://t.co/5RiawN1XWw
— Банк24.ру (@bank24ru) 16 сентября 2014

In less than 140 characters, this Tweet states: "Today the Bank of Russia took away our license. Forgive us."

Now, I was just as aware as anyone that the Bank of Russia is taking away banking licenses hither and thither and yon in a crackdown on bad banking practices that, well, I don't really understand. But they are bad.

And I would read the news in the morning, see another bank being closed and quietly congratulate myself that I had the sense to not open an account there. This time was different. It was the day the crisis hit me.

“@bank24ru: Сегодня Банк России отозвал нашу лицензию. Простите нас. http://t.co/wABx1UgFMI” No! The day the crisis hit me personally. ;(
— Andy Frecka (@handyrachet) 16 сентября 2014

What happened in the ensuing minutes is a bit of a blur, but I recall barking conflicting orders at my poor wife, who had only very recently recovered from the shock of fearing that her husband had encountered the Grim Reaper in the water closet, now only to learn that it was simply the small matter of us not having any access to our money.

I rushed off to the nearest ATM machine. Somehow, I knew I wouldn't be able to withdraw any money, but just in case I might be a genius, I decided to give it a try. Predictably, the machine told me to get in touch with my bank, but did not spout currency of any form.

Next, I made a panicked call to my accountant. She comforted me with, "It is in these times that I remember that the most important thing is that we have our health". That was good, but somehow I found the following statement brought me more cheer: "I looked into it, and you should get your money back in the next few weeks."

There is a small chance that later that same day, the bride of my youth may have mentioned that I had planned to withdraw said funds from the bank, but had procrastinated.

As I checked news headlines for the day, I found that out of the dozens of banks that had lost their licenses, Bank 24 was the first to say sorry. I guess somehow I wasn't surprised to see that they said sorry, and even the very open statement in their press release that "this is because of our past sins" did not entirely throw me off guard. That is because Bank 24 was always a personal service oriented bank. When I called, they picked up the phone. In fact, they once made a mistake on some of my paperwork and sent a specialist to my home twice to fix it. That means that he didn't manage to fix it the first time. Perhaps I need to get out more, but I don't know of any bank that would have sent him out a first time anyway. When I had a question, I could get a hold of someone immediately and they made sure I was taken care of. Because of this, I sort of didn't mind that it was a small bank.

What did surprise me is that even after they were closed, they continued to help me and answer my questions. That, together with their simple and open confession, helped me relax a bit. It's surprising how far a little transparancy and asking for forgiveness can go. On the other hand, to be quite frank, I sort of wonder if that feeling isn't still a bit contingent on me getting my hands back on my money.

I now see that in recent days, former clients have taped thank you notes on the closed doors of Bank 24. Where in the world does that happen? Probably only where someone was willing to go out of their way in service to another.

I'm now just one of the tens of thousands of folks in Russia who lost their bank. I will miss this one, but in a pragmatic move, I immediately went on Tuesday to open an account at a different bank. I won't tell you the name of the bank, but I did see this sign (in English) on their door:

Yes, it's true. All I need is Alfa. But all I ever wanted is Bank 24.

Moscow McDonald's Memories

2014-08-22T09:53:00.002+04:00

The closing of the world's largest network of free toilets is mourned by this Moscow blogger.

I saw the threats like gathering clouds on the horizon, but somehow I was not emotionally prepared for the headlines stating that at least four of the Moscow McDonald's had been shut down by the Russian health authorities. This included, of course, the oldest and largest McDonald's in Russia located on Pushkin square in downtown Moscow.

I've never met anyone who was proud of eating at McDonald's. And every single Russian I have ever spoken to has gone into great lengths about the chemical makeup of the offerings of this worldwide eatery. It is curious that parallel to every Russian's deep and very vocal skepticism of Ronald's House that there are invariably long lines at each and every McDonald's in Russia, and in fact, finding a place to sit and eat is a challenge during any regular meal hour.

Why do I eat at McDonald's? It's not for health reasons. But it's cheap. It's conveniently located. It's fast food- almost no waiting, well, at least once you get through the line to the cash register.

I haven't had an office for the past couple of years. But I do regularly meet with folks at a certain globalized food chain's outlet on Pushkin Square. Why? Well, it's convenient, cheap, and fast. Also, might I add, the McKafe really added a certain cosmopolitan flair to more "high end" meetings.

But it was with the aid of modern sleuthery that the health authorities seem to have ascertained that McDonald's is well, unhealthy, and have shut it down. I read why, but somehow I couldn't get this loud voice out of my head that said, "IT MAKES YOU FAT".

They say that the shutdown is temporary, but what if it's not? What if this situation is for forever? Well, I found a conveniently located, cheap, and fast servicing eatery across the street at Pushkin Square and have moved my office there. But I would be remiss not to take this moment for some reminiscence.

Here are my MAIN MOSCOW MCDONALD'S MEMORIES:

1. King of the Table: This is a victual based rendition of the classic King of the Mountain. Once you've loaded your tray with special sauce based meaty goodness, the next step is to sit and eat. If you've come with a friend, you have them find a seat for the both of you, memorize their order and then they will text you as to their location and you can simply come and sit down with your breakfast, lunch, or dinner. If you're alone, they did eventually make a bar like situation where you can feel more comfortable elbow to elbow with fellow consumers. But if you're with a group of four or more- good luck. It is incredibly difficult to find four seats located adjacently. The problem with the game of King of the Table is that it requires strength, speed, quickness and agility- all of which are only dulled by repeated visits to the Golden Arches.

2. The Necking: The amount of oxytocin being released at any given moment at any Moscow McDonald's is incalculable even with the aid of modern scientific equipment. I suppose there is a reason for this. Young folks live with their folks and their folks' folks, and where to go for intimate anonymity coupled with financial thriftiness? That's right. And these boys and girls are not just going for a little peck on the cheek. After an order of fries dipped in 20 ruble ketchup, they have the washing machine going on between their collective mouths. It's kind of like a really bad smell. First you are appalled, but then you get used to it and don't even notice.

3. The Food: I'm not sure, but I think the food offered here in Russia is different than in other places. For example, for a long time we had the "Beef-a-la-Rus" which was, surprisingly enough, a hamburger, on a dark bread bun. Then there was "the Rio" during the World Cup, which was a "Big Teisti" with what was purportedly a Brazilian sauce. Personally, I can vouch that the Rio's sauce was better than the Big Teisti's. Then there is the "Shrimp Roll", the "Chicken Roll" and the "Fish Roll". The Fish Roll, from what I could gather was a blended Filet-o-Fish served in a thin bread shell. Last but not least, there was the recent introduction of the "Greek Mac". I kind of feel like I should not tell you about the "Greek Mac", and we should just let it be Russia's dirty little secret, but anyway here it is: the Greek Mac, and I feel somehow feel racist even telling you this, was a Big Mac served in a pita shell, but with Greek sauce. I am deeply ashamed to admit that I tried it once. It tasted a lot like a Big Mac in a pita shell, but with Greek sauce. The problem was that the twin hamburger patties were not stacked, but were shoulder to shoulder and holding the one in the shell while partaking of the other proved to be more than a Whopper-sized challenge.

Will Ronald return? Only time will tell. I guess that just leaves us here in Moscow with the more healthy options of Burger King and KFC.

That Time The Queue Occupied Me

2014-06-14T15:47:00.000+04:00

It seems that all expats in Russia have their favorite story of standing in line for hours. Standing in line or "Occupying the Queue" is a storied tradition, and indeed a skill that I have taken some pride in mastering.

I have occupied the queue in train stations, banks, stores, government offices, and even for cash machines. But a recent situation involving a government office showed that sometimes you don't occupy the queue. Instead, the Queue can Occupy You.

Due to the need of a stamp on a particular piece of paper, I went to a local government office some weeks ago. Since I saw that the office would open at 2 p.m. and be open until 8 p.m., I made an extra effort to come at 1:45 p.m. Upon seeing the hallway outside the office already jammed with stamp hopefuls, I quickly searched for the kind citizen in charge of the queue order list and was promptly informed that I was number 46.

Since there was 6 hours between me and closing time, I figured number 46 would certainly fall within the range of reasonable belief, so I staked my spot in the corridor and engaged in friendly chatter with fellow queue occupants. It is interesting how much you can learn while standing in line for a government office for 6 hours. I believe that if I were to stand in that line just a few more times I would be able to pass the Russian bar exam and open a fully legitimate legal practice. After everyone feels comfortable with the queue order and then gets a bit bored, we begin to each share our life stories and our specific situation that has brought us to this point in our lives where we are all standing in a hallway outside a government office sharing our life stories about our specific situation that has brought us to this point in our lives where we are all standing in a hallways outside a government office.

In general, there is a sense of camraderie, and legal advice is given freely from one queue occupant to another.

Long story short, I met a lot of interesting folks, but the office closed at #43. I will say that the kind government official stepped out of the office into the somewhat uncongenial atmosphere of the hallway at 7:45 (uncongenial, because now many ascertained that they would not make the line in time and were disturbed by this notion) and quickly asked about our specific situations that had brought us to this point in our lives where we were all standing in a hallway outside a government office for 6 hours, but would now need to go home with our specific situations unsatisfied. I shouted from the back of the huddled mass a concise explanation of my specific situation. The government official took a look at my paper and perceived that I had been standing this whole time without the right paper anyway.

So, I went home.

To receive this particular stamp, they open the office twice a week for six hours. The next time the correct day came, I went some hours in advance and quickly understood that I wouldn't make it in time.

So, I went home.

Somehow this did not affect my good humor. So, although I was strangely enjoying the process, I did ultimately want to succeed, regardless of how much I could learn while standing in the hall.

The next time the office would open at 2 p.m., so I went the day before at 3:30 p.m. Imagine my delight when I found out I was only #4 on the list!

The kind keeper of the list asked for my phone number and told me she would call if they needed any help. I felt quite bad for her, because she was standing outside there with her small child, taking care of a list for the next day. But I also realized I had made great tactical error, because I had arrived by car, and it would need to be someone with a car who would be responsible for the list that night.

Sure enough, that evening around 9:00, I received a phone call. It seemed that a whole system of list guarding in the parking lot outside the government office had been set up for the next 18 hours. There was only one small spot that needed to be taken care of, and would I be willing to help out? You guessed it, at 2 a.m. I was pulling up to the parking lot outside the government office in my car and was to be responsible for the list.

Я был избран дежурить список с 2-5 утра. Зато я четвертый!
— Andy Frecka (@handyrachet) June 8, 2014

You see, the problem is, if someone starts a list and then leaves in the middle of the night and someone else comes at say 3 a.m., that person at 3 a.m. will start a rival list. The result is usually unpleasant. So, it is necessary for someone to always be responsible for the list.

I sat in my car, listened to some music. I sipped coffee out of a thermos. I was generally thankful for warm weather. I was half awake. I even managed to pen a couple more tweets.

3:19 a.m. Now seeing the first signs of dawn.
— Andy Frecka (@handyrachet) June 8, 2014

Wish we'd had white nights back when I was a security guard at an Akron scrap yard.
— Andy Frecka (@handyrachet) June 8, 2014

I was told that someone would relieve my list guard duty at "around 4:30 or 6 a.m.". I was delighted to have a young lady pull up in her car at 4:30 and cheerfully assume responsibility for the list. I had signed up only one person during my time on duty, a man who had some business also related to a cast on his arm, I think. But he asked me to make a special note next to his name that he really would be there, even if he was a little late.

Short story long, I went back a few times later that morning to insure that the list was still secure. It was, and at 2 p.m. I was still #4.

Somehow #'s 1-3 didn't have their paperwork correct and were quickly dismissed by the inspector and told to fill out paperwork in the hall. And soon enough, my lovely wife and I were inside the office (!) with a giant sheaf of papers for us and our four children. It turned out that most of our paperwork was filled in correctly, but not all of it. Happily, the inspector inspected the filled in paperwork while we madly wrote pages of further paperwork in what was ultimately a successful attempt. We were not banished to the crowd filling out paperwork in the hallway.

I had previously calculated that the workload for the inspector to receive one individual was on average twenty minutes. I can say that my estimation was not too far off the mark because it took him an hour and half to review our family's paperwork.

We were so happy to have the new stamp in our papers.

But I will say that the feeling of general happiness and goodwill between us and the rest of the occupants had somehow evaporated by the time we exited the office 90 minutes later. We kept our heads down and walked to the exit as 70 formerly fellow occupants shouted what we owed them. I can't remember everything, but one young man said that I owe him "a beer, a 5 liter bottle, no ten of 'em!".

That poor guy was #8.

The Bath of Bukhara

2014-05-05T22:25:00.000+04:00

Whenever you are in Uzbekistan, make sure you visit Bukhara.

I wish that someone had advised me on that point earlier. I had indeed visited Tashkent with the obligatory side trip to Samarkand, but I had never heard of Bukhara until chancing upon a news article discussing its history, etc.

I have a fascination with Uzbek history, most specifically with a inexplicable interest in Amir Timur that outshines my interest in almost any other historical figure. But the truth is I went to Bukhara not for the history. I went for the Bath. But in the end I found much more.

The entrance to the main mosque of Bukhara that they say can fit 20,000 worshipers at one time.

I arrived in early morning on the overnight train from Tashkent. I was put in a luxury compartment. The cost? About $30. Well, I must say here that the train doesn't actually arrive in Bukhara. It arrives in Kagan. I found out later that this was because although Russia offered to build a railroad to Bukhara, the Bukharate Emir declined, citing the fact that Bukhara is a holy city. It was here that I learned that Bukhara is one of the Seven Holy Cities of Islam.

It is only about 5 kilometers to Bukhara from the Kagan train station and a taxi ride is just a few dollars. I was armed with the address of my hotel in Bukhara. The taxi driver dropped me off in the middle of a square, shrugged his shoulders and said, "It's somewhere over there." As I stumbled out of the car into the dark morning, I realized I was in for a real treat.

Ornate hand carved wooden door in Old Bukhara

The architecture I was now surrounded by was more impressive than anything else I had seen in Central Asia, and there was a lot more of it. After plodding around in the shallow snow that morning unsuccessful in my search for any type of street sign, I walked into a hotel and managed to convince them to call the hotel I was staying at. It turned out to be a simple bed and breakfast and the owner walked over to find me and guide me to my room.

I waited for the sun to come up, ate my breakfast, and immediately set out looking for the ancient Bath of Bukhara. More on that later.

After the bath, I explored some more and soon began to understand that there was a lot more to this city than I had ever imagined. Since it was now lunch time, I went into a Chaihona and was immediately invited by the owner to sit down at a table with three men, who were celebrating a birthday, all in various states of inebriation. This was a clever and friendly gesture by the owner because they fed with me with shashlik and then casually mentioned that they were tour guides. I have been to 35 nations in my life, but Bukhara is the only place that I have ever hired a tour guide. And I am glad that I did.

The Bukhara fortress known as "the Ark" was seen by Alexander the Great, Amir Timur, and Genghis Khan

It is said that when Bukhara was suffering from drought, the people prayed to the Almighty for water. It was at that time that the prophet Job was traveling in that area and he struck the ground and pure water sprung out of the ground. This shrine marks the spot of that spring.

Don't make the mistake I made of visiting Bukhara for just one day. You will want to spend time observing more of the wood carving. These wooden pillars in front of a mosque are each carved from single elm trees.

Here is the minbar in one of the mosques. My guide told me that the imam never preaches from the top step as that is reserved for the Prophet who is to come who will lead us into all truth.

Legend has it that when Genghis Khan looked up at the top of this minaret his hat fell off. When he bent down to pick it up, he realized that he had never knelt before anyone or anything in the world until then. He then ordered that the city be leveled, but the minaret saved.

Beyond those things I learned much more, including the significance of Bukhara in the Silk Road and the importance of the Bukharate Emirate and its relation to Russia over the centuries.

And, yes, I have also been to many baths around the world. That includes the Baths of Budapest, Turkish Baths, and of course, the Russian Banya. But the most ancient bath I have visited is the Bath of Bukhara.

They led me into a cave steam room where I was to relax. Then a man came to torture my back with various massage techniques. He then had me lay on my stomach with my knees bent and my feet in the air. He then stood up and somehow wrapped the calf of his legs around mine and bent forward. This caused my legs to lift in the air, as he somehow lifted himself into the air putting both his weight and mine on my upper chest which was now being jammed into the hot stone surface I was laying on. He then gave me a ginger type substance and told me to rub it on my skin everywhere. Since his Russian wasn't very good and my Uzbek is non-existent I used sign language to indicate that he really meant everywhere. I saw no sense in this, but when in the Bukhara Bath, one must do as the Bukharite Bathers do. So I did. I never knew before that ginger would create a burning effect on one's skin, especially when applied everywhere. Now I know. And it requires a surprising amount of water to rinse off ginger. Now I know.

It was the Bath that first lured me to Bukhara, but it was the history that makes me want to visit again.

How To Make A Russian Laugh Out Loud

2014-04-30T14:12:00.002+04:00

You're visiting some Russian friends, and they blindside you with the unexpected question, "Do you know any anecdotes?"

This is unfamiliar and dangerous territory to be sure. Humor usually doesn't translate. And to be fair, even the idea of telling an anecdote seems a bit quaint and childish to the inexperienced Westerner. Indeed, the first time I was exposed to the pressure of reciting a humorous story, I made the mistake of assuming we were referring to snippets from "Life in these United States", the section of the popular magazine Reader's Digest that I usually turned to during childhood trips to the water closet.

So, allow me to assist you.

If a Russian asks you whether you know any anecdotes, what they really want to know is whether you know any Russian anecdotes. Tell a blonde or redneck joke only at your own personal risk. In doing so, you might create an awkward anecdotal abyss that will make you a societal outcast and a laughing stock of historical proportions. If you really feel you have to tell a childhood joke, go for it, by all means, but don't blame me when no one laughs, and your once merry party becomes a wasteland of loneliness in the blink of an eye.

You see, anecdotes in Russia are like the legends and myths our forefathers told as stories to be passed down from generation to generation. It makes no difference if everyone in the room has heard the story before- they want to hear your version of this humorous allegorical tale.

Indeed, it is quite normal, a few sentences into your recitation, to inquire whether your audience has heard this specific anecdote before. They will reply with, "Come on! Tell us!" This, in Russian, is code for: "Yes, of course, we have heard this anecdote before, but we want to hear you tell it." So, forge forward my foreign friend! Tell the anecdote; there's no turning back now.

When you tell a Russian anecdote, your Russian friends will grin with patient expectancy and urge you on as you attempt to recall the various details. Indeed, you might spot a bead of saliva forming on their lower lips as they wait in suspense for the punch line to this comical tale that they have known and loved for years. For in telling a Russian anecdote, you are not only providing entertainment, you are extending the olive branch of international peace as you show the highest level of respect for local humor.

Extra credit will be given to the spinner of hilarity for excessive emotion, passionate gestures, epic pauses, and adding your own facts and details to your whimsical tale.

You will definitely need some firepower for the next time you are sweating in the banya or just enjoying a casual drink with Russian business partners. So, without further ado, allow me to tell you my top three Russian anecdotes, absolutely free of charge.

1) The first anecdote is really old but, like fine wine, only becomes better with age. If you are an inexperienced Russian anecdote teller, it is a safe place to start:

A man returns home in a drunken stupor. His wife begins to smack him over the head and scream at him asking, "Are you going to keep on drinking?" The man just sits there moaning which, of course, just upsets his wife even more, so she smacks him even harder and demands, "I asked you, are you going to keep on drinking?" The man is practically sobbing as he squeaks out his answer, "Fine. You talked me into it. Pour me another one."

2) If the first anecdote produced the desired effect, try this one:

Several wealthy Muscovite businessmen go to the far Russian north to go bear hunting . A local tribal guide begins to lead them from his village across the tundra. They walk for one day, then two days. On the third day, they finally see a bear. To their surprise, their guide just picks up a rock and throws it, hitting the giant bear in the head. The bear becomes angry and begins chasing the hunting group. The group begins running away back towards the village. They run for an hour, then two hours, then four. It is getting close to evening, and the businessmen are getting tired of running, so one of them turns around and shoots the bear. The guide looks at them says, "What did you do that for? Now you get to drag him back home."

3) Is your Russian anecdote confidence growing? Let's see if you can pull this one off. Show that you have the skills. This is my absolute top favorite Russian anecdote. I must give credit to my good friend Roman for teaching it to me, together with the important gestures that imitate both a camel and a desert mouse: If no one laughs, it is neither the anecdote's fault, nor the audience's. You are the only one to blame.

A camel gets lost in the desert. It walks in the baking heat with no water for a week. (At this point it is customary to go into detail about how camels have humps on their backs which is a backup water supply so that they can last for long periods of time in arid climates). So, of course, after a week with neither water nor vegetation, the camel was quite fatigued as the sweltering temperatures offered no respite. However, it continued its journey. The camel's tongue had swollen in the camel's mouth by the third week and the camel had indeed seen its share of mirages. But alas, those hallucinations provided neither sustenance nor the life-giving liquid the camel so urgently needed. Finally, the camel collapsed in the heat, ready to die. It then heard a curious sound and managed to open an eye to see a desert mouse scurrying to and fro under the scorching rays of the unforgiving sun. Eventually, the mouse noticed the camel laying in the blistering sand and cautiously approached the camel.

"Comrade Camel," inquired the desert mouse, "what has happened?"

The camel then began to relate the sad tale of how he had become lost in the desert for weeks with no water and was now about to die from the heat.

"No, no, Comrade Camel," replied the desert mouse. "You have it all wrong. See, you just need to do it like I do. I run around in the sun and it creates a wind, just like an air conditioner. You should really try it!".

The camel, realizing that he had nothing to lose, summoned his last iota of strength, jumped to his feet, ran 30 yards, fell over and died. The desert mouse of course was in shock by what had happened. He walked over and checked the camel's pulse.

"Poor guy," said the desert mouse (savor the pause here), "He froze to death."

I have told you my top three Russian anecdotes. Now it's your turn. Do you know any anecdotes? Share them in the comment section below!

Banya Banter

2014-04-23T22:18:00.000+04:00

When you have mustered the courage to crack Russia's greatest cultural crucible, it is advisable to be readily armed with a tale or two to share with your unclothed comrades.

You see, despite the many novels, poems, and sonnets that have been penned over the years centered on Russia's crowning gem, in reality it's just a hot room that you sit in and sweat. It's the conversation that makes the experience delightful. As the temperature soars, somehow even the most banal of conversation takes on new meaning as you summon the strength to gasp out your thoughts, one painful phrase at a time.

And the best kind of story to tell in a banya is a story about being in a banya. Naturally, this will be impossible in your first trip to the banya, so try to do something memorable to talk about the next time. If you have no good stories, then learn a few good Russian anecdotes. After all, no one wants to sit quietly in a banya. That's just weird.

One of my life dreams came true last summer when we moved to a house with our very own banya. I guess, in a sense, it was also a letdown. A letdown in the same way that Tamerlane felt disappointed after conquering China, because there was no nation left worthy of conquer.

But just the other night, something special happened in my banya- I got another banya story that I will now inevitably tell every time I go to the banya.

Here is what happened: my friend Igor offered to heat up the banya. Here is a picture of Igor later on that same evening:

Igor had been at my house a few weeks ago when I was out of town and heated up the banya for some friends. I asked Igor how hot he managed to heat the banya. He replied, "Oh about 90 degrees (celsius)".

In response, I casually mentioned that my children would be disappointed by the chill if he were to only heat it to 90 again. Of course, I knew that Igor could heat it up more, but I wanted to make sure. Because, you know, it's Russia. That is why I challenged his manhood by saying, "my children will be disappointed by the chill".

A few hours later, Igor casually mentioned that the banya was ready. I called my three trusty male descendants, and we trooped out to our handy steam house. Now when we arrived, I felt that the temperature was a bit higher than normal.

I know you want a number. You want to know the temperature. I'm not going to tell you. I will just say that it was so hot that I had goose bumps all over my body and there was no sweat. That was a first. "Perhaps your sweat is immediately evaporating," Igor helpfully offered. I didn't know what to do about that, because I have this banya theory that in your first visit (each banya trip involves multiple visits to the steam room alternated with conversation outside in the yard during rest breaks) you must break a sweat.

I was confounded by the lack of sweat, and since my head was spinning a bit, we exited for a rest break after some minutes. You probably want to know what the temperature was. Not going to tell you. I'm just going to say that when we came back in, it was 116 degrees Centigrade, and I kid you not, my boys started complaining that it felt cold. I guess that everything is found in comparisons. And when my boys started griping about how it felt cold, and it was actually that hot, I felt some strange kind of pride.

You're probably still wondering how hot it was. I'm not going to say. All I will do is show you what happened to the plastic faucet handle in the banya that evening:

So, yes, I am thrilled to have another banya story under my belt to share with my friends as we swing birch branches through the steamy air and spin yarns on steam houses of yore.

Here are a few other of my favorite banya tales:

1) In which it was 100 Celsius inside and -47 outside and the steam on my skin immediately turned to ice.

2) In which I had rented a dacha from a pensioner in the Moscow province. Some friends from Kamchatka heated it up so hot that the wiring melted, causing a short and putting out the electricity in two houses.

3) In which my friends and I exited a banya in the forest in the Urals and I suggested we jump in the snow. I went first, in a state of extreme undress. My face forward leap through the air abruptly lost some of its grace when my front side learned that the top of the snow was a layer of ice.

What is your favorite banya story? That's what the comment section is for.

Sheremyetovo Just Isn't The Same As It Used To Be

2014-01-29T16:02:00.000+04:00

I was recently traveling abroad. And by abroad I mean Uzbekistan.

As I sat patiently awaiting my flight from Moscow to Tashkent, I suddenly realized, Sheremyetovo just isn't the same as it used to be.

If you've been in Russia for awhile, you might sometimes, on rare occasions, miss ordering food over a counter, then going to a largish woman with an abacus to pay, and then returning to the counter for your victuals. Yes, those were the good old days when human intelligence trumped the machine at each and every retail sale.

I sometimes find myself missing the old Sheremyetovo as well. Like many foreign persons, my first impression of Russia was Sheremyetovo, Terminal 2. Indeed, this storied passenger aviation complex used to house all the warmth and charm of a coal mine. But still, I sometimes kind of miss the old Sheremyetovo. You know, like sometimes you miss your dentist.

I remember flying in for the first time, right around New Year's Day of 1995. Since like most Americans my cultural training for Russia had mainly come from Rocky IV, I was immediately on the lookout for an ambush as I disembarked the plane.

And there it was, the first unsmiling Russian guard that I had ever seen. The smell was of old stale carpet and the hallways were darkened, presumably to give the Soviet army an advantage over less alert foreign air passengers.

And then, yes, my very first queue, in Russia. It was for passport control. Although I was a young fellow at the time, I believe I had to shave twice before I finally met the second unsmiling Russian person I had ever seen. Those were the good old days. The passport control agent would look at you with the blank face. Then, I swear I am not making this up, sometimes they would then look down at your papers for some minutes, remaining completely motionless. During this lengthy procedure, it was of paramount importance to resist the urge to scream "Sanctuary!" and make a mad dash towards the nearest embassy complex.

After that, there was baggage claim and then customs control. I am not sure if there was a "green channel" in those days or not. I do know that if there was a green channel, then I knew nothing of it, but instead always went through the red channel. We opened bags and flashed cash at the request of the officer. The officer would smile, but by now we would not.

If you think that after customs, the passenger was free, then you never came to Russia in the nineties. For after customs the Golden Horde awaited. Naturally, I refer to the legion of taxi drivers offering a lift in exchange for your appendages. If you know what I mean.

The cost for a taxi ride in those days to Sheremyetovo Terminal 1 ran somewhere in the vicinity of $80 for the unwary foreigner, if I'm not mistaken. This 5 kilometer trip to the other side of the airfield ended at a forlorn squarish structure, a monument to hopelessness, if you will.

Sheremyetovo-1 was a joyless clown car. Somewhere out there a mad scientist was performing a controlled experiment on how many passengers could be added to one terminal. Empty seats were always at a premium at Sheremyetovo-1. Standing passengers would hover over the seated, just waiting for them to vacate. If you were seated, you would need to fight the urge to visit the toilet or stretch your legs, for then you would be sentenced to standing endlessly. Furthermore, if you were a part of the seated bourgeoise, it was vital to pretend not to notice the standing proletariat. Kind of like when you are seated on the subway, but aren't sure if the lady standing nearby is pregnant. Or not.

I once had a 12 hour layover that I spent completely at Sheremyetovo-1. It was during this time that I began to believe in Purgatory, although quite frankly I failed to see how any indulgence could speed the final boarding call.

But out of everything that we fondly remember of Sheremyetovo, what we will always remember most is that in the Soviet Union, the production of cans far outpaced the production of coffee. This quandary was remedied through the forward thinking architects of Terminal 2. Yes, I speak of the ceiling of Sheremyetovo, Terminal 2. It seemed that there was a hanging can for each and every hamburger that McDonald's has ever served worldwide as a defiant Soviet stand against the evil of Western imperialistic capitalism. To be quite fair, I made that up, but the ceiling was registered as the 8th Natural Wonder of the World. Okay, I also made that up. But I am not making up the fact that the coffee can ceiling was a dust nightmare and they had a vacuum cleaner with a very long rigid hose for the purpose of cleaning out each and every metallic orifice. Perhaps at times convicts were presented with the choice between a lifetime of hard labor in Siberia or dusting out the airport ceiling once.

The food was very bad, but they made up for that by making it insanely expensive. I had a Swiss friend who met her friend at Sheremyetovo once, and they made the amateurish decision to dine at the cafeteria. They added the few items to their tray that two thrifty young ladies who are watching their figure would consume for a light lunch. The bill was $100, so they actually returned the food. During one layover, I stalked some airport employees who appeared to be going to lunch break. We passed through the parking lot and a field and in a back alley there was kind of a cross between a kiosk and a cafeteria. From then on I would eat lunch there during long layovers, feeling quite smug about my insider information.

But after some time, the Winds of Change started to blow across the airfields of Sheremyetovo. I speak, of course, of the wi-fi service, which I think was $1 per minute and the Kroshka-Kartoshka stands, one for each terminal. I was beyond giddy with expectation as I ordered stuffed potatoes and surfed the worldwide information superhighway for up to ten minutes during a layover.

I had heard of construction of a so-called Sheremyetovo, Terminal 3. I took these reports in the same serious way I take Shangri-La and Atlantis. I do not take change in any form very well, and I am distrustful of any proclaimed improvements. Sure, I could see the construction cranes whenever I landed at Sheremyetovo, but I have also seen puddles in the desert. If you know what I mean.

But indeed, it was true. And soon enough Terminal C was added to Terminal 1 and 2. Terminal C cried out, "Yes, we can!". I would feel like I was totally beating the system by sitting out my layovers for departure from Terminal 1 inside Terminal C. In a way it was also very sad, for I felt I had reached the pinnacle of my career and there was no way higher up this ladder of Air Travel Euphoria.

But I was wrong. After only a few more short years, Terminal 1, now consisting of Terminal B and C was accompanied by Terminal 2 consisting of Terminal F and Terminal 3 consisting of Terminals E and D. The best part about that is that it is absolutely true, and if you ever take a bus to Sheremyetovo, that is exactly what the sign on the bus will say. You might ask why Terminal 1 consists of Terminal B and C while Terminal 2 consists of Terminal F and Terminal 3 consists of Terminals E and D. The answer is the same reason whereby the railroad gauge of Russia is different from the railroad gauge of surrounding nations. It slows down foreign invasion. And the location of Terminal A? That is top secret information not available to citizen passengers.

So, today, I breeze through the passport control to my departure gate. And then I have the problem I have whenever I go back home and visit Wal-Mart. That is, way too much selection. Rows and rows of empty seats, but which one is best for my wait? I sit back and surf the internet for free and look up and there is a sign. It says "Burger King coming soon".

Yes, Sheremyetovo just isn't the same as it used to be.

The Clever Commuter Commerce of the Capital City

2013-11-12T20:13:00.003+04:00

There you are, coasting on the commuter train into the capital city, and suddenly your morning is interrupted with a full grown man carrying an armful of fluorescent scarfs. With enthusiasm and concise detail, he begins to describe the merits of what you have now learned are not simply fluorescent scarfs, but Japanese bath towels. Although they may appear to the untrained eye to be thin strips of cheap cloth, they are, in fact, perfectly designed. "The length is exactly what you need to scrub your back," the man triumphantly exclaims.

Much ado has been made about the Russian business climate and the economic future of this great nation. Talking heads on business news television expound at great length on this complicated and urgent topic. The health of small business and the middle class is the source of unlimited controversy on the streets, in high level board rooms, and around the kitchen table.

Please allow this humble volunteer blogger to bring these weighty issues to rest, absolutely free of charge.

Small business in Russia is booming. This subjective and haphazard opinion is based entirely on daily observations in the Russian commuter train. Just like most of the people who live in Moscow, I don't actually live in Moscow. And like most wannabe Muscovites who have brains, I commute on the train rather than in the traffic.

I will not waste space in this wide-ranging and significant economic post to give you a language lesson. All I can tell you is that "commuter train", in Russian, sounds something like what you would expect "female electrician" to sound like, in Russian.

Together with literally billions of wannabe Muscovites, I make my way to the city center on the commuter train. And there I am, congratulating myself on how I am saving time and money, while being careful with my ever naughty personal carbon footprint, when my tranquil travels are interrupted by The Clever Commuter Commerce of the Capital City.
Now, these interruptions are usually only every 3 minutes or so on the commuter train. And indeed this used to be known as speculation, if you know what I mean, and the result was a term in a location of deprived freedom. If you know what I mean. But those were the days of yore, and glasnost and perestroika and all that, and here you are being blindsided by blatant and Clever Commuter Commerce.

You see, you thought you had everything you needed in the whole wide world, and then this peddler of fortune has now entered your train wagon. Here is a Small Sample of what this Sly Speculator might Suggest:

-Literature: gardening magazines, newspapers, spiritual literature, etc.

-A lamp that reminds you of what your dentist uses that has adjustable angles and will connect magnetically to the metal ceiling in your home.

-Entertainment: and by "entertainment" I mean "live music", with the songs magically lasting the distance between two train stops.

-A piece of rubber that will stick to your car's dashboard, and you stick your lighter and your pens and coins to it, and they won't be sticky afterwards. Or you can put it on a window in your house, because if you had a car, you probably wouldn't be on the commuter train. This piece of rubber is magical in the sense that it is sticky when you want it to be and not sticky when you don't want it to be.

-Ice Cream and/or pirogis. I suspect that the former is warm and the latter cold, despite the claims of this merchant of fine victuals. For indeed, water follows the path of least resistance and I am suspicious that the laws of thermodynamics also apply to foodstuffs in close proximity to each other in the peddler's cart.

-Passport and document covers. If you do not purchase these items, you will spend years of your life replacing damaged passports and documents.

-Forms of slug repellent, that in the words of said merchant, have reached nearly Biblical plague proportions in your yard. I can say with profound authority that this testimony is true. Slugs have taken over the yards of the Moscow province.

-And quite possibly the hottest item of the season: a stuffed animal that will repeat any sound you make. It sounds to me a lot like a stuffed animal with a tape recorder hidden inside, but I guess that's just my inner cynic coming out.

And I have learned that these vendors of fortune seem to all follow a Precise Peddling Pattern. A Template of Traveling Tycoons, if you will. Indeed, I am consistently amazed at the astounding results of these Peddling Prodigies. The Formula is this: "Respected Passengers!" + "There is a problem!" + "In my hand I am holding the solution to the problem!" + "In the stores this solution costs 500 rubles!" + "But today you can buy this from me for 100 rubles!" +"I wish for you a happy journey!"= SALE!

Logic would seem to dictate that we, the 10,000 passengers in this particular wagon, have chosen to join this cattle car in order to economize our personal funds. And you would think we would have become wise to the above strategy and somehow understand that the reason they are selling us this solution here in the train car is because we never until now understood that we had this problem. However, no sooner does someone walk in and demonstrate the uses of a gadget we have all witnessed for the very first time, or played a song for us for two and a half minutes, or waxed eloquent on the prowess of an author who up to this very moment was completely non-existent in our limited literary understanding, and we are digging away in our Russian man purses and our wallets are yawning crazily wide as now we are the proud owners of, yes, a stuffed animal that will repeat any gleeful and proud noise that we now produce.

Indeed, it seems nary a mobile merchant passes through any wagon without making at least one sale.

So, sit back, relax and enjoy the show. As the train presses forward, so does the economy. Learn to appreciate the precision of these portable peddlers as they seek success on this train's wheels of fortune.

But as the Japanese bath towel merchant wisely cautions us at the end of his presentation: "Ladies, please do not take what I am saying to an extreme. You can not burn away cellulite by scrubbing. However, with this towel, your skin will become more elastic and smooth."

The Miraculous Mayonnaise of Mother Russia

2013-07-10T10:05:00.000+04:00

I do not remember the mayonnaise of my childhood with kind words. I told my mother that she could slather the mostly tasteless white substance on Tim and Mark's lunch meat all she wanted. But as for me, I maintained a firm position of mustard loyalty during my formative years.

I never understood how anybody could partake of the mayonnaise of my motherland. The premise of that particular mayonnaise's marketing campaign was based on the supernatural. The brand name even spoke of the miraculous. However, I only found bitter disappointment of a very earthly variety in the rare moments when my lunch box was confused with Tim or Mark's.

As my train slowly moved towards the Urals in early January of 1995, I had no idea that my understanding of this most basic building block of sandwiches and salads would undergo a paradigm shift of Renaissance proportions in a very short period of time.

Since I was a young man making my first international trip (Canada clearly does not count), I fearlessly smeared my bread with some Russian mustard. I had already learned quite quickly that most Russian food tastes something like boiled potatoes or something very much like white bread. But it was in that very same moment that I learned that Russian mustard has a flavor somewhat akin to the flavor you would have on your tongue if you inadvertently split an atom between your incisors while biting into your opened faced sardine sandwich. I guess what I'm trying to say is that Russian mustard is kind of like a banya for your nostrils. It was like the entire world of Russian cuisine was making up for its otherwise simple and mild mannered existence in one small tube of yellow sandwich spread.

As tears rolled down my cheeks, I pined for a single comforting nibble of the midday fare that could be found in Tim or Mark's happy lunchbox. And I was forced into comprehending that perhaps I should be more open minded to that white sauce I had rued for so many years. Perhaps it was time for me to pay a visit to the Mayo Clinic of Russia. If you will.

After I Ate The Russian Mustard, Here Are The Top Three Things I Have Learned About The Miraculous Mayonnaise Of Russia:

1) It Tastes Pretty Good And It Includes Raw Eggs. I was at a friend's house once and, without a care in the world, she said, "Oh, I'll make some mayonnaise!". That was when I learned that The Miraculous Mayonnaise Of Russia includes raw eggs. It had been pounded into my conscience since an early age that raw eggs were the cause of Plague, Famine, and Sundry Blight. A simple glimpse of raw eggs was paramount to staring at metal being welded together or cracking your knuckles. And here my friend was cheerfully throwing this most dangerous ingredient into a mixer, and soon after we were putting it into our mouths. And as we rushed headlong into impending disaster, I understood that this white sauce was not the mayonnaise of my childhood. This Miraculous Mayonnaise of Russia was a party in my mouth.

And the resulting epiphany? The reason the Mayonnaise of Russia is Miraculous is precisely because it is made out of raw eggs. And then I had another revelation. The "mayonnaise" of my childhood was not mayonnaise at all. That phony condiment held no supernatural properties. It was an imposter composed entirely of chemical content.

2) Jars? Why? Sometimes Russia impresses the world by sending a man for the first time into outer space or arguably inventing the radio. Or sometimes the toilet in your hotel room is not working. If you know what I mean. And sometimes Russians demolish all commonly held understanding and glue wallpaper on the ceiling. If you know what I mean.

And here, my fellow Americans, I charge you with this question. Is your ketchup in a squeeze bottle? What about your ballpark mustard? Can you now even find pickle relish in a squeeze bottle? Then I beg of you, why was it that during my childhood, every mayonnaise laden experience involved a trip to the silverware drawer?

To be fair, the Miraculous Mayonnaise of Russia is not found in a squeeze bottle. It is a squeeze bag. No shaking or pounding to get this delicious spread to ooze forth. Simple smooth squeezing will do.

And through the miracle of modern architectural understanding, this bag of white goodness has been designed to be able to stand and balance within a support base, without the aid of any outside structure.

3) Not Just For Sandwiches. You thought that mayonnaise was for sandwiches and for salads.

You are right, but you are operating within very limited understanding. The Miraculous Mayonnaise of Russia is something like duct tape in the United States. It is the quick fix for any culinary presentation. No bowl of soup is complete without a liberal squirt of white happiness. Meat dumplings? Yes, Miraculous Mayonnaise, please! What about that sad mound of lonely buckwheat? Pass the squirt bag, pronto!

And now I implore you, get on your feet. Go to the store. There may be only two or three types of toothpaste on the shelves of your Russian neighborhood convenience store. But the Wall of Mayonnaise stretches endlessly forward, beckoning you to a new understanding of how a simple condiment housed in a plastic sack can make your lunch, oh I don't know, Miraculous?

Wallpaper, In Russian

2013-06-24T18:59:00.000+04:00

This morning I was sitting, minding my own business, in a rather meditative state of mind, when my eldest offspring interrupted my tranquility.

"Dad", she inquired, "why is there wallpaper on our ceiling?"

I began an exhaustive explanation about how wallpaper on the ceiling is a less dusty alternative than whitewash and doesn't scratch or fade with time.

"Hm", she said offhandedly, and made her escape.

She's a sensible yet respectful young lady, so I can only assume that's why she didn't begin to riddle holes into my very incomplete explanation. Indeed, I have scratched a whitewashed ceiling or two in my day with a Christmas tree star, and have witnessed the need to perpetually update the ceiling whitewash. But still, there must be a better solution?

I realized that I had come to accept wallpaper on the ceiling as a normal fact of life, just like many of my countrymen think it is acceptable and normal to shake hands without removing their gloves. Or, I think it's normal, you know, normal like stirring 3 tablespoons of mayonnaise into each and every bowl of soup prior to consuming.

I guess I should take this moment, since it is as good as any other for this purpose, and explain to you an important point: "wallpaper", in Russian, does not include the word "wall". Nor does it include the word "paper". Therefore, you can feel free to glue it up just about anywhere you like. Your English term for this fine remodeling commodity has closed your mind to its many uses.

Actually, if you think gluing is the only way to fasten this fine product to another surface, you are guilty of an incredibly paltry worldview and are in deep need of broadening your horizons. One time I was part of purchasing a house in a small village in a remote area of Russia. We were fascinated to discover that they had nailed the wallpaper to the wall. I never found out why, and that is something that keeps me up at night. The possible explanations include: 1) There was no glue available. OR 2) If there was ever the need to move quickly, due to an unforeseen cataclysmic event, you could quickly remove the wallpaper and take it to your new residence under the cover of the darkness of the early morning hours.

Please do comment below if you have any other thoughts on why it would be necessary to nail
wallpaper to the wall. It does provide for a perfect habitat for creepy crawlers, thus keeping insects and rodents of various shapes and sizes out of sight and out of mind.

When I first came to Russia in the mid-1990's I was impressed at the landscape wallpaper that was all the rage at the time. It would be so cold outside that the molecules had stopped moving and the weather report was in Kelvin, and you would come inside and "Voila!" you were in a tropical paradise, with a wall print from floor to ceiling depicting a beach, palm trees, et cetera. Very effective for those who are adept at the willing suspense of disbelief.

Since my daughter stumped me this morning, I turned to social media to answer this question. Whenever I don't know what to do with life's big questions I always turn to Twitter. One of my followers (I lead, he follows) was kind enough to explain to me that "during Soviet times, wallpaper on the ceiling was a sign of prosperity".

I suppose to show off our prosperity, after wallpapering the ceiling, we could cast off all financial restraint by putting a coat or two of paint on the windows. But I digress.

I proudly passed the prosperity argument on to my daughter. She didn't even hesitate to ask, "So, does this mean we are rich?"

"Oh yes, definitely", I replied.

And if my daughter's curious mind ever inquires why "all the kids" at school have iPads and she doesn't, I'm thrilled that I now have a ready answer: "But look, we have wallpaper on the ceiling".

5 Reasons I Love To Live In Russia

2013-05-24T14:45:00.001+04:00

It's only 5 Reasons. It's not All Of The Reasons. And it might not be the Main Reasons. It is just 5 Reasons I Love To Live In Russia.

But before we start this Festival of Positivity, I would like to say, "Russia, you should be ashamed of yourself!"

I love Russia for weekend dancing in the park to the sound of a live brass band.

Nearly invariably, when I meet a Russian Person for the first time, they ask, "Why do you live in Russia?" This question is often fraught with deep suspicion that there could be no pure motivation for an American to live in Russia.

I have never heard an American, for example, in America, ask an immigrant, "Why have you come to America?" It is commonly understood, among most Americans, that living in America is great, so it makes perfect sense for someone to immigrate to my great homeland.

Also, if I might add, and I might because this is my blog, immigrating to a new land doesn't automatically mean that the former land was bad. I love America! But that's for a different blog on a different day.

I love Russia for the beauty of the forests and onion domes on Orthodox church cathedrals.

So, listen my Russian friends, there is plenty to love about Russia. And you shouldn't find it so strange that there are foreigners who love your nation.

It is because of the Repeating Question of Why Live In Russia that I am inspired to write 5 Reasons I Love To Live In Russia.

Here they are:

1) Every Day Is A Surprise I remember one time I had to pick up my dear mother at an airport, In Russia. It was 4:30 a.m. and I didn't see that someone had placed their luggage behind my car. I ran over said luggage, stopped, got out of the car, and began to inspect the damage. I quickly became acquainted with the owner of said luggage. He was both ever so slightly inebriated and also experiencing some annoyance by the fact that I had Run Over His Luggage, In Russia.

A lively conversation ensued, and my dear mother who had Just Arrived In Russia watched from inside the car.

It turned out that the luggage that I had ever so recently backed over contained a special skiing suit that would magically inflate if the skier in question ever hit a hard object. Like A Tree. Or A Rock.

The owner of the luggage which I had just run over, that contained a special skiing suit, said he wanted to call the police. I called his bluff and said, "Okay, let's go!"

He backed off and began complaining about how I had ruined his Special Skiing Suit. I explained to him that there was nothing special about his skiing suit, because it was clearly broken. I had backed over it, and it had remained uninflated. Furthermore, how was it my fault that he had set his luggage directly behind my car where it would not be visible to me?

Long story short, a few minutes later, The Luggage Owner and I were hugging, and soon afte,r my mother and I were on our way. I was surprised to run over a Special Skiing Suit, and I was surprised that this interaction did not end up in fisticuffs. If you know what I mean. I was surprised that picking up my mother at the airport included Hugging A Russian Man.

The only way I could explain this situation to my mother was, "It is Russia". For most surprises, In Russia, that explanation will need to be enough. And that is the #1 Reason I Love To Live In Russia.

I love Russia for the "golden hands" of the master woodcarver.

2) If There Is A Smile, It Is Probably Authentic Naturally the exceptions to this include those in the theatrical industry and clerks that work on commission.

If a Russian is not smiling, maybe that means that he or she is not happy. Write that down. However, if they are smiling, it will certainly brighten up your day, because it is real. One of my favorite personal challenges is making Russian Middle Aged Women who Sell Tickets at Train Stations smile. At first, they won't smile. Why should they? You are just another brick in the wall, another passenger in an endless queue.

However, if you say, "Hello!" and stand there with your sloppy foreign grin on your face, you might get a crack of a smile, and they will be more forgiving of your accent and endless questions about train schedules.

So, if a Russian is not smiling at me, perhaps they are not happy to see me. This takes out loads of guesswork in relationships. If you know what I mean.

3) Relationship Over Business I met with a friend in America about a year ago. We sat there talking about life and suddenly he asked, "What did you want to meet about?". I was shocked and quickly realized my cultural error. I had put Relationship Over Business. In Russia, I love the fact that when there is business to do, co-workers and potential partners will lead me on a seemingly endless gauntlet of mysterious relationship building exercises. These include barbecue, random conversation, and of course, most importantly, the banya.

And it makes sense, and I've learned to just go along for the ride. Relationship builds trust, and with trust, the business will be more effective.

I love Russia for the humor and ingenuinity of turning a Zhiguli into a makeshift convertible.

4) "NO!" means "Let's Talk Some More!" It has been said by folks who are more clever than this blogger that Russians are like nuts: hard on the outside, but soft on the inside. These same folks maintain that Americans are like cherries: soft on the outside, but...

I love it when a Russian Person tells me "NO!". Don't argue with them, silly foreign person. Your attempts to fight for your rights will go unheeded. Instead, stay relaxed and talk about the weather, talk about your childhood, talk about everything in the world except what they just refused you about, sit in silence staring at your shoelaces. Eventually, the Russian Person will provide you with some clues about how they can indeed help you.

The word "NO!", In Russian, is the code word for the start of an Ancient Dance Of Relational Negotiations. Enjoy.

I love Russia for this man who rolled up his pants to go skiing.

5) The Traffic Etiquette. Moscow was recently rated#1 for the worst traffic in the world. Traffic isn't my favorite thing. The worst traffic jam that I was in lasted 6.5 hours. There are many stories of worse traffic.

Usually, foreigners are surprised by the, shall I say, gung-ho assertive nature of Russian drivers. However, there is a flip side. It is extremely rare for other drivers to not allow me to switch lanes in front of them. Clearly, you must be assertive in your lane switching, but the other driver will understand your plight, and the automobile horn is used only in the most extreme of circumstances. There is a sense of camraderie in the traffic, and if you allow someone to cut in front of you they will almost always send you a "Thank you!" with a few flashes of their hazard lights. In fact, I have found in my experience in various cities, the larger the city, the more forgiving the drivers are.

And I love Russia for shashlik followed by a steaming banya.

Do you have at least 1 Reason You Love To Live In Russia? Comment below!

The Chilling Draft Of Russia

2013-05-14T15:53:00.000+04:00

From Murmansk to Magadan, Sochi to Salekhard, and from Kaliningrad to Kamchatka, its tentacles weave a web of hideous destruction. Quietly, on the steppes of Siberia, now whispering over the Urals, in a moment across the Volga. Now coming down your street as you innocently sit in your home.

No, I do not speak of forced military conscription, nor of a form of fermented beverage. I am speaking of something much worse. I am talking about The Draft.

If you are not from Russia, you must understand, that The Chilling Draft Of Russia is not to be compared with the elementary air movement you may sometimes experience in your home. For The Chilling Draft Of Russia is to be feared. At all times.

Here is what you need to know about The Chilling Draft Of Russia:

1) The Chilling Draft Of Russia has countless hideous side effects.

You will rue the day you ever encountered this silent beast. I have learned we must be most on guard to The Chilling Draft Of Russia while traveling on trains. Just last night I was on a train. I thought I was enjoying the gentle breeze wafting through the window. As it turned out, I was playing with matches and gasoline. The lady sitting across from me asked if I wanted to close the window. I replied that I did not. She asked, "Aren't you afraid of neck pains?" I quickly realized my oversight. I had carelessly put my own neck in danger.

If you think turning your back to The Chilling Draft Of Russia will provide any protection, then I suppose you have no qualms about your kidneys catching a cold?

And if you are a woman sitting there in The Chilling Draft Of Russia, you might as well have just sat at the corner of the dining room table. If you know what I mean.

2) The Danger of the Chilling Draft Of Russia is independent of the air temperature.

One time I was riding a train in (the) Ukraine. It was a bazillion degrees outside and I am not joking when I say the train was crawling at a snail's pace in the hot sun, from Kharkov to Kyiv. This produced what is known as the "greenhouse effect". It was so hot, my kids pulled out birch branches and started beating each other on the back. If you know what I mean.

My eyes darted around the wagon as my head swam from the sweltering heat. With considerable effort, I stood up and managed to pry one of the windows open a few inches.

Immediately a unanimous shout rose from around the wagon, "THE DRAFT!!!!".

Because even in (the) Ukraine, heat stroke is a walk in the park, in comparison to The Chilling Draft Of (the) Ukraine.

3) The Chilling Draft Of Russia is not to be confused with simple wind.

By now, you're probably thinking that with such danger lurking everywhere, that probably no one ever opens the window. Don't be ridiculous, you silly goose. If we never allowed air into the room, we would never kill germs, and where would we get oxygen from?

In Russian, there is a single word that means "air out the room". I won't take valuable time to teach you that word, but it is based on the root word of "wind". Naturally, wind is completely safe, or we'd never be able to go to the bus stop or go to the hospital, after being exposed to The Chilling Draft Of Russia, for example.

Also, reliable sources inform me that you can allow air into the room without creating a draft. I believe it has something to do with the position of the door leading into the room, but have not taken any time to research this any further. This is a blog, not Wikipedia, for crying out loud.

It is widespread knowledge that cooler air from outside will increase oxygen levels and kill germs. So, if you are feeling faint from the heat, don't open a window and expose your Russian friends to certain plague. Instead, offer to air out the room. They will thank you and nod knowingly. Then close the window and repeat the process a little bit later when you sense your blood oxygen levels reaching dangerously low levels. See, now I've assisted you in avoiding an international event.

You are welcome.

And it is best to open the window to air out the room when your house is in the country or when you are sure that all of your neighbor's windows are closed. Because as a doctor told us, if you open your window when your neighbor's window is open, chicken pox can come from their flat to yours.

Stay safe, folks! You have been warned. It is chilling.

The #1 Thing (NOT) To Do In The Moscow Metropolitan

2013-05-11T17:05:00.001+04:00

I guess they call it the Moscow Metroplitan, In Russian, because it is a city. Albeit underground.

A high concentration of my helpful and insightful blog posts center on the Moscow Metropolitan. Perhaps this is a natural result of spending a high concentration of my life in the Moscow Metropolitan.

I have recently given several tutorials on general life in Russia that are both informative, witty, and exhaustive, as I write more and more about less and less. Kind of like a doctoral thesis.

This blog will be straight to the point. Because this blog will have only one point.

There is 1 Thing You Should (NOT EVER) Do In The Moscow Metropolitan.

There are many unadvisable Moscow Metropolitan actions. However, you can read about those in the Rules Section of the Moscow Metropolitan posted in each and every wagon, In Russian. Soothsaying and Lighting Fires Are Prohibited. You May Ride With Skis. I don't remember if you have to take them off first or not. Before Riding the Moscow Metropolitan, In Russia.

It always amazes me that My Cell Phone works in so many parts of the Moscow Metropolitan, receiving many calls, In Russian. This is perhaps the greatest Cellular Communication Scam in the world, Except unjailbroken iPhones in America.

You see, I can make or receive calls. But I can't understand a single word, In Russian. Because the Moscow Metropolitan is a cacophony of so many sundry hammer drills. Especially during the summer when fellow passengers open the windows. You Can't Hear Yourself Think. And you can't understand a word that someone is trying to speak to you on your phone, In Any Language. And the person who is calling you is paying for this unintelligible communication.

So, I usually pick up the phone and yell, "I'm In The Moscow Metropolitan!" Then, depending on the situation, I shout, "I'll call you back" or "Here's my number, so Call Me Maybe!".

As you ride, you will see Fellow Passengers picking up calls, dropping calls, shouting. Usually, the conversations are kept as Short As Possible. Because the network coverage underground is sporadic.

Attentive blog readers perhaps inquire, why not just Turn Off Your Phone. The answer is simple. It is 2013. Also, we are all reading books on our phones. Or playing sudoku. Or twittering about being late.

Because the interwebs are also surprisingly available down there underground.

The #1 Thing (NOT) To Do In The Moscow Metropolitan was acted out right in front of me just the other day.

This fine passenger on the Moscow Metropolitan was sitting directly across from when. He received a Telephone Call.

It was at this point, that he recklessly charged into The #1 Thing (NOT) To Do In The Moscow Metropolitan.

You guessed it.

He jammed his head up into his coat thus forming His Own Personal Telephone Booth.

And he began to shout from Inside His Telephone Booth. Not In Russian. Not In English. I should be ashamed to admit that I was the first person to click on the Camera Mode of my telephone. Somehow this started a wave of microblog photography throughout the Moscow Metropolitan Wagon.

Sadly, my picture didn't turn out quite like I had hoped. This passenger's cell phone coverage apparently stopped, and he "stepped out of his telephone booth".

This left me in quite a state as now he was, naturally, looking straight at me. As were Everyone Else In The Wagon.

I'm usually pretty good at covering up a wide and sloppy grin, in difficult circumstances. However, in this instance I was a complete and total failure. So, I looked down and pretended to have just read a clever and snarky tweet on my telephone.

The situation was only saved by this passenger's phone once again coming into a zone of cellular coverage, and He Re-Entered His Telephone Booth, only compounding the effect of his previous buffoonery.

That was the jackpot, and I was able to capture the instructional image that I have now shared with you on this page.

Of course, I probably could have learned from the person sitting directly to the right of the man in the telephone booth, and simply gone about my business, and pretended that wrapping your coat around your head and screaming long conversations into the phone is completely normal.

What other behavior are Things (NOT) To Do In The Moscow Metropolitan the could cause great risk of being showcased in Eye On Moscow?

Comment below!