Wool Away

Photo: Taylor uses Whitney's lap as a pillow on the flight home.

On the flight home from Budapest, we encountered the “new” immigration cards. You must now be able to read Russian to complete the card. (And you are NOT allowed entry into Russia without a completed card.) Fortunately, Larry had prepared a “cheat sheet” for me and I filled out our cards based on his model.

We cleared customs, collected our luggage, and walked out of the terminal... and into a blizzard. Welcome to Moscow!

Back in our apartment, I put away my new wool coat. I’m into my heavy-duty winter duds now. That means, I have to wear long underwear, street clothes, snow boots, fur coat, hat, gloves, and scarf. This is my life until May.

I had a spectacular fall this weekend in front of my apartment. I took a few steps off the curb and fell SPLAT. Although I hit very hard, all the force was absorbed by my rear end. My head barely scraped the curb. I fell so fast, I didn’t even have time to brace myself, so even my wrists and hands were uninjured.

I was wearing my waffle-soled snow boots which offer good traction, but they were no match for the sheet of oily ice. Only crampons might have saved me. I guess I’ll be adding Yak Traks to my Christmas list.

Notes From the Underground

Photo: Whitney and Taylor brave piped-in music and fake artifacts at the Buda Castle Labrynth.

After stocking up on Paul Mitchell products at a hair salon, we took the bus over to Buda to find the series of caves known as the Labyrinth. These caves were used as hiding places during many of Hungary’s wars. They were really handy as Hungary kept aligning with the ultimately losing side and was often pounded.

The Labyrinth turned out to be a contender for the Hokiest Thing We Did in Budapest. This place even gave the Operetta Boat a run for the money. We are talking a SERIOUS amount of lame.

With piped-in music, concrete floors and “fossils” of Coke bottles, I could only think, “Thank Heavens, Alec isn’t here.” Although it was severely hokey, Whitney entertained herself by checking the acoustics and Taylor entertained himself by trying to scare Whitney.

Afterwards, we went to the Buda Market so I could replace the coffee mugs that broke in my suitcase from the last trip. The great thing about handmade pottery is that no two pieces are alike. The problem with handmade pottery is that no two pieces are alike. I could not find anything like the cups that broke. I contented myself with buying a completely different set of smaller cups in various shades of blue. As I had conveniently brought my own bubblewrap and tape this trip, these cups made it back okay.

Our last night in Budapest, the teens voted for Indian food. There seemed to be a couple of choices. I vetoed taking our children to anyplace called “The Kama Sutra” so we ended up at “The Mahajara.”

We'd had a previous issue with sexually-suggestive restaurants on this trip. I had shocked Whitney and Taylor by telling them the Moroccan Restaurant I wanted to go to had a “tapas bar.” They both thought I said “topless bar.”

While I like to expose my children to new things while traveling, a topless bar is not the kind of exposure I'm talking about.

Shopping Pest

Monday

Photo: Whitney, Taylor, and Sue at Gebreau's Cafe taking a break from shopping.

Traveling with teenagers, Sue and I completely gave up on getting an early start. Today, we left the hotel about 10:30 to head to the shopping street in Pest.

Once there, Whitney and Taylor made a beeline to the music store while Sue and I headed to Marks and Spencer, the British department store. I liked their conservative styles, but their sweaters didn’t fit me--too boxy. I guess you had to be built like Margaret Thatcher.

I did find one item I've been needing, the rare half slip. It was residing, in various lengths, at the Marks and Spender lingerie annex. In fact, all the females in our group bought something there. This is pretty much standard as Marks and Spencer is known all over Europe for the quality of their underwear.

Whitney, who hates clothes shopping, was saddled with Taylor who adores it. To add insult to injury, when Taylor found something he liked for himself, he would make Whitney slip it on to see how it looked on someone else. In Zara, he found a couple of light pullover sweaters plus a heavy zip sweater lined with fleece.

The latter I agreed to buy in exchange for the surrender of his ratty cordurory jacket. This corduroy jacket was originally one of Alec’s Salvation Army purchases. It was none too new when Alec dragged it home a couple of years ago and has only gotten worse. For some reason, Taylor adores it and wears it all the time.

Whitney dragged Taylor into H & M for his expert opinion. What she didn’t realize was that while he had definite opinions on HIS clothes, he didn’t really care about hers. She did find a skirt and some sweaters she agreed to buy, which made her mother happy.

When Taylor and I spotted a cute coat for Whitney, Taylor tried it on in a larger size so she had a turn seeing how it looked on someone else much to the amusement of everyone else in the store.

Sue bought a pair of sparkly pink pointy toed pumps with a spiked silver heel. As Sue dresses about as flamboyantly as Barbara Bush, this was quite a departure for her. They were on sale for $26 and, hey, she’s on vacation. Paired with dull black evening pants, those shoes will look smashing at the Christmas cocktail party.

In an antique store off some side street, I spotted a five-inch tall samovar, the coffee urns used all over Russia. It may be a bit heavy for my Christmas tree but it was so detailed I couldn't resist it. It even had a stove pipe inside. The owner wanted $12 for it. I would have paid more than that, but on principle talked the guy down another couple of dollars before buying it.

I also bought a knee-length wool coat in dark plum which was a perfect fit. I figured finding it was my reward for donating my two old dress coats. Sue, whom I had no qualms about using as my personal color expert, pointed out the precise color scarf I needed to set it off. (Moss green, to match my eyes.) Taylor, meanwhile, was astounded at how much conversation my new coat generated among the two of us.

This was Tay’s first vacation in an otherwise exclusively female group and he was surprised by two things: how much attention we are always paying to security and how often we have to find a restroom.

For dinner, I made reservations at Café Kor, a charming, lively café with waiters in long aprons, tables crowded together, and a chalkboard full of nightly specials. For dessert, I splurged (calorically, anyway) on the delicous sour cherry pie with ice cream .

Photo: Whitney has Taylor try on women's coats with her.

Shake Down Cruise

Photo: Painting by Victor Vasarely, the father of Op-Art.

Sunday

Breakfast was included in our room rate at the hotel. It was the standard European hotel buffet fare of watery scrambled eggs, yogurt, and muslix. They also offered a selection of fresh breads that were a wonderful oasis in this sea of mediocrity.

Today was our appointed art museum day, and we started with Whitney and Taylor’s choice, a museum of Victor Vasarely, the father of Op-Art. It was located in the suburbs and we wandered around a bit before finding it. Whitney and Taylor followed behind Sue and me, singing and chattering together like little chicks behind the mama hens.Taylor was having so much fun, I’m considering RENTING Whitney for our next family vacation.

The museum was an interesting collection, especially when viewed with Sue, who has an extensive background in color. Tay seemed to enjoy it too, even buying some posters at the museum desk for his room.

From there, we traveled back to the city and back in time, to the fine art museum. They had a small, but very good collection of old European art. I had seen similar art last month at the wonderful Vienna art museum. There I had convinced Larry to rent headphones so I was able to really LEARN about what I was looking at. (I had previously always been outvoted by my children at art museums all over the world, whenever I suggested renting headphones.)

The Fine Arts Museum fronted Hero Square where huge crowds were gathered for the holiday.

That evening, we made the mistake of taking the Operetta Boat. We knew it would probably be hokey, but it had been highly recommended by a friend in Moscow who said it was a delightful evening of music. Yes, it was a delightful evening of music if you’re farmers from Canada, like the folks sitting next to us, and you think it’s appropriate to sing along anytime you recognize the songs and bang on the table the rest of the time.

Our little group seem to be the only stick-in-the-muds. The crowd loved the show, which featured operetta singers in prom dresses from the 1950s and three numbers by a belly dancer. They also threw in a Celtic dancer (pronounced Keltic) and a woman who sang “New York, New York” in a heavy Hungarian accent. They had a decent tenor, but when he sang, “Toredor” the audience joined in--uninvited. Of course, they didn’t know the words, they just sang, “Dum, dum, da, da, da…”

Sue turned to Whitney and Taylor and told them soberly, “This is what happens to talented people without college degrees. They work on the Operetta Boat.” Our one saving grace on this over-priced evening was that we hadn’t opted for the dinner. This turned out to be a horrid buffet, set up downstairs and you had to make at least two trips there and up again if you wanted dessert. As most of the guests seem to be at least in their 60s, that was a lot of stairs.

I didn’t know it, but there were even cheaper options. A shell-shocked couple from Nebraska appeared at our table 15 minutes into the show. Their ticket entitled them to a table, all alone outside on the deck in the cold and the dark with NO view of show. They had to buy an upgraded ticket to be allowed inside where it was warm and they could see.

Meanwhile, the boat was slowly cruising up and down the same half-mile stretch of the Danube, as if pilot was afraid he's get lost if he strayed too far.

The only other saving grace about the Operetta Boat were that Larry and Wayne were not with us; both of them would have jumped into the freezing Danube than endure this hokey extravaganda. Although the show was still going on, we escaped as soon as the boat docked.

We walked across the chain bridge and back with its lovely lighted views of both sides of the river. The teens were hungry so we stopped at McDonalds before heading for the metro, which was closed. From my recently-purchased map, I knew our hotel was only about a 30 to 45 minute walk. But I wasn’t familiar with the area we’d be traipsing through after midnight. Sue and I quickly agreed to catch a taxi at LeMeridian which got everyone back to the hotel safely for about $12.

Photo: Taylor contains his enthusiasm during the Operetta Boat Show.

Profile of a Metro Freeloader

Photo: Taylor and his buddy, Whitney, on the Budapest Metro.

For Taylor's winter break, I put together an inexpensive four day trip to Budapest. Larry was back in Prague on business. Like most 16 year old boys, Tay wasn't thrilled to be going on vacation alone with his mother.

I knew Sue didn't have winter break plans so I emailed her earlier this week about the great rates to Budapest to see if she and Whitney wanted to come. (Sue's husband couldn't get away either.) This turned out to be a bait and switch offer. I didn’t know that I had bought the LAST cheap ticket on our flights. Additionally, I subsequently decided to stay at a more expensive hotel. As Whitney was excited about getting out of town and hanging out with Taylor, Sue was committed anyway.

The four of us met at the airport. Despite the fact it was only a 2.5 hour flight, Tay instantly fell asleep on the plane, using Whitney’s lap as a pillow. The tour guide, Anna, met us at the gate and herded us and our luggage into a large Mercedes van. Budapest is two hours ahead of Moscow so it was too early to check into our hotel.

We went to Patriot’s Square, which was packed for the Hungarian Memorial Day-type holiday. This is the day Hungarians honor the people who died from unsuccessful uprisings against the communists. I wonder what these martyrs would have thought if they could have forseen that Russian would eventually just let the country go.

From there, we walked to the Transylvanian Castle replica. It was built about 100 years ago out of canvas and wood as a hodge podge of various Hungarian architecture styles for an exhibition. It was so popular, they decided to rebuild it in stone. The whole thing was for entertainment only—sort of the Disneyland of its time.

On the way, we happened into a large tent where they were setting up for a festival. A folk band was practicing. Anna, a folk dance enthusiast, taught Taylor and Whitney some steps. My pleasure in watching them was tempered only by the fact I'd left my camera in the van!

We ate a typical Hungarian lunch. Hungarian cooking uses peppers, onions, sour cream and plenty of paprika. Anna was shocked to hear that American paprika was bland. Sue and Whitney had goulash, which is, in fact, a soup. Tay and I had grilled chicken, another typical dish. Mine was stuffed with smoked cheese and served with french fries. I'm not sure how but french fries seem to be "local" food almost everywhere.

Fortified, we moved on to St. Stephen’s Cathedral where we saw St., Stephen's mummified hand. Next, we drove across the famous chain bridge separating Pest from Buda. The van dropped us on the back side of Fisherman’s Bastillion and we climbed to the top. Larry and I had beautiful scenic pictures from here, but today it was overcast. Anna walked us over to the castle which I hadn’t really noticed last time as I had been distracted by the huge wine festival.

At this point we were well into the fifth hour of four hour tour, so we headed back to the Mecure Metropol and checked in. We unpacked and rested before heading out to find (in this order) a cash machine, the Metro, and the Moroccan Restaurant where I’d eaten previously.

As soon as we entered the Metro, we were stopped by the Metro police, demanding to see our tickets. Budapest’s Metro, like Prague and Vienna, operates on the honor system. You can get on whenever you want, but if you are stopped, there are heavy fines if you aren’t carrying a validated ticket.

For some reason, I fit the perfect profile of a Metro freeloader and am ALWAYS stopped in any Eastern European metro I happen to enter. Because I know I am a target, I was prepared. We had bought Budapest Cards, properly validated, that entitled us to use public transportation for 72 hours. During the next three days, I had to show this card three times. Many people never get stopped.

I knew the restaurant was a five minute walk from the Oktogon Metro station, but I could not remember from which direction. It turned out to the fourth way we tried. (There's a reason I almost always carry a compass AND a map.) We were 45 minutes late for our 7:30 reservation, snagging the last available table.

Between the travel, walking and time difference, we were almost falling asleep at the table after dinner so we decided to call it a night.

Invasion of the Teenage Boys

Saturday night, our home was invaded by aliens--16 year old boys. They were spending the night after attending a barbeque at someone else's house.

When Larry and I made it home from our dinner party that evening, there were no sign of our houseguests. There was a call on the answering machine from Morris' dad who wanted to verify that his son was, in fact, sleeping over and that parents were in residence. Even though it was 11:15 p.m., it wasn't the kind of call that could wait until morning. I called the dad to reassure him.

"I don’t believe you’ve met Morris," said the dad. I bit my tongue to keep from admiting that I'd never even heard of Morris. Morris was not on the guest list. But knowing Taylor, I figured that list was fluid.

About 15 minutes later, the boys arrived. Although I’d met most of them previously, Taylor dutifully introduced me to Pavel, Alex, Chris, and ...Morris. (So I hadn't lied to Morris' dad, afterall.) They each politely shook my hand and chatted with me about the barbeque. While expat teens dress and think like teens everywhere, they have beautiful manners.

I wished them goodnight and invited them to partake of the light snacks I'd provided. As they'd come straight from a barbeque I didn't consider heavy food for them. This was a serious underestimation. They blew through my mini muffins and cookies and went to eat all the leftover beans and rice in the refrigerator. Taylor ended up fixing everyone bacon and eggs sometime in the middle of the night.

They'd drank both six packs of orange soda I'd bought for them. They drank them warm as I'd forgotten as we have only one small ice cube tray.

The next morning, I woke up at 8 and found three of the boys asleep in our small living room. Two of the guys were sleeping in a sitting postion on the sofa and one was face down on the Oriental carpet. The balshoi televisor was playing a "Shaun of the Dead" dvd, which had to have been put on in the precious two hours.

Larry and I snuck out for breakfast at Hard Rock and brought back Egg McMuffins and hash browns for the troops. (While McDonalds has been open for breakfast for a while in Moscow, they just recently started serving breakfast food.)

By 11 a.m., our guests had all been picked up by their respective drivers to go home where I feel responably sure they all went straight to bed. A successful sleepover is by definition when no one sleeps.

An Outwear Adventure

I spotted it in the racks at Chi-lin, a department store in Beijing where my friends and I would troll for great deals. It was a crimson-red car coat. Mostly made of cashmere, it was soft and very warm. I paid $30 for it, thinking, "This would be perfect to wear to OU football games."

Of course, the coat never got anywhere near a football game. I wore it handful of times in Beijing before the Siberian winds made heavy down coats a neccessity. Two years later, the coat moved home with me to Scottsdale where it spent five years in a plastic box in our bonus room.

Continuing its world tour, the coat went with me to Moscow where it got promoted to the front hall closet. I slipped it on last spring and slipped it right back off. Besides being outdated, it was now way too big. It had been a bit big for me in Beijing when I was ten pounds heavier and wearing it with thick wool sweaters. But Moscowvites keep all interior temperatures in the 80s, making anything beyond the lightest of sweaters impractical inside. The coat begged not to go back into a box under my bed, so I've arranged to send it home.

My cashmere coat is going back to Kashmir. But this does not mean it will be put out to pasture. A classmate of Taylor's is collecting warm clothing to send to Pakistan next week for the victims of the earthquake. I'm donating my coat. I'm hoping it will at last find a home where it can be fully appreciated.

Yes, We Have No Fruit Tartlets

Photo clockwise from top: orange touille, Monolith chocolate, madelline, chocolate covered strawberry, fruit tartlet and chocolate truffle.

Monday, after my Russian lesson, I went to the Monolith Club for my first French cooking lesson.

The Monolith is a private club for wealthy Russians. But it occurred to someone there that expats have money too. So once a month, they open their doors to IWC members with $30 each for a cooking lesson followed by a three-course French meal with wine.

While I was really hoping to learn something I could fix my family for dinner, their French chef demonstrated little treats to serve with coffee. Most of these required special equipment I don't own, such as the mold for Madelines, a french cookie. Madelines also required glucose, a glue-like substance the chef special-orders from France. I'm assuming this is a different glucose from that stocked by the expat medical clinics. His stuff was so thick, he had a hard time wrestling it into the bowl. And if the professional chef has a tough time with it, I can't imagine the mess I'd make. It's a subject that would have made a great "I Love Lucy" episode.

The chef then made orange touilles shaped by wrapping a warm cookie around a special one-inch cilanders. The only item I thought I could handle at home were his chocolate truffles.

His most impressive coffee treat was the fruit tartlet. First you make the dough. Then you chill the dough. Then you make and cook the filling. Then you chill the filling. Then you take the dough and press a little dough between two identical one-inch metalic molds, carefully trimming the excess. After baking, you remove the two molds, pipe in the filling and then top each with little pieces of fruit, artistically arranged. It probably takes five to ten minutes to make each bite-sized fuit tartlet and two seconds to eat.

Even if I had a slew of those tiny molds, which I don't, I couldn't think of any event where I'd be willing to make these tiny fruit things. They are so much work, who would?

The next day I went to a tea for ambassador's wives at the Irish Embassy. It sounds pretty glamorous but I was, in fact, there mostly to distribute IWC raffle tickets. The Embassy's mostly Phillapino wait staff was serving coffee and tea on silver trays along with a variety of finger sandwiches, Irish cheeses and... fruit tartlets!

I realized that practically every coffee I attend nowdays has fruit tartlets on the menu. Back in the U.S., people would just serve store-bought muffins or bagels at morning get-togethers. As there are no muffins or bagels here, I guess we have fruit tartlets.

It's a very weird world in which I live. I could not tell you the last time I saw a donut. But fruit tartlets are a weekly occurance. But just don't expect to get them at my house.

How About Them Apples?

My Rio Carbon bit the dust. (Probably a bit too much gym time for it. It was either that or it just didn't like having to play all those showtunes.) First, the volume adjustment wheel broke and now the whole thing refuses to work. I have not been impressed by its performance so I wanted to replace it with something else. Larry and I went back to Gorbushka where I bought an Apple Ipod mini. I picked out a green one because I couldn't resist having a "little green Apple."

I was not as successful scoring at the box office. We found the Operetta Theater and stood in line to buy tickets to an upcoming performance. I said, "Aida Vas Cree Sing Ya" (Aida, Sunday). The ticket seller had a lot of information to impart to me about this performance and spoke no English. There was a huge line behind me so I had to give up. Larry will have to have his office manager call on Monday to see what the issues are.

I was able to use my pantomime skills to communicate at the expat grocery. I did a very nice buzzing fly before bringing my arm flat down to kill the imaginary pest. The clerk got "fly swatter" right away, only they didn't have any. It's hard for me to believe, but even in this cold we are getting an occassional hearty fly through the window.

Our biggest find of the day was the sighting of the ellusive marshmallows. After previously bemoaning the lack of marshmallows in Moscow, I found them at the expat grocery store. They had three bags at $1 a bag. I've never seen marshmallows before in town and we may never see them again. We snagged a bag for Larry's mallowpie. Another Thanksgiving saved!

Orphans to the Circus

There's a scene in Guys and Dolls, when Nathan Detroit tells his girlfriend he can't do something because he "has to go to a prayer meeting." A statement that while hard to believe, was, in fact, true.

Yesterday, Taylor told me he would be home late because he is taking some orphans to the circus. This is another statement, which is hard to believe, but is never-the-less true. It's hard to believe because Taylor has never been big on volunteerism. When I suggested it a few summers ago, he asked, "Well, how much does being a volunteer pay?" I tried, in my best motherly fashion, to explain the intrinsic payoffs to serving your community but the appeal escaped him.

Now, however, Taylor must put in community service hours to graduate from high school. I think he decided taking orphans to the circus was a better alternative than volunteering with his mother at the International Women's Club (IWC) Bazaar.

Russian orphanages are grim places. Taylor will be getting an up-close look at children who, unlike he and his friends, do not get to vacation around the world. Except for an occassional trip to the circus via volunteers, these children don't go anywhere. These are essentially warehoused until at Taylor's age, 16, they are shoved into the world with no support or training to try to make it all alone.

The IWC Bazaar will raise a lot of money for projects in Moscow, and they contribute generously to orphanages. But I'm hoping Taylor's hands-on experience at the circus will provide a much bigger personal payoff.

No Marshmellows

It's starting to turn cold here. The leaves are dropping from trees and I have to grab a jacket to go outside. It won't be long until the government decides to turn on our heating. They control the utilities here. On the other hand, I have NO utility bills. The petty amounts for gas, telephone, water, and electric are picked up by our landlord.

This week I invited friends for Thanksgiving dinner. The timing may be early, but it's a comfort to know you have someplace to go (and someone to be with) for Thanksgiving.

Of course, this will not take place on Thanksgiving day. It isn't a holiday here. Larry has to work and Taylor has school. I've scheduled it for the Saturday after. Diane volunteered to bring the turkey. This is a big relief as my oven is so small, a turkey wouldn't fit. This is an especially generous offer as your basic Butterball Turkey here costs at least $50.

The rest of the dinner won't be too hard. There are yams, potatoes, and other vegetables. But there's no green bean casserole ingredients. No marshmellows for Larry's mallow pie. And no pecans, Karo syrup, or canned pumpkins for pies.

Still, being surrounded with Larry, Taylor, and good friends, I'll have a lot for which to be thankful.

Gym Dandy

Twice a week, I walk down to the SAS Radisson, where I have a gym membership. On the 15 minute walk, I like to listen to music on my Rio Carbon. I put on my headphones but I know that I will be forced to remove them at least once to respond to people who stop me to ask for directions.

Unlike some people in the U.S. (e.g., men) who would rather wander aimlessly for hours rather than ask someone, Russian usually stop about every 10 minutes to inquire about an address. I always give them an embarassed smile and say, "Ya Nee Paneemayo." This means, "I don't understand," and it is always graciously accepted. It's a phrase that works equally well for peddlers, panhandlers, and overly-friendly strangers.

I go through the revolving door at the hotel and walk down the long corrider filled with restaurants for those on expense accounts, jewely stores, crystal shops, and designer clothes boutiques. The hall is lined with two or three strategically-placed security guards. They are wearing suits and have headphones, like a CIA agent. Even though I make this same trek twice a week, I am always eyed suspiciously.

I do not, in fact, look like I belong here. The Radisson is full of European and Russian businessmen in expensive suits and pointy shoes. Neither do I look like the Russian shop girls who are inevitably 25 years younger than me and thin.

Having finally lost my 10 lbs. from last winter, I am thin by American standards. But these women are thin by Paris Hilton standards. You are aware of just how emaciated they are because they wear the tightest pants possible. Along with those pointy high-heeled shoes, it is a very uncomfortable look.

On the other hand, I am wearing workout clothes and no make-up. No Russian woman would EVER leave the house looking like this. Even housemaids, mine included, wear nice street clothes and change to their grubbies once they get to your house. They reapply their make-up, fix their hair, and change back when they finish work.

I walk through the doors of the gym where the unsmiling attendant hands me a locker key in exchange for my membership card. I stow my purse and zippered sweatshirt in the locker. They have a new sign saying they aren't responsible for anything stolen out of the lockers, so my purse contains only my house keys, my cash card and my passport (which I am legally required to have with me at all times).

The exercise room is never crowded. I do about 30 minutes on the bike. I prefer the stairmaster or treadmill but I am trying to minimize stress on my knees. I then do a few of the machines and finish with sit-ups on the exercise ball.

I stretch, drink a glass of water, and head back to the changing room. There's always somebody in there blow-drying her hair, usually in the nude. After working out, Russian women take a shower, style their hair, and then carefully apply make-up before leaving the gym. I just get my stuff out the locker and leave.

On the way back, I stop at the lobby of the Radisson and pick up the free English-language newspaper, The Moscow Times, to stuff in my near-empty purse. I also stop at the Citibank cash machine there and withdraw the ruble equivalent of hundreds of dollars which I'll use for any bills or purchases I must make this week.

I hit the streets, listening to my Rio Carbon again. Some of my music is a real disconnect from my surroundings, like Bizet's "Carmen." But some of it, like the gritty musical "Rent" seems like perfect background music. While stopped at a five-way intersection, the Blues Brother's rendition of "Rawhide" was playing. Instead of being surrounded by cattle, I had cars.

I am careful when crossing street here. I wait for a fresh "walk" light as they change instantly to "don't walk" and cars immediately try to run you over in the crosswalk. Young men don't wait. They'd rather take their chances dodging the traffic. Men in Russia have the lowest life expectancy of anywhere in Europe, including all of the former Soviet states. And even if they survive the crosswalk, they have massive health problems caused by smoking, drinking and not exercising.

But I, now smug at having dragged myself to the gym yet again, I feel good.

Metro to the Twilight Zone

The metro platform was packed. Larry and I were making a "Gorbushka" run. Armed with our list of needed electronic supplies, we boarded the usual train and were suprised that it was only about a third full.

The doors shut and the train took off. We've made this trip at least a dozen a times, but the tunnel looked different. As an expat, you often get by on pluck and intuition and my "Spidey" senses were tingling. Something wasn't right.

After what felt like too long, the train pulled into a gleaming stainless-steel station. Only Moscow doesn't have gleaming stainless steel stations. It was as if Larry and I had boarded the metro to the Twilight Zone. We disembarked with the rest of the passengers. Larry pulled up a metro map on his IPAQ and this station wasn't on it.

We realized that instead of going to Gorbushka, this train had taken us off on a new spurt to the brand new station under Moscow City. Moscow City is a much-touted huge new development of residential and commerical buildings.

I'd never waited even five minutes for a metro train here, but it was a good 10 minutes before we were able to board a train back to our home metro, Kievskaya. Here, we walked across the platflorm and boarded the train. This time, it was packed and it took us where we wanted to go. (How did those people know not to get on the train to Moscow City? The trains, leaving from the same spot, looked completely identical to me.)

From the Metro, it's about a half a block to Gorbushka. In the Soviet days Gorbushka was the site of military factories. After they filled their extrememly large quota of military stuff, they could turn out the occassional washing machine for consumers. Over the years, the factories closed and Gorbushka morphed into a huge electronics market. It has three floors, crowded with 10' x 12' stores. Most, if not all, of their products are stacked in the windows up to the ceiling. The salespeople often hang around outside the store because that's often where you do your shopping.

Most of one floor is devoted to pirated games, DVDs, and CDs. There are probably at least 100 open stalls of them. We prefer the Izamallava Market, where the prices and quality are better. The one drawback is the DVDs at Izamallava do not come in cases. So first we bought 50 jewel cases at 20 cents each.

We did very well against our list of things to buy; also getting a lighted makeup mirror, a pair of earphones, screen protectors for an Ipaq, and refill cartridges for a Braun razor. During our first trips to Gorbushka, we were lucky if we filled even half our list. But back then, our list included items that weren't even SOLD in Russia, like crockpots and George Foreman grills.

The only thing we couldn't find today was my sun lamp to combat Seasonal Affect Disorder (SAD). Despite the lack of sunlight in the winter here, I have been unable to find sun lamps anywhere. Apparently, people in Russia are SUPPOSE to be depressed all winter. You can also combat SAD by taking one hour walks during the day. But if my choice is to walk around in a freezing blizzard for an hour every day or being depressed, I may just have to go with depressed!