Home Wreckers--Part Three

With our brand new hole in the wall all set, the building’s three workers showed up this morning to fix the leak. Of course, the landlord doesn’t trust them not to screw up his apartment, so he sent his three workers back today to keep an eye on them. That's six guys hanging around the 1' x 5' hole in my small kitchen. Supervising all this sweaty Russian manhood on my behalf was my maid, who works today. That left me free to take off for the gym! I hung around long enough for the building guys to ask me if I had a heavy-duty extension cord for their welding equipment. (Uh, no.)

I bundled up and left for Embassy Land. I've been reading, "Reading Lolita in Tehran," a book Alec gave me for Christmas. As I walked, I contemplated how strange it must be to live in a society where women must have their faces and heads covered in public. It suddenly occurred to me that I was wearing a hat which completely covered my head and a scarf that wrapped around my face, over my nose. In fact, I hadn't gone outside in Moscow without covering my head and face in months!

At the Embassy, I hit the lending library, ATM, video store and the gym. When I returned home hours later, the workers were gone and the hole was boarded up. But I won’t be lonely. The landlord’s men are coming back Thursday to fix the wall, reconnect my oven and put the kitchen cabinet back in place.

I live in a Stalin building. This means it was built during Uncle Joe’s time and has high ceilings--and concrete walls. I wonder if this means they’ll be pouring concrete in my kitchen. I am learning to go with the flow. But they better bring their own mixing bowls.

Home Wreckers--Part Two

The landlords’ three men arrived promptly at 9 this morning. They started by asking ME (in Russian) what they were suppose to do. (At least this time they didn’t try and borrow my tools). I showed them where the leak was reputed to be: in the wall next to the window. They emptied the kitchen cabinet beside it, covering both my kitchen and dining room tables. They then disconnected my oven, unattached the cabinetry, and moved the unit and oven away from the wall. That took about an hour. So far, so good.

Then it took them an additional five and a half hours to make a 1’ x 5’ hole in the wall, uncovered the leak. That’s almost 20 man hours to look at the wall, start making a hole, have one guy leave to get other tools, go to lunch, and finish making the hole. Obviously, these guys aren’t being paid by the job!

Tomorrow, the building guys will come and repair the leaky joint in my wall. Then the landlords’ guys need another day to come back and patch the hole. At their rate, that’s probably a good 20 hour job too.

I would be shocked if I hadn’t lived in China where the pace of workmen is very similar. Tells you a lot about the communist work ethic, huh?

I don’t mind losing the use of my tables and oven for awhile (I still have the stove and microwave and we can eat in front of the TV), but being unable to leave the apartment for three straight days will drive me crazy.

Home Wreckers

Photo: My kitchen, pre-wreck.

My kitchen is slate to be "wrecked" Monday. At least, that's the word from my realtor, who I have pressed into service as the liaison to the Russian who owns my apartment.

The kitchen-wrecking saga started Thursday when I heard loud pounding on my door. When we first moved to Moscow, I use to be terrified when an unknown party was at the door. But after 18 months, I know the scariest person likely to turn up on my doorstep is my landlord’s elderly mother.

Never-the-less, Taylor jumped up to stand behind me as I opened the door. There were three men, a boss and his two henchmen, pointing toward my oven in the kitchen and saying something about water in Russian. We couldn’t decipher what they wanted but they were so riled up, we knew they weren’t just thirsty.

After determining we were clueless foreigners, they threw up their hands and left. About an hour later, I got an irate call in Russian from a woman. In response to my statement that I didn’t understand and I didn’t speak Russian, she would say the same thing again--only louder. The one word I could make out was the word for the Russian language. I think she was demanding I put someone on the phone who spoke it or that I instantly learn it.

It didn’t take long before she was practically screaming before she hung up in frustration. The sad thing is, I STILL don’t know if her call had any relation to the strangers at the door. Living overseas is very good at teaching you not to worry about things outside your control.

The next day, the three guys returned, determined to get their message through to me. With gestures, they invited me lock my apartment and follow them. So I slipped on my sheepskin boots, locked up, and tromped down the stairs after them. They led me to the boss’ apartment which was directly below mine. Inside, I could see they had a leak in their ceiling in the kitchen next to the window. Ah, water!

I told them in Russian that I would call someone. (I don’t know the word for landlord or real estate agent in Russia.) I asked for their phone number, which they wrote down before escorting back upstairs to my apartment.

I telephoned Natalia who called my landlord. He immediately dispatched a friend who was fluent in English to see if I needed any help “moving furniture.” Of course, his real motive was to determine if there was any damage to their precious apartment and to see what was going on downstairs. After finding that things in my apartment looked okay, the owner decided the leak was someone else’s problem and I was told not to let the guys from downstairs back in.

I didn’t think this would be the end of the story and I was right. A few hours later, probably after many vicious phone calls to which I wasn’t a party, Natalia called back to tell me to expect the kitchen wreckers Monday morning.

“And this it okay with the owner?” I asked.

“Of course,” she said. “The owner’s men will wreck the kitchen. Then the building men will try to find and fix the leak.”

“And how long will my kitchen…” (I was going to say, be out of commission, but simplified it) “…be wrecked?”

“We’re hoping one day.” Yeah, right. Until further notice, I could now look forward to being cooped up with hordes of smelly workmen and no oven, stove, dishwasher, refrigerator, or washing machine. Even the internet won’t work.

So I am donning on my Scarlett O’Hara persona. I’ll just think about that tomorrow, because after all, tomorrow is another day. Especially in Moscow.

So Ya Wanna Move to Moscow?

Here’s some things to consider in moving to Moscow:

1. Things here are MUCH more complicated than they need to be.

Routine chores like paying bills, grocery shopping, and doing laundry take four to ten times longer than in the U.S. For example, at the warehouse store yesterday, it took me 40 minutes just to check out. (This doesn’t count the two hours in roundtrip transport time and the 60 minutes I spent shopping, maneuvering my cart in and out of the packing crates that were in every aisle.)

To pay my internet bill, I have to walk down to a kiosk, buy five of the appropriate cards with cash, and bring them home. Then I have to go to my Internet provider’s website, which is completely in Russian, scratch off each of the cards and enter each card’s information in the appropriate places. Conversely, I could download the proper payment forms from the website, fill them out in Russian, and take them and the cash down to a local bank to pay, provided I can figure out which is the correct line there.

2. Moscow is very expensive.

Some very nice beef filet at the expat grocery store, Stockmans, is U.S. $80/kilo. A small plastic container of strawberries was $20. (This is why I bother with the warehouse store!)

3. Housing costs are outrageous.

The last time I checked, a one bedroom 50 sq. meter, Western-standard apartment in the city started at U.S. $1,200 month plus tax. The nice 180 sq. meter apartments in which my friends’ live cost from U.S. $8,000 to $12,000 monthly. Unless you are independently wealthy or are receiving heavy subsidies from your company (like most Americans here), you will suffer a substantial decrease in your standard of living. Frankly, unless you are just starting out, it’s not fun to be poor and live in hovel. Don’t do it.

4. Transportation is a huge issue.

I don’t know any expat women who drive here. A few of the braver ones have tried it and then give it up after being continually harassed by the police. (Foreigners have special plates which help them target you.)

Official taxis are expensive and sometimes hard to get. There are lots of gypsy cabs. This is anybody with a car who feels like making some extra money by picking up people signaling from the street. Chances are good that you’ll arrive safely, but it’s not a chance I’m willing to take. I love the metro which is cheap, fast and takes you a lot of places. But it can be unbelievably hot and crowded and you have to get use to pushing and shoving at times. Most of my friends (but not me) have a driver provided by their employer.

5. Although this is changing, the service mentality is lacking here.

People won’t speak English. They won’t try to understand your Russian. And they, frankly, would just prefer for you to go away and stop bothering them.

6. Stuff doesn’t always work.

Like the phone lines and the elevators to my tenth floor apartment. In the summer, they turn off all the hot water for two weeks. Unless you enjoy cold showers, you’ll need your own boiler.

7. Moscow winters are cold. Way cold.

(See my blogs from last week.)

But it’s best to see for yourself. You don’t even have to leave the airport. One trip into and out of SVO (preferably on Aeroflot) will show you many of the obstacles you’ll face daily.

I’ve omitted all the positive aspect of living in Moscow (and these are considerable) because they are much more fun to discover on your own.

I would advise you to make your own list of all the pros and cons of moving to Moscow. Of course, the cons will probably vastly outnumber the pros. Then, if in your heart-of-hearts, you really want to come anyway and can afford to live here, tear the list up and buy a one-way ticket. You won’t regret it. This is actually the same method I used in deciding to have kids!

Would I move here again, knowing everything I now know? Da! Da! Da!

Courtship

After 20 plus years, I am playing racquetball again. Last week, Larry ran me around the court so much I had to stop and sit down for fear of fainting. I would have chalked this up to old age, but the first time I played with Larry, on our second date in 1979, he did the same thing!

At first, I was reluctant to “screw up my tennis game” by getting back into racquetball. Then I realized that between my shoulder surgery (for a tennis injury) two years ago and our move to Moscow where indoor tennis courts cost $50 an hour, there was no tennis game left to ruin!

Plus I could play racquetball for $2 at the American Embassy Family Club, where we’re members. As racquetball is a typically American sport, it is probably the only facility in town. They don’t sell racquetball equipment in Russia, so we bought new racquets in the U.S. over Christmas. Larry and I started playing this month.

With two sessions with Larry under my belt, I joined the club’s racquetball ladder. My first game was with a woman, probably 15 years my junior. She had a great kill shot. What she didn’t have was a husband who taught her the importance of court position. While Larry majored in chemical engineering in college, he pretty much minored in racquetball.

Last week, Larry worked with me on perfecting lob shots that kept my opponent on the defensive. She was out of position with few opportunities to use her lovely kill shot. I beat her all three games. As my goal had been not to faint on the court, I was very elated. I was playing, “We are the Champions” by Queen in my head when I asked her about my next opponent.

It turns out the next person up the ladder is 20 years old. Twenty years old? I have shoes older than that. And if that isn’t bad enough, she’s a U.S. Embassy Marine! Along with being proficient in weapons, it’s her JOB to be in tip top condition. “We are the Champions” abruptly stopped playing in my head, only to be replaced by Robert Preston singing, “Trouble in River City.”

Balmy

The temperature is Moscow has risen to 1 F. I'm not breaking out my sandals, but at least today I can, with serious cold weather gear, walk outside for ten minutes without risking frost bite.

This was not the case last week in Moscow when it was dangerously cold to be outside. Any time I wanted to leave the apartment for any amount of time, I had to order a car through Larry’s office. As this requires coordination with three people besides me (Larry, his office manager and a driver), it is best handled in writing with at least 24 hour notice. In other words, I better not run out of milk.

But today, practically giddy with freedom, I was able to walk the 10 minutes to the metro station. Once there, I quickly warmed up again. Regardless of the weather outside, metro stations and trains are uniformly kept at banya-like temperatures. While I am trying to open my coat and shed my gloves on the long escalator ride down into the bowels of Moscow where the trains run, everyone else stays tightly bundled up. Once I arrive at my station, I am good to go for another 10 minutes of walking outside. That takes me a lot of places.

Today I went to the embassy and worked out. At the video store there, I also rented the first disk of Desperate Housewives, Season One. Other than my sister, Brenda, I am probably the only American woman I know who hasn’t ever watched it.

Larry, whose taste in trash viewing tends to run more toward things being blown up, is currently in Paris. He is staying at the Newport Bay Hotel at Disneyland Paris. Don’t we ALL dream of going to Paris for its fake New England décor? He reported that his room features a double bed and two bunk beds. He is there on business. So if the Honeywell guys want to have a sleepover, Larry can host!

Let There Be Light

A doctor from the SOS Clinic was the guest speaker at our last American Women’s Organization meeting. To my surprise, her topic was Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD).

My regular readers, who have suffered through my melancholy winter blogs, understand that SAD is something I experience. I even read a book on the Winter Blues, which, of course, now makes me an expert.

So I was shocked when the doctor talked extensively about anti-depressant treatment and did not mention exercise. While she heartily recommended SAD lights, she had been given bad information about the possibility of purchasing them in Moscow. (Having been on a personal crusade to find a SAD light, I knew for a fact the two places she “had heard” might have lights available didn’t.) To send anyone on a wild goose chase in Moscow is heartless, so I raised my hand to tell the group my futile experience in trying to buy or even order a lamp here. I told them I'd ordered a dual voltage model from Canada, had it shipped to the U.S. and brought it back in my suitcase over Christmas.

“You have SAD? You use a lamp?” asked someone. Another person added, “Tell us about this.” Still another voice chimed in, “Stand up and talk to us.”

Having been called upon to give my testimony to the group, I arose and said, “Hello, I’m Nancy and I have SAD… I didn’t really notice having SAD right away. But beginning in November, I just seemed to get more and more lethargic. By mid December, it was a real struggle just to get off the sofa. Even easy tasks just seem overwhelming. This would continue until late March.

“But, sisters, I am here to testify to the power of the SAD lamp! I had to devote half a suitcase to dragging it over from the U.S. but it’s been worth it. I sit in front of it about 30 minutes a day and I am my old self again. Hallelujah!”

Even with no sunlights and windchill temperatures of -40 F., there's no reason to be SAD.

Pirates of the Caribbean

My friend Sue mentioned one of her old friends invited her to visit. Her friend is currently living and working in the Caribbean. She is working on the filming of the sequel to Pirates of the Caribbean movie, where they are all having lots of fun. But Sue wasn’t sure if she should go.

“Let me get this straight,” I said to her. “You have the opportunity to leave the record-breaking cold of Moscow to go frolic in an island paradise where you can stay for free and watch Johnny Depp, Orlando Bloom and Jeffrey Rush working on a mega-hit, and you’re not sure if you should go?”

Maybe it’s just me, but that sounded like a lot more fun than spending the day on things like trying to figure out how to get your lettuce home before it freezes.

How Cold Is It?

So cold that the air is full of ice cystals, not snow.

So cold that when Larry opened the window, condensation poors in as if opening the door of a very cold walk-in freezer.

So cold that you can get frostbite with as little as 10 minutes of outside exposure.

So cold that when I breath, my lungs immediate reject the cold air and I start coughing.

So cold that your eyes water because the fluid in your eyes tries to ice.

Factoring windchill, it's getting down to -41 F.

So rather than venturing out today, I wisely stayed tucked inside my apartment overlooking the frozen MoscowRiver.

Bearing the Cold

It's -32 C (-26 F) outside this morning!

Larry leaves in two days for a trip to Paris, followed by a trip to Dubai. I am stuck here in the frozen wasteland with Taylor. What's wrong with this picture?

I went to my gourmet potluck lunch group and the theme was "comfort foods." There were some wonderful items: lemon chicken soup, zuccini cream soup, carrot and leak salad, Indian vegetable fritters, toffee sticky pudding, hazelnut torte. None-the-less, it was my Marie-Calendar knock-off cornbread that seemed to gather the most compliments. A dessert which masscarades as a bread, this cornbread probably had more sugar per serving than the torte. And if it weren't sugary enough, I serve it with honey butter.

Like bears preparing to hibernate in the cold of winter, maybe we are all just craving high carb foods.

Brrrr!

CNN's 5 DAY FORECAST FOR MOSCOW

Tuesday 28°F (-2°C) -6°F (-21°C)
Wednesday -1°F (-18°C) -17°F (-27°C)
Thursday -4°F (-20°C) -18°F (-28°C)
Friday -4°F (-20°C) -18°F (-28°C)
Saturday -4°F (-20°C) -20°F (-29°C)

There comes a time in Moscow when all my sheepskin-lined boots, sock liners, long underwear, Nanuck of the North hats, and chunky furs are defenseless against the forces of nature. Unfortunately, that day starts today. It's currently -3 F outside.

As walking is my main mode of transportation, this does present some problems. Even a short 15 minute walk, not getting lost (see the following blog entry), is too far for me in this kind of weather.

It started turning cold yesterday. Larry told me his office window started rapidly frosting over like a scene from that weather disaster film, The Day After Tomorrow.

So Alec, I think it's best if you just keep the weather report in sunny Phoenix to yourself for awhile.

Cosmonaut Rescue

I'm not sure what the statute of limitations is for jet lag, but clearly I haven't reached it yet. This may be why I found myself lost in the middle of Moscow without a map, a compass or a cellphone.

I was trying to find a friend's apartment for book club. I had gotten off at the right metro stop but having no idea which way was north, I just followed the crowd. Generally, crowds dispersing from the metro head to major streets. It was my bad luck that in this instance, they jigged and jagged, on their way to the DIFFERENT major street.

In true Moscow native style, I stopped and asked directions to the major street I needed, Leninsky Prospect. One of them told me to turn around and head back. Her companion looked at the direction-giver as if she were completely daft and I'd hit St. Petersburg before ever reaching Leninsky Prospect.

I didn’t have a lot of confidence in her answers but lacked any other plans, so I turned around and started trudging back thorugh the snow. After another 20 minutes of walking, I seemed no closer to Leninsky Prospect. I stopped to considering my dwindling options when: Look. Up in the sky. It’s a bird. It’s a plane. No, it’s Yuri Gagarin!

In the distance, I could see the monolithic stainless steel statue of Russia’s most famous cosmonaut. A statue, I knew, which fronted the east side of Leninsky Prospect. Yuri had shown me the way.

Photo left: Look, up in the sky! It's Yuri Gagarin.

Seagulls and Mothers

Taylor went to the theater last night with his friends. They saw “The Seagull” by Anton Chekhov--performed in Russian. This is not exactly typical entertainment for your average teenagers.

Taylor is studying the play in school. He has been assigned a scene of it to do in class and was interested to see how the professional actor chose to play the part. While Tay did not consider having to sit through the three hour production a treat, I’m jealous of his educational opportunities. One of the play's themes is the relationship between a mother and son.

So maybe next time, I’ll ask to join in. This I’m sure will be met with the typical apalled reaction of your average teenager at the thought of having his mother tag along.

The Wheels Fall Off

Our travel day started at 4 a.m. Alec dropped us and our 11 bags at the airport. I hailed a skycab to take everything inside as there’s no curb check-in for international travelers.

We had packed our bags carefully based on weight as well as volume. We had one extra suitcase and four overweight bags which I knew would earn us an overage charge of $175. To my surprise, they let us slide as we are Delta frequent flyers.

As frequent flyers, we were also eligible for a free upgrade to first class on the 3.5 hour flight from Phoenix to Atlanta. But we’d used up our share of the good karma travel with the luggage. Instead, we each got stuck in middle seats in coach.

After landing, we grabbed some lunch in an airport food court. We had two more hours to kill and could have spent some time browsing in the duty free shops. Unfortunately, even our carry-ons were maxed. Taylor was carrying both his jackets as there was no room to pack them.

So we made our way to the Delta lounge, a hangout we liked because it offered comfy chairs and plenty of electric sockets so we could recharge our laptops, PSP, Ipods, cellphones, etc.

An hour before takeoff, we reloaded all our electronic toys and boarded the flight to Moscow. We got our usual assigned seats, three together in the middle of the plane. Larry and Taylor each claim an aisle seat and I had the one between them. (I may have the smallest bladder but they have the longest legs.)

A mere 10 plus hours later, we landed in snowy Moscow. Larry led us to the shortest line at passport control, which turned out to be the slowest. Larry has an unerring knack for picking the absolute strictest passport control beaurocrats. It didn’t really matter as we still had to wait to be reunited with our luggage. Everything arrived except the wheels on our largest rollerbag, which were MIA. We lugged our bags onto three luggage carts and wheeled them past customs into the terminal.

One of the company drivers met us. He wedged us and all our stuff into his station wagon. But we also had an unwanted guest. Mr. Jet Lag had decided to follow us home and stay awhile.

Coffee Talk

While I have no problems buying a cup of tea or coffee in Spanish, Russian, or even Mandarin Chinese, I am NOT fluent in Starbucks. I actually live in one of the few major cities in the world Starbucks hasn’t penetrated.

Deciding to take part in the coffee globalization, I went out for cappacino at the Scottsdale Starbucks. I was not a part of this culture. First of all, I was dressed all wrong. I was wearing jeans and a cordurory jacket while everyone there was wearing yoga attire. Are overpriced coffee drinks part of yoga now?

Undeterred, I got into the rapidly-moving line and soon it was my turn.

Starbucks: What can I get you?

Nancy: Two large cappacunios.

Starbucks: You mean venti?

Nancy: Do I? I want large.

Starbucks: Two venti caps.

Nancy: And I’d like them made with Half and Half.

Starbucks: That’s two brave venti cappacinos.

I didn’t know why Starbucks wanted me to learn a whole new language to order coffee. But leotard-clad people come in and order stuff like an iced, tall, double, no-whip, dulce latte. Even a simple cup of coffee is turned into a grande drip.

The next day, I came back.

Starbucks: What can I get you?

Nancy (proudly): Two venti brava cappacinos.

Starbucks: You mean breve cappacinos?

You know, if I have to order coffee in a foreign culture, I think I’d rather do it, in one of the many sidewalk cafes in Vienna. Not only is the coffee unbelievably fabulous, but it’s also easier to order than Starbucks.