Desert Rose

Photo: Abu Dhabi.

Once upon a time there was this little Arabian country. They supported themselves by growing dates and fishing. Then their good buddies, the British, discovered oil on some of their land. The little Arabian country had struck it rich. Sort of like Jed Clampet in the Beverly Hillbillies. And in the early 1960s, they started exporting the oil and like the Clampets, the money started rolling in big time. But instead of hightailing it to the good life in California, the rulers of the little Arabian country built their people roads and hospitals and schools.

But these rulers were not only generous, they were also smart. While it was nice to be rich,of course, they knew that all their oil wasn’t going to last forever. They needed something else on which to build their economy. They looked around at their sparsely populated desert with assorted fishing huts and somehow came up with the idea of building a huge luxury tourist industry. So instead of moving to Beverly Hills like the Clampetts, they built one at home.

They built five star resort hotels where you never open a door for yourself, ultra-modern malls that sold everything under the sun at great prices, and interesting restaurants with the best cuisines from around the world. And these were all generously staffed with congenial English-speaking servers (mostly imported from places like the Phillipines) who made it their mission to serve you. They created a gleaming, gracious, luxurious world that brought people back again and again.

Starting with nothing 40 years ago, the City of Dubai alone now attracts 1.5 times more tourist than ALL of Egypt. (And keep in mind that Egypt offers the pyramids, the Cairo Museum and the fabulous diving off the Red Sea coast.)

Like a desert flower, the UAE seems to have bloomed overnight. But like the desert flower, this is what you see on the surface. Because we will live here, we’ll get to delve into the depths to the very different world that’s beneath. And that is what makes it interesting. Ya'll stay tuned now, ya hear?

Springtime for Moscow

I went shopping with three American women today. Our common thread was that we all knew Ann. And Ann knew the shop where the woman who sold the hand-painted Russian pottery had her table. It was located next to the meat counters and down from the package goods. I didn’t buy anything. All that Russian pottery just looked too Russian. (Imagine that.)

Afterwards we went to lunch. We chose the neighborhood restaurant largely because they had a menu in English. Actually, they had a total of two menus in English, so the four of us had to share.

Other than the fact that they didn’t have sushi, which seems to be offered everywhere in Moscow, it was a pretty typical selection for a Russian restaurant. About five pages were devoted to alcohol and the last page covered cigarettes. Beyond that, they had a fairly extensive selection of foods including hot appetizers, cold appetizers, soups, vegetarian dishes, meat dishes, chicken dishes, and desserts. There were several “salads” offered although only a couple of them contained any kind of lettuce.

In Soviet days, restaurants also had extensive menus, only they never actually had much food on hand. You went in, perused the menu for grins, and they pretty much brought you whatever the kitchen had.

Today, I ordered my standard cream of mushroom soup, followed by some grilled vegetables. I washed it down with a glass of red wine. I had ordered the Chilean wine but the stuff I was served had obviously spent more time in Moldavia than the New World.

I noticed one of my friends carefully picking the peppers out of her salad. I said, “I bet you don’t eat grapefruit or Brussels sprouts either.” She didn’t and I explained the concept of Supertasters (See my previous blog.)

I took the Metro home. While great mounds of snow are still piled up everywhere, the ice on the sidewalks has gone. This means I can now look up ever so often. But I can't take my eyes off the sidewalk too long or I'm likely to fall in a hole. For the first time since November, I don't have to wear long underwear, fur coats and sheepskin boots. While I'm not leaving home without my gloves and a coat, it's definitely getting warmer. For Moscow, that means spring is in the air.

Picky, Picky

(Photo by Betty Case): Ms. Picky is ready for her next meal.

I have always been a picky eater. It's not like I didn't want to be accommodating around the table, but stuff like grapefruit, brussel sprouts, pickles and olives just tasted bad. And it still does.

As a child, my family made fun of me for wanting my strawberry shortcake sans strawberries and for Just Saying No to a piece of the traditional Fourth of July watermellon. As a bride, my new husband was so appalled at my long list of food dislikes he posted a list of them on the refrigerator in an effort to embarass me. It didn't help.

This week on the BBC, I discovered why. I am a supertaster. I have alot of cilia on my tongue so I am very sensitive to bitter tastes that don't bother most of the population. That also explains why I want lots of cream in my coffee and sour cream on my asparagus. I seldom drink beer and no dry red wine unless you're serving something to eat.

The BBC reported that picky eaters are not made, they're born that way. It's a genetic predisposition I obviously inherited from my father whose list of preferred vegetables did not extend beyond iceberg lettuce, greenbeans, peas, and corn.

Luckily, supertasters can acclimate themselves to eating foods they initially heartily disliked. Today, I don't have to embarass myself by just poking at the food at a dinner party, although I will still eat around the raisins if I think I can get away with it. I can even choke down onions, strawberries, and tomatoes if I have to. But I'd rather not.

A lot of young children start out as supertasters, which is why it is so hard for them to eat their vegetables. Most of us grow out of it, however. Fifty percent of the adult population are regular tasters and 25 percent are non-tasters who prefer sugar in everything. This finally solves the mystery for me of why people choose to eat at cafeterias. It truly doesn't taste bad to them. On the other hand, taste is so important to me that cuisine is a critical part of my experiences, whether I'm on a cruise ship or a exploring a post-Soviet country.

Only 25 percent of the population are supertasters. While we tend to be thinner, we also have higher cancer rates (probably because we won't touch those prunes or those dark green veggies with a 10-foot pole). We really should be eating our fruits and vegetables like good little boys and girls but YUCK!

Chefs and gourmet cooks tend to be supertasters. Supertasters are also more often found among women and among Asians. But like eye color, it's a genetic crapshoot. And genetically, lots of things just taste terrible to me.

So if I pass on your lovely pineapple torte, don't take it personally. I'll just blame it on my Atkins Diet and keep my snobby physiological excuses to myself.

In the Throat of It

I'm home today dousing myself with hot tea and lots of rest. I have a sore throat.

Back in the U.S., a sore throat is a minor inconvenience, something I'd pop a cough drop for before continuing my day as planned. But in Moscow, I've learned that sore throats can quickly escalate. Your resistance is low and suddenly you have a terrible sinus infection, bronchitis or pnemonia.

When you become that sick, there's no riding it out at home. It's much harder to shake things here. So I'd have to trek over to the expat medical clinic which is a 10 minute walk to the metro, then a 20 minute metro ride (including a line change) and then a 25 minute walk. Actually, I'd probably risk taking a gypsy cab where you hitch a ride with a complete stranger, rather than do the 65 minute jaunts through the snow to the clinic with the flu or something.

At the modern clinic, I will be able to see an English-speaking doctor who for about US$80 will exam me and write me up at least three prescriptions to cure whatever ails me. I can fill the prescriptions at their onsite pharamacy with imported medication. It will cost a lot more than my local "apteka" but I will be assured that I get what I pay for. There are some issues about the quality of some drugs sold in Russia.

If that escalates and I get seriously ill, I will have to be airlifted to Helsinki, Finland. So rather than risk of any that, me and my sore throat are taking the day off.

Detroit Comes to Moscow

Photo: Taylor (center) in Guys and Dolls.

Alec and I made it back to Moscow the day before the opening night of Taylor's play. The Anglo-American school doing performing Guys and Dolls and Taylor starred as Nathan Detroit, the comic male lead.

Taylor is amazing on stage. He completely transforms himself into the character. Regardless of what else is happening, his stage presence is so strong, you can’t take your eyes off him! And that's not just coming from his slightly prejudiced mother. His theater teacher told me Taylor should major in musical theater in college and suggested the University of Arizona. I think he’s thinking about that.

The leads in the play were surprisingly strong for such a small school. (There are only about 250 kids in the high school.) I knew Taylor’s friend, Whitney, could sing, but who knew she had such a comic flare? She was very funny as Sister Sarah.

And her best friend, Rikka, was also an amazing Miss Adelie. You wouldn’t have guessed it from her Brooklyn accent in the show, but she’s actually Finnish. Actually all the leads in the show seemed to be cast from Whitney’s personal phone book. Her Australian boyfriend, Dave, played Sky Masterson. But with his accent, instead of Marlon Brandon, think Mel Gibson.

For a musical set in New York, it was quite the international cast. Oleg, who is fluent in at least four languages, affected a credible Irish accent and an incredible fake tummy to play Branigan.

After the show, the rest of the family served as Taylor’s entourage, trailing in his wake as he genially greeted his admirers on the walk through the school to the car. We basked in his reflected glory. It’s cool to hang out with the star.

Photo: Officer Oleg, Rikka, Taylor, Dave and Whitney.

Creeped Out in Kyiv

Photo: Alec tries out my red fox hat in the hotel room.

Our $200 hotel room included the “best buffet breakfast in Kyiv.” There were the usual runny scrambled eggs, so I selected a boiled one. Unfortunately, when I got it back to my table and cracked it, I found it was not hard boiled. It was not even soft boiled. They had parboiled this egg which was so runny I didn’t want to take the shell off for fear it would run all over the tablecloth.

They also offered bacon that had only a glimpse of a frying pan. I contented myself with coffee, a banana and the usual international buffet pastries. If this is the best breakfast buffet in town, I wouldn't want to see number two.

Afterwards, Alec and I set off to explore the area around the hotel. We were about a block from Independence Square, which starred in the Orange Revolution of last year. Interestingly, there was a modern mall underneath it. Kyiv was full of activists with flags and tents and banners, in their various party colors, mostly blue or orange. There is an election later this month and street campaigning was in full swing.

From the square we walked up an icy side street to St. Sophia Cathedral. Having neither a map nor a compass, I was a bit concerned about getting back to the hotel, but Alec assured me he could handle it (and did).

We met the guide in the lobby, and drove back to St. Sophia for an extended tour. But it was interesting to have approached it from a distance on foot earlier. St. Sophia is an 11th Century Church built in a Byzantine Style. They redid the exterior a couple of hundred years ago, “modernizing” it in a Baroque style. But the inside was the same original Byzantine architecture with lovely mosaics that have survived the centuries.

Our next stop was the Cave Monastery. The early Christians decided to live in caves in the 11th Century. No one was prosecuting them. In fact, Christianity was introduced by the royalty. But they decided there was just something cool about it and hung out there. They did, eventually, emerge from the caves to create a huge area of churches and buildings above ground. One Byzantine Church we saw there survived Communism by being turned into a Center for Atheism. The frescos made it as it was easier for the comrades to put boards over them than repaint.

On the grounds they were had brightly colored onion domes they sell to small churches. We walked down to the entrance to the “near caves,” Russian-style, arm-in-arm to keep from falling on the ice. The early Christians discovered that when they buried people in the caves, they were preserved. Therefore, it must be a miracle and everyone who was buried there must be holy and have some power.

The bodies are still down there and are considered “holy relics.” They are in wooden coffins with glass tops. The bodies are covered with tapestries and only the creepy shriveled hands are visible. Alec bought some “holy honey” at the entrance as a souvenir. We were each given a single thin candle to hold between the fingers of our left hand so the hot wax would drip on our hands and not the holy relics. Our right hand needed to be free to steady ourselves as we descended into the dark and narrow cave.

The cave was barely wide enough for two people to pass each other and full of pilgrims who would caress and bow over the top of the coffins.

Is there anything cooler than being in a narrow cave with prostrating pilgrims and ancient shriveled dead guys and only one thin candle for light? I didn’t think so.

But the creep-a-thon continued. After we left the monastery, Ludmila took us to “The House of the Chimeras.” This was the home of an architect who had a part interest in a cement company. He had the exterior of his home decorated with the most bizarre collection of monsters and wild animals made of cement. (According to the Internet, an Italian sculpture, Elia Sala, actually did them.)

In between, we saw some bad 20th century sculptures, mostly provided courtesy of the Soviets. The people in Kyiv have dumped some of them but can’t really decide what to do with the rest.
This is an ancient country with a form of government that literally began last year. It's an interesting contrast.

Photo: The House of the Chimeras.

Out Cold

Photo: Alec in the square outside St. Michael's in Kyiv.

Last week, Alec and I went to Kyiv for a few days. (Yes, for his college spring break, Alec went to London, Moscow and Kyiv. I guess Cancun seemed a bit too tame for his tastes.)

In the departure terminal at SVO, an American couple overheard me talking to Alec in English and asked me where the elevator was. They were trying to get to the business class lounge on the second floor. I didn’t know but told them how to ask someone in Russian. "Good-yee-ah leaf-t?"

It turns out, there ISN’T an elevator to the second floor. If they wanted to relax in the business class lounge, they would have to lug all their luggage up the huge flight of stairs (and then down again).

Alec and I had checked all our luggage. We were flying Aeroflot in a Tupelo and my “carry on” bag wouldn’t fit inside the cabin. The overhead compartments are only big enough for your coats and everything else must be lodged under your seat.

For our 90 minute flight, we were seated in the bulkhead. It was such a tight fit that they had to cut out a place in the bottom for you to put your feet!

We were met by our driver who spoke no English, but handed me a letter welcoming us to Kyiv and giving the pick up times for the tours I’d arranged. We checked into the Dnipro Hotel, which despite being $200 a night, had nothing on Howard Johnsons. (This was the second nicest hotel in Kyiv. The nicest hotel at $400 a night, was more like a not-so-gracefully aging Sheraton.)

We got settled and met our guide and driver for the city tour. It is always amazing to me how “former” CIS countries look so much better than Russia. About half of Kyiv was destroyed in World War II but they have made a big effort to rebuild many of the most historic structures. Sometimes it's hard to keep up as the names of the streets and squares change with the regimes. They have pre-Czarist names, then Czarist names, then Communist names and now they are reverting to pre-Czarist, Czarist or new Orange Revolution names.

I couldn’t fully enjoy our stops as I was freezing. I know how to dress in the cold. But I had not counted on standing around in that freezing Siberian steppe wind. The fact the guide, Ludmilla, kept talking about how beautiful everything was in May didn’t help either.

I was chilled to the bone when we return to our hotel room, which was also cold. There was no thermostat and the only source of heat was one section of our wall with some kind of hidden heater behind it. At Alec’s suggestion, we called the front desk and arranged to have a space heater brought up.

We grabbed supper at the “Munich Bar” down the hall. I had bread and mushroom soup and a local beer. I have learned from experience that those are always a safe bet in former CIS countries. Back at the room, we watched a little CNN, the only English speaking channel and made an early night of it.

Photo: Alec overlooking the Dnipro River, on the largest rivers in Europe, while his mother shivers in the car.

The Landlady

A few weeks ago, my landlady came to call. (Our lease gives her the right to inspect our apartment annually.) She was in her mid 40s and appeared on schedule at my door wearing a pink fur shrug and tight pants tucked into knee-high spiked heeled boots. She had long blonde hair, bordering on brassy. From her face, I could tell she was no stranger to the needle: She had collagen lips and a Botox forehead underneathe her heavy-handed makeup.

She carried a larger designer handbag and arrived with the ultimate Moscow accessories, a silent hulking Russian man, whom she introduced as her cousin. She didn’t speak a lot of English and I think she thought “cousin” was the English word for “bodyguard.”

While she was perfectly charming, I couldn’t imagine having a landlord who looked like this in the U.S., unless you are renting from an aging Pamela Anderson Wannabe. But as amused as I was, my landlady’s appearance was perfectly normal for a Russian of her age and social class.
Is it any wonder that single American women here can’t get dates? Men here (expats and locals) favor the sexy Russian women.

I was wearing a white crewneck cable-knit sweater and Glen Plaid wool slacks. I’m sure she probably looked at me and thought, “Why doesn’t this woman DO something with her appearance? Her hair would look MUCH better in metallic red. Is she trying for the title of the dullest-dressed woman in Moscow? Maybe I should offer her my plastic surgeon's name?"

But being well-versed in international politeness, we talked instead of the weather, the apartment, the health of her parents and kept our mouths shut about the imponderable way women in other cultures choose to dress.

Senioritis

Alec and I just got back from a few days in Kyiv. (You thought it was spelled Kiev, didn't you? Don't feel bad. Up until two days ago so did I.)

Kyiv seemed so much more upbeat than Moscow. I was completely confused and dumbfounded when a vendor in a kiosk laughed. People on the streets of Moscow never smile, much less laugh.

"I live in a city where no one ever smiles," I thought bleakly. I am having a lot of bleak thoughts lately about Moscow. Now that I know we're moving, everything about Moscow irritates me. Whether I am trudging through three foot snow drifts or sitting in gridlocked traffic, or paying way too much for fresh vegetables, I am, in turn, either depressed or annoyed with this city.

I realize I am suffering from some sort of expat senioritis. I am like a 12th grader who is tired of high school and can't wait to leave home and start a new exciting new life at college. Only I can't wait to leave Moscow and start my new exciting life in Abu Dhabi with Larry.

I usually get about six weeks' notice to sell half of everything we own, buy a bunch of new stuff, close up shot and get out of Dodge. There's no time for senioritis.

But now I have no house to sell, no appliances to get rid of and no necessities to buy. And with three long months ahead of me, I find myself counting down the days till I can escape from Moscow and bloom in the desert.

Blowin' in the Wind

My last blow dryer has bitten the dust, leaving me with only my little dual-voltage traveling one. Over the past 10 years, my travel blow dryer has had to learn to be content home alone as everywhere I go nowdays provides them. But when my large Conair crashed 30 minutes before I was suppose to go somewhere, I was happy to have the travel one as a back up. (You do NOT want to go outside in Moscow in winter with wet hair.) As it has about 10 watts, using the travel dryer took quite a bit of time. With the move in a few months, should I buy a new blow dryer now?

The voltage in Russia, 220, is the same as Abu Dhabi, but the plugs are different. Europe, including Russia, has two round pins for plugs. Larry tells me the Middle East has three slashes. So if I buy a blow dryer, I will not be able to use it in Abu Dhabi unless I plug it into a converter. However, the alternative was taking 40 minutes to blow dry my hair for the next three months. So on my next expedition to Metro Cash and Carry I checked out their selection.

They had about 15 blow dryers, but I narrowed it down to the three that had some English on the box. I probably pay more but I really hate using electrical appliances when you can't read the instructions, even if all they probably say is "Don't use this while taking a bath." I decided on a Braun model because I like the brand, it had the most wattage and because it generated lots of ions. I am not sure what the purpose of all those ions are, but I'm sure they wouldn't have it plastered all over the box if it weren't important.

With my blow dryer selected, I waited the usual 30 minutes in line to checkout with my cart full of groceries. But I opted not to go through the additional 10 minute procedure at another counter to get the warrantee validated. It was in a sealed box and even if something happened to it, I wouldn't be making a return trip from the UAE to Moscow to get it replaced. But I did take the precaution of stopping at the plugs near the door to make sure it at least turned on.

At home, I read the brochure which solved the ion mystery for me. The negative ions generated by the blow dryer would counteract the positive ions in my hair. I didn't even know my hair HAD a positive ion overload. It also said in 20 different languages not to use the blow dryer while taking a bath.

School Daze

The top priority on my moving checklist is to get Taylor enrolled at the American Community School in Abu Dhabi for next fall. The school promptly responded to my email request for information and sent me a list of the requirements to begin the application process.

I need to provide them:

• A completed three page application form. (One-half page is devoted to determining the various languages used in our home.)
  
• A copy of Taylor’s passport
  
• A copy of Larry’s passport
  
• 2 passport photos of Larry
  
• 2 passport photos of me
  
• 4 passport photos of Taylor
  
• A copy of Taylor’s birth certificate, duly attested by the local embassy of the issuing country and the UAE Minister of Foreign Affairs.
  
• A sealed and official transcript for the past two years from Tay’s current High School
  
• A copy of Tay’s residency visa for Abu Dhabi. However, Tay cannot get a residency visa until Larry get a residency visa.
  
• A copy of Larry’s residency visa. Larry cannot get a residency visa until we supply the government with about 20 separate documents like our marriage license and Larry’s college transcripts, most of which must to “attested to” by the UAE Embassy in the country where the documents originated. (While all these residency visas are in process, however, the school will accept a letter from the sponsoring company that we are working on it.)
  
• A stamped school transfer certificate from Tay’s current high school.
• A non-refundable application fee of 250 dirhams (about US $100).

Only after all this is in, can we contact the office to set an appointment for Taylor’s interview and testing.

While this is way more work than I did to apply to college, this kind of application process is pretty typical for any expat school around the world. It is also the reason why being a trailing spouse for the first year of any assignment is a full-time job!

I admit, now that I’ve lived in Moscow for over a year, I've figured out how to top off Taylor’s cellphone bill and keep Larry in dry cleaning. So I’ve had plenty of time to go on cruises with my mom and to volunteer as treasurer for AWO. I could coast.

All that changes now, however. I have a new move to coordinate, a new world to learn and conquer, and all the documentation to compile to make it happen.

Photo: Entrance to the Middle and Upper School at the American Community School in Abu Dhabi.

Frost Revisited

Over Christmas, Larry’s company told them they had a need for him outside of Moscow. They presented him with three job opportunities and Larry could decide which of three jobs he wanted to interview for.

All three positions were in cities with high quality of life factors. We reluctantly eliminated the only job based in the U.S. While it was located in a dynamic city, the job wasn’t fully developed yet. This left two very good jobs in completely different kinds of cities in different parts of the world. How to choose?

Along with my usual intensive Internet research, I surveyed my friends in Moscow and found someone who had lived in both places. She wholeheartedly endorsed them both.

Eventually, Larry, Taylor, and I put it to a family vote. We came to our individual conclusions through different routes. Larry made an elaborate decision matrix weighing and evaluating various career and personal factors, Taylor instantly decided on the basis of who had the beach, and I… well, I chose the road less traveled by.

But however we chose, the decision was unanimous. Come summer, the family is moving to Abu Dhabi

Photo: Abuh Dhabi, U.A.E.


The Road Not Taken
by Robert Frost


TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Manning the Lifeboat

Photo: My mom, who is obviously not worrying about how to make a fish hook.

While we were at sea, the fire alarm sounded. It turned out to be no big deal, just some smoke in the incinerator. At dinner that night, people talked about their reactions to the alarm. While others were considering the alarm’s cause and how the ship’s staff would handle everything, I had been mentally planning the most expedient route to our cabin and making a mental list of what I would grab there before heading for the lifeboat.

I was surprised to find that I was the ONLY one at our table who seem to be considering exactly what protective gear to bring and how much fresh water one could comfortably transport to our assigned life raft. I didn’t want to admit it to this group, but I was also deciding what I had that might be used for signaling for help or making a fish hook. I wouldn’t be taking my diamonds (they’re insured), but Mom’s medications wouldn’t be left behind. And when we’re rescued from that lifeboat, Mom and I will have our passports, so we won't be delayed in getting home.

I wasn’t panicking. I didn’t for a minute think the ship was in trouble. But having lived overseas, I always make contingency plans. When you live in a foreign place, you can’t rely on someone else keeping you safe. You, personally, have to be ready.

So next time we have to abandon ship, I’ll meet you in the lifeboat. I’ll be the woman with the sunscreen.

Holland America Vs. Royal Caribbean

Photo: The Veendam docked at Costa Maya.

I had previously cruised three times on Royal Caribbean during the 1990s. Here’s how this Holland America cruise compared:

Cabins: Our cabin had a flat screen TV, expensive linens, plenty of closet space, a small sofa and room in the bathroom for a bathtub. Winner: Holland America.

Food: On Royal Caribbean, the food had been solid but not exceptional. Sort of like eating at the The Cheesecake Factory every night. On Holland America, the food was all over the place. I was served the most flavorful, tender lamb I’ve ever eaten and I've had some pretty amazing lamb. At another meal, my mother had a roast beef so tough she couldn’t even cut it.

While the ship turned out a chocolate mousse that was a culinary delight in every way, they obviously made their soggy crème brulee without benefit of vanilla beans. (Must have substituted the flan recipe by mistake.) But the most glaring misstep was their fish, which tasted as if it had been under a heat lamp for several hours. We are floating IN the ocean. They ought to get the fish right.

There was no such difficulty with the boiled shrimp, which appeared after our stop in Mexico. It was perfectly cooked and had the just-out-of-the-gulf freshness. Mom and I attempted to eat our weight in them, but having each gained five pounds that week, there wasn't much room left. So really, how picky was I about the food if I gained five pounds? As for overall ratings, I’d rather take the fabulous with the terrible than settle for just plain good. (Which is probably why I choose to live overseas.) Winner By a Shrimp: Holland America.

Entertainment: Watching the featured entertainers on board was like traveling back in time. The headliner was a guy who did singing impressions. His big impression was Neil Diamond. I’m not sure I would have been that excited to see the REAL Neil Diamond, much less an imitation. This guy's most recent impression was Mick Jagger circa 1960, but he had Jimmy Durante down. Of course, when he did Roger Miller’s “King of the Road,” a popular song 40 years ago, everyone in the audience knew all the words. Not really a Coldplay kind of crowd, I guess.

The comediene hadn’t updated her act in years. “My boyfriend is so young, he’s still playing Pokemon,” she said. Pokemon? This woman talked about Cabbage Patch dolls as if they were still a trend. I know the audience is old, but I'm sure their grandchildren have clued them in on Playstations and Bratz. She did do a hilarious set on getting old. Unfortunately, I got most of those jokes.

The ship had their own small set of singers and dancers who did a couple of shows. I was amused to see them perform “One Night in Bangkok,” a song from the musical Chess. I know it is from Chess because I bought the CD the first and only other time I’d seen that song performed. This happened to be on my last cruise seven years ago. (Apparently, this number comes straight from the cruise entertainment handbook.) On Royal Caribbean, this was performed on a large stage with about 20 dancers and elaborate lights and staging. It just wasn’t the same with six dancers doing their best on a small stage. Royal Caribbean also had Vegas headliners I’d actually heard of. Winner: Royal Caribbean.

Shipboard Activities: Other than Bingo and Trivia Games, Mom and I sampled most of the activities from the ice carving demonstration at poolside to a swing dancing class. (I was taller and got to be the “guy.”) I had gone with mom only because the class had been advertised as line dancing, which I learned in my college disco days.

We had one really fun afternoon of bridge where mom and I trounced the duplicate player who spent the first 15 minutes with her new partner discussing various obscure conventions and transfer bids. (Huh?) But no amount of fancy bidding could save her when she bid 5 clubs over my 4 hearts. (I had 20 high card points and three of her clubs including the ace.) She went down three doubled for 500 points.

I went to one cooking demonstration, where I watched a chef chop celery for 20 minutes. In desperation, the audience started shouting questions to him which he had trouble completely understanding as he wasn’t entirely fluent in English.

We made regular use of the gym and Mom and I even had a spa afternoon. Mom got her hair done, plus also a free lecture from the appalled stylist on how mom’s regular hairdresser had “burned” her hair. Meanwhile, I had a foot and ankle massage followed by a free machine massage. They put me in this big egg that vibrated and had warm air. It must be what it's like to be a baby, sitting in a carrier on top of running clothes dryer. It was a little hard to relax, as the ship kept blaring announcements and mom was snapping my photo.

But, I must admit, we looked fabulous for our final formal night. Mom, especially, looked spectacular.

We also went to the repeat cruiser “party” where we got a glass of free champagne and watched while they awarded medals to the people who had over 100 days on Holland America. The captain, who looked a little like Richard Gere, awarded a red pin to a 2 year old who had 25 days. He held out his arms for a hug, which the captain gave him.

That toddler was the only one he touched. In fact, the captain would not shake hands with anyone. After all those people got sick on cruiseships, they are serious about germs here. There were freestanding instant dry liquid soap dispensers EVERYWHERE on ship. And people used them.

I was shocked to learn there were 125 kids on board. I think they must have been shackled below deck as I only ran into about 12 of them all week.

The ship also offered a casino with five cent slot machines where Mom would callously blow $2 at a gambling session. Meanwhile, I went to an "art auction" where the same company was offering prints of some of the same artists, at 10 times the price, of when Larry and I bought on our first cruise ten years ago.

And speaking of shopping, I was astounded to see amber jewelry in the on-board shops at about six times what I pay for it in Russia. My on-board purchase was a half-price sweatshirt to wear while walking the deck at 4 a.m. with jet lag. Mom bought a tee-shirt so she’d have something to wear till her luggage arrived. Otherwise, enamored by how great we looked, we blew all our money on portraits on formal night.

But for activities, Royal Caribbean offered all these plus the occasional lecture and how-to demonstrations. Winner: Royal Caribbean.

Service: I had about a 10 minute wait to check-in. After that, despite the fact there were 1,200 people on board, I never stood in line for anything. Service in the dining room was flawless. If I was missing the right utensil, it was silently and instantly replaced. Our cabin was nicely tidied a couple of times day, including fresh towels, and my mom loved the towel creatures our cabin steward left for her entertainment. Of course, the captain HELD the boat for her which is what I call service. You can't really ask for more than that. Hands down winner: Holland America.

Photo: Towel creature assembled by our room steward.

Spring Fling

Today is the first day of spring in Moscow. I celebrated by wearing my mink-lined boots, rather than my sheepskin-lined ones. It's not like I can make daisy chains.

A newcomer at the AWO coffee today commented on how nice the weather was here. Of course, she is moving here from Siberia. I guess it's all relative.

Hard to believe that last week, I was cruising the Caribbean. Here's a rundown on our stops:

Grand Cayman: A lovely port, known for high-end shopping. I was not in the mood for a good deal on a Rolex, however, so I invested instead in rum cakes to bring back as souveniers. I did find a ballistic nylon purse I had to have. (You know you travel too much when in looking at purses, you are impressed with the quality of the ballistic nylon!) Mom bought a lovely large sparkly blue topaz on a chain. We also bought bottles of rum, of course, which the ship would not let us have until the end of the cruise. It might interfere with us buying their $5 bar drink specials. There were four cruise ships in town that day, so the place was wall-to-wall tourists.

Montego Bay Jamaica: We were met by our private guide, Errol, who drove us up in the mountains where we sampled fruits hanging from the trees. Errol was quite the expert on herbal medications so we got our botany lesson as well. He then drove us around his neighborhood so we could see how the locals lived. We agreed to stop at his friend's house, who made wood carvings and watched them work. Mom bought this wonderful giraffe which they polished up for her with Kiwi shoe polish. (Jamaica is known for their giraffes, right?) Afterwards, we stopped for lunch and ate delicious jerk chicken and Red Stripe Beer at a local place before heading for the grocery store where I stocked up on Blue Mountain Coffee. We had planned on going to a private beach so we could at least stick our feet in the ocean, but were so tired, we opted to go back to the ship instead.

Costa Maya: Because the cruiselines weren't making enough money off us, they built this fake Mexican village on the Yucatan peninsula. Costa Maya is an outdoor shopping market with a wide, pedestrian walk leading directly from the pier. There are clean shops on either side which sell an array of overpriced Mexican stuff. The prices are in dollars, everyone speaks English, and I bet the bathrooms are even clean! The sidewalk ends in an open-air ampitheater, where women in colorful dresses perform a short program a couple of times while the boat is docked. Of course, the ship also offers shore excursions, starting at $50 a person, to bus you to the Mayan ruins or out to snorkeling. Mom and I bought pint-sized jugs of vanilla, mostly because that's what you are suppose to buy in Mexico. (Plus we got a good deal which is practically a family rule.)