No Christmas for Me

I wished my friends in Taiwan "Merry Christmas" and offered a "Happy Holidays" to the bank teller today, then I realized how meaningless those words are for me. I don't remember the last time we celebrated Christmas. Must have been before 2001 when the family gave itself so completely to fundamentalism. But even before then I don't remember when we last tore open presents and cards around the Christmas tree. I don't even miss it; it just not a part of my life anymore.
So you'd think this is sad, how can an American boy live without the joys of Christmas? It's easy, really. Without the obligatory gift-giving and receiving between all my relations and me, we don't need to go through the Christmas shopping drama clogging the arteries of every mall in America tonight. For queen mum, who needs to justify to her God that she's really not celebrating the holiday, she gives people presents and random acts of kindness anytime during the year. For me, who doesn't really care what God thinks of me right now, holiday greetings, cards and phone calls are reserved for those whom I really care about.
By accepting no gifts, we are free from the bonds of reciprocation. So having no Christmas for me really isn't that bad, but I do miss the beautiful Christmas tree we used to have in Taiwan.
That was so long ago.

Clicked My Heels

I had a dream that I was still in M-Town while flying home from San Jo (got bumped up to 1^st class! Righteous), but a few things have convinced me that I’m indeed back to the good old USA:

• English and Spanish
• Pho
• Driving
• Warm chocolate chip cookies
• Not being stopped for looking Uzbek
• American soldiers
• Really clean bathrooms with seat covers and plenty of toilet paper
• Texas

It’s the little things. And the really big things.

The Parting

I left you before dawn, peacefully dreaming of things I long ago forgot how to dream, a tiny bundle rising and falling with the rhythm of being newly alive. Wild blonde waves framed your pink cheeks glowing through the pale. There is no angel more beautiful.

I left you without a last goodbye, though I’m satisfied just knowing that for the last days you did not desert me and came to me at every calling for a loving kiss. My gadgets will remain forever not yours and just out of reach for your жадные hands, but don’t worry, you’ll get your own one day. And I hope you take good care of them, too.

When the sun is turned off and the neon heats up, even this gray city is beautiful. I raced away from you, along the near empty streets on which yet another Лада waltzed on the gray slush covering this town. You are not the only one I’ll miss, but sadly, you will be the only one not to remember me.

Осторожно, Дверь Закрывается IV: Last Ride

There is no tribute fitting enough for the Moscow underground monster. I’ve developed such a love-hate, superior-fearing relationship with it that riding it home alone for the last time was as much an emotional journey as leaving the city itself. I was still watching my back for the skinhead attack that never came to be. I still grudgingly rehearsed lines and behaviors in my head at the sight of gray uniforms, but since I got my last haircut I haven’t been bothered once. The battle between to sit or not to sit for two stops on the blue line between Арбатская and Курская raged on as the aging cabins clanked along, passing dark brown tunnels overgrown with pipes laid since god knows when.

The baby twins sitting on broken columns greeted me for the last time at Римская. The marble walls and marble floors were all as they should be, but I won’t see them again for probably a very long time. How will the drunks and the homeless wild dogs sprawled out along the walls of the underground walkways spend the unforgiving winter? I don’t think I’ll ever find out.

Ice, Ice, Baby

Have you ever ice skated in a park? And I don’t mean a rink in the park, I mean in the park. Every path in Gorky Park is flooded each winter and let stand to freeze, resulting in bumpy fun for what seemed like thousands of Russian young’ns and a few brave Americans, namely us. Ice skating for the second time in your life on craterous icy paths alongside people who’ve been doing it for years is not the best ego boost. Yeah, I fell, several times, including an airborne landing—on my back—as Kristle watched on hopelessly. I wished we could stay, but there were so many other things to do in the last days in Moscow.

Осторожно, Дверь Закрывается III: When in Third Rome

I’d like to give Muscovites some benefit of the doubt. Life’s hard(er) here, and patience runs thin in the daily hustle-bustle. Then again, there are people who are just plain rude, but like I’ve been saying here: “When in third Rome…”

On my way to the academy one afternoon, I transferred onto the red line at Lenin Library (Библиотека им. Ленина). I followed all the rules: stand by the edge of the metro doors and wait for people to get out, squeezing myself in as soon as I see an opening. A man of around 30 was the last one to exit as I was entering, and even with plenty of room to spare, he found the necessity to shove me hard with his shoulder and elbow.

“OH no, you didn’t. I don’t care what country you are from and what country you think I’m from, I’m not going to let this one slide.”

Who needs alcohol? Adrenaline has a funny way of blurring memories, too. As soon as he shoved me, I either shoved him back with my right leg or outright kneed him (I’m leaning toward the latter).

The hard punch landed squarely on my shoulder. Didn’t hurt that much, but I was just surprised. Across the threshold, we stared down and exchanged words. Then just as fast as it happened, the confrontation dissolved. We both turned away: I wanted to grab the rare open seat right next to the door; he had somewhere to go, just like all other 14 million people in this impersonal town.

It's that Time Again

Prof T hardly asked me anything at the oral final. “I know you know most of this.” Well, I don’t. But he was more interested in my upcoming career, and it’s always nice to talk to someone who’s been there and can understand and appreciate the choice I’ve made, even if he was a Soviet Army intel officer.

I’ve stressed for the past three days over two little papers and a final that basically never was. Only when it’s all over, did it dawn on me: the adventure is ending, I’m leaving in 4 days. I started packing tonight because I know little sobriety will be left for the task from here on out. It already looks like I have too much, and I’m going souvenir shopping again. Not for myself; I don’t care much for souvenirs as I do for random artifacts more genuine to my life here.

Life. Here. The words ring like sleigh bells in a winter dream. Have I really been here for almost three months?(Yes.) Have I really become able to understand metro announcements?(Mostly.) Have I grown cold in public yet warm in familiar company?(Always been that way.) Nika worries that I will go back a changed man, alcoholic, to be exact. I only know that I’ve grown yet again. The world’s so big, and every part that I’ve been to has taught me so much. But I’ve had to say goodbye to them all.

So what do I do for the next 4 days? There’s the army museum I’ve been promising myself. There’s the St. Basil’s Cathedral I’ve been promising Alina. There’s the banya I’ve been promising Prof. S. There are the Kovalchuk jersey and Hard Rock Café shot glass I’ve been promising big bro. Then there are Rudolf and Anastasia waiting with warm Russian pizzas and still warmer smiles at the dacha. These last 4 days will be the most kick ass days of Moscow and me. If not, I’ve done enough here.

A Ruined Night of Firsts

I shouldn’t have been so helpful when the buzzer rang at 0045 hours. I should’ve known by now that no one shows up at Yuri’s that late to join a party. I was contently drunk, but beyond four layers of doors stood the ruin of my happiness. No one from the reveling kitchen crowd—drowning in music and booze—said anything, so I got up from the living room la-z-boy from where I was filming Stephen proposing Ruslan to have a threesome with him (In Russian, of course). First eyehole: no one. Second eyehole: no one. Well, I was already at the door leading to the elevators, not going to let the lack of a little eyehole stop me from finding out who th…the sight of gray uniforms torpedoed my heart, and it sank ever further at the only word I recognized: Шум. I tried to play calm. “Oh, what noise? It’s nothing.” They were already entering. Shit, Yuri’s gonna kill me.

Well, he didn’t. But he did make me pay the bribe, which I self-determined to be 500 rubles. And he kicked us all out. Party’s over. Andy ruined the party. There’s a first for everything.

Oh I had no idea.

Roman invited us to go to another party of his friend’s. That he had something extra to gain at the party was lost amidst the cozy dynamics between him and Sasha that had been going on all night. A cop car pulled our gypsy cab over, another first for me. Our documents were fine, but Roman didn’t have his visa. What?! They took him into the cruiser. Ten minutes later he came back to the car a free man, 1000 rubles freer, to be exact. I hope they got something nice for their mothers.

In the living room sat skinny Russian blondes and average looking guys; there went half of my conversation partners. I was actually having an ok time, talking with a German and a Russian when all the people I didn’t know plus Roman left to dance in the hall. A few minutes later, the head blonde bitch Anastasia came in and sternly said a few sentences. Sasha—being Russian and all—understood and got up, but I was still stupidly smiling and asking her to say it slower. Even with my comprehension no-skillz, it was clear as lightning: “You are new, we don’t like you, get the fuck out.”

Wow. The best/worst first ever.

Roman didn’t seem terribly bent on standing up for us. Oh yeah, the animal instinct thing. The night was already ruined anyway, and sleep was long overdue, so we went on our merry way.

I heard today that Yuri will just give me a welcoming kick next time instead of banning me for eternity/the last week I’m here. At least there’s that consolation. That and Yuri’s mold for making ice penii and his penis-shaped whiskey bottle.

The Lucky Pessimist

I always try to foresee the bad side: the obstacles, the unpleasantries, the inconveniences, the disappointments. It’s my way to prepare myself for anything, I guess. And since I’ve been proven more adaptable than most, if not all, other students here, I suppose the strategy is working.

Take the trifling issue of eating with the host family, for example. Before I came, I was worried about the old babushka (accent on the first syllable, PLEASE) tying my legs to the kitchen chair and force feeding me way above my necessary amount of calories. Well, it turns out that Zhenya is anything but an old babushka, and I can eat as little as I want and come and go as I please. So you’d think I’d learn to be less pessimistic. Oh no. On the eve of the arrival of Zhenya’s mum Lyubov’—meaning Love—I worried that living with an old babushka is going to ruin my last week here. It turns out that Lyubov is also anything but an old babushka, but she does make lots of food and always tells me to eat for my health (“Kушай, кушай на здоровье”). And you know what, I’m loving it, too. She makes quite complicated yet delightful soups (and luckily, Zhenya takes after her) and pies with meat and potato or apple stuffing. It’s such an enjoyment to eat a full meal after writing a stupid essay on Russian federalism (no such thing) for 4 hours.

So you’d think I’d learn to be less pessimistic. Oh no. I love pleasant surprises, the one thing I don’t prepare myself for.

Осторожно, Дверь Закрывается II: It's not just blood, is it?

After being shoved into the crowded metro yet again on the brown line, the first thing I noticed was the old bandage wrapped around his head. He was asleep, and his cloths worn and dirty. Then I saw the empty space next to him—too good to be true—and I didn’t have time to wonder why before plopping myself down. The answer assaulted my nostrils like nothing I’ve ever smelled before: sour, grimy and something else in between. I looked at his wound, a patch of dark red the size of a tennis ball above the right temple. Bits of dried blood stuck to the right ear and his greasy hair. Familiar images of paramedics trying to revive drunken bums lying on the marble floor in metro stations flooded my mind. I breathed through my mouth until I realized the obvious lesson life was teaching today, but after inhaling thrice I grew thankful for the swimming lessons at YMCA way back when. The indigo animal fur-clad lady sitting on my other side gingerly folded an index finger beneath her nostrils; more a gesture than a sincere attempt. I wondered if she thought it was me who reeked of poverty and neglect, neglected by this world in which he has no voice and no place but a seat on the metro. Ideas of stuffing one hundred rubles in the opening of his gray sweater were quickly extinguished by the thought of him buying yet another bottle to help him forget. I got up and got out at Park Kultury, but no one took that seat in the crowded metro.

Осторожно, Дверь Закрывается I: I Salute You, Too

Thus begins some hitherto unblogged memories of my experiences with the sprawling monster that lives beneath Moscow, and is loathed by yet depended on by all..."Be careful, the door is closing."

I never focus on him, but he’s fully within sight. Maybe he never looks at me, but how to reconcile happenings with random chance only, I’ll never know. The gray cap, gray windbreaker, and even grayer pants. The white-blue-red patch of Mother Russia starkly contrasts the grayness beneath. I know him too well, and he doesn’t know me at all. All this doesn’t explain why I knew everytime when he wants to stop me in the dim underground tunnels leading to the trains.

Here comes the standard greeting, the standard salute. I’ve long found humor in all of this, so I’m ready, and I always salute back. Not the snap-to-attention salute that I’d give Lt Col W, but the one I returned to scared Lackland cadets at the end of the day, when they were annoying me for the last time until before the next sunrise. But today was different. There was more juice in my balls. I knew why he stopped me, but I wanted him to say it. I deftly pulled out the navy blue passport and handed it to him so he could read the English italic letters on the front. The impressed expression made by his lips was my first victory.

“Where did you think I was from?” I dared him, triumphantly smiling.
“I thought very little about that.” Damn right you did. Was that a nervous smile?

Keep looking for the discrepancy you’ll never find. Surprise, I even know enough Russian to answer your little desperate questions.

Then I saw the ring on his finger. He’s a husband. Old enough to be a father, it appeared. If there’s rent-seeking on his mind, I can understand. But not from me, and not today. Not anyday. I wanted to ask his name, buy him a beer, talk about life as a police officer hated by his own people in a country terminally ill from corruption, talk about his wife and kids.

But I had no time. I wasn’t going to miss the last day of class.

The Miseducation of Me II

The dinner conversation took that familiar turn; I knew everyone meant well, but all the same I felt defensive. "Why do you like movies with manufactured camraderies? Why fight for people that aren't willing to fight themselves? Why die for liars and not get paid shit for it?" I shut myself down; I've been through this a million times. I know to pick the battles that count, and the dinner table has not proven to be a worthy battlefield. But deep down, I know why, and this is what I would've say to the haters had I thought it worth my breath and the ensuing unpleasantry.

When the political table turns and you find some other target for your arrows (and you will), we'll still be in the blistering heat or the mind-spinning cold, encouraging each other to stand ready just a little longer than we thought we could. When you are living fat and happy, sampling foreign cuisines with unpronouncable names and washing them down with bottles of Cabernet Sauvignon, we'll still be eating MRE's made in the U.S.A., trading candies and making ranger puddings.

I'll always remember your words, but they won't be a distraction when one day I airlift supplies to hurricane victims and rescue a stranded boy to safety. This is what I'm willing to do while getting paid shit for it; this is what you are not. Some of us are thinkers; some of us are talkers. Then there are a few of us who are doers. That's the way it's always been.

Thanks to af.mil for the pictures. Even more thanks for those that have taken the step before my peers and me. You are the doers. You are real heroes.

The Miseducation of Me I

Я жил. Я жив. Я буду жить.

 

The Miseducation of Дуня Галимова

“Hey, look what I found!”

“Better split.”

“Ok, this is a good spot.”

“No wonder daddy and Andy do this all the time.”

Сергей, or How I Lost My Kalmyks

I texted Нарик before we went to Джао Да two nights ago, hoping for a reunion with the Kalmyks. You already know what happened…They didn’t come. I’m used to all kinds of rejections, so seriously, nothing more than a cosmetic dent on my self-worth. Maybe some other time he’ll reply. Maybe not.

Definitely not.

I was still daydreaming, lying on Stephen’s floor staring at the ceiling, when my stream was split by the very ringtone I so carefully selected to represent me. I let it linger before ответ-ing. I didn’t recognize the number. I should’ve let it linger forever.
The voice on the other side spoke a stern and manly Russian; my hope of it being any one of my friends quickly vaporized. He was deliberately avoiding answering my questions while trying to find out who I am. All I could find out about him is that his is Sergei (Сергей). After digging out of me equally useless facts such as my name and where I’m from, we switched to English and proceeded to have the weirdest conversation I’ve ever had with a total stranger over the phone in a foreign country overrun by mafias.

Сергей: Would you like to meet Russian girls?
Я: (Oh god I’m being randomly accosted by a pimp) Um…No…
Сергей: Do you know who Madia is?
Я: Who? How do you spell that?
Сергей: Madia. М-а-д-я.
Я: Um…No, I don’t know who he or she is. (Ok, good, this is obviously just a wrong number.)
Сергей: She is my wife. Did you SMS her something about Chinese?
Я: (Ok, bad.) No! (Wait…Oh shit…Better switch to Russian) Oi…ой…ой…I think this is a big mistake. I messaged my friend, but he…HE…didn’t reply, and I thought he didn’t want to answer me. (Nervously) Haha, now I know why.
Сергей: Where do you live?
Я: (Ohjesusmotheroffuckingchristgodalmighty!) No, I’m not going to tell you where I live!
Сергей: Why not?
Я: Isn’t this weird to you? You think I’m going to tell you where I live, given the situation??? (Thoughts of big beefy Mafia types leaving my bloodied remains in the grime-blackened snow…It snowed last night!!! At least the international insurance will be put to good use.)
Сергей: I think this is funny.
Я: Yeah, me too. (No, I don’t. This is fucked UP.) Well, I’m really sorry, Сергей, and sorry to your wife, too. But this is just a mistake.
Сергей: Ok, goodbye.
(Strained laughter all around)
Я: Goodbye. (Went to bathroom to change my underwear)

So here’s our assessment, please feel free to comment with your own. Laura thought he sounded like a nice guy and that I should’ve just told him what he wanted to know, that I’m a student here and blah blah blah…Sorry, Laura, but your honesty (and my numerical illiteracy) left your wallet $4 lighter outside Istanbul’s Grand Bazaar, for which I’ll never forgive myself. [Editor’s note: Laura has since retracted her advice after hearing the recount of the entire conversation.] Now, either the wife was completed perplexed/amused by my SMS and then asked her husband to call me to find out wtf, or I’ve just unwittingly enzymed another incident of domestic abuse in this alcohol-infested land. Thanks Нарик, the blood would be on your hands, too. What’s so hard about giving people your correct phone number???
Maybe this will be my last post, who knows. But barring the long fingers of Сергей’s wrath reaching my throat, I’d say the only confirmed loss in this incident is any way of meeting my beloved Kalmyks again. At least I’ll still be around to cry about it.

Maybe I'm just tired

There are other places I'd rather be right now. In my bed, for instance. Without a band that I appreciate, without the Kalmyks to fascinate me, another 0500 at Китайский Летчик seems to have lost its novelty and charm. It’s the cigarette fume that’s blinding me, I guess; right now I really can’t stand its very smell, even its beautiful turbulent ascendance into the low-hanging incandescent lamps. Or the sketchy-looking guys ambiguously interested in Richard; maybe they just want another drinking buddy, or practice their English, or something else. Or the jealousy that Stephen had another successful night at the bar, scoring another phone number with his bravery and our enthusiastic help, while “left out” doesn’t even begin to describe the emptiness that’s imploding me. Longing has something to do with it, I'm sure of it.

Yeah, that’s it. It’s been a fairytale too Hollywood to be true. Disarming boy goes to bar with friends. Boy sees cute waitress with whom he barely shares a language, but evidently something much more essential. Boy gets up the nerves to talk to her. Friends help him while he slowly wins her over with his intoxicat-ing/-ed charm. After a few hours, she gave him digits and sincere possibilities. After that, they talked a few hours more. Leaning over the counter, the girl that seemed shy and depressed at the start of the night is lighting up our corner with her angelic smile.

I don’t understand. I have a bad case of dandruff, even though I head & shouldered twice before I left. It feels like Barcelona all over again, but colder. I’m suddenly once again struck by the futility of meeting new people, starting with the same old introductions, dragging on the same empty conversations, and departing with the same inadequacy left behind by the last awkward silence. I don’t even know if these alcohol-aided Russian sessions are of any help once the sun rises and my liver has earned its keep.

But here we go again, ‘cause how many times will I be in Moscow?

So, I'm 24 now, eh?

It's a week late, but how can I not blog about my first birthday outside of the States since before the collapse of the USSR?

Stephen never thought he'd be cooking rice in a pot in Moscow. And then drying/cooling them on plates because I told him to put too much water.

Alina's first roll ever!!

My first sushi set design. The sushi can stay, the hair's gotta go.

Yuri supplied the напитка, as always. Biggest mojito ever. Righteous.

Do I look 24?

I don't think Дуня liked the mustache too much. Как ей угодно, it's gone.

They look like AZNs, but They are NOT AZNs!!!

So I'm racist against my own race.

I saw them at--get this--the club Chinese Pilot Zou Da (Китаиский Лётчук Джао Да). My second fave Russian band Luk (Люк, or Manhole) was playing there, and I'm Chinese, and I'm a--fine, future--pilot...ok, there was no missing this. I thought they were Korean, but something was off about them. It took hours before I got up the nerve to approach them, and they turned out to be totally cool.
Narik (who reminded me of Tonkid, my sophomore year ping pong partner from Thailand) speaks very good English, and I'm apparently good enough to fake my Russian with the two girls, Lida and Natasha. But they usually just talked to each other; I have that effect on women, it's a talent, I know.

So they aren't Koreans. They aren't even Asians, technically. It turns out that just north of the Caucuses lies the little Republic of Kalmykia, the only Buddhist terroritory in Europe (This is west of the Volga). They speak perfect Russian and Kalmyk. They are Russians! This was too much for me to handle, so I had some more beer with them and got drunker. My Russian improves the more I imbibe, so as the night wore on and the snow began to fall on Moscow, I became more and more fascinated with this people.

Apparently, Stephen's Russian gets even better UI. How else could he, after studying less than 3 months of Russian, flying solo, keep two Russian girls within range for 3 hours!?!?!?!?!?! I had to get their number for him, but that's only because the alcohol wiped out his memory, too. I heart Stephen.

Oh yeah, and Люк rocked.

Is me or are the Russians just hot here?

Going to a Russian bath (banya) is an experience in a league of its own. Too bad I have no pictures to show you...or maybe that's for the best.
The contigent consisted of the fearless leader Schup, Richard, me, and three students of Maxim's (the German Jens, the Marine major Mike, and UPenn student Roman). We arrived at the Sandunovskie Bani around noon, and despite the initial disorientation (from fear more than anything else), we wasted no time in stripping ourselves naked. After showering ourselves down in open stalls (much more pleasant than Lackland latrines), Schup led us into the sauna room where stairs led up to a wooden deck with benches built into it. Gallons of water were poured into a gas stove (used to be wood, but the New Moscow is not so romantic), and the steam heated the room to an unbearable degree...so to speak. If done right--as in by a real Russian and not Schup--the expanding steam makes a sounds like mortar rounds being launched.
Of course the higher the bench, the hotter it was, so we started low. But of course I moved higher soon thereafter because I'm me. With sweat pouring out of my very soul, we each picked up our bundle of birch leaves and began to beat ourselves all over (oh, it gets better!). Supposedly the essence of the plant is absorbed through the skin, along with its refreshing effects. Whatever, it was just fun. Asexually.
After as long as I could bear, we all followed the traditions and did the unthinkable: walk out of the sauna room and dive into the icy cold pool whose water is green from stray birch leaves. Yeah. Shrinkage does not even begin to describe the joy down under. We repeated this ritual several more times, with eating and drinking breaks in the lounge area as needed. Then Richard and I started getting adventurous in the sauna. We beat each other with the birch bundles. Platonically. S&M--or anything sexual--was the last thing on my mind in the blistering steam. Don't know about Richard, though. Anyway, I should stop here.
We kicked it in the lounge after the hot-cold alternations, talking, drinking beer and eating pistaccios and salted calamaris. It was trully relaxing. When we walked back out into the Moscow chill more than two hours later, I was a new man. I'm sure there'll be a sequel somewhere.

O-Left-right-e-left, O-...shit

I don't even know how I get into stuff like this, but I do, and that makes life more interesting. I told Zhenya that I'd be back within half an hour. I had always dreamt of running along the Moscow River. Ok, so this was only a narrow tributary, but it's the closest to our apartment.
It was cold, probably below 0, but running to Marine cadences in my head made me proud and warm. The cars speeding by on one side sent godknowswhatawfultoxicgases into my oxygen-craving lungs. But I loved it. 25 min later, I decided to stop and walk back to the apartment. So I went back up the hill with the path that resembled what I took when I got to the river, and of course got myself into a dark and deserted part of eastern Moscow. I had very little idea where I was, though I wasn't far away from where I wanted to be. I walked carefully along the path in a park, past a building guarded by a cammied soldier in a beanie carrying a rifle. Shit. I hoped he didn't see me, and I slowly tried to melt back deeper into the park, hiding myself in the shadows.
Good thing I brought a map in my pocket, where my sweat soaked through my shorts and the paper rubbed againt the fabric. Smart. Anyway, eventually I came out where I wanted to be, but it was an hour later. The sweat-soaked turtleneck was no longer warm, and I was more anxious than proud. Still, it was an adventure, so I'll do it again some other day.

Moscow Love and -Jitos

McDonald's is the embodiment of corporate evil in Western civilization/Richard's one-way ticket to hell by the age of 28. Yeah right, it's the saving grace of the Russian service industry. The first McDonald's introduced the following great concepts taken for granted stateside: full day friendly, fast service and clean bathrooms. This is so not the point of this post.
I said that people say they don't remember things when they get trashed only as an excuse to do things they don't usually have the balls for, and Stephen's project last night was to prove me wrong, introducing myself once again as the guinea pig. Fuck, this is still not the point of this post, but I swear it's coming.
I was in charge of bringing the Bacardi and ice, 2-liter coke if possible, which is basically everything we needed that Yuri doesn't have. First and last items were cakewalk, but where do you get ice in Russia? Stephen suggested going to a bar or cafe and buying a bag for 50 rubles. Screw that; low-class objectives require low-class operational environs. I saw a Poctuk'c (Rostik's, a fast junk food chain that I wouldn't normally enter) and decided to take a chance sans my pride. Two teeny-boppers (TBs) were the only people hanging out at the counter, not really ordering anything.
Ya: Excuse me, could I get some ice? How much?
Girlchik cashier (GC): It's free.
Ya: Yea, how about a bag of it? (Gesturing a shoebox-size bag)
GC: ...........
TBs: (giggle giggle)
Young male manager (YMM): (blah blah blah I couldn't understand)
Ya: I don't understand.
YMM: You want ice right?
Ya: Da.
YMM: What for?
Ya: (Oh shit, this is not going to fly, but better be honest)...um...for a party.
TBs: (giggle giggle)
YMM: Oh ok, this is what we'll do (pulls out 3 plastic bags and goes to fill them up with ice.
Ya: Just two bags is fine.
TBs: (giggle giggle)
YMM: (Triple layers the big bag of ice) (blah blah blah I couldn't understand)
Ya: (smiles and nods) Free, right?
YMM: Yeah, yeah (blah blah blah).
Ya: Big thanks.

I was surprised by how nice and helpful they were and how fun the little adventure was. Sometimes I do heart Russians. McDonald's helped.
Promises of alcohol aside, it seemed like no one wanted to come, I thought the get-together would be a bust. I thought Yuri would be disappointed. I thought he never liked me anyway; I'm not cool/gay enough. I shall never doubt Yuri again. I shall love him for all eternity...
As Stephen, Alina and I sat in front of the big (for Russians) flat screen TV, making fun of bad Russian boyband wannabes, Yuri appeared with glasses of beautifully made Mojito, a favorite of the late E. Hemingway. Ground mint leaves and sugar crystals lined the bottom while crushed ice bathed in Bacardi and lemon syrup. Yuri introduced us to the art of Mojito making, and people thought I just might hack it as a bartender. The drinks soon turned into Tejito (with Tequila after Bacardi ran out) and maybe Rusjito--do the math--but I already stopped caring. I loved contemplating trifles while UI: why Moscow doesn't have aircraft landing restrictions as tough as London; how can a single turboprop have enough thrust for a luxury 4-seater; how each glass of -jito had its own history, each slice of lime and lemon a palimpsest of refreshing imbibement already spinning my mind. Yuri is arguably the most awesome host ever, always dishing out the best stuff with a healthy dash of gaiety...aged Tequila, French cheese, red caviar, white mushrooms, French wine-flavored hookah(!!). Radio blasting, cigarettes lit (Stephen had to see my smoke rings, but I promise those two puffs were my first and last), we enjoyed ourselves in a way only Yuri can deliver, and his camera captured all the madness. As for the experiment, I still remembered almost every moment, however surreal. Second round: More -jitos next time.

Military Museums

I'm the only one around who's remotely interested in going to these places. That's why only I get to take the badass pictures and pose on ATGs.

Istanbul Aviation Museum
St. Petersburg Artillery Museum

There are two similar museums around Moscow. Stay tuned...

Morozhenoe

Yes, that's creme brulee ice cream in our hands.
Yes, that's snow on our cloths.
Yes, we did, and you didn't.

 

Sleeper Train

The cabin gently rocks, governed by forces not predestined by equations alone. Scant meaning drips out of the radio, and it's freshman year all over again. While the Mendicants party the night away, the walls futile in keeping their debauchery at bay, I longingly return to you, vapor rising with every breath and quickly whisked away by the wind. But this time you're not here, and I have no way home. A face appears in the doorway. "Why are you by yourself?" "Why aren't you drinking with us?" I politely decline with the promise of joining them soon, all the while fearful of betraying the truth: I want to be alone and left just so, deciphering Russian lyrics and thinking about you.

The room's dark, and the music sad yet steady. You coyly smile at me from far away, from long ago, and my heart thumps to your rhythm. Five is an eternity when it comes to ages, but not for us. With whom else would I row upon the rippling green and stroll along unruly rows of autumn maples? But now you're not with me, and I save the tears for myself.

Whiners within the Comfort Zone and the Russian Friends without

In the internet cafe, the Stanford enclave in the Academy, I finally had it with the group. Iris has been complaining about the injustices she currently faces in pursuing an internship at the World Bank, and I support her wholeheartedly in her effort to scream at the heavens until someone gives her what she deserves (because she does). Not the others, necessarily. Obviously, Moscow isn't Istanbul. It's just...plain shittier, and there's nothing Sasha, Masha, or Pasha can do about it. But Stanford students have to vent about everything because that's what intelligentsia are entitled to do. I'm an intellectual; I'm not part of intelligentsia. Intelligentsia sees the world as a ball of clay in their hands, for their moulding and critique; I see myself as part of the whole. I blew up at the intelligentsia today, and I don't care if they listened. I said what I meant, and it's what I strive to do in life: If you don't like it, change it; if you can't, then adapt to it.
I posed a question: Did you expect to be happy here? I didn't come here for a vacation, I didn't come here to be happy. Happy is cuddling with Bubble in bed, not obsessing over the absent. Happy is drinking with people that'd die for me and I for them, not those that don't pay up. Happy is baseball in the open, not Tai-Chi in the Metro sardine can. Russia has never been a happy place. Happy is a bonus here, and I embrace it on every street corner where I find it.
I came to get out of my comfort zone. So far, I've been too conservative. Maybe I don't whine enough. When the online lectures didn't work, I dropped the class. When 3 people got the chance to teach English to Russian students and I didn't, I didn't bug Sasha. Iris is right, nothing gets done here unless you cry to everyone you know until someone listens and gives you what you want. What I want is a young Russian friend. But I wasn't about to cry and whine to get me one. (Can you feel a happy ending coming?)
In the sports complex of MGIMO, sitting against the wall facing four ping-pong tables, I felt like the new FOB kid from 13 years ago waiting courtside to be picked up for basketball. I was afraid to ask people to play, I was afraid of not understanding what they are saying, I was afraid to go find the office where I could rent a paddle and a ball for 80 rubles, I was afraid to suck in front of Russians. Step outside the comfort zone...here we go. A 16-year-old freshman Sasha asked me if I wanted to play with him. How can I refuse? We started playing. Playing turned into talking. Talking turned into exchanging phone numbers and promises that we'll do this again next Tuesday. Outside of the comfort zone isn't so bad, even if I can't understand half of what he said. As the sun set, I asked him if he was taking the Metro. He flashed a smile and shook his head, "No, in a car." O MGIMO, you Garvard of Russia.
An extra voice reverberated in the apartment when I got back an hour later. Zhenya, the mucisian-linguist and my host sister (get this) Zhenya's brother, came over again. We talked about music and languages, laughed over the poorly written Russian-Chinese phrase book. He taught me some guitar and I taught him some Chinese. There was no time for reading polisci papers in English, no time to think about useless thoughts and feelings in the comfort zone.

Ciao, Istanbul. Privet, Dunia

If my mind was still in Istanbul, the gray chill coupled with a renewed fear toward cops jerked me back to the gloom of Moscow. Autumn is here to stay this time, it seems. The plane ride was mostly uneventful, though getting to passport control took a little teamwork and American assholism. Everyone else lamented the end of our Turkish fling; I've had enough of Turkey to last me until a future PCS there. If never, I wouldn't think twice about it; the world's too big to linger. I felt my Russian--such as it is--leaving my brain, and I wanted it back.

Random...Just because she's so adorable, just because I can, and just because she took her first steps toward me, here's more of Dunia...

Istanbul: Para Agua y Soledad

Upon reading that there are no cars on the Princes' Islands (turned out to be only mostly true), I needed no further convincing. I got the whole group to come with minimal effort; a boat trip to exotic islands is crack-esque: it sells itself.
Following an outdoor lunch beneath a bridge spanning the Golden Horn, we embarked on the 1.5-hr journey to Buyukada Island (I'm too lazy to put the two German dots above the u's). It all reminded me of my boat trips back in Taiwan last month, and for an instant I missed my island, my family and friends. I love the water, the trail of white foam assuring me that we know our way back despite the vastness of the sea.
There's a serious cat infestation on this island, and I wished I could take them all home. They sunbathed on boats, strolled about the deserted streets, stood on the steps and porches of unoccupied and uninteresting European houses. Between dealing with a scamming horse carriageman and finding our way back to the port, there wasn't enough time to explore the parts I really wanted: the forests in the heart of the island. The expedition was well worth the trade, though. Along the way we hugged the beautiful northern coastline, and I had never seen so many jellyfish in their natural habitat. I was very pleased. I wouldn't have minded staying there for a day or two, despite the kid who made a crusty old Asian imitation upon my passing.
Truthfully, I had wanted to fly solo in the planning stage, but once we got going, I was glad to have the group to talk and laugh with on the boat and meander together aim-/cluelessly on an island that spoke not our tongue. In time, the conversation fell upon the issues with parents on the boat ride back, and the Greek sage was right: Everyone else is fighting a harder battle. Maybe not everyone, but that's enough for me.
Now let's burn some bridges. I loved the company over dinner followed by apple tea and expensive dessert, but our group seemed to have trouble paying bills in full. The concept of putting more than necessary and getting change back later remains out of reach for some, though I was happy to lay down the extra lira (or two, or three...) just so we could get the show on the road. Once, I understand. Twice, someone is just not pulling their weight out of their wallet. Not cool, and there would be no thrice.
I got my wish on the last day. Owing to the aforementioned estrogen imbalance, I alone thought about visiting the Aviation Museum. Fourty-five liras lighter, I haven't felt so free since my 4-hr penetration into the heart of Frankfurt. No one to follow, no one to lead, I read every posting and satisfied my gluttony for photos. It didn't matter that I must've looked completely pathetic and silly running back and forth between a bench and the static ATG display just to get the shot I wanted. It was all my time and mine alone. Once again, I had the pleasure of meeting foreign military personnel and talking with them about things that only we appreciate. You see, even when I'm alone, I'm not alone.