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.