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.