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.

Istanbul: Doing the Tourist Thing

I could blog about our textbook visits to Hagia Sophia, the Blue Mosque and Topkapi Palace, but you can both find better pictures online and read better descriptions in guidebooks. So why bother? That said, strolling in the shadows of a church/mosque with a birthdate in the 4th century while the entire city vibrates with the call to prayer is an inaffable experience that I urge you to partake. The otherworldliness never wore thin. I wish I had just sat there and taken it all in for hours. A city like Istanbul deserves more than windowshopping tourism.
In more interesting news, there was a revolt named Nika...Foreshadow?
Everywhere we went, I saw arrows that were pointing to Girls, but not really. At any rate, being the only straight male creature in our group, I really could deal with less estrogen. To that end, Istanbul was the perfect city; hardly any local women could be seen on the streets during the day. Male chauvinism was definitely the modus op. I didn't feel too kindly toward them, not with their persistent and sleazy advances toward the girls and racial disrespect toward me. I can't tell the difference between a Turk and a Kurd to save my life, but at least I know better than to go around saying "Merhaba" or "Shalom" to every Middle Eastern I see. Still, they seem like a rather warm and happy people, and that's a welcomed relief from Moscovites. Despite everything, I absolutely loved the hotel staff, who were geniunely warm and helpful and in all other ways wonderful.

Istanbul: What happened at 30k ft?

How did I end up in Istanbul, of all places in the world? Random.
The trip was destined for craziness, and what better place to begin than the 3-hr plane ride from Sheremyetovo to Ataturk International? I used to be a strong Boeing fan, but now after riding on an Ilyushin-86, I can be a fan of Airbus, too. A few notes on the (dis)comfort level:

• thin ass seats and back support
• broken fold-out table. On my seat, naturally
• little leg room, poor Becky
• no overhead compartments in the center of the fuselage, which was unheard of in our concept design class. While creating a feeling of overall spaciousness, that illusion was soon shattered by the lack of storage space for many people's 2+ carry-ons.
• the seatback actually folds forward, which was kinda cool. I had fun squeezing Kristle in her slumber. Poor Kristle. This will come back to haunt us later though...

Apparently the onboard etiquette are laid out different, as well. The Turks are quite a rowdy bunch and incredibly united when provoked. Case in point: a drunk/insane Russian lady started tossing all kinds of vulgarities at a Turk (unfortunately well endowed in the BO department) for whatever reason, and at first all the Turks just laughed while the Russians disapprovingly shook their heads. By the end of the plane ride, she had apparently found the balls to insult the great former Turkish Pres. Ataturk (which to me is like having a Chinese president named Wat Ah Chink), and that just sent bags full of shit straight into the jet fans. The Turks immediately started yelling, and one guy had to be restrained from rushing to beat the Russian crazy woman up. This is when the flight attendants come in, with their short hair and even shorter temper. An unrelated Russian started a second front by complaining about his peace being disturbed, and the Russian lady sitting next to him returned the volley by defending the flight attendants. All loudly and rudely, of course; what other way is there to argue in this world? Personally, I found it all kinda interesting and amusing. It's like a funny Twilight Zone.
Finally came the long-awaited landing. Ok, a decent touchdown...Hey, why's he braking so hard? Ohmygod, the seatbacks all folded onto us like a La-Z-Boy in reverse. All I could do was laugh; this trip is going to be amazing.

Adapters vs. Converters and Why I Didn't Do EE

Nika gave me a three prong US-to-European plug adapter and a two-prone converter. And what did I do in return to her graciousness? I fucked it up. The 3-prone can't even be used in Moscow because "grounding" seems like a foreign concept to them, like "not drinking". I didn't realize that my laptop already came with an adapter capable of taking inputs of both 120 and 240V, so I guess that's how I managed to short out the converter. When the burning smell of plastic and dioxine finally got to me, I gave up and just used a simple adapter, and it worked beautifully with my G-Max.

Not so good with my Sonic 6500. I should've used the converter, but instead, now my $80 toothbrush doesn't charge anymore, and I've resorted to actually brushing with the vibrational power of my hand. Like I said, I fucked it up. Sorry, Nika.

Goddamn the information revolution

There's not a thing I can do right now about Pakistan. No one in Moscow cares. There are no tents set up to collect donations. Do they even do the whole donation thing here? But I can't help but to read about it. 30,000 dead, more families torn, years to rebuild, if at all possible. Where do I fit in, except as a bystander? Do I still deserve to enjoy myself here? Do I still deserve to fly to Istanbul tonight for 4 days of vacationing, staying at a hotel with a pool?
I'm not even sure that I'll remember it when I pack away my $1000 Gigabyte tonight. What kind of sympathy is this?

棕色的捲髮

妳今晚沒放下 長到秀肩下的棕色捲髮

球鞋上還帶著泥 我已知有什麼不同

在燈光和音樂的搖滾中

妳不時的沉默 卻叫我心疼

五、六杯的烈酒

沖不淡 妳心中的憂

洗不淨 妳臉上忽隱忽現的愁

在冷清的馬路上 妳怨這世界不公平

身邊的苦難太多 我無法不同意

在這擁擠的灰色古市中 妳感到寂寞

可知妳卻不孤單 因我與妳相同

在往北的電車上 我的心情隨妳南下

想要擦去尚未滴下的眼淚 卻做不到

才知自己的有限 原來朋友不是那麼好做

而妳雖面對著我 卻遠在紅塵的另一角落

心中的結 仍與妳的捲髮 紮成一球

7 Steps to dealing with a drunk in the Moscow metro

1. Stand away from your friends, that way you appear to be an outsider and not one of the intended targets.
2. Divert his attention away from them by approaching, interjecting and starting a conversation.
3. Invite him to sit next to you on the metro. Be friendly, agree with what he says. Play the Chinese/American ethnicity duality as necessary.
4. Gain his trust, and then probe him calmly and amicably for intel. Determine his threat level.
5. Get your friends off the metro and make sure he doesn't follow them by keeping the conversation going. Some gentle physical and verbal "guidance" may be helpful.
6. You're on your own, get out of the situation ASAP. Try to end on a good note with a goodbye and a handshake.
7. Hope that he doesn't follow you instead.

@TimeOnline

FYI, I’m writing this post from TimeOnline in Okhotny Ryad underground mall right outside the Pretty Square. My sources living inside the Google search engine claimed that the staff here are friendly and English-capable. They are half right. Trying to set up WiFi while speaking in Russian and using a computer running Chinese XP was definitely kinda cool. Everyone should try it sometime. So there, my first WiFi post, from Moscow underground, no less.
Equally unimportant: watching SCPD lectures here is a no go. Sorry Sasha.

Na Dache

The dacha is Russian's summer house, where they can escape from the cities' hustle and bustle. In my attempt to live like a true Russian (I can assure you now of my imminent failure), this trip was a must. The camera's batteries died before I could get a picture of the house, but I promise that in a future post.

Feeding Dunia is always a chore, and without bibs, my resourceful Russian family improvised.

You would never know that the grandmother is a molecular biologist with an article due to be published in a prestigious Russian journal (PNAS?). Oh, she cooks, too.

Away from the city's pollution, a walk is a must. But little Dunia needs to be guarded from the cold. The Russians are deathly afraid of getting colds. Maybe because it used to kill them.



What can I say? Righteous.

To the Great Sketchness/Cuteness that is Pasha

He straddles the line between dorky and, well, dorky. Given enough alcohol, he's unstoppable (to the joy of some and the chagrin of most). Live from Mika's pad, I give you Pasha.