Sunday, June 6, 2021

London Quarantine Days 6 – 10 and beyond

So, I tapped out on Day 6. After trying various makeup styles (who knew there were so many types of smoky eye???), washing my sneakers meticulously with a toothbrush, reorganizing my digital photographs, going to unknown depths of Facebook to see what people are up to, watching shows on the lifecycle of moths, and all kinds of such fun activities, I decided that enough was enough. England allows you to take a test on Day 5, and one you get the negative OK, you are free to roam the kingdom (you still need to take your Day 8 test; because, why not, right??). So, I took the test, and on Day 5, I got up ungodly early (like, 8 am!), found the nearest mailbox with early morning collection and sent it off on its merry biohazardous material way. I spent the next 1.5 days in nail-biting suspense and lo and behold, got the good word that I am cage-free by early evening the following day.

I celebrated by taking myself immediately out to dinner in nearby colorful Soho. Oh, how the depressing grey sky shone above my head. How the chilly air felt against my freezing arms. It took al of my tenacity and hunger for the outdoors to endure dinner in the open that night (at that point, UK still only allowed outdoor dining and restaurants were packed, which given the country’s less than stellar climate, would amaze even a hardcore Scandinavian). I inhaled my obscenely expensive dinner, fortified by two glasses (or three, who knows) of wine, and ran home to take a long, hot shower. But the point was made – I dined out!

As surgery was still a few days ahead, I devoted the next several days to shopping, sightseeing, and friends’ seeing. Mostly, I walked all the time. I had spent a year in London as a student, when I was poor and lived in the not-so-glamorous parts of the city. While I did visit all the important places, I guess I never thought to pay attention to how pretty the city was. Folks, London is a city straight out of a Hugh Grant romantic comedy. It is shockingly green, with huge and tiny parks around every other ornate corner. It sure helped that the hotel was in the swanky Mayfair, and my hotel window overlooked Hyde Park, but apparently 50% of London is green spaces, and it showed. Combine this with the pristine houses, neat facades, pretty shopfronts, immaculate restaurants, and the innumerable Lamborghinis, it made for a stunning walking experience. Speaking of cars, as I car aficionado, I have to say (downtown) London showcases an absurd amount of luxury cars. I began a daily exercise of sending Son a picture of at least one Lamborghini, one Bentley, and a Ferrari, all parked casually around the city, with one surprise car each time – the occasional Rols Royce, Maybach, or even a Maclaren. Even UberX had luxury – several times I was picked by a Tesla (honestly, nothing to write home about) or a Mercedes!

After gallivanting around for a few days, and seeing friends every day, it was game day. Since my insurance was American, I had to pay of our pocket for the surgery and then send for reimbursement. It did not occur to me, however, that I needed to pay in advance. After all, one pays after service has been rendered, right? That’s how it works for manicures, for example?? Apparently not here. The morning of surgery day, I received a frantic call from the hospital that I have not responded to their emails to pay for my stay (they has misspelled my email). With mild annoyance I gave them my credit card details, and went back to getting ready. Next, I got a call from a sullen gentleman, who informed me with some alarm that he will be my anesthetist (with his strong accent, I had no idea what he was saying and hence, utterly confused as to what his supposed role was) and that (of course, what else), I had no paid for his yet un-rendered services.  After some inane back and forth, I finally realized that he was the drugs guy and immediately proceeded to pay him – you don’t mess with drug guy!

Once in the hospital, a nice man showed me around my room and its huge terrace overlooking the famed Lord’s cricket stadium, and gave me an extensive dinner menu to choose from – all in all, a great start! The Drug Guy showed up, and asked me anxiously whether I managed to pay, and even asked me for the receipt?!! The surgery went fine (I was correcting a badly deviated septum, which prevented me to breathe properly for years) and the next morning, still loopy from the anesthesia I went back to the hotel.

The next few days were spent in miserable recovery – I guess no one told me that my nose would be completely blocked from the swelling, and I will spend a week breathing through my mouth, looking like a fish out of water and when speaking, sounding like an asthmatic hyena. Sleeping was a complete disaster (try sleeping with your mouth open and you’ll see). Eating was pointless since I could not smell a thing, and all tasted like paper. Thus, I spent some more quality time watching British television and its amazing commercials, which can be grouped in 3 main categories:

·         Ads to prepay funeral expenses and not saddle your loved ones with them (the ads all had young people in them; do Brits really die that unexpectedly all the time and how expensive are funerals in this country, for Pete’s sake??)

·         Ads for various gambling platforms and places

·         Donating money to save African kids, kids with cleft palates, adopt an orangutan, save an elephant, or find a cure for cancer

·         Very, very garish ads for erectile disfunction and male hair loss treatments and medication. Good to know what England’s main afflictions are.

Once was able to breathe again to an extent, I decided to devote myself to culture and visit the museums. After a very entertaining Banksy exhibit, I felt brave enough to go to Tate Modern gallery. A huge lover of Impressionist and post-Impressionist art, I approach modern art with trepidation. Tate did not disappoint. I saw many delightful “interactive” exhibits, where the artist inevitably explored the relationship of humans with nature, or objects, or space, or air, or something, mostly deconstructing and reconstructing some stuff, that usually took a lot of space. Two things caught my attention – a bunch of hanging mirrors that were deconstructing how we see stuff (it was shiny; I liked it because I could see myself many times, and I was having a particularly good hair day), and a big stone, which was making a statement about having a place in time or some other such crazy thought. All in all, a great afternoon! The National Gallery did not offer such deconstructing delights, but the Victoria and Albert museum sold great jewelry courtesy of the Iran exhibit.

During my last week, the weather drastically improved and to everyone’s shock, the sun came out. I continued my walks around the city, and met with wonderful friends all over. I could sense that the Diplomat and Son were somewhat anxious to have me back, so I bid glorious London goodbye. As I was about to call the taxi, I decided to check which Heathrow terminal I was going to, only to discover to my dismay that I was actually flying out of the incomprehensibly further away Gathwick instead. That was one lucky catch…

Thursday, May 20, 2021

Days 1-5 of London Quarantine

Day 1

I was hoping to wake up late, but alas, I didn’t. I woke up at 8 and manage to try to watch TV in bed for a solid hour, but one can take only so much of BBC, BBC International News, BBC2, BBC4 and euronews before switching to Keeping up with the Kardashians, circa 2004, for nothing better on TV. It so happens that I am an elite member of the Marriott, and so I get access to the Members’ Lounge. Because of COVID restrictions, however, the lounge was closed and instead, they would deliver breakfast to the room, in plastic boxes, and an inviting brown paper bag with elegant wooden utensils. So, I ordered breakfast, fixed my bed and decided that I don’t want to stay anymore in the ghostly hotel, but rather change to another one in the chain that has more people and possibly open lounge.

9:30 breakfast arrived, and I ate really slowly to stretch time, while watching some more Shtisel.

10:30 – I decided that I need to lose weight while in captivity. Since I detest working out, I decided to walk 10,000 steps. For lack of better space, I began walking the long, carpeted corridors of the hotel, while watching Shtisel on my phone.

11:30 – I managed to get 8,000 steps or so. Brushed my teeth, took a shower. Explored Deliveroo for lunch options.

1:00 – Lunch arrived, this time delivery without a hitch. Ate lunch, made 3rd cup of tea.

2:00 – received an email that my COVID tests have been delivered to the hotel. Went to reception where Icy Lady told me she has not received anything. Showed her picture of delivered tests on my phone, and apparently they were delivered somewhere else. Because, why should anything work?

3:00 – rearranged all files in my computer, and deleted old school stuff

4:00 – decided to walk some more

5:00 – spoke to the Diplomat, then to Mom, then to Son

6:30 – emailed and texted everyone I could think of who lives in London

7:30 – ate dinner and watched Shtisel. Then watched one more episode because I could.

10:00 pm – called for ice. This time, Icy Lady arrived with a small bucket of ice. Not to offend her, took all of it. After I made myself a scotch, spent the rest of night practicing tossing the ice in the sink in the bathroom from various distances.

Day 2

9:00 – underwhelming breakfast again

10:00 – spent an hour deciphering how to take the PCR test on my own. After reading the instructions 7 times, I promptly packaged the swab wrongly twice, and then just gave up and mailed it. I used the excuse of the mail run to take a walk and buy food and wine from a neighboring store. Then I came back, super delighted with myself, and ate lunch. 2:00 pm - decided to go to the gym for my daily steps. I figured that I was inside the hotel, so it was OK not to stare at the walls of the room for a change. Once done, I went and took a shower, and just as I was coming out of it in my robe, I got a stern knock on the door.

It was the police!!!!!!!! Checking on me whether I am quarantining in my room! Which I was. In that precise moment. So they do check….Which also came as a surprise to the NHS person who called me that afternoon to check on me and prattle on the same useless narrative they do every day.

All that excitement killed a couple of hours and positioned me well for an exciting dinner with a (cheap) glass of wine and M&S (cheap) dinner. For I have to tell you folks – London is one expensive city. Or maybe I have lived in Kyiv too long.

Day 3 – more of the same, rinse and repeat with one new exciting events. The Diplomat sent me “surprise” flowers because it was Mother’s Day. It was not a surprise for 3 reasons:

  1. He told me about it in advance
  2. I saw the charge on the credit card
  3. It didn’t arrive when he said it should have arrived, so I had to go back to Reception (Icy Lady was gone and I was met instead by Hot Dutch Guy, who was a lot easier on the eyes, to be honest). It took, as usual, 30 mins to track the delivery down. I think that hotel really needs to reevaluate its official address.


Day 4 – I moved to a new hotel in hopes of finding traces of life, the JW Marriot in Mayfair, across from Hyde Park – an address as swanky as it gets in this gorgeous city. Beyond the excitement of the move, the other exciting event of the day was that I decided to try new makeup techniques. For a good part of the afternoon, I smeared and painted, and tried every single brush in my makeup kit, for some truly frightening looks.

And then I walked 10,000 steps in the hotel corridors wearing that makeup, to see what people thought of that. Judging by the expression of the Middle Eastern man who passed me by several times, I must have looked exquisite in heavy makeup and sweatpants.

Then, as I was reading later at night (after having MAYBE 2 glasses of wine), I noticed a small orb of light dancing around the darkness of the room. Blame it on the ghosthunters show I had just watched, but I KNEW it was a ghost. After watching it move around the room for while, and scaring the scrap out of me, I realized it was just a reflection of my watch on the night lamp.

Day 5 – Lather, rinse repeat. Also, I worked remotely and then realized that I was allowed to dine in the restaurants of the hotel, only outside. It was 10 degrees, but I did not care, I got to eat in a restaurant!!! I also got my negative PCR test result. Shocking, given that I am fully vaccinated, and I had already tested negative right before leaving for London!

Quarantining in London

I just flew in London from Kyiv about a week ago to do a simple surgical procedure. In case you wonder why London, it’s too complicated to explain, frankly. Anyway, currently England requires anyone coming on the island to self-isolate for 10 days, taking COVID-19 tests on day 2 and 8 to make sure they are not sick. The National Health Service (NHS) will check on you and supposedly so would the police.

Now let me tell you why this is stupid and utterly ineffective. Before arrival, you have to register with something called a Personal Locator online, putting down critical details like what seat you are on the plane, what your address is, where you have been and where you are going. Fair enough. You also have to buy online from a random (and huge) list of laboratories tests that are to be sent to your place of abode (in my case, a vast and ancient hotel), which you will then self-administer on days 2 and 8. Oh, what fun.

So, let’s see what could possibly go wrong with this super scheme (it is actually called a “scheme” in the UK).

  • You have to receive the tests by courier. It took the hotel 30 mins to figure out where they were delivered (not at reception). Great start!
  • The tests came with extensive directions and multiple bags and labels. You have to figure out what to put where and how and then where to mail it. I am not stupid. But I did it wrong for the first test. Good luck to you!
  • You have to self-swab with a giant stick and then send off the sample by mail. First, that is disgusting (assuming you have already been swabbed for COVID before, you know what I mean, and then imagine doing it to yourself). Second, I’d think that is putting way too much faith into humanity when it comes to public health – ultimately, who’s to know whose swabs those really are?
  • The NHS calls me every day to check on me. Full on conversations, repeating the same thing every boring day, telling me what to do if I develop COVID symptoms, asking me if I am quarantining home. Now, mind you, they call me on my cell phone, and for all they know, I could be in Australia petting a koala bear or eating crumpets at Buckingham’s Palace. Recently, they have taken on calling me not once, but TWICE a day. Turns out that since I filled out that amazing locator twice (I switched hotels), they cannot put two and two together, and think that I am now two separate people, quarantining in two different places, and they call me twice. Which tells you how well this “scheme” is working.

So, what does a person do for 10 days alone in a hotel in London? In a thrilling series of several posts, I thought I’d let you know in case you find yourself in the same position.

I arrived on a chilly and rainy Friday. I took an absurdly expensive taxi from Gatwick to the Marriott County Hall at Westminster Bridge, a giant and ornate historical hotel facing Westminster Abbey and Big Ben. Killer view! Upon check-in, I admitted that I was going to self-quarantine, and the hotel lady told me icily that there will be no housekeeping for me. I will need to make my own bed (ouch!), and should not interact with anyone. Which did not seem to be challenging since it looked like it was just me and her in the giant, empty, ghostly hotel, located in the former UK Parliament building. She said that there is a limited dining-in menu and when I order, they will leave it outside the door. All in all, it all strongly resembled plague times.

My room was lovely. I quickly changed into casual ware, and sat down to study the lunch menu since I was starving. Of the 10 items on the list, 9 were fried and one was boiled. Unwilling to believe that, I called “in room dining,” which was again reception Ice Lady, and was told that indeed, that is their menu. She recommended a delivery app, Deliveroo, which I promptly downloaded and excitedly ordered sushi. In about 20 mins, the delivery person began calling me, asking me where I was located. She was two streets over, in a different hotel. 6 calls later, and me having to leave the hotel (the HORROR), I finally found her and got my food. That process happily killed 2 hours of the day.

I realized that I will be ordering more food, so I decided to call Housekeeping and get a minifridge. Turned out Housekeeping also was Icy Lady, which promised to send me one. I admire Icy Lady, I do believe she singlehandedly runs the entre hotel and fries the food behind the reception desk. The fridge soon arrived, and I finished my late lunch. That excitement took another one hour. By now, it was 6 pm, so I decided to take a shower and settle my toiletries in the bathroom. I took extra time and by the time I was done and in PJs, it was already 7 pm!

I settled down to watch a new show – someone recommended Shtisel – and it seemed like a great show. It was. One 1-hour episode later, I was fully hooked. I decided to order a (unnaturally expensive) glass of wine to go with my dinner. Since the room delivery of that glass cost a whooping 4 pounds (around $5.50), I decided to go pick it up by myself. I got it from – you guessed it – Icy Lady! In another hour, I had finished dinner, another episode and was ready for a nightcap of scotch (I had bought a bottle at Duty Free). I called Concierge (aka, Icy Lady) for a bit of ice. She brought me a giant bucket of ice, from which I daintily took two cubes and sheepishly handed the rest back. I don’t think she likes me. With this and brushing my teeth, I managed to get to 11 pm and off to sleep. I cannot wait for the delights of the official Day 1 in quarantine (your arrival day does not count).

In other updates - we are still in Kyiv, but Fat Cat moved on to greener heavenly pastures, and we acquired two new family members: Batman (scrawny, hairy, hyper blackish baby cat, that looks like a sickly bat), and Sedate Cat (an emotionally needy, excessively purry leopard-looking cat, which is consistently tormented by Batman by rough playing). Currently, all four men are turning the house upside down in my absence. 


Saturday, March 21, 2020

Impressions of Ukraine

It has been 7 glorious months of peaceful and wintery life in Kyiv. Some immediate and now more long-term impressions for the curious among you:
  • Ukrainians are officially the most suicidal drivers and the worst parkers I have ever seen in my life! I know I have said that about many of the drivers in the places we have lived. Folks, this is IT! Ukraine wins the bad driving Olympics! Driving here brings me to such apoplexy that I end up hurling obscenities of the most startling variety during the majority of the ride. In essence, it boils down to this – if there is more than a 5 cm distance between your car and any other object on the road, another car will somehow, magically and most definitely squeeze in that space. The day a guy entered a one-way street from the opposite direction, (which of course forced me to stop my car for lack of anywhere to go as streets downtown are tiny and definitely not designed with opulent SUVs in mind), calmly parked it in the midst of that, and walked slowly away even though I honked so much, I thought the horn will break, I caved in, backed out and never drove again.
  • Ukrainians love salo, a beautiful ribbon of white pork fat, which appears to be salted or smoked, or both. I have eaten salo in Russia, but the Ukrainian salo is a whole other thing and seemingly has a cult status in the food regimen of locals. It goes down VERY easily with vodka (what else), and each small piece seems to be about 1000 calories each, which is apparently why I like it so much.
  • Kyiv is gorgeous and you can find new places to explore every week.
  • The metro is extremely well connected. And clean. So clean. In your face, New York City!
  • Going back to cars, I have never seen so many vanity plates. They are not vanity plates the way folks do them in the United States – like, the hearse whose plate said “ U R Next,” or the Corvette with the infuriating “Zro Kidz.” No, vanity here is more like AA1111BB. While most of the time such plates in the United States are delightfully dumb, tough to understand, and cost only a bit more than a regular one, getting a vanity plate in Eastern Europe shows status. It tells the rest of the common folk how important the owner is – the more awesome the plate is, the more important and connected that person is. Ukraine is no different. What is shocking here, however, is just how many vanity plates of the “I am very important” kind one sees on a daily basis. To be frank, they kinda seem to be the majority! And then, yesterday, I saw the ultimate plate. It simply said - A0000A. Dang! Who knew that 0000 is a number. I wonder who is THAT important as to say to him or her-self – “Well, this is it. I have achieved it all – wealth, power, influence, sex appeal (I presume). I have bought a new gigantic Mercedes to match all that and plan to park it over the entire sidewalk to block regular humans come near it. And I shall give it the best license plate – a bunch of zeros!!” I seethe with envy.
  • Coffee shops outnumber human beings. There are regular coffeeshops, there are mall coffee stands, there are street kiosk coffee shops, there are the hole in the wall selling coffee places, and then there are back-of-the-van coffee pop-ups. Often, each one within 5 feet of each other. And there are clients for all, all smoking up a storm while they gulp down the bitter brown liquid.
  • The vast majority of Ukrainians speak English! After serving in several countries where that was not a given, it can be such a relief to be able to explain to the hair dresser exactly what you want and not walk out of the salon with head covered in white highlights you never wanted.
  • Manicurists here are amazing!
  • Ukraine is in Europe!!! Which means a lot of easy, fast, cheap travel all over the old continent:    
    • In November, we went to Lithuania for a long weekend
    • Again in November, we went to Berlin for Thanksgiving
    • In December, we went to Spain for the winter holidays (Seville was magical, Gran Canaria – warm, Valencia – filled with bitter oranges!)
    • In January, we went to Warsaw for a long weekend
    • In February, we flew to Northern (!) Italy for a week for ski

And then it all abruptly stopped thanks to the omnipresent corona virus madness.

Sunday, August 4, 2019

Four Hands in a Russian Banya and a Botched Russian exit



My time in Russia wouldn’t have been complete without a visit to a “banya” – the Russian equivalent of a sauna/hamam experience, with the added pleasure of jumping in the snow or having freezing water poured over your head in the meantime. Since even in May, the weather was still pretty wintery in Yekaterinburg, a good friend organized а banya outing at the gorgeous Ananyevskie Bani. Along with my fabulous girlfriend IL, I was given a wooden chalet, which consisted of two cozy rooms, and one wet hamam room that led into a dry and frighteningly hot sauna. It all looked a little out of an old Russian tale, which was enhanced by the fact that the woman who met us at the door was dressed like a 19th century peasant (unless, of course, she just had a penchant for heavily embroidered-bouffant style blouses paired with puffed-up skirts). My friend IL had wisely brought a bottle of wine, and after confirming with the period-clad woman that I do indeed want a “parilshtik” – a person to come and whack me with tree branches as part of a traditional banya experience - we proceeded to order from the banya menu delicacies like salted pork fat, pickled vegetables, sausages and black bread. As we settled to chat, drink and eat, the door suddenly opened, and a short, stocky man appeared, completely undressed save for a large cloth enveloping his lower body like a skirt, tucked under his enormous protruding belly. He was carrying a large wooden water bucket, filled with various types of tree branches. He merrily remarked that he was only bringing those to let them soak for 30 mins in cold water – apparently, the treatment was going to include whacking with 5 types of tree branches, birch, oak, fir, eucalyptus and juniper, all gathered at midnight on some obscure religious holiday. Then he cryptically remarked that four hands were better than one and happily disappeared.

Somewhat puzzled, we nevertheless stripped down to bathing suits and continued to drink and chat. In a few minutes, branch guy came back, again without knocking, but to my shock behind him was an identical semi-nude sweaty guy who, it seemed, was about to take part of the show as well. Somewhat alarmed at that point, I was led into the hot sauna by the boisterous men who really seemed to know what they doing. Both took the opportunity to emphasize several times that bathing suits were optional, and I cheerfully informed them that I was keeping mine on. The sauna was like an inferno. They placed a wreath of branches on the bench, and made me lie down with my face in it. Then, they put a stack of other branches, dripping with icy-cold water, on top of my head, so in fact I felt quite comfortable and the heat did not seem that horrendous anymore. For the next 15 minutes, they proceeded to lightly whack me around with various branches, while frequently changing the cold ones on top of my head. Each time, they changed the type, so I would invariably smell eucalyptus, or birch, or whatever else. It was, in fact, rather glorious.

After all that, feeling a bit dizzy from the heat, they brought me to my feet and led me gingerly outside the sauna into the wet part of the banya. As I sheepishly looked around to see what was next, someone suddenly dumped a bucket of icy cold water on my head, and I nearly passed out. I was so out of breath that before I even managed to start yelling obscenities, another bucket of icy water got poured on my head. Just as I was about to kill someone, the banya men expertly pulled me and made me lie down on a wooden bed. Then a whole bunch of treatments happened, but I was too disoriented to remember them all properly. All I know was that there was spreading of clay, something that felt like peeling, massages with aromatic leaves, spray washing, rinse, repeat. That went on for quite some time and was also rather pleasant. Feeling that I was enjoying all of that too much, the two sadistic men then dragged me back into the hot sauna, and continued with the branch whacking. The whole process took about an hour and in the end, they had to literally carry me into the bed to rest as my blood pressure was all over the place and I could not walk. My skin, however, was glowing and I felt like a newborn. I proclaim banya one of my new most favorite things!

My last month in Russia was an absolute blur of activity. As Son finally finished school and graduated elementary school, I offered to throw him a goodbye sleepover with his best friends, while the Diplomat left for India to see the Inlaws. As a result, five prepubescent boys spent the night in our house, playing soccer, eating pizza and talking nonsense about girls. As far as I could tell, they did not go to sleep until 1 am, and I found one of them asleep upright in a sofa chair – apparently, he “liked to try new things, like sleeping in a sofa chair.” (I also do like to try new things but mine go more along the lines of trying First Class on Emirates, buying my first Christian Louboutins, or very old single malt scotch. I guess we are different.)

The next day, Son and I left Moscow for good - he was coming to stay with me in Yekaterinburg for the last 2 weeks of our time in Russia. For lack of other better options, I put him in an overpriced cooking camp, taught exclusively in Russian – a language he somewhat understands, but still does not exactly speak. Every evening, the parents would come to pick up the budding chefs and we were served dinner cooked by them during the day. To his credit, Son did not complain a single time and seemed to get along with everybody, even if they communicated mostly through monosyllabic sounds and hand gestures.

In the meantime, I hosted my goodbye party, which ended with at sunrise (granted, at that point, the sun in Yekat was rising at 2:30 am), Yekaterinburg hosted its famous Ural Music Night, featuring 80 stages indoors and outdoors all over the city and some 2500 artists (among which yours truly, belting out Country Roads at the opening of the festival with a full scale band behind me!!), and the U.S. Consulate Yekaterinburg hosted its annual Independence Day reception, which lasted 6 hours in high heels and where I hosted part of the program the evening before we left Russia. In between, there were more receptions and dinners and parties and goodbyes, and, oh yes, the packout of all of my belongings.

So, I think you would imagine the extent of my exhaustion when Son and I woke up at 4 am the day after the reception (me having slept a total of 3 hours), zipped our suitcases, shoved Fat Cat in his brand new, garish red carrying case (he was to fly with us in the cabin of the plane for a change), and bid the lovely city of Yekat goodbye. Except that we ended up not leaving. Due to an outrageous mistake by Turkish Airlines, Fat Cat was booked erroneously as a cargo animal, and not a cabin one – the reservation claimed he was almost 20 lbs. Now, the cat is overweight, I am not going to argue. But 20 lbs he ain’t. Despite the fact that I weighed him in front of the ground staff, they said that if the booking said he was 20 lbs, then he WAS 20 lbs, even if he actually was not. And then they denied us boarding. As an alternative, the airline rep suggested we release him in the street. No matter what I said or how much I or Son cried, he was one unmoved Russian man. When I pointed out to him he was very rude, he told me I was impertinent. And so we had to come back to the apartment. I ended up buying new tickets on the omnipresent Aeroflot who seemed to have their s**t together a lot better, and after sleeping most of the day and a hearty steak lunch, Son, Fat Cat and I finally left Russia that same night, to arrive in the welcoming hands of Grandma in Bulgaria the next day.

We spent the next 4 days on the Bulgarian coast, eating our weight’s worth in an all-inclusive resort in Nessebar, and resting and roasting on the beach. (Fat Cat stayed with my uncle, in case you wonder. He is really making the rounds.) A day after we came back, I left the child and the expensive cat with Grandma in Bulgaria and flew to Washington, DC where the Diplomat had already arrived a week ago to start training for our next assignment in Ukraine. I saw him for one hot minute and the next day, I left again for a week-long State Department training meant to prepare me for life in a dangerous country. Having conquered that, at the end of the week I returned to DC and we left that same night for a quick romantic getaway since it was our 16th wedding anniversary. The next 4 days were spent having dinners with friends, last minute shopping, and getting very sick. Exactly 12 days after I had arrived in the United States, and 3 weeks after leaving Russia, I hopped on a plane again to fly to my final destination - Kyiv. You think I was exhausted? Oh, you bet. Not to mention the piercing throat pain, cough and low-grade fever. Welcome to Ukraine!


Tuesday, June 11, 2019

The Russian Roadtrip – Vodka and Churches Part 1


Last month, we took a long-planned road trip through the so-called Golden Ring of Russia – a circle of about 650 km in total, starting in Moscow and going north-east, dotted with beautiful old Russian towns, featuring the obligatory gorgeous onion-domed church or seven, typically organized in so-called Kremlins. (Generally, a Kremlin is a major fortified complex found in the center of a typical old Russian town; the most famous one is, of course, in Moscow, and houses the Russian government, among other things). When I say long-planned, I mean I have been talking about it forever and we decided to go on it three days before the actual trip, which always means great prep work. We also decided to travel during the biggest holiday weekend in Russia – the May 9th holidays (anniversary of Victory Day of the Second World War) – which made the task of finding hotels and navigating the traffic of Russians leaving Moscow to go to their dachas for the long weekend that much more exciting.

Undaunted, we were on the road by 9 am on a warm Thursday morning, headed to our first stop on the Ring – Sergiev Posad.  Without much dramatic traffic, we made the 90 km trip in about 2 hours, and set about to explore the city’s Kremlin. Given the holiday, the entire downtown was closed down, all, and I mean ALL, kids were dressed in military attire, adults were carrying flowers and portraits of older relatives who appeared to have died in the war, random groups of people were gathering in the corners singing patriotic songs, and the overall atmosphere was very festive if somewhat somber. To understand just how much this holiday means to Russians, you need to know that they don’t call the war World War II; rather, they refer to it as the War for the Fatherland. Any town worth its salt has a formal demonstration and a procession, and, apparently, throughout the day, there were 10 million (yes, TEN) people who attended and walked in such processions across the entire country.
 
Sergiev Posad’s Kremlin was as if it came from a postcard or the pages of an old Russian storybook. It had the gold-covered, onion-domed pristine church, the frescoes, the blooming trees, the white-washed seminary and busy-looking, all-clad in black, scuttling about young priests, clutching various important books and discussing theology over simple soup in the refectory. There were also the ubiquitous hordes of Chinese tourists who took picture of EVERYTHING, including of each other taking pictures. 

After we soaked-in the beautiful architecture, we left for our next destination – Pereslav-Zaleskyy. The exact opposite of Sergiev Posad, the tiny town featured an old Kremlin with somewhat crumbling but picturesque buildings and a lovely garden. After a half-hour walk and a deep theosophical discussion with the Diplomat about the differences between atheism and agnosticism (during which no agreement was reached), we continued to the last stop for the day – Rostov Velikiy.

Rostov was my favorite on this trip and has the most beautiful Kremlin on the entire route. First, we dropped by the stunning Spaso-Yakovlevsky monastery on the banks of the Nero lake, where I had to wear a headscarf and drank some holy water, which tasted funny and I had to go to the bathroom immediately (if very blessed, of course). After that detour we ended up at the Kremlin around 5 pm, which ensured that we were pretty much the only people there to enjoy the gorgeous architecture in the balmy warmth of the sunset, surrounded by the quiet of the early evening. Son declared he was not feeling well (he drank some holy water too) and stayed in car, which further enhanced the peace and quiet of the walk through the centuries-old utterly enchanting Kremlin complex.
Rostov

Filled with awe and hunger, we headed to our hastily booked “home for guests” perched on the banks of the lake. Since it was already 10 pm, we went to grab a quick bite. That turned out to be a bit of a daunting task given that we were, well, in the middle of not very much. Our only option consisted of a simple café/restaurant with nice outdoor seating with not much lighting, where several groups of happy folks appeared to have been celebrating Victory Day for a week. So, imagine everyone’s utter shock when we pulled in our giant SUV featuring a shiny red diplomatic license plate, and parked it in front of everyone. All conversation abruptly ceased and all gaze focused on us. At that point, someone pointed out importantly and quite loudly that we were apparently American (he had already managed to decipher the license plate symbols on his phone), and then inexplicably greeted the Diplomat with a hearty “As-Salaam-Alaikum.” We sat down next to them, and soon a key bilateral conversation ensued, ensuring friendship and cross-cultural exchange, enhanced by several offers of vodka shots. I ordered the only wine there was, a particularly horrid red varietal of unknown origin – the price for the bottle was $6, so you make your own conclusions. After a mediocre meal but a lovely discussion on various engaging themes varying from politics to the merits of a sink incinerator, it was time to go back. I offered the rest of the wine to the merrymakers, who happily accepted it but then insisted that we take a bottle of vodka in exchange.

Ipatiev Monastery
The next morning, we continued on to the next couple of pretty towns – Yaroslavl and Kostroma. The Yaroslavl Kremlin was rather large and well preserved, and hence as usual besieged by tourists. We used the bathrooms, took a quick gander to see the church, and went out to the neighboring Uspenskiy Cathedral Church, which featured stunning 16th century frescoes. Next – Kostroma, where we strolled through the stunning Ipatiev monastery complex located on the banks of the Volga River. There, I almost caused an international scandal when I remarked to the Diplomat that there was a group of elderly German tourists visiting. Suddenly, their young and overly zealous Russian group leader jumped and yelled at me in heavily accented English, “If you have a problem with Germans, you have a problem with me!” Utterly stunned, I asked him what exactly his problem was to which he responded that he was joking. We clearly had different definitions of humor.

Tune in tomorrow for Part 2...

Friday, February 8, 2019

How I became a Silver member on Aeroflot in 4 months


The past 5 months can only be summarized with one word – incessant travel. As you know, the Diplomat and Son are currently in Moscow where Son attends school, and I work in Yekaterinburg and fly to see them virtually every weekend. That, or we all travel somewhere else together instead.

For example, in October, we met in St. Petersburg. It was all wonderful and very pretty, except that it rained the entire time we were there. It made for a very soggy experience and we would have to come back in order to actually enjoy the visit.

In November, we all went to India to see the In-Laws in Chennai. It was largely an uneventful visit used to spend time with family and eat good home-cooked food, walk the dusty streets and even snag a few cocktails in the bars that have recently cropped up all over the city. We did go to see the new apartment, which the In-Laws have bought in the city in a luxury high-rise building with a swimming pool and gym, and so much more. The catch – the building is still being built. Thus, we arrived at the construction site, very strong wind causing piles of sand to fly all over us, and not only were we allowed to walk all over the place but were in fact ushered into a shaky (and tiny) construction elevator, whose doors were held together by a rope. Along with my rising terror, we slowly went up to the 15th or so floor, and gingerly got out to step on a wiggly thin wooden bridge and onto the unfinished floor. Going down was even ricketier and hair-rising, if that was even possible.

And then for the Christmas holidays, we went back to Bulgaria to visit Mom, and see friends and family. Then the Diplomat and I left Son with Mom, and flew to Madrid to drink sherry and eat tapas. Everywhere we travel, I always try to find places frequented by locals only. That is how we ended up in La Venencia on Calle de Echegaray. This lovely old-fashioned bar serves only sherry, the happy hour (1-3 pm) choice of Madrilenos. They don't allow photography inside, otherwise you would see the moldy high ceilings, the accounts written in chalk on the wooden counter. It is ridiculously cheap and tips are not allowed. People have to stand up at the bar and actually talk to each other! After three food and drink-filled days there, we flew over to the Canary Islands, where we met the New Year in the balmy 75 degree weather of Gran Canaria.

A few days later, happy and slightly sunburned, we came back to Bulgaria, picked up Mom and Son, and went up to ski in the snow-drowned resort of Borovetz. While Son re-learned how to ski in lessons, and Mom hiked around the slopes, the Diplomat and I enjoyed the immaculate slopes, stopping for the occasional strong drink to fight the crazy cold. After an exhausting 3 weeks of vacation, we went back in Russia, ready to go back to school and work.

And then, a mere 2 week later, I went to Paris for a long girls’ weekend away with some fabulous friends from Brazil. The trip started with an overly talkative taxi driver from the airport, who did not speak more than 5 words of English (and me – the same in French), but upon hearing that I had arrived from Russia, assumed that I was Russian and did not stop praising Putin for the next 30 minutes. Because of the language barrier, it was not 100% clear what exactly the driver was talking about but then he suddenly pulled out a video on his phone, showing the Russian president singing “Blueberry Hills” at some event, and proceeded to loudly sing along with the video. Once it was over, he simply added in his terrible English – “Macron is shit. Putin – real man!”

 The whole three days in Paris remain a blur to me, with dinners soaked in endless bottles of champagne, dancing until 5 am in secret underground clubs, shopping fabulous French dresses in the (governmentally mandated!) post-Christmas sales, and the icing on the cake – a visit to the Crazy Horse cabaret. Now, we have all heard and even seen on TV scenes from Moulin Rouge – pretty ladies in skimpy clothing, dancing frivolously in sexy unison on the stage. The Crazy Horse – a whole different level of skimpy, mostly expressed in a circular bandaid of sorts on the crotch area. Yup, there was a whole lot of naked that night. A fitting end to an incredible weekend.

After all the money spent on clothes, I decided to be a good girl and take the train back to Charles de Gaulle airport rather than pay for a taxi. After reading extensively on which train to take to where, I took my small hand suitcase and walked decisively to the metro. It did not start well (and did not continue well, for that matter) – the ticket machine refused to take any of my credit cards and I did not have a dime of cash. Cursing, I had to get out and go into another entrance where I found an actual agent and my credit card worked. I managed to make it to Chatelet from where I was supposed to take the B train to the airport. First I got on the wrong side of the tracks. Up and down a few escalators, and I was at the right place finally. Then I carefully read the signs to make sure I am getting on the right train. And then I got on the wrong train. 15 mins into the completely wrong direction, I managed to get off, change the side (yup, a bunch of escalators up and down again), and eventually get a train back to Chatelet. Change sides again and finally got on the right train. At this point, I realized that I am going to miss my plane. Highly uncharacteristically for me, I had left 3 hours earlier (I was planning to do some final damage at the duty free), so there was a glimmer of hope. I spent the next 35 minutes glued to the map of my phone, watching the small blue dot on it showing how excruciatingly slow the train was moving. Once at the airport, I cut every single line, begged and pleaded with everyone to let me go first and made it barely breathing at the gate, 10 minutes after boarding was supposed to begin. And then it turned out that nothing had even started there. Oh well. It gave me a few minutes to actually start breathing again. The rest of the trip back was uneventful.

Now some further impressions of life in Russia:

  1. Russians are obsessed with wrapping their suitcases in plastic wrap – you have all seen those packing machines at the airport. They wrap them small and big, they wrap even hand luggage, boxes, gym bags, and backpacks! I will never understand why.
  2. Russians know cold and do not joke about heating. Every inside space here is aggressively heated – whether it’s the mall, the opera house, a museum, airplane, hospital – it’s hot, hot, hot.
  3. Russians do not jaywalk. Ever. This is the most (unnecessarily) disciplined pedestrian society. It may be -20F, there may not be a car in 10 km sight, but no one (apart from me) would even think to set foot on the street until the lights change.
  4. Everyone drinks everything warm (see point 2 above). That includes warm water in restaurants, and, sadly, warm white wine. When I demand cold beverages, I am given distrustful looks.
  5. Every restaurant offers hookahs and Russians smoke them everywhere, including expensive Japanese restaurants and the corner coffeeshops. There is no escaping them – anywhere you go, in any city, you are destined to eat your dinner and watch everyone around you enveloped in thick, sweetish smoke.

The Russia adventure continues.