Grey skies...lifting.

Oh goodness. Learned a lesson about promising a follow up post the next day, I did. Young padawan learner learns on.

I promise I will finish up my mob story in the next few days, but true confession: I haven’t felt lighthearted enough for the past few days to finish out what is a very funny story. My mood has been simmering at a low level funk; two days of abject “get me home now” homesickness followed by a general sense of chaos and powerlessness being so far away while a complete tempest of horrible-terrible-no-good-very-bad is breaking loose over my family. My sister’s husband, whom I love dearly, is in the hospital with recently diagnosed ulcerative colitis that is, thus far, being resistant to all forms of treatment. My father moved out of my sister’s house- into which she had moved her family for the specific purpose of having him come live with them while he was severely under the weather- leaving her and her now temporarily disabled husband on the line for a huge and rather pricey house. My fiancé, who is hands down the hardest working person I have ever met, ever, has been unable to find a rewarding job since passing the Bar exam, and I wish I could be home to cheer him on while he job hunts. Add on top of this that I miss my niece and wish I could be spending time with her while her mom and dad are going through so much craziness. The total result was a rather grey mood, giving the Moscow sky a run for its money.

This is not to say that there have not been high points over the past week and a half. I have been to the Bolshoi theater- not once but twice- in the past seven days, seeing Swan Lake in the same theater where it premiered in the 1700s and attending Tosca, my very first opera. Both very high points indeed.

First opera & first visit the the Bolshoi- not a bad evening!

The other major highlight is that I moved up to the sixth floor, home primarily to Russian students, leaving behind the international student hub in order to immerse myself in Russian language and culture, as best I can given my limited linguistic abilities. Today marks exactly 1 month since my arrival, and I realized about a week ago that if I really want to master this language- which I do, very very much- I need to be surrounded by it as much as possible. In Me Talk Pretty One Day, David Sedaris talks about this transcendental moment he had while learning French when, for the first time, he understood exactly everything his teacher was saying to him. I am thinking, hoping, praying, that if I just emerse myself as much as humanly possible, I too will have this moment. Hopefully sooner rather than later, as I wish not to offend my new neighbors and inadvertently colonize the Russian floor should they feel sorry for me and feel the need to speak English now that an American has invaded.

I have been nonstop watching Russian cartoons, listening to Russian music, talking along with tapes, and attempting to get the file of Twilight in Russian to open on my computer so I can have Edward teach me how to gavaro pa-Russky, vampire style. Two of the Russian women whose third roommate is currently studying at George Mason were generous, so, so generous, and invited me to move into their dorm room. Tonight is night one in my new digs, and my funk has melted completely (although, admittedly, this could have just as much to do with PMS subsiding as it does with geographic change of pace. End overshare.)

Eager for the next phase of Peripatetic Russkie Adventure 2012.

My double date with the Russian mob: Part I

A certain friend who shall remain nameless for the sake of not making too much fun of her (she’s gotten enough from me for the past few days) took momentary leave of her senses on her birthday and gave her phone number to the owner of the bar at which much birthday related revelry was taking place. For the sake of brevity, let’s call her Brittney Spears, since that’s who the bar owner said she looked like.

All was well in the land of birthday. The international students from HSE and some of our more adventurous Russian counterparts were out for a night on the town! We danced, some of us with each other, some of us

(um, and by some of us I mean me)with old Russian men who later bought bottles of expensive vodka and champagne for our entire table; we sang along to crappy pop music the DJ played, and when the bar scammed us by placing three enormous shishas (hookah) on our table that no one ordered, my aforementioned old Russian friend threw down 5000rb ($165US) in exchange for “just one more dance!” with yours truly.

Thankfully, one of my watchful Russian pals caught the man’s words and shoved me- tank topped with coat in hand- up the stairs and out the door before any (further) sketchiness could ensue.

Cut scene to next day: post-birthday sleepiness abounds. Brittney’s phone rings, waking her up from her 3pm snooze, and who is it but her friend, Older Bar Owner! She hadn’t saved his number to her phone, and thus was without the benefit of our friend 'caller ID'. Being a persistent little bugger, OBO had called her the night before (as soon as we left his bar), and then again the morning after her birthday. Repeatedly. From different phone numbers.

Finally Brit picks up the phone, three days, and many, many phone calls later. Would she like to go on a date?

OBO is- loose ballpark here- minimum of 55, tops 65. Brittney had just celebrated her 24th birthday.

Eww.

Also, Brit doesn’t speak a lick of Russian. Нит.

OBO doesn’t speak and English.

And there’s a mere 20-30 year age difference.

Sure, fine.

She’d go have dinner with him.

What could possibly go wrong?!

Pause. I am going to put a little place holder here. There is much that needs to be said about the politics of getting hit on, age differences, and the commodification of dating behaviors. In one night, a) I got a $100 or so bottle of vodka (hilarious, as I do not drink. At all.) and b) had my table’s tab picked up by a (very old) guy who I danced with and c) Brit got asked out by a guy also much older than her. Gender, age, money, sex, cultural expectations are all implicated in these rather run of the mill interactions, all of which call into question social capital, privilege and power. I intend to delve into these…another day. However, the following story deserves its own post, sans sociological commentary (snarkiness, however, is always a given.

So, Brit decides that dinner is on. Our friend Matja from up the hall, always a gentleman, decides that he is going to accompany, as Brit is about to head off to dinner at a bar that scammed us only three days prior with the owner who is only 30 or so years older and who speaks not a lick of any of the seven (no, really, seven) languages that Brittney Spears speaks. Luckily, Matja speaks Russian, and so the lovebirds to be had not just a chaperone but also an interpreter.

Let me take a moment to fill you in just a bit more on part of my motives for coming to study abroad in Russia. My partner and I have made a commitment to one another to try to live adventurous lives in pursuit of the things about which we feel passionately. For him, this is justice and equality under the law. For me, this is women’s safety and security. Last summer his quests took him to Tanzania, where he had an amazing, transformative experience. He wanted me to have the same, to suck all the marrow out of life and sound my barbaric YAWP over the roofs of the world. I decided to come to Moscow to study abroad as much due to his desire for me to have a great adventure as my own.

Clearly, I was going on this date.

Based on 1) the fact that we had gotten scammed at this bar, 2) the fact that the two times I had been within its lavish and expensive looking interior I saw a total of seven patrons not associated with our group, and 3) that the wait staff to patron ratio was inordinately high and these people were getting paid somehow, I thought that it might not be completely outside the realm of possibility that this bar was in some way not completely legit. Cleaning out my purse of passport, migration card, and all but 1000rb ($30), I made the decision to adopt my middle name as my moniker for the evening and keep any memorably identifying features to a minimum. Black turtleneck sweater. Check. Dark skinny jeans and non-descript black boots. Check. Cute coat stayed home, Muscovite standard issue black parka came. Thus appropriately anonymitized and attired, “Anne”, along with Brit and Matja, headed out into the balmy -14F evening.

The bar is approximately 50 yards from our dorm, and as we breathlessly rushed from one warm concrete block of respite to the next we solidified our plan: Matja would be Brit’s ‘brother’, their loving father had visited them both often as they grew up in their respective European countries. I would be Brit’s roommate along for a fun evening. We breezed into the bar, and were instantly greeted by a rather cute, rather appropriately aged man that, for one fleeting second, I thought might actually be the owner of the bar and we had been so hilariously foolish in thinking it was the old creepy guy to whom Brit had given her number was actually the guy we were about to go on a date with. Young cute guy, alas, was just OBO’s business partner, and would let OBO know we were here. Le sigh.

Our little threesome was shown to a secluded private room that could easily double for the set of a low rent Casablanca themed porno. Ornate frescos depicting an indeterminate middle eastern country plastered the walls, and a lush oriental rug and plush pillows softened the enormous booth which encompassed the entire tiny room. Although the table was at an average height to which chairs might be pulled up, the booth was actually on a raised platform, making it necessary to crawl down the long cushion to reach the other end of the table. The room was freezing, and the three of us, having slunk down the booth on hands and knees, huddled together at the end of the table in an attempt to avert hypothermia.

Nervously giggling about the fact that Brit was about to go on a date with someone more than double her age, we gave our drink order to the waiter, who assured us that OBO was just finishing a phone call and would be in shortly. In the interim, quiet, large men walked past the doorway to our booth every few minutes. The temperature wasn’t helping matters, but I was pretty sure the goosebumps forming under my sweater had more to do with the creepy vibe I was getting from my surroundings.

Tune back in for part 2 tomorrow!

How to not die in Moscow

Mode temperature since my arrival: -14F

Step one: Don undergarments of choice. Extra points for cartoon characters (but only if you are over age 12).

Step two: The 'over undergarment pre-base-layer layer."

Step three: The base-layer.

Step four: The clothing you wish to be visible to others when you are indoors.

Step five: The clothing that will actually be visible to others when you are indoors because the freaking kitchen window has a draft.

Step six: The top layer- fleece zip up, muffler, mittens, hat.

Step seven: The grand finale. (Thanks Ron and Barb!!!)

(Expert tip: Use the restroom before starting process)

Proof Moscow is truly an international city

Day 14- First Russian food! Success!

It has been much harder to experience Russian culture via food than American (McDonald's, Burger King), Japanese (gabillions of sushi and steakhouse restaurants), German, Czech, Italian, Greek and, did I mention American? (every mall has an American style food court loaded with Sabarro, Texas Chicken, burger joints, etc).

The Atlantic Ocean in my room

In an attempt to explain the preeminence of the SuperBowl in American culture (and thus justify our decision to stay up until it's commencement at 3:30AM), one of the other American students and I brainstormed a list of the most 'American' events (top 4: 1) SuperBowl, 2) World Series, 3) Thanksgiving, 4)Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade), and inadvertantly shocked our EU counterparts sitting across the room as we began to hash out just what exactly 'American' culture comprised.

In no particular order, here was what left their jaws on the floor:

-American's affinity for parades. Memorial Day, Independence Day, Christmas, Thanksgiving, and so on. Apparently in Germany, Gay Pride parades and Carnival are the only games in town. Ten points, Maineville, Ohio.

-Decaf coffee. The idea of drinking coffee for the sake of its flavor is apparently lost in translation. On a related note: Dear Jesus, can someone puh-lease send me some f-ing Starbucks VIA or something?? I am dying.

-'Pop'. 'Pop' is Midwestern for "soda". This may also be lost in translation for those of you who have never had the pleasure of living anywhere but the coasts in the US. Consider yourselves educated. You're welcome.

-Citizens United ruling. For the record, this is shocking to me as well. As my friend Mathieu so gently put it in his lovely French accent (which made it sound much more sauve): "OK. You are fucked." Yes, yes we are.

-Bill O'Reily. Again, me too.

-Frying vegetables in bacon or other related pork byproducts (Holla, Paula Dean).

American culture 101:

Shock and awe:

Three feet (ok, ok, about one meter- sheesh) and an entire world apart:

Downgraded and delighted about it

In my last post I made reference to the time I spent working in marketing. Following undergrad, I worked for a few different private companies selling advertising and then moved into consulting for non-profit groups after cultivating some skills with branding and pitching fundable ideas. Good clean fun.

In addition to the fat paycheck and the graft- clients were always super generous with inviting you to try their new restaurant, spa service, or offering you shopping discounts- there was a whirlwind air of importance that went with the whole industry. Wine tasting parties, club openings, charity soirees, industry galas, and high priced cocktails in hotels too fancy for any self-respecting Ohio girl to consider staying in...for four years, I cavorted about DC and Miami pedaling ads and whooping it up.

While the glitz and the glamor of all of this swank was shiny and new, at the end of the day it felt hollow. I grew up with more than a little of an idealist streak in me, and had gone to college in pursuit of a career in public service. I wanted to work for equity, to be tugging on the arch of the universe towards justice. But that's not what I did. Following college I got freaked out by the amount of student loans I had, and I slunk into a commissioned based sales job in advertising. While my friends worked their way into jobs doing things that actually made the world a better place, I helped carpet cleaning companies headed by convicts sell services to wealthy Washingtonians. Once I got thin, I moved from the horribly parasitic company I had started with and got into the print advertising business. This was where the fun and parties- and WAY better pay was. I had a total blast selling copy, creating ads, and schmoozing my way through Georgetown. I loved it- but I didn't like the person I was becoming.

In place of my goal of one day being able to influence policy, I now wanted to one day own a Lexus SUV. I wanted a big house, a big diamond ring from my fiance (some dreams come true- thanks Will!), and a big salary. What I had right away was a big ego. My job required a lot of bravado, and I brought it in spades. I was defensive whenever any of my close friends- the ones who knew what I really was passionate about- suggested that maybe I should consider moving into public service again.

This changed when I realized how much I was overcompensating for feeling insecure about my decision to not pursue my original career intentions. With the dedicated help of my fiance, I retooled and applied to graduate school. Here I am, three years post my decision to start taking GRE prep classes, sitting in a (very cold) Soviet era dorm in Moscow City. The lush lobby of the Miami Gansevoort has been replaced by a concrete entrance-way with faint overtones of cat box and cigarettes. My slinky party dresses are wrapped away in my DC closet, and my current wardrobe leans rather heavily on our friends from Target and Kirkland Signature (that's Costco for you folks not 'in the know'). My taxable income is now about what I paid in taxes while I was in advertising. My most dearly held goals today have nothing to do with what I drive, how big my house is, or how many widgets I can sell.

I was in the shower room of my dorm the other day and had a moment of undiluted gratitude for the changes that have taken place in my life since starting grad school. Surrounded by a) no shower curtains; b) mildew; c) faint wafts of cat urine (why is this even in the shower room?????), and d) light green paint a la mental institution circa 1973, I laughed out loud thinking about the differences in my surroundings. Grateful that no one else was in the room with me (did I mention there are no shower curtains? I think this needs to be reiterated a few times), I giggled like an idiot, feelings of gratitude for my life today washing over me as the hot water splashed over my shower-sandal clad self.

I know living in a Moscow dorm with 200 or so other twenty-somethings studying international affairs, economics and sociology is not everyone's definition of happiness, but for me, right now, I can't think of anywhere else I would rather be.

Fancy party- catering by Магйолия

Sumptuous dinner: spaghetti in the kitchen with new friends!

Subzero provocative attire

My first jaunts abroad were to destinations that culturally dictated a wee bit of decorum in the sartorial department. In Cambodia, it was downright inappropriate for women to wear tops more revealing than a t-shirt, and most local women would wear button up long or three quarter length sleeves. In Bali, this was a bit more relaxed, but for the most part it was tourists (myself included) who danced the line between gauche and disrespectful- tank tops, bikinis, crappy beach sarongs for everyone! In case decorum didn't dictate a modicum of modesty, vestiges of colonialism finished the job: in both Cambodia and Bali it was common to see women wearing cotton gloves, long sleeve sweatshirts with the hood up, long pants and socks with sandals on motobikes, all in the name of cultivating as pale an appearance as possible. Slather on a little bleaching agents, wrap up in your cotton hoodie, and your ready for an 80F degree day of fun!

Moscow has inverted this approach. Despite the fact that it hasn't gotten over -14F for the past week, every day I have seen at least a few women in miniskirts and countless in high heeled- I'm talking four inch stiletto- boots, and, points for ingenuity: one in shorts with tights at school (although let it be said that we rocked this look during winter of fifth grade at Kings Mills Ohio Elementary School). Given that it's approx. a million degrees below freezing from October to March, and that women's social capital seems to be tightly intertwined with their physical appearance (yes, even more so than in the US), Moscovites have innovated a number of ways to look hot even in Arctic weather. A-Line cut parkas, slinky fur lined leather jackets, voluptuous mink and rabbit and lamb coats abound.

For me, in the US the onset of winter is like a sigh of relief- sweaters! leggings! Ugg-ly comfortable boots! No more trying to look adorably emaciated in tank tops and cotton skirts. Hooray! Bring on the 2% milk and full fat yogurt!

No so for our foxy fur-bedecked cousins to the east. Indeed, the name of the game seems to be how to dress as provocatively as possible without courting hypothermia on the way to class, club or crappy-yet-awesome dive bar (try Kruska in Red Square...trying to find a link- stay tuned).

While at first blush this may seem very different to modus operandi a la US, I actually think the style of dressing here is reflective of something that translates trans-nationally. I've had a few of the Russian students I've become friendly with mention to me that it's not uncommon for women from lower socioeconomic backgrounds living in areas outside of Moscow will come to Moscow in part to try to meet wealthier men in addition to attempting to gain more prosperous employment. The less clothes=more prospects equation is part of the game- more on my personal adventures with this phenomenon in upcoming posts. (As I have yet to venture to a club late night, I have yet to see this for myself, but apparently in some of the more popular clubs it's women who get turned away and men who are coveted by the club promoters: there's a surplus of young, beautiful women trying to meet well-established men, and not enough folks to foot the bill.) Is this not so dissimilar to the US? Perhaps women don't peg their entire future on their ability to land a well-to-do gentleman friend, but, speaking for myself at the very least, my economic prospects have improved dramatically since losing 100+ pounds.

I promise you, I am no smarter now that I wear a size 6 than I was when I was a size 20. In the first year that I was in a right sized body, my salary increased- I bullshit you not- $22,000. I did not get a raise; I was in sales, and all of a sudden I had male clients who were delighted to meet with me. Let's meet in your office, I say. Oh no! Let's do lunch at a cafe to talk about my advertising plans! After all, what could be more lovely than having a nice lunch in a very public cafe with your favorite young saleswoman wearing a cute Nanette Lapore sundress? It's not my intention to sound arrogant, but the facts of the matter are that once I was thin, my sales increased over 25% in one year, I was offered four jobs in one month (three by men) when I made the decision to move companies, and I frequently had the door held open for me, had compliments from men at bars, shops and cafes, and, notably, one marriage proposal from a complete total creeper client (whom my fiance told off when said creeper called my cell phone one weekend. Thanks babe).

$22K more valuable:

Is this not so different from what's happening here? In DC, it's cold for about 26 seconds compared to Moscow, so we can get away with looking like walking Eddie Bauer ads during Snowmageddon. When I first arrived, I was amazed that women here would go out so scantly clad- how could they stand the weather??? It's not like living here attenuates the effects of the cold- my Moscow pals are just as reticent as I to go out in this weather. But reflecting on this a bit more, if 8 months of the year are going to be spent in subzero weather AND the treatment you receive from others is tied closely to how, um, appealingly you are dressed, it's somewhat a matter of survival to suit up in stilettos and skirts.

Isn't it comforting to know that women's value is conflated with their appearances everywhere? It really is a small world after all!