Россия
The rain followed me to Russia. The forecast predicts showers lasting two weeks, with a few days slanted toward cloudy or snowy. Doom! That’ll be almost two months of rain!
We decided not to register me at the police station because A) I got the invitation through a travel agency that I’m not really using and B) You have to wait in really long lines and C) Her lawyer friend said not to bother because D) The cops don’t stop women and demand bribes, only men. I’m not sure how I feel about it entirely, my 72 hour window ends tomorrow, so there’s still time to change my mind.
Right now I would really like to use the bathroom, but Gallina, Sashca’s grandmother is in the bathroom listening to the radio very loudly and doing something to the washing machine. The light fixtures above me are quite pretty, though, and there is what appears to be a very heavy duty rug nailed to the wall behind the pull out bed. Russian books are lined up behind glass and the ubiquitous ceramic figurines you see throughout Eastern Europe. Some of them are really creepy. Bears, and ducks and children and what appear to be monsters but which Sash tells me are gnomes. The immense wardrobe cabinets don’t stretch up top the ceiling because the ceilings in here are twelve feet high. But the heat isn’t rising. The heat is staying right at body level and I’m almost sweating, sitting still. Babushka probably feels the cold but I don’t and I’m used to being cold during the winter. That comes from being raised in a house where the thermostat didn’t go about 60 degrees, and the apartment in Romania never quite gets warm. Before I left they were trying to finish insulating several tenements in the neighborhood, drilling day in and day out. But they were putting up Styrofoam. Seriously, Styrofoam! On the outside of buildings. Isn’t styrofoam something that never decomposes?
Did I mention that I have to pee? Well, nevermind that. I wandered around yesterday while Sasha was at work and found my way to the Tretyakov Gallery which has a fairly diverse collection. I like Vrubel and Vasnetsov, punctuating the legions of fat boyars peering down pompously from their frames. There was one small portrait of a "Gloomy" Man, his beard and broad face somehow giving the impression that his humor was as pinched as his waist was not. "Poor Liza," a girl with roses blooming in her cheeks, followed me as I clacked by, her gaze frank. I can imagine a rich man seeing her face looking back at him from a canvas, and tracking Liza down in person to add to his collection, too. She doesn't know how she attracted his attention and weeps when she finds her image stacked at the back of his library after he's grown tired of her, understanding that he wanted the 'look' she had given her painter, wishing he would put down his brush and take her back to bed. It's too bad the rich man had to ruin her prospects in his pursuit, and tragic that he had her painter beheaded.
The airport in Otopeni was occupied. Like, occupied. By three or four hundred American troops. They filled every single seat at all of the dozen gates, wandered in clusters, leaned against the walls, and crammed into the smoking sections like the tan cigarettes they were smoking, ubiquitously dressed in fatigues. They were on their way to Mailand. I had never heard of it. Neither had they. I saw them and the first thing I thought was damn, it's a good thing I'm not some international criminal with a price on my head. Then I tried to figure out if they could actually do anything if I were because they were outside of their jurisdiction and in the airport on Romanian sufferance.
By the time I got to Vienna my boots had dried out a bit, as well as my luggage. I'm firmly convinced that the extra .5 kilos that put me over the weight limit was rain water. I was prepared to offer to wring out my bag, holding up the line, but the lady let it slide. I guess she didn't hear me calling her nasty names under my breath when she made us wait ten minutes for her to finish talking to her boyfriend and primping behind the desk. By the time we got to Moscow I felt prepared, fortified by peanuts. They announced that they needed to change a tire after we boarded and I was all for it, as I knew that Sash was going to be late. I wouldn't have minded a whole new set of tires AND an engine check.
After touchdown I sat at a cafe and drew the scales on my dragon, which is as tedious as I wanted it to be. The scales worked out except on the shoulder because I only had a pen. Excuses! To give credit where it is due, I got the idea from *AnnieMsson on deviant a couple days ago. The lovely I was waiting for dashed up three hours later and we took the train, some British guy in tow so he could get to his hotel. The metro is stunning! It’s like Grand Central in every station, but on a more intimate scale. And the stained glass and mosaics at our stop are gorgeous. The tunnels are really far below the city though, with escalators, luckily, but the five minute descent reminded me of the song, “The Ants Go Marching.”
This city feels far safer than Bucharest, and far more established. A pack of howling youths passed us checking us out, but I didn’t feel threatened. And not feeling threatened is nice. I may like this city, if first impressions are anything to go by. Sitting, munching on shredded carrots after devouring cold over-boiled rice in a bag from last night, I am awake hours before anyone else. Their schedule is much like Ioana’s, sleep from two am to eleven…
I was feeling commonality with my father while I sat, listening with half an ear to the language flowing around me. The bubble of babel is unfamiliar, but I can see how you could easily get used to hearing this low throaty burble of language. Reading, or attempting to sound out small pieces of words on billboards and metro signs is hilarious. My mouth has no idea what sound to make when I see Cyrillic, and it's so much fun. I like learning new alphabets, and drawing gives me a slight advantage, because I think of the words as intricate pictures and try to match the ones on my map with the ones I see on the metro and street signs.
Did I mention that I am utterly charmed to be in this little apartment with parquet floors? Everything creaks and it's small and very lived in. Babushka was a chemist before she retired and my friend is now a political commentator doing another radio show. In the morning she trudges into the kitchen, yawning, in her underwear. It's adorable. The door is padded like it could withstand heavy artillery and the furniture inside looks unfinished, yet in the way of permanent installments. Formica and linoleum, the kitchen sink is the size of a salad bowl and the tiles in the bathroom are new. Sasha sat on the couch and cried when she learned of the impending renovation. She’s such a lovely ducky, and she’s going to come running with me if she decides her sneakers aren't too tight. I hope. I wonder if I could live in this city, I suppose I’ll have to see what I can see.
We decided not to register me at the police station because A) I got the invitation through a travel agency that I’m not really using and B) You have to wait in really long lines and C) Her lawyer friend said not to bother because D) The cops don’t stop women and demand bribes, only men. I’m not sure how I feel about it entirely, my 72 hour window ends tomorrow, so there’s still time to change my mind.
Right now I would really like to use the bathroom, but Gallina, Sashca’s grandmother is in the bathroom listening to the radio very loudly and doing something to the washing machine. The light fixtures above me are quite pretty, though, and there is what appears to be a very heavy duty rug nailed to the wall behind the pull out bed. Russian books are lined up behind glass and the ubiquitous ceramic figurines you see throughout Eastern Europe. Some of them are really creepy. Bears, and ducks and children and what appear to be monsters but which Sash tells me are gnomes. The immense wardrobe cabinets don’t stretch up top the ceiling because the ceilings in here are twelve feet high. But the heat isn’t rising. The heat is staying right at body level and I’m almost sweating, sitting still. Babushka probably feels the cold but I don’t and I’m used to being cold during the winter. That comes from being raised in a house where the thermostat didn’t go about 60 degrees, and the apartment in Romania never quite gets warm. Before I left they were trying to finish insulating several tenements in the neighborhood, drilling day in and day out. But they were putting up Styrofoam. Seriously, Styrofoam! On the outside of buildings. Isn’t styrofoam something that never decomposes?
Did I mention that I have to pee? Well, nevermind that. I wandered around yesterday while Sasha was at work and found my way to the Tretyakov Gallery which has a fairly diverse collection. I like Vrubel and Vasnetsov, punctuating the legions of fat boyars peering down pompously from their frames. There was one small portrait of a "Gloomy" Man, his beard and broad face somehow giving the impression that his humor was as pinched as his waist was not. "Poor Liza," a girl with roses blooming in her cheeks, followed me as I clacked by, her gaze frank. I can imagine a rich man seeing her face looking back at him from a canvas, and tracking Liza down in person to add to his collection, too. She doesn't know how she attracted his attention and weeps when she finds her image stacked at the back of his library after he's grown tired of her, understanding that he wanted the 'look' she had given her painter, wishing he would put down his brush and take her back to bed. It's too bad the rich man had to ruin her prospects in his pursuit, and tragic that he had her painter beheaded.
The airport in Otopeni was occupied. Like, occupied. By three or four hundred American troops. They filled every single seat at all of the dozen gates, wandered in clusters, leaned against the walls, and crammed into the smoking sections like the tan cigarettes they were smoking, ubiquitously dressed in fatigues. They were on their way to Mailand. I had never heard of it. Neither had they. I saw them and the first thing I thought was damn, it's a good thing I'm not some international criminal with a price on my head. Then I tried to figure out if they could actually do anything if I were because they were outside of their jurisdiction and in the airport on Romanian sufferance.
By the time I got to Vienna my boots had dried out a bit, as well as my luggage. I'm firmly convinced that the extra .5 kilos that put me over the weight limit was rain water. I was prepared to offer to wring out my bag, holding up the line, but the lady let it slide. I guess she didn't hear me calling her nasty names under my breath when she made us wait ten minutes for her to finish talking to her boyfriend and primping behind the desk. By the time we got to Moscow I felt prepared, fortified by peanuts. They announced that they needed to change a tire after we boarded and I was all for it, as I knew that Sash was going to be late. I wouldn't have minded a whole new set of tires AND an engine check.
After touchdown I sat at a cafe and drew the scales on my dragon, which is as tedious as I wanted it to be. The scales worked out except on the shoulder because I only had a pen. Excuses! To give credit where it is due, I got the idea from *AnnieMsson on deviant a couple days ago. The lovely I was waiting for dashed up three hours later and we took the train, some British guy in tow so he could get to his hotel. The metro is stunning! It’s like Grand Central in every station, but on a more intimate scale. And the stained glass and mosaics at our stop are gorgeous. The tunnels are really far below the city though, with escalators, luckily, but the five minute descent reminded me of the song, “The Ants Go Marching.”
This city feels far safer than Bucharest, and far more established. A pack of howling youths passed us checking us out, but I didn’t feel threatened. And not feeling threatened is nice. I may like this city, if first impressions are anything to go by. Sitting, munching on shredded carrots after devouring cold over-boiled rice in a bag from last night, I am awake hours before anyone else. Their schedule is much like Ioana’s, sleep from two am to eleven…
I was feeling commonality with my father while I sat, listening with half an ear to the language flowing around me. The bubble of babel is unfamiliar, but I can see how you could easily get used to hearing this low throaty burble of language. Reading, or attempting to sound out small pieces of words on billboards and metro signs is hilarious. My mouth has no idea what sound to make when I see Cyrillic, and it's so much fun. I like learning new alphabets, and drawing gives me a slight advantage, because I think of the words as intricate pictures and try to match the ones on my map with the ones I see on the metro and street signs.
Did I mention that I am utterly charmed to be in this little apartment with parquet floors? Everything creaks and it's small and very lived in. Babushka was a chemist before she retired and my friend is now a political commentator doing another radio show. In the morning she trudges into the kitchen, yawning, in her underwear. It's adorable. The door is padded like it could withstand heavy artillery and the furniture inside looks unfinished, yet in the way of permanent installments. Formica and linoleum, the kitchen sink is the size of a salad bowl and the tiles in the bathroom are new. Sasha sat on the couch and cried when she learned of the impending renovation. She’s such a lovely ducky, and she’s going to come running with me if she decides her sneakers aren't too tight. I hope. I wonder if I could live in this city, I suppose I’ll have to see what I can see.