more musings from eastern Europe
It’s been longer than I would have liked since last I wrote. Things have been busy, to say the least. I hope this note finds you all well. Warm, safe, happy and well.
Charles departed for home this morning; he’s currently at the airport waiting for his flight. Let’s all think happy thoughts for him, for a safe return to LA. I predict an unpleasant dose of reverse culture shock for him, likely starting with the drive home on the 405. Thus, I also predict he’ll be back in Moscow soon. We had an amazing time together here; I miss him already.
Life’s been good. Work’s been exhausting, but good. I go back tomorrow morning, 5am-4pm. Two more of those nasty shifts, then a month of 1pm-midnight blocks. I’m getting the hang of things. Every day that I’m there I’m less and less terrified. No news yet on whether or not I’ll be hired; I’m hoping to hear something to that end this week. The feedback I’ve received on my work, though, has been quite positive. People seem pleased with how quickly I’m learning the ropes. One of my editors last week told me “we’ve heard word from upstairs that they’re all very impressed.” Upstairs meaning the Editor-in-Chief and her cohorts; I thought it sounded much more special than that, like God himself had given me a nod of approval.
Jokes aside, I’m really sorta starting to enjoy myself at Russia Today TV. For the first time at a job, I feel genuinely useful. It’s nice to create something more special than a smoothie. It’s nice to not be selling anything, at least not blatantly. It’s nice to have the space to work independently, to do my own thing. This last shift (Saturday through Tuesday) I was put in charge of covering the sunken ferry disaster in Egypt. It was a pretty big deal, and I was proud that I was able to stay on top of it, arranging interviews with our correspondents in Safaga and Cairo, putting together packages, monitoring the wires and keeping our news updated. I still get nervous in the mornings, still on edge and worried that I’ll fall behind, or be handed something I can’t manage. But it’s getting better. Thanks to everyone who’s sent me their support, thanks for your positive thoughts and encouragement. To be honest, I’m doing something here that I never would have imagined I could handle, and I’m handling it. It feels pretty good.
The dynamics of the Russia Today building can be rather amusing, and slightly unnerving, at times. I may have mentioned in an earlier email that, while most of the editorial and journalistic staff are native English speakers-mostly Brits, with a handful of us Americans-the technical staff, the reception, the janitorial staff are all Russians. Funny indeed to witness a British journalist, who’s been in Moscow 6 months and has yet to learn a word of Russian, try to ask the Russian receptionist outside the newsroom to replenish the supply of plastic cups next to the water dispenser. There’s an army of Russian women who are employed, at a startlingly low wage I’m sure, to constantly clean the building. Every time I step outside the newsroom, someone’s mopping the lobby floor. I can’t think of a time that I’ve gone in to use the toilet that there hasn’t been someone cleaning one of the stalls. They wash the walls in the stairwell, they vacuum, they clean up after us persistently. And most of them glare at us while they do it.
The other day when I went into the restroom, there was a sign taped to the wall inside the stall, undoubtedly posted there by one of the Brits. It read: “Civilization is something that does not leave marks on the seat. Please keep your shoes off the potty.” A bit of background for those of you unfamiliar with Russian idiosyncrasies: the introduction of the modern toilet fixture came later to Russia than one might imagine. Until that point, Russians basically squatted over holes in the ground (recall my related tale in my last email.) So, when toilets were installed in the country, many Russians continued to do what they’d always done, only they climbed up onto the new fixtures, placing one foot on either side of the seat, to do their business. The resulting shoe marks on the toilet seats at Russia Today apparently have caused some concern for some of the foreigners employed there. I have to giggle to myself. So, yeah, I’m new at this whole TV journalism thing. But at least I know where I am. It seems as though that’s more than can be said for most of the editorial staff at work.
Moving on, I was in Tallinn, Estonia this week, getting myself a new visa-the visa that got me here expires tomorrow and, so as not to put myself in the unfortunate position of overstaying my legal welcome here, I arranged for another month on a tourist visa (once RTTV decides to hire me, they’ll give me a business visa that’ll allow me to stay for a longer chunk of time.) Tallinn’s lovely. I recommend it wholeheartedly. It’s this almost surreal medieval walled town, peppered with Soviet buildings and Scandinavian-influenced architecture. It’s home to the oldest continually functioning pharmacy in the world (est. 1440-something.) We got in to Moscow on the train at about 9am this morning (it’s a 15-hour trip by train, overnight, in a sleeper car.) Everything went swimmingly. I was pretty nervous that something would go wrong-be it problems with the Russian consulate where I applied for and picked up my visa, or not being able to find a place to stay, etc. But all went off without a hitch. My flat mate and travel companion Miriam, however, had a bit of a scare yesterday afternoon:
We arrived at the Russian consulate at 2pm yesterday-the surprisingly friendly Russian woman who received our documents on Wednesday told us that our new visas (mine and Miriam’s) would be ready to be picked up on Friday at 3, a couple of hours before our return train to Moscow. The consulate had closed for lunch, to reopen at 2:30, and there was a line of surly Russian pensioners, who presumably were there to pick up their monthly stipends, stretched down the block. So Miriam volunteered to stay in line, with our heavy luggage, while Charles and I went in search of something to eat-it’s wise to bring snacks with you on the train, as the dining car can be a bit sketchy. We came back to the consulate at 2:30, and the line was still there, but Miriam was gone. Thinking perhaps she’d been let inside ahead of the pensioners, I went in looking for her (some negotiating with the guard at the door was, of course, necessary.) She was indeed inside, waiting in the visa pick-up line, but our bags were gone. Apparently, after Charles and I had left her, a commotion had arisen over the presence of the bags outside the Russian government building. A security guard had approached her, suspicious of the bags (“You can’t just stand around outside a government building with bags like that! What are you doing?! I think there are BOMBS in your bags! No, I don’t want you to open the bags to show me what’s inside-what if that triggers the explosion?! Get out of here!”) The scuffle attracted more officials, who all began yelling at each other and at Miriam, who stood there on the verge of tears and pleaded, in English, “PLEASE don’t arrest me, I’m just here to pick up my visa. I can’t show you my documents; they’re all inside! PLEASE don’t arrest me!” One of the kinder consulate employees suggested a compromise: Miriam could enter the consulate to pick up her visa as long as she left her bags in the trunk of one of the security guards’ cars. Apparently it’s better to have bombs in the trunk of a car parked across the street from the consulate than to have them in front of or inside the building. So, after picking up our visas, we retrieved our luggage from the guard’s car. He was quite pleasant about it, and wished us well on our journey. It’s always an adventure in this part of the world.
That’s all for now. Keep writing. I miss you, and think of you often. More soon.
All my love, Amanda.
Charles departed for home this morning; he’s currently at the airport waiting for his flight. Let’s all think happy thoughts for him, for a safe return to LA. I predict an unpleasant dose of reverse culture shock for him, likely starting with the drive home on the 405. Thus, I also predict he’ll be back in Moscow soon. We had an amazing time together here; I miss him already.
Life’s been good. Work’s been exhausting, but good. I go back tomorrow morning, 5am-4pm. Two more of those nasty shifts, then a month of 1pm-midnight blocks. I’m getting the hang of things. Every day that I’m there I’m less and less terrified. No news yet on whether or not I’ll be hired; I’m hoping to hear something to that end this week. The feedback I’ve received on my work, though, has been quite positive. People seem pleased with how quickly I’m learning the ropes. One of my editors last week told me “we’ve heard word from upstairs that they’re all very impressed.” Upstairs meaning the Editor-in-Chief and her cohorts; I thought it sounded much more special than that, like God himself had given me a nod of approval.
Jokes aside, I’m really sorta starting to enjoy myself at Russia Today TV. For the first time at a job, I feel genuinely useful. It’s nice to create something more special than a smoothie. It’s nice to not be selling anything, at least not blatantly. It’s nice to have the space to work independently, to do my own thing. This last shift (Saturday through Tuesday) I was put in charge of covering the sunken ferry disaster in Egypt. It was a pretty big deal, and I was proud that I was able to stay on top of it, arranging interviews with our correspondents in Safaga and Cairo, putting together packages, monitoring the wires and keeping our news updated. I still get nervous in the mornings, still on edge and worried that I’ll fall behind, or be handed something I can’t manage. But it’s getting better. Thanks to everyone who’s sent me their support, thanks for your positive thoughts and encouragement. To be honest, I’m doing something here that I never would have imagined I could handle, and I’m handling it. It feels pretty good.
The dynamics of the Russia Today building can be rather amusing, and slightly unnerving, at times. I may have mentioned in an earlier email that, while most of the editorial and journalistic staff are native English speakers-mostly Brits, with a handful of us Americans-the technical staff, the reception, the janitorial staff are all Russians. Funny indeed to witness a British journalist, who’s been in Moscow 6 months and has yet to learn a word of Russian, try to ask the Russian receptionist outside the newsroom to replenish the supply of plastic cups next to the water dispenser. There’s an army of Russian women who are employed, at a startlingly low wage I’m sure, to constantly clean the building. Every time I step outside the newsroom, someone’s mopping the lobby floor. I can’t think of a time that I’ve gone in to use the toilet that there hasn’t been someone cleaning one of the stalls. They wash the walls in the stairwell, they vacuum, they clean up after us persistently. And most of them glare at us while they do it.
The other day when I went into the restroom, there was a sign taped to the wall inside the stall, undoubtedly posted there by one of the Brits. It read: “Civilization is something that does not leave marks on the seat. Please keep your shoes off the potty.” A bit of background for those of you unfamiliar with Russian idiosyncrasies: the introduction of the modern toilet fixture came later to Russia than one might imagine. Until that point, Russians basically squatted over holes in the ground (recall my related tale in my last email.) So, when toilets were installed in the country, many Russians continued to do what they’d always done, only they climbed up onto the new fixtures, placing one foot on either side of the seat, to do their business. The resulting shoe marks on the toilet seats at Russia Today apparently have caused some concern for some of the foreigners employed there. I have to giggle to myself. So, yeah, I’m new at this whole TV journalism thing. But at least I know where I am. It seems as though that’s more than can be said for most of the editorial staff at work.
Moving on, I was in Tallinn, Estonia this week, getting myself a new visa-the visa that got me here expires tomorrow and, so as not to put myself in the unfortunate position of overstaying my legal welcome here, I arranged for another month on a tourist visa (once RTTV decides to hire me, they’ll give me a business visa that’ll allow me to stay for a longer chunk of time.) Tallinn’s lovely. I recommend it wholeheartedly. It’s this almost surreal medieval walled town, peppered with Soviet buildings and Scandinavian-influenced architecture. It’s home to the oldest continually functioning pharmacy in the world (est. 1440-something.) We got in to Moscow on the train at about 9am this morning (it’s a 15-hour trip by train, overnight, in a sleeper car.) Everything went swimmingly. I was pretty nervous that something would go wrong-be it problems with the Russian consulate where I applied for and picked up my visa, or not being able to find a place to stay, etc. But all went off without a hitch. My flat mate and travel companion Miriam, however, had a bit of a scare yesterday afternoon:
We arrived at the Russian consulate at 2pm yesterday-the surprisingly friendly Russian woman who received our documents on Wednesday told us that our new visas (mine and Miriam’s) would be ready to be picked up on Friday at 3, a couple of hours before our return train to Moscow. The consulate had closed for lunch, to reopen at 2:30, and there was a line of surly Russian pensioners, who presumably were there to pick up their monthly stipends, stretched down the block. So Miriam volunteered to stay in line, with our heavy luggage, while Charles and I went in search of something to eat-it’s wise to bring snacks with you on the train, as the dining car can be a bit sketchy. We came back to the consulate at 2:30, and the line was still there, but Miriam was gone. Thinking perhaps she’d been let inside ahead of the pensioners, I went in looking for her (some negotiating with the guard at the door was, of course, necessary.) She was indeed inside, waiting in the visa pick-up line, but our bags were gone. Apparently, after Charles and I had left her, a commotion had arisen over the presence of the bags outside the Russian government building. A security guard had approached her, suspicious of the bags (“You can’t just stand around outside a government building with bags like that! What are you doing?! I think there are BOMBS in your bags! No, I don’t want you to open the bags to show me what’s inside-what if that triggers the explosion?! Get out of here!”) The scuffle attracted more officials, who all began yelling at each other and at Miriam, who stood there on the verge of tears and pleaded, in English, “PLEASE don’t arrest me, I’m just here to pick up my visa. I can’t show you my documents; they’re all inside! PLEASE don’t arrest me!” One of the kinder consulate employees suggested a compromise: Miriam could enter the consulate to pick up her visa as long as she left her bags in the trunk of one of the security guards’ cars. Apparently it’s better to have bombs in the trunk of a car parked across the street from the consulate than to have them in front of or inside the building. So, after picking up our visas, we retrieved our luggage from the guard’s car. He was quite pleasant about it, and wished us well on our journey. It’s always an adventure in this part of the world.
That’s all for now. Keep writing. I miss you, and think of you often. More soon.
All my love, Amanda.