Löst in Translaßion and Korean Food

According to our program, on Sunday, March 30, we visited Portland's Korean Presbyterian Church. The services are simultaneously interpreted into English for those Koreans whose English is better than Korean. For me, an acting interpreter, it was an interesting experience. I put my headphones on and was all ears.

The hall was spacious, and the acoustics were good. I enjoyed the sound of the mini-organ, the piano, and the view of the electric guitars and a set of drums. I counted worshipers on the pews and those playing, singing and preaching, and was curious to note that, not including us Russians, the number was equal: 50-50, or to be more mathematically precise, 15 and 15 people on each side. In Russia, I'm more accustomed to the ratio of a few scores of parishers per one priest.

Although the minister knew he was being interpreted, he spoke so fast that the poor interpreter managed to render, I guess, no more than one fifth of what was going on. And this is my best guess! He didn't seem to mind the pace of speech and spoke in a slow even reassuring way. At times he would miss a few sentences. At times he would say: "You can read it now on the big screen." (Fortunately, some pieces were beamed onto a screen on the wall.) At times he would sing in Korean together with the minister and/or the church choir.

That day, the reading of the Gospel and the subsequent sermon was devoted to the Parable of the Workers in the Vineyard (Matt. 20: 1-16). The Russian Orthodox interpretation says that the parable tells us that God calls for people to come to him. Some people come earlier, others come later, still others come at the end of their lives - at the 11th hour. All the people have their rewards, although "early birds" may resent it or be jealous. The biblical expression "the 11th hour" - at the last moment - is the only one, to my knowledge, that doesn't have an idiomatic Russian equivalent. However, Orthodox worshipers know the expression "workers of the 11th hour."

Hadn't I known that interpretation, I would hardly understood anything. Frankly, I felt sorry for the fellow-interpreter and was very sympathetic. Why can't the minister speak a little slower, I wondered.

After the service, we were treated to Korean meal. There are lots of Koreans in Yekat. I had a student, Lena Kim. I buy food from them now and then. But when I started putting Korean food onto my plastic plate, I suddenly realized Korean worshipers were staring at me. I was instantly apprehensive. Instead of offering us a plateful of soup, they smilingly offered us a halfplateful. I got even more apprehensive. But when I started eating... Gosh! I felt like someone set my mouth and whole body on fire and had no desire to quench it! If anyone had a cigarette lighter and lit it, I would have breathed fire! I could have worked for the Cirque du Soleil that night and have had a tremendous success! I'm happy the fire extinguisher was not far from me! I felt not unlike a fire dragon or that Spartan boy who was hiding a fox under his cloak which ate up the boy's insides! When I had bravely eaten up almost everything I had unwisely put on my plate - I couldn't have eaten more, really, I had to think of my family and daily bread for them, - I finally breathed out with relief: phew! whew!. The American-Korean fly that was cruising above us, smitten by my breath, fainted and fell down, all but dead. We had to practise artificial respiration, mouth-to-mouth method, to bring it to its senses. Boy, when I come back to Yekat, I'll go to my marketplace and say thank you to my Russian Koreans for being merciful for us sinners!

Public transport in America

Public transport in America differs greatly from that in Russia. Subway - or Metro in D.C. (in the picture) - is purely functional. Most probably, aestheticians will not take it as a feast of feeling. In contrast, lots of Moscow subway/metro stations are true masterpieces. If you care for books like 1,000 Things To See Before You Die, you'll find out that Moscow subway is on the list.

Streetcars in America is another story. (Do you like Shakespeare?) According to our knowledgeable coordinators/facilitators, back in the middle of the 20th century hi-profile automobile companies took to buying streetcar lines in American cities -- to destroy them! Why? Elementary, my dear Watson! Of course, mainstream Americans were frustrated, outraged, and desparate... For a month. Then they realized that they had to go to their offices somehow, streetcars or no streetcars. Guess, what happened? Bingo! They started buying automobiles!!! In some American cities you can still find evidence to this story (photo from Philadelphia - tracks smiling at you from under asphalt).

In Portland, the streetcar line is good. And it's free! You don't have to pay a penny if you use it in the downtown area, which in fact means almost everywhere. Hotels and other businesses pay a tax to make it stay free. It attracts people, they say. This is communism in action, that's what I say!

Do Americans go to the circus, or Does the circus go to Americans?

In Russia, people go to the circus which is always at the same spot in town. Circus troupes come and go, but the building and the spectators remain. In America, and many other countries, it's the other way round: the circus comes to town - the stage, the pavilion, ticket booths, acrobats, conjurers, clowns, biological toilets, and all. It may be any spot in town.

In Portland - and I must point out that there are two Portlands, one in Oregon (539,438 people according to 2002 estimate) and the other in Maine (63,882 people 2002 estimate, so it cannot really be described as the MAIN Portland) - we attended a circus performance. It was the Canadian circus Cirque du Soleil (French for "Circus of the Sun"). It was very professional, but for the sake of comparison, I cannot say that something struck me as particularly odd or unusual.

Yet, here are a few things that you may find interesting:
- the stage was not round but rectangular and divided the audience into two equal semicircles;
- it's very international and there were/are quite a few Russian speakers;
- during the break people line up for the previlege of entering a biological toilet, and because it was cold outside, for many people who finally reached the cherished door, it was not just a toilet or restroom, but a comfort station.

If you feel a sudden urge to get a ticket for their next performance or become their sponsor, visit their official site at www.cirquedusoleil.com/CirqueDuSoleil/en .

Mr Celsius and Mr Fahrenheit

We hopped from mid-40s in DC to mid-80s in Arizona, and back to 40s in Portland. By this I mean degrees Fahrenheit.

Background information. Fahrenheit: temperature scale where water freezes 32 degrees and boils at 212 degrees. Celsius: temperature scale where water freezes at 0 degrees and boils at 100 degrees.

How do you convert Fahrenheit to Celsius? It's easy. First, you deduce 32. Second, you devide the result by 2. For example, today is 42°F, with occasional sprinkles. (It doesn't rain in Oregon, it sprinkles!) So, 42-32=10, 10:2=5. Don't deduce or divide sprinkles. If you have a head for math, add 1/10 to the result: 5+0.5=5.5, but if you are arithmetically challenged, don't bother! Now, Oregonian Sunday promised 46°F for tomorrow. How much would that be according to Celsius?

Background information. The Fahrenheit scale coincides with the Celsius scale at −40 °F, which is the same temperature as −40 °C.

Vera from Yakutsk told me a few things about their climate. This winter, she says, has been warm - it never got colder than -40 or -42°C. Children go to school at any weather, but they just cover their faces up to the eyes. Also, they have lots of snow. If one day they become a host city for the Winter Olympic Games, our national team may have a good chance to win lots of medals!

Background information. Mr Fahrenheit chose zero to be the temperature of the coldest material he could reproduce in his 18th century laboratory. This was ice melting in water saturated with common salt. His third point, the 96th degree, was the level of the liquid in the thermometer when held in the mouth or under the armpit. According to www.calculatenow.biz/conversions/temperature.html , he "chose 96 as the temperature of his wife's armpit. Who else's armpit is that famous?" A bright question. Think whatever you want, but be careful next time when somebody approaches you with a thermometer in his hand and a grin on his face. Your armpit may become famous one day!

The 11th day: we start hating each other

Back in Moscow, Yelena Lublina, a US Embasy official who is widely known and respected in the English speaking community Russianwide, warned us of the 11th-day crisis. Well, it has come. Every day we have, on average, 3 meetings. It means we have introduced ourselves appr. 30 times by now. So, we know each other, our cities, friends, pets, families, friends of families, and families of friends. We know what each one is going to say at the next moment and how he/she is going to say it. And we start hating each other for that.

Our 11th day was on March 25th. Today is our 3rd 11th day in a row.

From Tucson to Phoenix to Portland

We drove from Phoenix to Tucson ('too-son) and two days later took a flight from Tucson ('too-son) back to Phoenix, instead of driving there. That’s the way Americans travel. Why bother with buses, when you can fly? It took us over 2 hours to drive from Phoenix to Tucson. It took us over 4 hours to fly there, including boarding and security check-ups. The actual flight was short, 31 minutes and 12 seconds. We flew at such low height that had there been skyscrapers in the area, they would have scraped our plane! It was so short, my neighbor didn’t get half through a glossy magazine offered by the US Airways, and she had to take it along for further inspection. The pilots and the flight attendants must be dizzy at the end of the day after flying to and fro between the two cities. Locals do not go shopping here, they fly shopping.

Fire it up! Ready to go!

We met two enthusiastic people who work for the Barack Obama movement: Ambassador Sharon P. Wilkinson (she used to work as a US ambassador to Mosambique) and Michelle Camp. For starters, we warmed up by repeating Obama’s motto: “Fire it up! Ready to go!” When we were fired up enough and ready to go, they let us peek behind the curtains of the presidential campaign. Sh.Wilkinson: “How do you start? Roll up your sleeves and start to work. And, believe me, it’s not sexy.” Once we established it was not sexy, we fired a few questions.

Q. If Hillary Clinton wins, will B.Obama agree to be her vice-president or foreign secretary?”

A. B.Obama himself said: “Number One in the primaries will not run for number two.”

Q. Why doesn’t Hispanic population support Obama?

A. Bill Clinton did a lot for the Latino population, and it will probably run in the family. So, they are loyal to the Clinton family, and why trade better for who knows what? According to Sh.Wilkinson, Senator Richardson, Hispanic himself, said: “If Obama wins, he’ll be the leader not for Latinos, African Americans or white community. Yes, B.Clinton did a lot, but it’s time to move on.”

Q. Which candidate is more Russia-friendly?

A. People in America do not watch closely US-Russia relationship, so it’s hard to say. H.Clinton will probably follow the line of B.Clinton. On the other hand, B.Obama is more focused on foreign affairs. (Opinion of other Americans we met: Putin rules with an iron glove, and Medvedev looks like a person ready to introduce a “thaw period”. Many Americans are afraid of a new cold war. A few expressed an opinion that Obama was more “pro-Russian”, but when asked why they could hardly give any evidence. In times of troubles interest to the Russian language increses, in times of peace decreases.)

Q. Why do people in Arab countries support Obama?

A. People there think it would mean real equality. They hope that Obama will be more understanding and supportive of African and Arab nations. (We met a few white Americans who campainged for Obama alongside immigrants from Arab countries.)

Q. If B.Obama wins, could a Monica Lewinski scandal occur?

A. According to M.Camp, Barack’s wife will just kill him!! He’s not a kind of person to play holier-than-thou game. They are just a good traditional family.

Q. Can JohnMcCaine win?

A. Yes, we cannot exclude it. Although he’s a Republican, he’s on the left side and can “reach across the isle”. But if it happens, it’ll be very frustrating for many Americans – and many people worldwide - who want a change, who want a non-white and/or non-male President. Also, he’s old and there are jokes about it.

Now, let me ask you this: who is more likely to become President of Russia in the foreseeable future – a woman or an African Russian?

The Great Canyon State

Native Americans: Background

On October 12, 1492, Columbus landed on an island in the Bahamas, which he named San Salvador. Because he thought he had reached the Indies, he called the inhabitants of the region Indians. Until the day he died in 1506, Columbus continued to believe that he had reached Asia, although others knew better. In 1499, Amerigo Vespucci had an idea that a new continent had been discovered, and in 1507 a mapmaker labeled the new land America.

Europeans brought diseases against which Indians had no immunity. The great killer was smallpox. Other devastating illnesses included influenza, measles, and chicken pox. The ststistics are staggering. When Columbus landed on Hispanio;a in 1492, more than 3 million Indians resided there. 50 years later, only 500 were still alive. There is historic evidence that once Europeans learned that smallpox was killing Indians by thousands, they begin to intentionally infect them. The Native Americans took a revenge of sorts. They gave the Europeans syphilis.

(facts are borrowed from A Pepole and a Nation. A History of the United States. Boston: Houghton Mufflin Company, 1991, pp. 11-14.)

Prelude

In DC we visited the Smithsonian National Museum of the American Indians. Mr Smithsonian, a Briton, did not inherit anything from his father, a duke, because he was a bastard – Mr Smithsonian, not his father. He made a career and became a wealthy man. Being mean and revengeful, Mr Smithsonian left lots of his money before dying not to his family or his country, but to the US which he had never visited - for cultural puprposes. For quite some time, the US government could not understand where the catch was and refused to accept the gift. In the long run, after many heated debates and calling each other names, officials reluctantly agreed to accept the British money.

…Our guide in the Museum, native American Ken, introduced himself as half-Pueblo and half-Navaho (‘nah-vah-hoe) and said that the only foreign language he spoke was English. According to Ken, if we compare the history of America to one hour, say from 10 to 11 am, then Christopher Columbus arrived in America at 10.50.

We always associate native Americans with horses, or horses with native Americans. However, Indians became horse-savvy, presumably, only in the 16^th century, due to Spaniards.

In recent years, casinos opened almost in each reservation, and life of native Americans is now changing dramatically. As every native American get revenues from the casino located at their reservation, they drive expensive cars and started to drop their education. This is how Americans expiate their original sin of exterminating Indians.

Before we move on, I must say a few words about the museum. It is very differrent from Russian museums . It is VERY spacious. Our museums have more exhibits and fewer gift shops, cafeterias, and restrooms per square meter.

The Grand Canyon

We crossed 5 or 6 climatic zones, We drove along the famous Freeway 66 (it used to connect Westeern and Eastern coasts. We stopped at the reservation’s restaurant to eat traditional Indian food and ended up eating a Navahoburger (no kidding!). Some jerk had run over a skunk, a for a few miles we enjoyed a nice smell in the van. (After a Navahoburger I wouldn’t have been surprised to see a skunkburger at our next stop.) On our way back, we sang Russian songs, and our wonderful African-American driver Eugene now knows them all.

As for the Canyon itself… What can I say? I have nothing but epithets to describe it: It’s scenic, dignified, sombre, red, proud, prestine, timeless, unyielding, and undivulgeing. It’s GRAND!

To Phoenix via Pittsburgh

Today is my daughter’s birthday. She turns 9 today. Out of her 10 birthdays, this is the first one I have missed. I called her yesterday, at 11.30 pm DC time, and it was 8.30 am in Yekat. The time difference is 9 hours. As for jet lag and all, I wasn’t very uncomfortable, really. The secret is to stay awake until the local night comes and then sleep like a log until local morning. I heard that some people can sleep with their eyes open. Very practical!

Now we are at the International Ronald Reagan Airport. Instead of flying to Phoenix, Arizona, we are going to fly to… Pittsburgh. The direct flight was canceled for one reason or other. Ok, we’ll see another American city, or, rather, another American airport. (In fact, we did see Pittsburgh skyscrapers from the plane. What we missed, though, was the famous Pittsburgh incline.) And yes, I have to set my watch 3 hours forward. Now the time difference between me and Yekat is exactly 12 hours.

Security is tough at American airports. Every foreigner is checked twice. Unshaven men, even if they forgot to shave their armpits in the morning, are checked thrice. This is payment for safety. But every time I undress I feel like a striptease dancer at a work place.

Anyway, our interpreter-facilitator-coordinator Michael asked me about my surprises in America, if there were any. Here you are. Surprises include:

1. No easy access to the Internet. I resent the speculative price of $5 per 15 minutes that we were offered at the hotel.

2. I haven’t discovered good coffee here yet. Most of what I have tasted is run-of-the-mill, to say the least. Starbucks coffee is better, and yet, being a cofee junkee, I expected and still expect more. (Coffee in Arizona is much better, I must say!)

3. Absence of cell phone in your pocket means you will have trouble trying to reach your far-away friends and relations. Pay booths are scarce. Selecting a phone card out of scores of options that you are faced with is a rocket science! There are cards that deduce $1 for each connection, there are others that charge, say, 69 cents for each attempt to be connected, still others have specific surcharges in different cities and states. There are charges for the first day of use, for the last day of use, for calling other countries, for not calling other countries, for speaking Russian… Ahhh!!! At times I think they deduce a few cents every time I just think of making a call. The best thing you can do in case you don’t have a cell phone in the US is either to call more rarely but speak longer or to preliminary eliminate all the friends and relatives.

Figaro here, Figaro there, Figaro up, Figaro down

We have many, many meetings, and I feel like Figaro. I'm scribbling away notes all the time, and when ideas come, they come not single spies, but in battalions. My dear students, beware!

The Carlos Rosario International School is a charter school, which is not so easy to translate. A charter school is a government - sponsored school that teaches would-be US citizens. We attended a few classes. Most of all, I liked a citizenship class. People there are so enthusiastic! I wish Russia's government could provide such classes for those immigrants whose sole desire is to become a Russian citizen.

The school is driven by the wonderful Dr. Hugo Galindo, a man with inexhaustible supply of energy. (He is with the Russia's flag. And our helpful coordinator Michael Melitonov, the gray-bearded guy, is right behind me.)

They have a flag (and a clock, and a TV set, a few other things) in each class. If it doesn't instill patriotism, what does? I saw flocks of kids visiting American war memorials. When and how does homeland begin? With a flag in a classroom, maybe.

Figaro here, Figaro there, Figaro up, Figaro down

We also visited the Georgetown University which boasts a world-famous School of Language and Linguistics. Many professors are followers of N.Chomsky. I found out that prof. Allen Brodsky and prof. Roberto Brodsky work there.

Officials back in Russia transliterated mu surname as BRODSKIY instead of following the tradition of transcription and common sesnse - BRODSKY (may even rhyme with SKY). They ignored Joseph Brodsky and all other Brodskys in the world. I feel humble and humiliated.

Brodskys of all countries, unite!

Figaro here, Figaro there, Figaro up, Figaro down

We visited Montgomery Blair High School in a small town musically called Silver Spring. We stepped onthe soil of Maryland. All the states have their own flags, nicknames, mottos, and branches of power. Every state has willingly agreed to share common currency, advocate common foreign policy, and unite in issues of national security (though state police are hired and the sheriff is elected locally). Washinton DC's motto is Justice to all. Maryland's motto is much more sophisticated: Latin Fatti maschii parole femine could be translated as "manly deeds, womanly words" (Male Shovinist Pigs may like it) or, more elegantly, "strong deeds, gentle words".

There we met a Russian-American girl Samantha Gogol Lynn, who claims to be related to the great Russian writer Nickolai Gogol.

They have a "finger tips rule" for girls there. If you, girls, wear a skirt and you put your arm down and you fail to touch the edge of the skirt with your finger tips because it is shorter, you are sent out of class, girls. Hm.. I think it's a good rule, especially in summer time, when some girls wear microskirts and forget to change on the way from a beach to college.

DC Layout

At times we have trouble looking for a building we need, because there are no numbers on houses. Not normally. Why is that? Our interpreters-facilitators Michael Melitonov and Vadim Erent – both came to the US in their preteens – are very helpful and have answeres to all our questions. I asked them if absence of Arabic numbers is an aftermath, or rather a slippery slope, of 9/11 events. For the first time, they looked puzzled and said they did not know.

Congress established the District of Columbia in 1792 on the land ceded by the states of Virginia and Maryland. The city was designed by a French-American architect Pierre-Charles L'Enfent.
New York is unimaginatively planned in such a way that you cannot possibly get lost. All streets and avenues are perpendicular. (I hope to write about it later.) DC was originally planned to copy NY. Streets running from East (from the Capitol) to West have letters, and those running from North to South have numbers. Our Topaz Hotel is roughly at the intersection of street N and street 17. However, "perfection leaves no room for development" (O.Wilde, The Importance of Being Earnest), and on an afterthought, architects of DC introduced diagonal streets to make the orientation even faster and more efficient. That was the big killer. Diagonal streets ruin the otherwise perfectly planned city. A short cut to your hotel may turn out to be a long cut to a place which you had no intention to visit.

Voice of America

On average, we have three meetings a day, and most of them are professionally fulfilling. Don't run away yet, dear reader - I'm not going to describe them all! Today I'd like to mention our visit to the Voice of America. The enthusiastic presentation was given by Mr Avi Ardetti, feature editor and senior web editor (on the left, and one of our coordinators Vadim Erent is busily making pictures - he is a nice photographer).

I have a soft spot in my heart for them. Back in the 1980s, I had a big lamp transistor radio (tube radio) and listened to the Voice of America. Those were the days! Behind the iron curtain, we could enjoy lots of radio stations broadcasting in different languages. Now, at the age of technology, I can listen to the BBC only. (Curiously, their broadcast wave in Russia is 666.)

Voice of America's Russian programs used to be jammed, as well as most English programs. But they also had programs in Ukrainian, and those were not jammed! Apparently, the Soviet authorities decided that no one would possibly understand this hopelessly foreign language. Or radio jammers were Ukrainians themselves and they just wanted listen to the programs over a cup of tea. Well, we understood too, my father and I. Being a Ukrainian, my father relished his mother tongue and would occasionally translate me something that I did not understand.

When many years later I decided to polish my pronunciation (in English, not in Russian), I used their Special English Programs. Although my pronunciation still wants polishing, it's not their fault, and I recommend that you visit their site www.voaspecialenglish.com. You won't live to regret it. If you do regret it, I'll buy you an ice cream as a compensation when I'm back.

The squirrel community

There are many squirrels in parks of DC. People watch them and feed them. One of my colleagues, a journalist, fed them, too. To attract squirrels’ attention, she would call them: “Come here, little zaika (bunny), come over here!” Bunny!? Boy! After that don’t tell me journalists are full of trite cliches!

We took pictures, and felt good, sentimental, and greenpeaceful about feeding the little creatures – until one shabby pissed-off looking squirrel bit my journalist friend by the finger and ran away busily. He stopped for a moment and looked back, as if saying: “That will teach you all a lesson! And don’t you call us no bunnies no more!” He looked at me then: "And don't you try anything either, you bunny-lover!" Well, it did teach us all a lesson. From that day on we did not feed any mad March squirrels any more in parks of DC.

I feel a trifle jealous of my squirrel-bitten friend. Just imagine. Next time she wants to breathe in some life into an idle conversation, she can say something like: “And by the way, have you ever been bitten by a squirrel?”

Washington, DC: a Few Glimpses

The Ronald Reagan International Airport looked more spacious, lighter, and friendlier than the JFK and the Laguardia. It is almost in the center of the city. As our plane was lowering, I thought we were going to land right on the roofs, and in a moment quiet life of a hundred households would be cruelly ruined. (Photo of the roofs we nearly landed on and cars quietly parked on them: courtesy Yelena Gromushkina).

You can go to the airport by subway (curiously, they call it metro in DC). You may as well ride there on your bicycle.

The White House

“The White House was smaller than I expected. Everybody says that” (B.Bryson, The Lost Continent). It’s true. The White House is smaller than you would expect. I say so, too. Imagine, such a comparatively small house plays such a huge role in the world affairs!

Unpremeditated Encounter with New York

As our transatlantic flight was delayed for 6 hours, we missed our connection to Washington, DC and had to spend a night in New York. Two helpful Department of State officials collected us at the JFK and took us to the Ramada Hotel, the hotel for “Airline Distress Passengers”, as the sign at the reception read. Judging by the number of guests and largeness of the rooms (by NY standards), the hotel does not live on airline distress passengers, but thrives on them.

We were given 4 rooms - 1 room for the two men, and 3 rooms for the ten women. The catch is: there were 2 beds in each room. We, men, were quite happy, but our female colleagues had to consent to 0.6 beds per capita, or sleep on the floor. That's one privilege of being a male teacher in Russia!

The Department of State paid $200 for the four rooms. At the US Embassy in Moscow we were told, among other things, that American taxpayers pay a hefty sum of money – about 60,000 dollars – to cover each IV program participant’s trip to the US. (IV stands for the Department of State’s International Visitor Program). It’s an excellent chance for people all around the globe, who otherwise might never find time or money for it, to take in everyday American culture. 60,000 dollars per person, can you believe it? And we are 12 in the group. What a great country! I only wish Russia’s government would launch a similar program!

In the morning, I listened to the radio. Boy, do I love commersials! Let me give you just 2 examples (they are not fictional but real examples, mind you!).

1. Granddaughter: Wow! Granny! Now when I embrace you, my hands meet around your waist!

Granny:That’s right! I decided to put off some weight <…>

2. Sexy voice: Yoohoo! My name is IRS. (I nearly choked over my morning coffee.) I’m here to give you a hint at how you can save some money. Wanna know more? Visit me! My site is irs.com. See you there!

We took two vans to the Laguardia airport. Our African-American driver Henry showed us as much of NY as he possibly could.

At the airport, one our friend could not find her ticket. The ticket number wasn't at the database, and the only thing we could do was to chip in and but a new ticket for her.

First, my cap, then a 6-hour delay and a missed connection, and now a lost ticket! 3 is a company, don't you think? On the bright side, that's what I call a real-life experience. More adventures are coming, I'm sure of that! Stay tuned!

On the Way to DC, or Six Long Hours

We are 12. A symbolic number. I’m tempted to write that we have come from Kaliningrad to Kamchatka, and from Arkhangelsk to Astrakhan. It’s almost true. We are from Astrakhan, Blagoveshchensk, Elista, Kaliningrad, Kolomna, Moscow, Novosibirsk, St. Petersburg, Ufa, Vladivostok, Yakutsk, and Yekaterinburg. We arrived at the airport early in the morning only to realize that we were to wait yet for another 6 hours because of fog in Moscow. After 3 hours of wait, passengers of the 2 flights – to Atlanta and NY – grew restless and asked representatives of the Delta Airlines for food, according to the existing rules. As we were on the airside already, we had to leave the area every time we needed restroms or wanted food or drink. Every time we returned to the area splendidly called nakopitel in Russian – nah-caw-‘pee-tell, which could be translated either as a “container” or a “cattle-pen” – we had to take off our boots, and coats, and belts, and be frisked.

Once in a while, a uniformed official would come into the area looking for stranded passengers. “Is there anyone here heading for Venice?”, she would shout. She looked distressed. To console her, we nearly flew to Venice, but on second thought decided not to. We could not let down Department of State or American taxpayers.

Delta Airlines representative Mr Nickolai, who was protective of his family memebers and would not give out his surname, explained again and again that the company does not feed their passengers should the flight be postponed because of weather conditions. Passengers, some of them tired and emotional, pointed out that all other airlines were feeding their customers or had already done so – Air France, and Aeroflot, and Swiss Airlines, and China Airlines, and Lesotho Airlines, and fill-in-the-blank airlines – but Nickolai would not budge.

A big American guy who was heading for Atlanta and obviosly understood some Russian listened to a heated Q&A for a while and then explained to his fellow-sufferers: “Russians want food or any other compensation for the long wait. Compensation for inconvenience… Compensation from Delta – NOT!!! (You know “not” jokes?) And they shared a good laugh. Did they know something about the Delta Airlines that we Russians were missing? Or were they just happy to be homeward bound and couldn’t care less about how to spend their last morning, lunchtime, afternoon, and possibly night, in Russia? I don’t know.

Six long hours are behind us now. We are on board and flying somewhere across North Europe. We are fed and happy. Enough writing for today. I have more important things to do now. A Walt Disney movie is beginning.

Moscow

DRIVING HABITS

I spent two nights in Moscow before my departure. On my first night I stayed with my friends, and on the second with my cousin brother's family. Both families are adorably hospitable. When I stayed with them, I did what people usually do when they visit friends and stay for a night: I was fed, and we chatted, and we looked at photos of our families and mutual friends, and I hung about uselessly while the hostess was preparing my bed for the night and the host was talking about his work and automobile. My lovely Moscow niece is not a kid any more. She has grown and is a college graduate, and teaches English now, and we are colleagues, and, oh boy, doesn't time fly?!

In the morning, they would give me a lift. My friends Ilya and Tanya took me to a downtown subway station, and my brother to the Sheremetyevo international airport. Thanks for the lift, guys. More thanks for not having been killed on the way. Now I must tell you about driving habits of Moscovites.

When we left my friends' house on a colder-than-expected morning and I saw a bright yellow automobile with tanned window glasses, I felt some kind of premonition. Once we were all inside, Ilya pressed the accelerator pedal to the floor and the car leaped forward. We drove in the labyrinth of Moscow yards, driving occasionally on sidewalks, scaring away pedestrians and stray dogs, at the average speed of 60 km (40 miles) per hour in a Formula-One style.

A couple of times we found ourselves in a cul-de-sac and had to back off. At one point, when we were backing busily out of a yard, we nearly bumped into another car that was also backing off, from a neighboring yard. Both automobiles stopped, as the drivers tried to figure out which of them shoulf yield. The traffic regulations give no hint at what to do in such a case. After a moment of hesitation, Ilya drove on, or rather drove back. Ours was a yellow automobile, after all.

On the next, warmer-than-expected, morning my cousin brother gave me a lift to the airport. We drove out of the yard at a comfortable speed of 60 km (40 miles) per hour, and onto the main road. As we did, we missed a passing automobile only by an inch or two, and only because it was traveling fast enough to miss us. It dodged and then screeched away angrily.

If you have ever driven a bumper car in an amusement park, then you definitely know what I am talking about. If you haven't, go and enjoy a ride. And don't be cheap - buy two tickets, and do it twice. And then reread this entry. Now you do know what driving Moscow-style is.

Next time I go to Moscow, I hope to stay at my friends' and my cousin brother's places again. They are nice, and hospitable, and give an insight into Moscow lifestyle. Thanks, guys!


CROWD MANAGEMENT

Russia is country in which crowd management is not a science, but an art. As I entered subway stations, I saw long lines of people wanting to buy a ticket. Usually, only one or two ticket booths work. People in the line looked gloomy and doomed. Rarely do I see 30 to 50 people collected in one place who so thoroughly fail to enjoy themselves.

I also see profeteers who offer people to buy tickets from them, Two entrepreneurs were selling tickets for 20 roubles per a ride, while two others stood in a line, one in front and one in the middle. Obviously, they buy more tickets on an ongoing basis.

One subway ride in Moscow costs 19 roubles. But if you buy a ticket for 5 rides, you pay something like 18 RUR, and if you buy a ticket for 10 rides, you pay 15.5 RUR. Therefore, ticket touts net the profeteers 5 to 22.5%. When a police officer appears, the entrepreneurs vanish. Why don't Moscow transport authorities open more ticket booths, especially during rush hours? Bad idea. This may put an end to crowd management as an art.

... Why do I write such things about Russia? First, because I’m pretty sure my friends and relations, my present and ex-compats will not come with baseball bats after me. I’m sure about it because baseball is not popular in Russia and you cannot buy a bat easily, and because not many Russians can read in English, and those who can don’t and prefer watching television to reading. And second, I write critically about Russia because I love her – and when we love, we love not for something but despite something. Know some momma-jokes, eh?

Tomorrow Came Suddenly

For the past few weeks, my trip was somewhere in the future, tomorrow. And then tomorrow came...

As soon as a person knows he/she is going to travel to another town, or country, or continent, he/she assumes that preoccupied look that is erased from the face only at the place of destination.

Before a trip, I:

1) fuss around a little and put on a preoccupied look and a few wrinkles appear on my face;

2) visit my dentist to pay her off for the good news that everything seems to be ok;

3) visit my barber;

4) try to sort out scores of little things that you have to sort out before you go;

5) try to finish up projects thatotherwise would be accomplished a year later or never at all because of item 4;

6) do some shopping.

When it comes to shopping, people fall neatly into two categories: those who love shopping and those who have not discovered it yet. They tolerate shopping as long as it lasts no more than a couple of hours and is accompanied by at least one bottle/can/glass of beer per hour.That's ok, time will come, and they will mature and learn the pleasures of shopping. Those who don't discover that shopping spirit at all are just killjoys, and I'm not going to write about them.

The fundamental difference between men shoppers and women shoppers is that men usually buy things because they have to, while women buy things because they want to. When a man prepares for a trip, he makes a list of things to buy, at least in his head, goes or drives to a shopping mall and buys them. Very utilitarian and somewhat unromantic.

When a woman prepares for a trip, she makes a list of things to buy, forgets it at home, and ends up buying something that was not on her list. One my friend whose name I won't mention out of discretion, although all my friends know I'm talking about Lena now, was once looking for a suitcase, and after a few happy hours in a shopping mall she bought... you guessed it? a swimsuit. Her third swimsuit that summer! Ah, well, it's commonly understood among us men that women have just two problems with clothes: they have nothing to wear and there's not enough wardrobe space for their outfits.

Anyway, when I had completed all the items on my list and six of my wrinkles had smoothed out, there was one more thing to do - to buy a few dollars to feel more reassured on the flight to Moscow and then to Washington , D.C.

In Russia, for one reason or other, you can buy Benjamins only. Why do our banks specialize in that particular banknote, overlooking a fact that prices for goods and services may slightly vary from $100? Your guess is as good as mine. But here is another poser for you: why is it that you can buy only new 100 dollar bills? I mean it. All Benjamins you buy are as new as if they have just been printed out. Curiously, they even smell of fresh paint.

What if you want to sell your dollar bills to your local bank? God forbid, if you have any old banknotes - and again I mean Benjamins only, because banks will be unwilling to buy any other banknotes, don't ask me why - or if you want to dispose of any second-hand dollar bills, or weather-beaten dollar bills, or washed-in-a-washing-machine bills. No way! You may spend there all day, begging an unsmiling lady behind a glass shield to please accept those bills because you have a family to feed. It's all for nothing. Save your breath. You may as well die there of starvation, having stashes of dollars in your poskets.

The dollar had dipped against the rouble, and when I counted and recounted my newly minted dollar bills, I felt not unlike uncle Scroodge on a payday.

Then a taxi came. Riding in the cab, I felt expensive and strangely important. I was a man on a mission. A man in a city of 1,250,000 citizens, according to the last census, and 750,000 more guest workers, students, and commuters, a man with a MISSION.

As we drove, I watched road teams repairing the highway to the airport - repairing that particular highway is a permanent hobby of our local authorities - I watched them and was thinking about all the good wishes, kisses, handshakes, and small parcels to be sneaked into the US that I had received during the past few days. Also, someone had stolen my cap. Or had taken it for his own. Good omen, I decided.

At the airport, the friendly cab driver helped me with my suitcase. When I rolled it on in the terminal, I could feel all the souvenirs I was carrying to my old Russian friends in America and my new yet-unknown American friends. I could feel them with all my heart and my soul, and some other organs, too.

On the plane, I set my watch 2 hours back (Moscow time), first time on my trip, but certainly not last.

the Pancake Week and the Forgiving Sunday

This week in Russia is Maslenitsa, or the Pancake Week, our equivalent of the Brazilian carnival. The only difference is that there are no dark-skinned girls in bikini dancing samba on the streets, as it is too cold for this kind of exercise this time of the year.

Committed Orthodox Christians don't eat meat anymore, but focus on fish and vodka to prepare themselves for the Lent which starts on Monday. Children ride horses. People, mostly women, cook pancakes and invite guests to help them eat them. Those who are culinarily challenged and cannot cook pancakes, mostly men, go visit their friends and mothers-in-law to help them consume them. Russian pancakes are bigger in size and thinner than British-American pancakes. And we don't eat them with maple syrup, but with sour cream, condensed milk, or jam. They may be stuffed with caviar or whatever is available in the fridge. They are washed down with hot tea or cold vodka. Ok, ok, I made it up. Pancakes are not washed down with vodka. Not normally. Not under age 16.

Today is the apotheosis of the week - the Forgiving Sunday. Everyone in Russia - everyone who knows the tradition - will say or send an SMS message saying Prosti menya (Forgive me). The answer will always be Bog prostit, i ty menya prosti (God will forgive you, and you forgive me). In old good times this Mardi Gras, or rather Sunday Gras, was preceded by the Punch-Throwing Thursday on which men would engage in barefist fight. Today we prefer watching television at home instead of engaging ourselves in this nice creative outdoor activity. Alas, another good tradition is gone.

Tomorrow, as I have said, is our Ash Wednesday, or rather Ash Monday. And today... Please, forgive me!

International Women's Day

March 8th is a kind of obsession for Russians. On this day, and a couple of days before it, men pretend they are loving, caring, gallant, chivalrous, and generous. Very good for commerce.

On this day, and a couple of days before it - at work that is, men are entitled to say dubious compliments to women. In Europe and America many of these compliments will result in a slap in the face, but here in Russia girls and women blush, giggle, and behave coquettishly to encourage some more dubious compliments.

On March 7th, all business activities stop dead in Russia around lunchtime to resume on March 9th or 10th. On March 7th and 8th, you can see women with big happy and slightly foolish eyes all around Russia with flowers, usually tulips, and men with huge boy-wasn't-I-extravagant-today smiles on their faces. Those men who have raised too many glasses to women and their health end up puking quietly on side streets.

Once, after visiting my class, a friend from Britain said thoughtfully: "You know what? Out of 12 girls in that group 10 were of different types! One blonde with blue eyes, and one girl with dark wavy hair, and one with red hair, slim girls and plumpy girls, and... Gosh, now I know why Russian girls are so popular in the world!" I know why, too. I've known this for years. I work in a School of Linguistics which, at least in Russia, means lots of girls and few male students around. Look at the picture from our recent cooking party. We have such parties once in a while, together with our American friends. Economically speaking, it's oligopoly! Are you jealous, guys? Know what I mean? Nudge, nudge. Wink, wink. Say no more!..

I come from Yekat

I was born in Yekaterinburg, Russia. Somebody had to. Yekaterinburg, or Yekat for friends, is the first city in Asia and the last city in Europe which makes it equally attractive to tourists, illegal immigrants, and drug dealers.

Ural as the region and Yekat as the first big town in the middle of that region started in many ways like Australia - as an exile for criminals and outcasts of the empire.

Now, I said I was born in Yekat, right? I told you a lie, sorry. I was born in Sverdlovsk, USSR. Yekaterinburg - Sverdlovsk - Yekaterinburg has seen lots of historic events on its way to the 21st century. Execution of the last Russian tsar Nicholas II and his family is one of them. Today you can see the beautiful Church-on-the-Blood at that place (in the picture).

In the Soviet years, Sverdlovsk was a closed for foreigners city. So, I met my first foreigner at the age of 19. I mean I was nineteen, not the foreigner. Why was it a closed city? Apparently, because since WWII Sverdlovites spent much of their working and leisure time producing excavators, bulldozers and other vehicles with caterpillars and/or vertical takeoff.

I decided to start this blog for two reasons. First, some people know nothing about my hometown and tend to think that Yekaterinburg is in the middle of nowhere. It's preposterous! The middle of nowhere is approximately 673.2 miles to the north of Yekat, somewhere around the town of Surgut. I know it for sure because my sister lives there. Second, because I have been chosen to take part in a program for university profs to visit the US on the American taxpayers' expense. So, I felt instantly obliged to the American taxpayers and decided to pay them off by this blog. I also hope that my friends and students may both enjoy it and contribute to it by asking all sorts of irrelevant questions about everyday American life and culture while I'm on the American soil. Don't fire your questions now! Put them down carefully and wait until March 16th.