I Don't Do Ram

Look, I don't know what this is. You don't know what this. The only people who know what this is are the Russians in the grocery store. And being on a solo shopping expedition, I was in no position to ask.

The stores were getting a little low at Dom Dodson. So I put in a request for a driver and Maxim was volunteered. A decidedly non-English speaking Russian, Maxim was none too loquacious on our way to the supermarket. Of course, being a decidedly non-Russian speaking American, neither was I.


It's snowing rather steadily here today. Quite pretty, actually. As long as you don't look at the cars.


This is every car and truck in Moscow. There's simply no way to avoid it. There's just not. The slushy mix of snow and dirt that is every street spatters everything all the time. Only the narrow side streets behind apartment buildings tend to stay picturesquely packed.


That's the narrow drive behind my building as of this afternoon.

So I grabbed a cart and sprinted through the store, grabbing things with pictures on them or things I could actually see. Dannon strawberry yogurt. A few slices of Italian salami. Juice with a picture of mangoes on the bottle. Bag of ram meat -- no. Moving on. Discus of frozen pizza. Trapezoid of cheese. A box with a picture of milk splashing into a bowl of flakes. Looks good. Got it. Moving on. Need yablakie. Where are those nice Braeburns they had here a couple of weeks ago? Don't see 'em. Have to settle for these green ones. Got it. Moving on.

You have to bag the stuff yourself as the checker scans it. Which is fine, of course. I paid, then wrangled it all back out to the car waiting outside, rapidly disappearing under accumulating snow.


This is what you get for just under 3000 Roubles.

Treason

A man searches all his life for that one thing that will make him settle down. It must keep him warm, caress him, civilize him, be a daily companion. Some cross continents in search of it. Some find it right under their own nose. Some never find it at all. I am lucky.

For today, I am a man.


The shower here is amazing. There. I said it. It makes my shower in the U.S. seem like a squirt gun. My Moscow shower is Victoria Falls.

I must now seriously reconsider where I want to put down roots. It may be right here:

We Interrupt Our Regularly Scheduled Whatever

Several of you are aware that many loud and certain claims were made about our ability to blog from the MV Islander, way out in the Pacific at Isla Guadalupe a few weeks ago. Our intention, of course, was to keep a moment-to-moment blog of our up close and personal encounter with great white sharks. The sharks kept their side of the bargain but it turned out that the promised internet connection was lost at sea.

So here now, as a make-good, and without further delay, is a (very) small assortment of photos I took whilst on the expedition. It also happens to represent the last time I saw the sun in any real quantity.

Oh, and please keep your hands and arms inside the cage at all times...

The Seven Sisters

Stalin wanted to build a skyscraper. Intended to be a great monument, a triumph, a wonder of the world, in 1940 he started the "Palace of Soviets".


But the war interrupted. And even though the steel structure had been erected, it was dismantled in order to provide material for the Moscow defense ring. After WWII Stalin was concerned that, having won the war, foreigners would come to Moscow and there'd be no skyscrapers. This would constitute a moral blow to the pride of Russia.

So, in a secret process, up and coming architects were selected and buildings were awarded according to the architect's current prestige. Stalin directed that the buildings follow in a certain Gothic tradition, allegedly inspired by the Manhattan Municipal Building in New York City:


A lot more buildings were designed than were eventually built. Seven made it. Due to a general lack of engineering experience for this sort of thing, the structures were overbuilt. Some of the concrete foundations were over 21 feet thick.

Less than a quarter mile from my apartment is the Moscow River. And across the Moscow River is the Hotel Ukraina. It is second tallest of the Sisters and currently billed as the tallest hotel in Europe.

Misdirection

It snows as effortlessly here as it sunshines in Los Angeles. But this can sometimes lead to something of a pedestrian minefield. Patches of ice lie just beneath an inviting cushion of fluff. You often see people walking as though trying to cross a pond on lily pads, hopping from one island of clear pavement to the next. Not that that's unique to Moscow, of course.

Oil In the Sky

Ten years ago there were no skyscrapers in Moscow. But the sudden deluge of petro dollars coupled with the collapse of the Soviet Union has created a real boom town. Now high-rises are going up and Moscow is starting to look more like a Western city.

But if you keep your eyes low...

Food Bite

Georgian food is some the best food I've ever tasted anywhere in the world. They've got this thing, it's like a... well, what's the point? Anyway, I thought I'd provide a quick look into the rambunctious repast. I can't tell you how good it feels to hear yourself referred to, in toast after toast, as "our new American brother!"

Hitler Kaput!

The movie is called HITLER KAPUT! As some of you know, the film is a lunatic comedy in the tradition of AIRPLANE or the NAKED GUN movies. It's about a Russian spy undercover as a high ranking officer in the Third Reich near the end of the war. It's a Russian language film, which makes it a wonderful challenge to cut. But since most of the film is sight gags anyway, the language becomes easily universal. Funny is funny. Here. In the US. Anywhere.


I've never laughed so hard while working in my life. The movie hits Russian theaters April 24 and, if you ask me, has a chance at being one of the biggest movies of the year. It then moves west to the rest of Europe shortly after.


Russia's experience during WWII is a bit of a sacred cow here so there's some question as to how the older generation is going to take it. But the younger audiences will lap it up. They've never seen anything like it here. Ever.

Georgia On My Mind

Okay, first let's take care of some business. This is the building in which I live.


As I mentioned earlier, this is one of the many, many such buildings Kruschev erected in an effort to make sure everyone had a decent place to live. They're ugly. They're showing their age. But they are archetypically Moscow.

This is across the street from where I live. I see it out my windows.


This statue is on the property of the World Trade Center. There are a number of shops and services in there, very handy for the likes of me.

Now. On with the evening.


One of Marius' friends here is a girl named Sophie. Her grandfather was the Soviet Foreign Minister during the Gorbachev years and was later president of Georgia. I won't name names but it begins with a 'Shevar' and ends with a 'dnaze.' In any case, Sophie is an anchor on the English language station "Russia Today" -- although she admits to adopting something of an English accent when reading the news.

In any case, being from Georgia, nothing makes her happier than when friends are enjoying Georgian hospitality and their remarkable food. So tonight, Marius and I joined her and a gaggle of her friends at a restaurant near the Old Arbot in central Moscow. And quite frankly, the food was mindblowing. The cheeses were staggering. And then there are the toasts.

Toasts are the epitome of Georgian gatherings. The longer the better. But they're quite beautiful, usually about friends or the preciousness of life and laughter with friends or the treasure of friendship. You get the idea. But one toast must remember and celebrate the departed family and friends who are not with us. There is a Georgian saying that the wine we drink in happiness and friendship fills a river that runs to Heaven for those who await us. Lovely, don't you think?

After the meal, we headed to a place called 'Pavillion.'


Pavillion is one of those places that seems Russian in the way you always imagined Russia before you get here. It sits on an icy pond around which is a periphery park surrounded by some of the most expensive residential real estate in the country. And yet at the same time it could be Gramercy Park. Perhaps this is why I feel so at home here -- it reminds me of New York.


Inside, is a creamy, candle-lit room, modern enough to feel contemporary, relaxed enough to feel warm, with a view out at the frozen pond.



We had desert, talked, laughed some more. It's what you hope for when you go far away -- to feel connected to people whose cultural experiences are so radically different. It's comforting to know we're all the same.

A wonderful, quiet place to be with friends, others in the place were clearly of a more privileged stripe.



Two beautiful girls came in with a Kremlin-sized bodyguard. They took a place in the corner and puffed on hookahs. The faint aroma of strawberry filled the room. Which brings me to an aside; Moscow is a 2nd hand smoke nightmare. All the smoking I have not done for the past four decades may be reversed by the time I finally leave. (cough)


Soon it was just Sophie, Marius and I. Sophie lives just around the corner from Pavillion but she has just bought a new place down the street and is in the process of remodeling. Determined to show us her baby-in-the-works, she led us down quiet, slushy streets to a ninety year-old building. We took the lift to the eighth floor and Sophie unlocked the door to the apartment.

Inside was a shambles. But the remodeling kind of shambles where walls are torn out and framing is going on and plastic sheeting hangs from exposed ceiling joists. And yet something wasn't quite right. There were things in the kitchen that felt, well, recently used. And tea cups sat on an upended box. Suddenly there was movement behind a darkened sheet of translucent plastic and we spin -- there's someone here, stirring on a cot.

It turns out that a couple of the workers are sleeping here. Which is not uncommon but was, in this particular case, a wee bit startling. Without a word, we beat a hasty retreat and Sophie collapsed on the stairs in laughter.


Then we crowded into the lift and Sophie collapsed in more paroxysms of laughter.


We said goodnight to Sophie at her door then Marius and I walked the empty streets to the 'Big Ring', one of the main roads that circles Moscow. For three hundred Roubles the cab driver first dropped off Marius at Polovrskaya then me at Mantylyskaya.

Gypsy Cab, French Bistro

One of the easiest ways for people to make money here is to use their car as a taxi. They're not marked in any way. They cruise the city by the thousands. You only have to loiter by the side of the road for about one tenth of a second and a Lada will come screeching up. You lean in, tell him where you're going, agree on a price (usually about 200 to 300 Roubles in central Moscow) then hop in.

Of course, if you don't speak the language this becomes a vastly more complicated procedure. So far, Marius tells me what to say, ("Polovrskaya!") I wave a couple of hunskys in front of him and away we go. This time my offer of two hundred was met by three vigorous fingers. In no position to negotiate, I slumped in my seat and said, "Da..." Later, Marius assured me if I had insisted on two, the driver would have backed down. Now he tells me.


After picking up Marius, the cab dumps us out on a beautiful street with a long park running in between the opposing directions. The streets are slushy with muck. But after avoiding being spattered with drive-by sluice, we end up in "Jan-Jak", which is pronounced Frenchly, "Jean-Jacque".

Like most places here, if second-hand smoke is problem for you then you're best staying home. Even so, Jan-Jak is a warm, cozy two rooms that look and feel like the place you would plan the Revolution. Not long ago they lost their liquor license. Undoubtedly, their bribes didn't get to the right people. Nevertheless, friends of the manager can get fermented, aged grape juice served in a wine glass.

This Look Swollen To You?

I took a nasty fall on the ice yesterday and my hand is killing me. Also, chiromancers are invited to tell me if there's anything I need to be on the lookout for. Besides ice.

Stream of Consciousness No. 2

Good morning.


No way to treat an Audi.



After work.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Just a shout-out to all my peeps back in the U.S. of A., wishing you all the very turkeyest of days.

Preview of Previous Attraction

For those who may have missed my last adventure in editing, you may find it interesting to peruse www.halifaxjournal.blogspot.com. This is a chronicle of my time on location during the shooting of OUTLANDER, the Viking/Alien movie coming out later next year. Just in case Moscow is leaving you cold.

The Wrong Teatr

Went to go see Kate Blanchett in ELIZABETH: THE GOLDEN AGE. I will not review the film here (it was very, very odd). Originally, Marius was supposed to come pick me up from my apartment but the ever-present Moscow traffic got in the way. Literally. So it was incumbent upon me to take to the curb and flag down one of the ubiquitous unlicensed cabs flooding Moscow.

Marius had instructed me on what to say and how much to proffer but my pronunciation failed me and the surly driver seemed to be getting increasingly frustrated. I managed to cough out something that sounded like "Slooshet" (Listen!), quickly dialed Marius and passed the phone to the driver. A few hundred 'Da's' later and we were on our way.

Now I'm no scholar of Russian language but even I can read the Russian word for "October" and where we ended up weren't it. That is, we weren't at the right Kino Teatr, not the Oktobr. But I got out of the cab anyway and loitered in front of the theater.


Even though 'Elizabeth' was also playing here, it wasn't playing in English -- which it was at the Octobr. I loitered. I considered the nearby Metro station...


I ambled to the underground/under-road passage...


Music vibrated from within so I descended to have a look. The streets here are often very wide, a result of good Soviet urban planning. So these underground passages are common. In this one, a band had set up kit like in any of a hundred subways.


People danced.


Eventually, Marius called and said he was standing in front of the theater. But then so was I and there definitely was no Marius. So I hopped in another cab and sped down the street to the Octobr.

Many of the theaters here have metal detectors. In spite of their insistence that I was concealing something, the guards let me in. The single auditorium reserved for English language films is ghettoed way in the back. You have to walk -- quite literally through the cafe' kitchen, through a hallway lined with employee lockers and mop pails, and finally into a long corridor off of which is the auditorium.

As for the movie, I said I wasn't going to review it here. And I won't. But here are the credits...

Provincial

This is Russian salt!