OK, so since I've last been on here there have been a few interesting things I've done that are worth sharing on this here web space. I've been really busy, and promise to be for the next few days before Durham (eek, so soon!), but here's a brief update on this and that for now:
Upholding a Tradition Or Two:
Since I entered college, my birthday has been largely unceremonious and my Thanksgiving has been away from home.
Back in 2002 I celebrated turning 18 by inviting my best friend at Duke at the time, a high school buddy, to my favorite greasy pizza establishment near East Campus, only announcing the occasion as we were on our way. It was a Monday night. I remember he gave me his list of top 5 American authors (Steinbeck, Fitzgerald, Hemingway, Faulkner, and either Salinger or Heller, as I recall). It was pleasant but not extravagant.
Then in 2003 I was in a sour mood about the whole not celebrating thing, and so I ate at the McDonald's on campus (it was a Tuesday). And there I ran into two younger teammates. I won't use names, but they represented Wisconsin and Tennessee, and one of the managed to wolf down a 20 pc. of Nuggets, a Big Mac, a large soda, a large fries, and something else, and still not feel full. He thought he had parasites. A funny night.
2004 saw me starting the tradition of cutting weight on my birthday, a Thursday this time. I went to an Animal Collective show, and the combination of their music in its crazy live form and my tired, hungry state led to one of the more spiritual feelings of my life. Ok, laugh away.
2005 was a Friday, and I drove down to Pennsylvania for a wrestling tournament and to begin my journey to Duke for the winter. Again, low on weight but high on energy, I managed to make it through the day alright.
As for Thanksgiving, every year but 2003 I celebrated at my Coach's brother's house, and in 2003 I was fortunate enough to be in Oklahoma, celebrating with a teammate and his family. (No sarcasm, I swear!) All the meals were fantastic, and the Oklahoma one especially left me in a panic that I wouldn't make weight for the tournament that Saturday. I was in quite a tizzy. But it ended well.
So here, while I thought that at least on my birthday I'd have huge plans, or at least a ton of options, my day unfolded as follows: Practice, which saw no coaches show up, meaning we could only run. Then I went to check email and thank people (and I thank again, everybody, you were awesome, thank you), then home to rest and see how the night would play out. My first thought, hanging out with Americans, was cancelled when one of those Americans had his flight cancelled. Then I thought to hang out with a wrestler and buddy at some cafe or another. But upon waiting for him in the center to see where he was at, and calling to no response, I went back home, only to find out upon my arrival at the bus stop that he fell asleep quickly but was still up for meeting up. I was already set on bed, and so, alas, another mundane birthday.
No worries though, because I've been filling up the schedule just fine.
My Biggest Victory Yet:
Another wrestling tale. In practice last Friday - my last practice as a 21-year old, if you will - we wrestled a scrimmage at the end of practice. I was feeling pretty good and wrestling well, and so as we split into two teams and lined up, I was excited to see my pairing. I would be facing Andrei Seminsonov (I may have screwed up the last name), an agreeable, good-looking fellow of medium height, about my weight, with a clean-cut goatee (vs. my grossly groomed one) and short hair. More to the point, he has a good sense of humor and is probably my favorite wrestler to compete against and watch in the practice room: he combines a Russian sense of technique with an American sense of aggressiveness, pushing the pace and always looking to score points. When we wrestle he usually beats me but I can also score points on him, so I was excited for the chance.
You see, each pair wrestled to the first point, sort of a sudden death dual meet. The pairings were fairly even, and as we stood there he gave me a few throat-slash gestures, while I returned with the Ivan Drago "I will break you" symbol. Maybe it would have worked better if he was the American and I the Russian.
Anyway, the dual meet started off not in our favor, but was back and forth, and when we stepped out, Andrei's team was leading us 3-2. The first team to 5 would clinch the dual, so at this point our margin of error was slim.
Meanwhile, I knew that I had one chance to beat him: I have one absolutely effective go-to move (just in case any future opponents choose to scout me by reading this blog, it will only be known as my GTM), and I needed to hit it right at the beginning and hope for the best. So we shook hands, started out fighting for position, and then bam, GTM with the sort of fury I usually only show when somebody withholds chocolate from me.
It wasn't the end, however. I was behind him, but he remained on all fours, which is a takedown in America but not anywhere else. I struggled with my rough technique for over 15 seconds, and now concerns of the period ending or the coach calling us up to neutral were entering my head. The other team insisted on us going to our feet, my team tried coaching me. Finally, my strength and weight prevailed and I got the point. I shook hands, walked away with a raised arm in triumph. Our team wouldn't lose another match.
I came away with a bruised knee, but what's glory without pain? And on that note, considering the glory I'm going through in foreign realms, I'm due for a whole world of hurt soon. Ce La vie, eh?
Dan
24.11.06
11.11.06
Maybe it's just my aura?
The following is a completely true, only rarely exaggerated story (and even then, most exaggerations will be obviously comical) involving, well, me, as well as the following themes or events: Blini, my first (but still legitimate) McDonald's purchase abroad, November snow, Egyptian vacations, messy eating, and, most importantly, my penchant for attracting the company of interesting and pretty women potentially twice my age.
I could have guessed that Friday would be a good day straight from the get go. On Thursday there was a beautiful snowfall with big fat snowflakes and a reasonable temperature, meaning I could enjoy making footprints in fresh snow on my way home, a winter thrill I've enjoyed from my wee days in Burlington. Unfortunately, that meant that with a little warmth on Friday, the streets were absolutely gross - slushy, muddy, dirty, wet, filled with puddles, just miserable. And me in my pretty little Roman, blue sneakers? Well, if there was a time for me to get sick in Moscow, it would be after that. But I don't have time for that.
Anyway, I meant I could have guessed Friday would be good because as I walked to the bus stop, one of my backpack pockets was open, and not only that, but the one with my journal, my copy of Bulgakov's White Guard and Master and Margarita, and my camera. So basically the most valuable possessions (if you don't count my falling apart, heavily taped, barely usable, foul-smelling wrestling shoes) I had on me were out in the open. And where as in the states somebody (or twenty people in a day, as with my broken backpack) would say, "You know, your backpack's open", here a women walked by and scathingly asked, "Is your bag specifically open like that so people can rob you?" Touche.
The day continued on a typical, pleasant but unspectacular route: I had a pretty good practice, I went and drank some hot chocolate (which in Europe is literally hot, melted chocolate), and then went down to the pool hall to speak English with my main man/student, Togrul. We talked, traded some movie suggestions, drank some tea, and then I headed out at 5.
Feeling hungry and in the mood, I decided to head into the center for blini, at that same underground mall I mentioned last time. I've decided that this food court, with Teremok as my vendor, is right there with the pond by Novodevich Monastery for my favorite spots in Moscow. I ordered and then sat around looking for a spot to sit down: the food court is always at capacity, so the hungry eater is forced to scavenge a table. If you are in a group of 2 or more, once you find the table it's yours and nobody will join you (though they may take your chairs). I was alone, so as I stumbled upon an empty table in the middle, I expected company. I turned to my newspaper and started chowing down anyhow.
Before I go any further - and don't worry, the intro is almost over - let me paint the picture. I haven't shaved in almost 3 weeks; my hair is long, and additionally because I wear a hat all the time, quite unkempt; I'm wearing a coat but sleeves rolled up; and I'm reading a newspaper and eating my blin with my hands in public, minding my own business. Clearly, the word to describe me at the time: irresistible.
So I don't even notice when a woman asks to sit at my table, which forces her to ask louder. I consent, of course, go right ahead, paying her no attention at all. That's just how it is here, I figure, no biggie. And if you have to ask whether I changed my eating habits in the presence of a lady or not, well, you don't know me well enough.
Which leads to her asking me about ten minutes later, "It's definitely tastier that way, isn't it, with your hands?" Caught blini handed, I say, "Yeah, it is, I know it's a little rude, but..."
"No, go right ahead, that's the right way to do it, no questions asked." I politely ask her about her soup, which I didn't recognize, she explains, and then I return to my meal. Of course, from my mildly stammered responses and clumsy tongue, she figures out that I'm a foreigner. So we start talking; I tell her where I'm from, she tells me how she visited there once (NYC and NJ, mostly, and you wonder why her impressions of the country weren't outstanding), then she starts showing off her tan, because you see, she was just in Egypt scuba diving. Soon we're talking about Egypt and Turkey, possibly the two most popular vacation destinations for Russians, and she's showing pictures from this last trip and telling me about how she started reading Orhan Pamuk, and everybody's impressed that she reads on vacation, and so on.
By this point I'm done eating and she is slowly working on her blin, meanwhile telling me about her family history: she has Polish roots and so says she doesn't look Russian (to paint her picture, she was small, slim, with long black hair, banked in the front, bright blue eyes, a sharp nose and chin, looked late 30's/early 40's, slightly wrinkled face in spots, wearing a gray sweater, jeans, narrow black shoes, and a red scarf to match her red leather gloves, and a brown jacket that was deceivingly warm), and I could concede the point. Her grandfather was a priest in the Orthodox church (bad news with the communists, as you may imagine), she's always been a believer but doesn't like the showy sort of faith practiced in much of Russian right now. Her grandfather was from Lower Novgorod, and her father was a professor.
Anyway, we're having a great time sitting there, no particular plans or goals for the night. By this point we've already slid past the formal you and onto the familiar, and later on I learn her name is Svetlana, though she goes by Lana. And I am ready with the response that Svetlana is one of the pure Russian names left, as my distant aunt here told me. Playing the game, I tell you.
She reveals that she's a big Led Zep and Deep Purple fan (the latter is really big here, oddly), as her ringtone for known calls is "Black Dog", and that she likes Limp Bizkit. My indie snob self cringes, my 15 year old memory does it all for the nookie.
Then she says that she's talked me to death, and I should start talking, because right now I talk like I have a hot potato in my mouth. So I tell her about Saturday Looks Good To Me, my friends in a band (Bombadil, and I realized when I got home that I should have shown her my 2nd edition t-shirt from the guys, which I was wearing), my penchant for writing a song or two in English or Russian, and my love of literature. Clearly, I'm opening up the important stuff.
As much fun as we were having, we were done eating and occupying a people, and though it was already about 8:30, people were still looking for places to sit down and asking to borrow our 3rd chair, which her jacket/purse was occupying. (The first time somebody asked, she refused, the second time, I did the talking: chivalry still lives!) So we decided that we should take it out to the streets. Whatever it was. We dressed up, gathered, walked up to near the exit of the mall. I asked her where she lived in Moscow: "The Northwest corner, on the border of Ximki," she laughed. I put my location on the map, wait a second, wait a second. I asked again, "What stop on the metro?" "Tushinskaya." Ha! I get off at the next stop, we're practically neighbors! She knows the street I live on! Oh what providence, what divine intelligence!
So, now aware our destination is one and the same, we walk together to Tverskaya Street, which is to Moscow what Michigan Ave. is to Chicago. In between the major businesses and the night lights, she declares that her tea at Teremok got cold, and that she'd like to go to McDonald's and grab a tea. As much as I've strived to avoid the American hegemony of fast food (only stopping in KFC in Petersburg, once), I'm in no position to refuse. I mean, come on, if it wasn't freezing cold out, I'd literally have been putty in her hands.
The first McDonalds is small and not worth the stay, so we continue on. She asks me with whom I live, and after answering, I decide to return the question. By this point I'm certain she's not married, judging by her solo vacationing and willingness to go around with me on a Friday night, I know she lives with a cat, because she showed me a picture of him, but I'm not clear on the rest. Maybe she has a man at home, maybe she lives with friends? She answers that she doesn't really want to answer, and that she has time here, so why not enjoy what we're doing now and not worry about it. I agree, and believe me, I've been down this road before, and it led me to a wall in the old city in Tallinn. I'm an old hand at this, you might say.
So we resume our promenade to the McDonalds at Pushkin Square. After some futzing around we find a place to sit, I go and get our teas, we sit down and continue our discussion. Except at this point an interloper comes in: sitting next to us is a lone, big man who is fairly fluent in both English and Russian. It turns out he's from Ft. Washington, PA, right near Philly, and went to Temple U, and hasn't been in Russia for 20 years after leaving when he was 24. So he jumps into our conversation a couple times, for prolonged periods. I have no right to complain, and his input is actually almost as interesting as her's. Eventually his companion arrives, they leave, and it's just me and Lana shooting the breeze some more.
Our talk turns to her belief in not having any dependencies. She likes to stand out from everybody else but she also doesn't want to have a nicotine dependency, or an alcoholic dependency, or a...wait for it...dependency on love. The heart of the matter, in all senses of the word! She doesn't believe in love!
Oooh, my heart aches for her, how can this be? What are we here for if not some sort of love, be it for art or friends or romance? Of course, she was burnt by the latter, and though it was four years ago and she is well-recovered on the outside, she won't be fooled again. She says that every relationship is unequal, and well, I can understand, even if I tell her that I don't quite agree. I'll stick my neck out for that belief, anyway.
But our bond is already strong, and we ride out the disagreement and continue on our conversational journey. As we had known each other for nearly 5 hours by this point, we were wont to look back fondly on the past. Which led to her saying why she sat next to me at Teremok, rather than just by dumb chance or lack of other opportunities. This is a paraphrase, but wholly accurate in theme:
"I was standing there in line waiting for my food and looking for where I would sit, and I saw this comrade sitting there and eating his blini with his hands, and dipping it in sour cream, and I thought, 'There's somebody with no complex whatsover, no anxiety, just going at it.'"
I'll let that sink in for a few lines of blank space.
I tried to mildly defend myself, but then also told her how at school my friends get a big kick out of me eating nachos. So I guess some habits are universally appreciated by the right audience. And to show how well we were going, that led to her agreeing that Mexican food is tasty.
But all things must come to an end, even deep tea-drinking sessions at McDonalds. It was quarter past 11, and I had practice the next day, and perhaps it was time for us to leave. So we dress, roll out, straight onto our beloved Magenta line and the Pushkin station.
As we quietly wait for our train, she turns to me and asks, "would you like to take down my number?" I think the way it works for me is that I have long long dry spells and then incredible bursts of fortune, so it evens out to an average level. Anyway, I say of course, and that I was going to ask I just didn't think it was quite time. She pointed out that it was still quiet here, unlike on the trains, and I told her she was smart. Then we took down numbers, called one another (her ringtone for unknown calls is not "Stairway", denied!), and got on the metro home. We continued to talk over the roar of the train for the next twenty minutes, got off at the same stop, mine.
We went out the same exit of the station and made one intial turn together, but that's where it ended: she was off to the right to catch the tram, I was straight and to the left to catch the bus. We promised to call one another, she offered her hand, I shook it and leaned in for a kiss on the cheek exchange. And when we emerged from separate stairways I saw her sprinting for the tram. Ahh, such sweet sorrow.
Anyway, that was all two days ago, and I consider this story unfinished. But even if that's all there is, it's just the type of story I like to live, and if it gets better, you'll hear about it, for like Picasso, I can't keep my mouth shut about women but would rather "scream on the rooftops". (That's a quote from a museum in Hungary, I have it written down somewhere, it'll be on my facebook profile soon, if that helps.)
Dan
I could have guessed that Friday would be a good day straight from the get go. On Thursday there was a beautiful snowfall with big fat snowflakes and a reasonable temperature, meaning I could enjoy making footprints in fresh snow on my way home, a winter thrill I've enjoyed from my wee days in Burlington. Unfortunately, that meant that with a little warmth on Friday, the streets were absolutely gross - slushy, muddy, dirty, wet, filled with puddles, just miserable. And me in my pretty little Roman, blue sneakers? Well, if there was a time for me to get sick in Moscow, it would be after that. But I don't have time for that.
Anyway, I meant I could have guessed Friday would be good because as I walked to the bus stop, one of my backpack pockets was open, and not only that, but the one with my journal, my copy of Bulgakov's White Guard and Master and Margarita, and my camera. So basically the most valuable possessions (if you don't count my falling apart, heavily taped, barely usable, foul-smelling wrestling shoes) I had on me were out in the open. And where as in the states somebody (or twenty people in a day, as with my broken backpack) would say, "You know, your backpack's open", here a women walked by and scathingly asked, "Is your bag specifically open like that so people can rob you?" Touche.
The day continued on a typical, pleasant but unspectacular route: I had a pretty good practice, I went and drank some hot chocolate (which in Europe is literally hot, melted chocolate), and then went down to the pool hall to speak English with my main man/student, Togrul. We talked, traded some movie suggestions, drank some tea, and then I headed out at 5.
Feeling hungry and in the mood, I decided to head into the center for blini, at that same underground mall I mentioned last time. I've decided that this food court, with Teremok as my vendor, is right there with the pond by Novodevich Monastery for my favorite spots in Moscow. I ordered and then sat around looking for a spot to sit down: the food court is always at capacity, so the hungry eater is forced to scavenge a table. If you are in a group of 2 or more, once you find the table it's yours and nobody will join you (though they may take your chairs). I was alone, so as I stumbled upon an empty table in the middle, I expected company. I turned to my newspaper and started chowing down anyhow.
Before I go any further - and don't worry, the intro is almost over - let me paint the picture. I haven't shaved in almost 3 weeks; my hair is long, and additionally because I wear a hat all the time, quite unkempt; I'm wearing a coat but sleeves rolled up; and I'm reading a newspaper and eating my blin with my hands in public, minding my own business. Clearly, the word to describe me at the time: irresistible.
So I don't even notice when a woman asks to sit at my table, which forces her to ask louder. I consent, of course, go right ahead, paying her no attention at all. That's just how it is here, I figure, no biggie. And if you have to ask whether I changed my eating habits in the presence of a lady or not, well, you don't know me well enough.
Which leads to her asking me about ten minutes later, "It's definitely tastier that way, isn't it, with your hands?" Caught blini handed, I say, "Yeah, it is, I know it's a little rude, but..."
"No, go right ahead, that's the right way to do it, no questions asked." I politely ask her about her soup, which I didn't recognize, she explains, and then I return to my meal. Of course, from my mildly stammered responses and clumsy tongue, she figures out that I'm a foreigner. So we start talking; I tell her where I'm from, she tells me how she visited there once (NYC and NJ, mostly, and you wonder why her impressions of the country weren't outstanding), then she starts showing off her tan, because you see, she was just in Egypt scuba diving. Soon we're talking about Egypt and Turkey, possibly the two most popular vacation destinations for Russians, and she's showing pictures from this last trip and telling me about how she started reading Orhan Pamuk, and everybody's impressed that she reads on vacation, and so on.
By this point I'm done eating and she is slowly working on her blin, meanwhile telling me about her family history: she has Polish roots and so says she doesn't look Russian (to paint her picture, she was small, slim, with long black hair, banked in the front, bright blue eyes, a sharp nose and chin, looked late 30's/early 40's, slightly wrinkled face in spots, wearing a gray sweater, jeans, narrow black shoes, and a red scarf to match her red leather gloves, and a brown jacket that was deceivingly warm), and I could concede the point. Her grandfather was a priest in the Orthodox church (bad news with the communists, as you may imagine), she's always been a believer but doesn't like the showy sort of faith practiced in much of Russian right now. Her grandfather was from Lower Novgorod, and her father was a professor.
Anyway, we're having a great time sitting there, no particular plans or goals for the night. By this point we've already slid past the formal you and onto the familiar, and later on I learn her name is Svetlana, though she goes by Lana. And I am ready with the response that Svetlana is one of the pure Russian names left, as my distant aunt here told me. Playing the game, I tell you.
She reveals that she's a big Led Zep and Deep Purple fan (the latter is really big here, oddly), as her ringtone for known calls is "Black Dog", and that she likes Limp Bizkit. My indie snob self cringes, my 15 year old memory does it all for the nookie.
Then she says that she's talked me to death, and I should start talking, because right now I talk like I have a hot potato in my mouth. So I tell her about Saturday Looks Good To Me, my friends in a band (Bombadil, and I realized when I got home that I should have shown her my 2nd edition t-shirt from the guys, which I was wearing), my penchant for writing a song or two in English or Russian, and my love of literature. Clearly, I'm opening up the important stuff.
As much fun as we were having, we were done eating and occupying a people, and though it was already about 8:30, people were still looking for places to sit down and asking to borrow our 3rd chair, which her jacket/purse was occupying. (The first time somebody asked, she refused, the second time, I did the talking: chivalry still lives!) So we decided that we should take it out to the streets. Whatever it was. We dressed up, gathered, walked up to near the exit of the mall. I asked her where she lived in Moscow: "The Northwest corner, on the border of Ximki," she laughed. I put my location on the map, wait a second, wait a second. I asked again, "What stop on the metro?" "Tushinskaya." Ha! I get off at the next stop, we're practically neighbors! She knows the street I live on! Oh what providence, what divine intelligence!
So, now aware our destination is one and the same, we walk together to Tverskaya Street, which is to Moscow what Michigan Ave. is to Chicago. In between the major businesses and the night lights, she declares that her tea at Teremok got cold, and that she'd like to go to McDonald's and grab a tea. As much as I've strived to avoid the American hegemony of fast food (only stopping in KFC in Petersburg, once), I'm in no position to refuse. I mean, come on, if it wasn't freezing cold out, I'd literally have been putty in her hands.
The first McDonalds is small and not worth the stay, so we continue on. She asks me with whom I live, and after answering, I decide to return the question. By this point I'm certain she's not married, judging by her solo vacationing and willingness to go around with me on a Friday night, I know she lives with a cat, because she showed me a picture of him, but I'm not clear on the rest. Maybe she has a man at home, maybe she lives with friends? She answers that she doesn't really want to answer, and that she has time here, so why not enjoy what we're doing now and not worry about it. I agree, and believe me, I've been down this road before, and it led me to a wall in the old city in Tallinn. I'm an old hand at this, you might say.
So we resume our promenade to the McDonalds at Pushkin Square. After some futzing around we find a place to sit, I go and get our teas, we sit down and continue our discussion. Except at this point an interloper comes in: sitting next to us is a lone, big man who is fairly fluent in both English and Russian. It turns out he's from Ft. Washington, PA, right near Philly, and went to Temple U, and hasn't been in Russia for 20 years after leaving when he was 24. So he jumps into our conversation a couple times, for prolonged periods. I have no right to complain, and his input is actually almost as interesting as her's. Eventually his companion arrives, they leave, and it's just me and Lana shooting the breeze some more.
Our talk turns to her belief in not having any dependencies. She likes to stand out from everybody else but she also doesn't want to have a nicotine dependency, or an alcoholic dependency, or a...wait for it...dependency on love. The heart of the matter, in all senses of the word! She doesn't believe in love!
Oooh, my heart aches for her, how can this be? What are we here for if not some sort of love, be it for art or friends or romance? Of course, she was burnt by the latter, and though it was four years ago and she is well-recovered on the outside, she won't be fooled again. She says that every relationship is unequal, and well, I can understand, even if I tell her that I don't quite agree. I'll stick my neck out for that belief, anyway.
But our bond is already strong, and we ride out the disagreement and continue on our conversational journey. As we had known each other for nearly 5 hours by this point, we were wont to look back fondly on the past. Which led to her saying why she sat next to me at Teremok, rather than just by dumb chance or lack of other opportunities. This is a paraphrase, but wholly accurate in theme:
"I was standing there in line waiting for my food and looking for where I would sit, and I saw this comrade sitting there and eating his blini with his hands, and dipping it in sour cream, and I thought, 'There's somebody with no complex whatsover, no anxiety, just going at it.'"
I'll let that sink in for a few lines of blank space.
I tried to mildly defend myself, but then also told her how at school my friends get a big kick out of me eating nachos. So I guess some habits are universally appreciated by the right audience. And to show how well we were going, that led to her agreeing that Mexican food is tasty.
But all things must come to an end, even deep tea-drinking sessions at McDonalds. It was quarter past 11, and I had practice the next day, and perhaps it was time for us to leave. So we dress, roll out, straight onto our beloved Magenta line and the Pushkin station.
As we quietly wait for our train, she turns to me and asks, "would you like to take down my number?" I think the way it works for me is that I have long long dry spells and then incredible bursts of fortune, so it evens out to an average level. Anyway, I say of course, and that I was going to ask I just didn't think it was quite time. She pointed out that it was still quiet here, unlike on the trains, and I told her she was smart. Then we took down numbers, called one another (her ringtone for unknown calls is not "Stairway", denied!), and got on the metro home. We continued to talk over the roar of the train for the next twenty minutes, got off at the same stop, mine.
We went out the same exit of the station and made one intial turn together, but that's where it ended: she was off to the right to catch the tram, I was straight and to the left to catch the bus. We promised to call one another, she offered her hand, I shook it and leaned in for a kiss on the cheek exchange. And when we emerged from separate stairways I saw her sprinting for the tram. Ahh, such sweet sorrow.
Anyway, that was all two days ago, and I consider this story unfinished. But even if that's all there is, it's just the type of story I like to live, and if it gets better, you'll hear about it, for like Picasso, I can't keep my mouth shut about women but would rather "scream on the rooftops". (That's a quote from a museum in Hungary, I have it written down somewhere, it'll be on my facebook profile soon, if that helps.)
Dan
3.11.06
Will this go on my Record?
I'm going to do this the way the "Sovetskii Sport" handles game recaps: from the lead in all the way to the final whistle.
So there I was wandering around the Olympic Village somewhere in Southwest Moscow on a Tuesday afternoon before weigh in. You know, they did have the Olympics here, back in 1980 (We in the states had other plans, as you may recall). Anyway, I asked several different people where the sports complex, or sports hall, is. No luck, with a standard response of "I don't live here, I just work here." Thanks.
Anyway, after a few tries I hit on some knowledge and got pointed in the right direction. I stumbled into the gym about 2 hours before the scheduled weigh in. There my short, pudgy Yakuti teammate/friend Valeri was cutting weight to make 57 kilos. We shook hands, sort of (when their hands are sweaty or otherwise unfit for shaking, the guys will often ofter a limp wrist of peace), and then I went looking around for the scale. Not that I cut 5 kilos or anything. I just maintain a hard body and compete.
Lurking around the basement of the complex, I found a store to buy singlets in (for those not in the know, the funny spandex I'll be appearing in below), the trainer's room, and a few locker rooms, but no scales. Again, asking proved largely fruitless: "You're here to early, young man, the weigh in starts at 5." Well, yes, I'm not quite as dumb as I look, usually we can check before, thanks. I ran into a few more guys from ЦСКА, and through their conversations and our handshakes I figured out that we could check at 4.
In general here in Moscow, and especially with regards to wrestling, schedules are more of a rough sketch than an accurate, to the date/minute summary of when events will go on. The general case is bus schedules, where a route is expected to come every 7 minutes: on average that may be true, but often times it means that 3 will come in a row within a 2-minute span and no other ones will arrive for 20 minutes. For wrestling, that meant that a) this tournament, on the schedule for Nov. 10th-12th, happened Oct. 31st-Nov. 2nd, and that b) while we did indeed get to check our weight at 4 (right on, as expected), the weigh in got bumped up to 4:30 rather than 5, meaning I could rehyd...er...further hydrate and eat earlier. Also, the tournament would start an hour earlier the next day.
So, with the benefit of a day before weigh-in and the extra time from getting out early, I hopped back on the metro and met up with friends at the underground mall in the center, right next to the red square, for blini. Basically, huge pancakes/crepes stuffed with food. And I ordered a kasha with chocolate paste. Mmmm. Not quite doable in the states, where we weigh in an hour or two before competition.
Gameday
I appear in plenty of time and get loose, ready to go. Of course, the store I was going to buy my sweet singlet from is closed. Again, the kindness of teammates (in this case one I don't even know well) set me up with a spare singlet. I warm up, and everybody from the club is excited to see how the American does. As usual, I have filled the role of "younger brother", so to speak, perfectly in my social cliche.
It turns out that in the random draw, I pulled a teammate. Alegojai Aleef (that's a guess both on spelling and on the actual name, I didn't completely get it) is from Daghestan, is shorter and fatter than me (hard to believe, eh?), and beat me in a barnburner in practice last Friday, 3-0 0-1 3-2. Which leads to a detailed wrestling discussion:
In American colleges, we have folkstyle wrestling, which goes for 7 minutes of regulation time over 3 periods and with the points all added up. So if I score 2, 4, and 3 points in the first, second and 3rd periods respectively, I have 9 for the match. Say my opponent scores 3, 5, and 0 in those periods: I win, despite "losing" the first 2 periods. In freestyle, the olympic/international form of the sport, I would have lost- the scoring is more akin to boxing, perhaps, and you need to win 2 of 3 rounds (a pin in either style ends the match then and there, true). There are other differences, but for now that's all you need to know.
What this leads to is a different mentality out there, a far more strategic one as I see it. I'd analogize it to football:soccer. In football and folkstyle wrestling, there is far less risk to scoring as many points as you possibly can, and so while defense is essential, if you have an attacking attitude you will do a lot better. In soccer and freestyle wrestling, it's more important to capitalize on your scoring opportunities, and trying to create or force chances when they aren't there can be punished (by points for your opponent) far easier than in the American sports.
As such, the Russian style of wrestling is often as follows: grind through the first two periods, make sure you win at least one if not both, and then if there's a 3rd period, open up the vault. Of course, Russians are generally in worse shape than Americans, say, so sometimes the 3rd period is a struggle.
Back to the match: I step out in a red singlet and headgear against Ale, ready to make the corrections from last time and beat him. I start out strong, pushing the pace, getting on his head, but not risking anything stupid. He takes a bad shot, I get over top, and after some work I spin behind, bring his knee to the mat, and score the first point.
But then see, ol' Ale gets right back at it when we go back to our feet, taking a good shot and pulling it in. Despite not looking like all that much, he manages to pull in my legs out of the most improbable positions, and here he is rewarded with a point. As he scored the last point, he now has the lead for the period. I push the action, get in on a single leg, we scramble in that position, and I get a point right at the bell (literally a gong, a kid at the table rings it). Or wait, do I? The ref looks at the other refs: was it in time? In the end they rule against me and he holds on for a resounding 1-1 first period victory.
I return to my corner, where my Yakuti coach is shaking out my arms and telling me good things: I'm shooting well, I'm looking good, just better finishes. I feel good too, I just need to put this guy away.
This is the sort of position called "over top" where I (in red) score points. Well, in freestyle, single points.
It's strange how high a percentage of pictures taken of me wrestling feature me with head between my opponent's legs.
At least this time it looks like I mean a world of hurt for my man Ale.
Unfortunately, the second period doesn't go quite as planned: I give up a point early, and now wrestling from behind I start to force my positions, which leads to an easy second point scored off my shot, and that's all they wrote. 1-1 0-2 was the final. I get off the mat, espying my two friends from the night before who came to see me (in the unofficial but vital category of "Most girls watching", I took the title by a landfall on the first day), and smiling a hello before doing some cooldown running. My coach comes over and talks to me, still insisting I looked good out there, which is encouraging.
Now I have to wait: the olympic style tournament features a consolation bracket only for wrestlers who lose to a finalist (they also have two bronze medalists, for some reason), so I need AA to get into the finals. Considering he wins every period by a point, it's a pretty excruciating day. Still, I stand with my friends and watch as he makes it to the semis, where he meets with another ЦСКА wrestler, one of the complete opposite body build: tall, skinny. Ale is exhausted by this point, and doesn't turn out so hot, losing in two periods and ending my day. He ends up losing the 3rd place match as well, while the guy who beats him wins the tournament.
Naturally, I'm a little unsatisfied over my day, like a young man in for a quickie, so when a bigger guy mentions that he's going to enter in a different weight class tomorrow and suggests I do the same, I think about it. I would be giving up weight (74 KG + 2 was the weight class), but I'm strong: I'd be tired, but whatever: it'd cost 300 rubles, but that's barely over $10, and then I could buy a cool Russian singlet too. After some thinking and discussing, I went for it, weighing in and impressing one of the refs running the scale (Look at this fellows, an American is wrestling, and in both days too!). Another blini with friends and back to home to get ready for...
Gameday 2
For whatever reason, day 2 started at 12. So I got there earlier, went through the same routine, and got ready to go. This time my coaches were two Chechen teammates, Timur and Beslan. As I got into my singlet for the first match, Timur tells me, "You should beat this guy..no, put your singlet on before you get on the mat, they might give you a warning!" Avoiding those problems, I get loose and limber. My opponent is a little older, and it becomes clear that I'm actually on a higher class: after working for position for the first minute, I hit a single, score, and then hit a 2-pt. gutwrench on top (the main freestyle roll) and take a 3-0 lead. Really excited about the prospects of winning a period, I cool the jets and stick to that score.
In the corner Timur tells me I need to move more, which is kind of neat, because I don't think Russian coaches would say that, it sounds more like American advice. Anyway, I go back out there and resume with the same sort of success, carving the guy up with a finishing 3 pt. takedown to end the match by techical decision, 6-0. He wasn't very good. But I did get called a "pretty boy" for how well I wrestled, so that was fun.
After about a half hour of rest I was out there again, this time in my new, cool-looking Red Russian singlet. If only my wrestling matched it: Again, after battles for position for about a minute, action picked up, literally. My opponent shot in on my leg, and the way I defended (in a word, stupidly) allowed him to pick me up. In Folkstyle, this isn't a huge deal: it's not good, but I can still fight, and at worst I'll probably give up a two point takedown. Here, he went straight to his back and took me with him, and the move was scored a 5-pt. takedown, which automatically ends a period. Yeesh.
The second period was, sadly, not much better: I gave up a point for getting pushed out of bounds midway through, and then instead of using good stuff resorted to a classic sit and lay technique, resulting in two points for my opponent and the end of the match, 5-0 3-0. And then he lost his last match and I was done with my Moscow tournament season.
In total, it was all worthwhile and interesting, even if I could have done better. There's always practice and all those Duke matches and tournaments to hang my hat on, isn't there? Especially when I bought two winter hats here: one is a standard winter hat, you've seen the like. The other, well, I won't say too much without a picture, but two words: leather, earflaps.
See, I didn't lose my sense of fashion or humor.
Dan
So there I was wandering around the Olympic Village somewhere in Southwest Moscow on a Tuesday afternoon before weigh in. You know, they did have the Olympics here, back in 1980 (We in the states had other plans, as you may recall). Anyway, I asked several different people where the sports complex, or sports hall, is. No luck, with a standard response of "I don't live here, I just work here." Thanks.
Anyway, after a few tries I hit on some knowledge and got pointed in the right direction. I stumbled into the gym about 2 hours before the scheduled weigh in. There my short, pudgy Yakuti teammate/friend Valeri was cutting weight to make 57 kilos. We shook hands, sort of (when their hands are sweaty or otherwise unfit for shaking, the guys will often ofter a limp wrist of peace), and then I went looking around for the scale. Not that I cut 5 kilos or anything. I just maintain a hard body and compete.
Lurking around the basement of the complex, I found a store to buy singlets in (for those not in the know, the funny spandex I'll be appearing in below), the trainer's room, and a few locker rooms, but no scales. Again, asking proved largely fruitless: "You're here to early, young man, the weigh in starts at 5." Well, yes, I'm not quite as dumb as I look, usually we can check before, thanks. I ran into a few more guys from ЦСКА, and through their conversations and our handshakes I figured out that we could check at 4.
In general here in Moscow, and especially with regards to wrestling, schedules are more of a rough sketch than an accurate, to the date/minute summary of when events will go on. The general case is bus schedules, where a route is expected to come every 7 minutes: on average that may be true, but often times it means that 3 will come in a row within a 2-minute span and no other ones will arrive for 20 minutes. For wrestling, that meant that a) this tournament, on the schedule for Nov. 10th-12th, happened Oct. 31st-Nov. 2nd, and that b) while we did indeed get to check our weight at 4 (right on, as expected), the weigh in got bumped up to 4:30 rather than 5, meaning I could rehyd...er...further hydrate and eat earlier. Also, the tournament would start an hour earlier the next day.
So, with the benefit of a day before weigh-in and the extra time from getting out early, I hopped back on the metro and met up with friends at the underground mall in the center, right next to the red square, for blini. Basically, huge pancakes/crepes stuffed with food. And I ordered a kasha with chocolate paste. Mmmm. Not quite doable in the states, where we weigh in an hour or two before competition.
Gameday
I appear in plenty of time and get loose, ready to go. Of course, the store I was going to buy my sweet singlet from is closed. Again, the kindness of teammates (in this case one I don't even know well) set me up with a spare singlet. I warm up, and everybody from the club is excited to see how the American does. As usual, I have filled the role of "younger brother", so to speak, perfectly in my social cliche.
It turns out that in the random draw, I pulled a teammate. Alegojai Aleef (that's a guess both on spelling and on the actual name, I didn't completely get it) is from Daghestan, is shorter and fatter than me (hard to believe, eh?), and beat me in a barnburner in practice last Friday, 3-0 0-1 3-2. Which leads to a detailed wrestling discussion:
In American colleges, we have folkstyle wrestling, which goes for 7 minutes of regulation time over 3 periods and with the points all added up. So if I score 2, 4, and 3 points in the first, second and 3rd periods respectively, I have 9 for the match. Say my opponent scores 3, 5, and 0 in those periods: I win, despite "losing" the first 2 periods. In freestyle, the olympic/international form of the sport, I would have lost- the scoring is more akin to boxing, perhaps, and you need to win 2 of 3 rounds (a pin in either style ends the match then and there, true). There are other differences, but for now that's all you need to know.
What this leads to is a different mentality out there, a far more strategic one as I see it. I'd analogize it to football:soccer. In football and folkstyle wrestling, there is far less risk to scoring as many points as you possibly can, and so while defense is essential, if you have an attacking attitude you will do a lot better. In soccer and freestyle wrestling, it's more important to capitalize on your scoring opportunities, and trying to create or force chances when they aren't there can be punished (by points for your opponent) far easier than in the American sports.
As such, the Russian style of wrestling is often as follows: grind through the first two periods, make sure you win at least one if not both, and then if there's a 3rd period, open up the vault. Of course, Russians are generally in worse shape than Americans, say, so sometimes the 3rd period is a struggle.
Back to the match: I step out in a red singlet and headgear against Ale, ready to make the corrections from last time and beat him. I start out strong, pushing the pace, getting on his head, but not risking anything stupid. He takes a bad shot, I get over top, and after some work I spin behind, bring his knee to the mat, and score the first point.
But then see, ol' Ale gets right back at it when we go back to our feet, taking a good shot and pulling it in. Despite not looking like all that much, he manages to pull in my legs out of the most improbable positions, and here he is rewarded with a point. As he scored the last point, he now has the lead for the period. I push the action, get in on a single leg, we scramble in that position, and I get a point right at the bell (literally a gong, a kid at the table rings it). Or wait, do I? The ref looks at the other refs: was it in time? In the end they rule against me and he holds on for a resounding 1-1 first period victory.
I return to my corner, where my Yakuti coach is shaking out my arms and telling me good things: I'm shooting well, I'm looking good, just better finishes. I feel good too, I just need to put this guy away.
This is the sort of position called "over top" where I (in red) score points. Well, in freestyle, single points.
It's strange how high a percentage of pictures taken of me wrestling feature me with head between my opponent's legs.
At least this time it looks like I mean a world of hurt for my man Ale.Unfortunately, the second period doesn't go quite as planned: I give up a point early, and now wrestling from behind I start to force my positions, which leads to an easy second point scored off my shot, and that's all they wrote. 1-1 0-2 was the final. I get off the mat, espying my two friends from the night before who came to see me (in the unofficial but vital category of "Most girls watching", I took the title by a landfall on the first day), and smiling a hello before doing some cooldown running. My coach comes over and talks to me, still insisting I looked good out there, which is encouraging.
Now I have to wait: the olympic style tournament features a consolation bracket only for wrestlers who lose to a finalist (they also have two bronze medalists, for some reason), so I need AA to get into the finals. Considering he wins every period by a point, it's a pretty excruciating day. Still, I stand with my friends and watch as he makes it to the semis, where he meets with another ЦСКА wrestler, one of the complete opposite body build: tall, skinny. Ale is exhausted by this point, and doesn't turn out so hot, losing in two periods and ending my day. He ends up losing the 3rd place match as well, while the guy who beats him wins the tournament.
Naturally, I'm a little unsatisfied over my day, like a young man in for a quickie, so when a bigger guy mentions that he's going to enter in a different weight class tomorrow and suggests I do the same, I think about it. I would be giving up weight (74 KG + 2 was the weight class), but I'm strong: I'd be tired, but whatever: it'd cost 300 rubles, but that's barely over $10, and then I could buy a cool Russian singlet too. After some thinking and discussing, I went for it, weighing in and impressing one of the refs running the scale (Look at this fellows, an American is wrestling, and in both days too!). Another blini with friends and back to home to get ready for...
Gameday 2
For whatever reason, day 2 started at 12. So I got there earlier, went through the same routine, and got ready to go. This time my coaches were two Chechen teammates, Timur and Beslan. As I got into my singlet for the first match, Timur tells me, "You should beat this guy..no, put your singlet on before you get on the mat, they might give you a warning!" Avoiding those problems, I get loose and limber. My opponent is a little older, and it becomes clear that I'm actually on a higher class: after working for position for the first minute, I hit a single, score, and then hit a 2-pt. gutwrench on top (the main freestyle roll) and take a 3-0 lead. Really excited about the prospects of winning a period, I cool the jets and stick to that score.
In the corner Timur tells me I need to move more, which is kind of neat, because I don't think Russian coaches would say that, it sounds more like American advice. Anyway, I go back out there and resume with the same sort of success, carving the guy up with a finishing 3 pt. takedown to end the match by techical decision, 6-0. He wasn't very good. But I did get called a "pretty boy" for how well I wrestled, so that was fun.
After about a half hour of rest I was out there again, this time in my new, cool-looking Red Russian singlet. If only my wrestling matched it: Again, after battles for position for about a minute, action picked up, literally. My opponent shot in on my leg, and the way I defended (in a word, stupidly) allowed him to pick me up. In Folkstyle, this isn't a huge deal: it's not good, but I can still fight, and at worst I'll probably give up a two point takedown. Here, he went straight to his back and took me with him, and the move was scored a 5-pt. takedown, which automatically ends a period. Yeesh.
The second period was, sadly, not much better: I gave up a point for getting pushed out of bounds midway through, and then instead of using good stuff resorted to a classic sit and lay technique, resulting in two points for my opponent and the end of the match, 5-0 3-0. And then he lost his last match and I was done with my Moscow tournament season.
In total, it was all worthwhile and interesting, even if I could have done better. There's always practice and all those Duke matches and tournaments to hang my hat on, isn't there? Especially when I bought two winter hats here: one is a standard winter hat, you've seen the like. The other, well, I won't say too much without a picture, but two words: leather, earflaps.
See, I didn't lose my sense of fashion or humor.
Dan
28.10.06
Yass, still going strong through to November
Everything continues on the positive side of things, and if the other shoe has dropped, I probably put one of my sneaker balls in it so it would smell better.
I have a tournament I'm hoping to compete in next week, on Wednesday. It's here in Moscow, we weigh in Tuesday night, and it's in the honor of an old Soviet coach. I've been wrestling better in practice, but I still have no idea how my chances are: I could go one and out, I could start an international furor and win the thing (well, probably not that furious). I'm stronger than most wrestlers here, shorter than most here, have better looking ears than most here, but my technique is a few steps below. Brute force wins from America, right? Right?
Anyway, I'm getting all amped up for that, and it may even bring out the old sportswriter in me from high school when I recap it here next week. And if I can get someone to take the pictures, I should be able to post photos of me in a singlet. Tight in all senses of the word.
But for now I'm going to walk the dog, and so I leave a few leftover pictures, funny or nice, from the trips I've taken. Enjoy Halloween and all, and write me if you'd like, I like the email exchange thing.
There's a traveling exhibit of buddy bears: bears designed by an artist from each country in the world. The exhibit has been in Berlin, among other places, and it was in front of Karl's Church in Vienna when I got into town. I decided to fill a hole: I'm representing artsy people of the world.
Picture of a waterfall from the climb up Gellert's Hill in Budapest. Budapest was in my top tier of cities on the trip, and I have a great-uncle here who agrees with me. So there.
I have a tournament I'm hoping to compete in next week, on Wednesday. It's here in Moscow, we weigh in Tuesday night, and it's in the honor of an old Soviet coach. I've been wrestling better in practice, but I still have no idea how my chances are: I could go one and out, I could start an international furor and win the thing (well, probably not that furious). I'm stronger than most wrestlers here, shorter than most here, have better looking ears than most here, but my technique is a few steps below. Brute force wins from America, right? Right?
Anyway, I'm getting all amped up for that, and it may even bring out the old sportswriter in me from high school when I recap it here next week. And if I can get someone to take the pictures, I should be able to post photos of me in a singlet. Tight in all senses of the word.
But for now I'm going to walk the dog, and so I leave a few leftover pictures, funny or nice, from the trips I've taken. Enjoy Halloween and all, and write me if you'd like, I like the email exchange thing.
There's a traveling exhibit of buddy bears: bears designed by an artist from each country in the world. The exhibit has been in Berlin, among other places, and it was in front of Karl's Church in Vienna when I got into town. I decided to fill a hole: I'm representing artsy people of the world.
Picture of a waterfall from the climb up Gellert's Hill in Budapest. Budapest was in my top tier of cities on the trip, and I have a great-uncle here who agrees with me. So there.
Petersburg: Who says Pushkin's for the birds? (drumroll, please!)
I showed you the church that looks like this in Petersburg. This is Basil the Holy Fool's Church in the Red Square. 
And this is Petersburg again, from the Hermitage bridge. A little bit of Amsterdam, a little bit of Venice, a whole lot of Russia.
Dan
23.10.06
A Positive Jam
As my events have been spare (a birthday party here, a bunch of practices there...), here's a promised list of positive things here in Russia that I haven't discussed otherwise.
The "Everybody Gets One" Greeting- A handshake that is. It's common practice to shake hands with or, in the case of girls and men from Georgia (the one that's on Macca's mind, not Ray Charles's mind), kiss/shake/hug every person in the room upon entering and exiting.
In reality, I only encounter this custom in the wrestling room and locker room. And at first it was really intimidating, because I had to pick it up on my own, and then I was worried I would be offending people I didn't shake with, but I didn't know everybody, and it isn't quite automatic to recognize the wrestlers (close, but not quite, as boxers can have funny shoes and ears too), and besides I'm obviously a foreigner, so leave me alone, and ugh.
But, after conquering my silliness, I have gotten quite used to the shake and get a kick out of going around and saying hello or goodbye to everybody in the area. And then when they come over to do the same when they leave, well it's a mutual give and take, right? Which is more pleasant when...
The unexpected Bonus of Citizenship- Obviously it's advantageous to have the good ol' stars and stripes representing in your pocket. But while most of us (jokingly) speculated (except for me, as I desperately hoped it would prove true) that the power would be akin to an aphrodisiac, with the promise of western wealth and nationality enough to overcome my personality voids (kidding!) with Russian women, nobody predicted, anyway, that all the wrestlers would be like my best buddy. In fact, we were worried they might not be the biggest fan.
But I can sincerely say that everybody at the club has been kind to me, willing to show me moves and wrestle with me and ask about the States. I don't have too much trouble finding a partner each day, and I've even gotten to the point in my wrestling form where I'm pretty sure they're not picking me just so they can have an easy workout! Throw in the fact, as previously mentioned, that they're from all over the country, and it makes for an interesting bunch.
Of course, on the other side, some of them are expecting me to return soon (my calendar is free after May 13th or so...) and so making requests for wrestling shoes and bags and the like in the states. And many are asking for my email address and other contact info. Let's just say if you see an influx of men coming to the U.S. in their early to mid 20's with funny-looking ears, speaking either Russian or a language with a lot of "Kh" sounds, well, I won't know anything about it. I swear.
Сметана (Sour Cream) - I mentioned this offhand previously, but let me now throw my official endorsement behind the substance. Again, those who know me might wonder how I've made it this far without peanut butter (excepting the delicious peanut butter Big Kit Kats in Warsaw...hoo boy...mmm) or a nervous breakdown. I'm not going to call the sour cream here a one for one substitute, but it definitely helps. In general, I'm enjoying most aspects of Russian cuisine, even кефир ("Kefir", buttermilk), which is sour but tastes good with sugar and purports to be healthy. The sour cream is just a key part of the puzzle, a condiment to top all condiments, if you will.
Ok, I'm running out of time at this internet cafe, so that's it. I may be wrestling in a tournament on Nov. 1st, which is some sort of pagan holiday as is, so that may be a future topic. We'll see.
Dan
The "Everybody Gets One" Greeting- A handshake that is. It's common practice to shake hands with or, in the case of girls and men from Georgia (the one that's on Macca's mind, not Ray Charles's mind), kiss/shake/hug every person in the room upon entering and exiting.
In reality, I only encounter this custom in the wrestling room and locker room. And at first it was really intimidating, because I had to pick it up on my own, and then I was worried I would be offending people I didn't shake with, but I didn't know everybody, and it isn't quite automatic to recognize the wrestlers (close, but not quite, as boxers can have funny shoes and ears too), and besides I'm obviously a foreigner, so leave me alone, and ugh.
But, after conquering my silliness, I have gotten quite used to the shake and get a kick out of going around and saying hello or goodbye to everybody in the area. And then when they come over to do the same when they leave, well it's a mutual give and take, right? Which is more pleasant when...
The unexpected Bonus of Citizenship- Obviously it's advantageous to have the good ol' stars and stripes representing in your pocket. But while most of us (jokingly) speculated (except for me, as I desperately hoped it would prove true) that the power would be akin to an aphrodisiac, with the promise of western wealth and nationality enough to overcome my personality voids (kidding!) with Russian women, nobody predicted, anyway, that all the wrestlers would be like my best buddy. In fact, we were worried they might not be the biggest fan.
But I can sincerely say that everybody at the club has been kind to me, willing to show me moves and wrestle with me and ask about the States. I don't have too much trouble finding a partner each day, and I've even gotten to the point in my wrestling form where I'm pretty sure they're not picking me just so they can have an easy workout! Throw in the fact, as previously mentioned, that they're from all over the country, and it makes for an interesting bunch.
Of course, on the other side, some of them are expecting me to return soon (my calendar is free after May 13th or so...) and so making requests for wrestling shoes and bags and the like in the states. And many are asking for my email address and other contact info. Let's just say if you see an influx of men coming to the U.S. in their early to mid 20's with funny-looking ears, speaking either Russian or a language with a lot of "Kh" sounds, well, I won't know anything about it. I swear.
Сметана (Sour Cream) - I mentioned this offhand previously, but let me now throw my official endorsement behind the substance. Again, those who know me might wonder how I've made it this far without peanut butter (excepting the delicious peanut butter Big Kit Kats in Warsaw...hoo boy...mmm) or a nervous breakdown. I'm not going to call the sour cream here a one for one substitute, but it definitely helps. In general, I'm enjoying most aspects of Russian cuisine, even кефир ("Kefir", buttermilk), which is sour but tastes good with sugar and purports to be healthy. The sour cream is just a key part of the puzzle, a condiment to top all condiments, if you will.
Ok, I'm running out of time at this internet cafe, so that's it. I may be wrestling in a tournament on Nov. 1st, which is some sort of pagan holiday as is, so that may be a future topic. We'll see.
Dan
18.10.06
I was a Sitting Duck
Let me not fool you, dear friends - not everything is peaches and cream here in the East. For one, they prefer sour cream, fiending it like nobody's business (seriously, with bread, with soup, with potatoes, plain with sugar...). More to the point, Russia and Moscow has its problems. So for the sake of balance, here is a run through of some of the poorer aspects of Moscow life.
Items not listed, either because they're obvious, mundane, or secretly awesome, include: weather; lack of a dryer; the higher level of chivalry; mullets; getting thrown around in practice by 19 year olds; traffic; me.
Bureaucracy: Things in Russia just don't get done sometimes. It was enough of a pain getting an invitation for my visa - which I could have just gotten through an agency for far less concern/money - but then I had to register that visa. Sounds like something they could do in just a few days, right?
Well, it took us a few days to just figure out what we needed to do. We went to one place, needed a different document, went to another place, went to the office in the center of Moscow, found out we were missing a form, returned the next day, and finally paid a decent amount of money (About $120) to seal the deal. They promised to call us in 7-10 days, and meanwhile I went around Moscow with just a photocopy of my passport and key documents.
Which was fine, if a bit uneasy every time I saw a policeman on the street. But then that paper got more and more rumpled in my pocket (my fault but also inevitiable) and 10 days passed, and then 10 business days, and then 3 weeks, and no call. Finally, wanting to have a passport and be street legal, never mind to travel, we called them. "It's been ready for weeks, we were waiting for you to call us." Oh.
That's run of the mill, and it's annoying. Of course the policemen lead to another issue...
Racial Attitudes in Moscow: This goes beyond the obvious fact that much of Europe is more racist in attitude, if not in practice necessarily, than America. It stretches farther than the mutual exclusive identification of "Russian" or "Jew" that is more specific to Moscow, and farther than the strong national sentiment many hold here. And of course, the idea that racial profiling is not exception or underlying practice but point of fact run of the mill m.o. here is just a simple part.
People just put more stock in where you're from historically/racially/genetically. They're curious to know where you're from, because then they'll get a better feel of what you're like from the get go. And if they haven't heard of your answer, they'll lump it with a place they know.
For example (and this is fairly representative in so much as these sort of attitudes are prevalent in far more hoity-toity and learned places than a locker room), when I'm in the locker room or hanging out with wrestlers I get exposed to a lot. Firstly, most of the wrestlers are from the Caucauses - Daghestan, Checneya, Ocetia, Georgia, Armenia. Then there are wrestlers from out east, Siberia or farther, Yakutsk, and wrestlers from the west near Belarus and Ukraine. Which is to say we have a fairly international national club here, if that makes sense. And if I don't understand everything in the locker room, it's usually because they're speaking other languages.
But it's interesting to hear how often I'm asked if I'm a Christian (usually to counter against Muslim), or how one Chechen teammate said, "We respect Christians who converted to Islam much more than regular Muslims. If someone were to point to you and say, 'He converted', I'd immediately have more respect for you than a typical Muslim I didn't know." He also showed me clips on his phones (and phones are more advanced here than in the U.S., with videos, radio, mp3s, at least I don't think we have those as often back home) of Chechen fighting and nationalistic scenes, set to sad Chechen music (definitely the best part of the package). I wasn't sure how to react at all, so I kept my mouth shut either way.
Back to the main topic, which is racial views. Another day I was walking to the metro station with one of the coaches - the only one, in fact, that really looks out for me and helps me out with my wrestling, partly because he's one of the lower profile coaches there, partly because his son lives in Canada, so he considers me "a distant relative" - and somehow he got into how peoples with big noses will never catch up. Lumped into this category was, among other groups, Arabs, Africans, and most of the Mediterranean (most notably Italians). It was a flabbergasting display, in a perfectly reasoned, undramatic way. Interestingly despite correctly inferring I was Jewish, he didn't offer anything but positive views on Jews, who happen to possess both Mediterranean roots and big noses.
Anyway, this is just how these things go over here. It's not everybody, but it's more common than in the States. I'm not interested in crusading these days, but it is a little unnerving all the same.
Portable Audio Players: Ok, this isn't really serious, and I hate these in the states too. But here people tend to listen to the things even louder than at home, and the generally Russian musical taste is worse. Meaning where as at home I would run into somebody's irritating choice of heavy metal at audible levels on the bus once a week or so, here I can almost count on somebody listening to DMX or an incessant house beat loud enough for me to hear ten feet away each day on the no. 88 to practice. Not so sweet.
All in all, the feel from Moscow is that things work in spite of themselves. Anyway, really, things are good here, I just figured it's my duty to mix it up. Seriously, let's have a nice group hug, and my next non-event post will be about good things. Here's a picture to close with a smile.
I should note that my neck really hurt after this pose. It was just a few hours after practice, you know. And today in the sauna I took a complete digger stepping down the benches, leading to a landing right on my butt. Only the grace of a D-1 Athlete, I tell you.
Dan
Items not listed, either because they're obvious, mundane, or secretly awesome, include: weather; lack of a dryer; the higher level of chivalry; mullets; getting thrown around in practice by 19 year olds; traffic; me.
Bureaucracy: Things in Russia just don't get done sometimes. It was enough of a pain getting an invitation for my visa - which I could have just gotten through an agency for far less concern/money - but then I had to register that visa. Sounds like something they could do in just a few days, right?
Well, it took us a few days to just figure out what we needed to do. We went to one place, needed a different document, went to another place, went to the office in the center of Moscow, found out we were missing a form, returned the next day, and finally paid a decent amount of money (About $120) to seal the deal. They promised to call us in 7-10 days, and meanwhile I went around Moscow with just a photocopy of my passport and key documents.
Which was fine, if a bit uneasy every time I saw a policeman on the street. But then that paper got more and more rumpled in my pocket (my fault but also inevitiable) and 10 days passed, and then 10 business days, and then 3 weeks, and no call. Finally, wanting to have a passport and be street legal, never mind to travel, we called them. "It's been ready for weeks, we were waiting for you to call us." Oh.
That's run of the mill, and it's annoying. Of course the policemen lead to another issue...
Racial Attitudes in Moscow: This goes beyond the obvious fact that much of Europe is more racist in attitude, if not in practice necessarily, than America. It stretches farther than the mutual exclusive identification of "Russian" or "Jew" that is more specific to Moscow, and farther than the strong national sentiment many hold here. And of course, the idea that racial profiling is not exception or underlying practice but point of fact run of the mill m.o. here is just a simple part.
People just put more stock in where you're from historically/racially/genetically. They're curious to know where you're from, because then they'll get a better feel of what you're like from the get go. And if they haven't heard of your answer, they'll lump it with a place they know.
For example (and this is fairly representative in so much as these sort of attitudes are prevalent in far more hoity-toity and learned places than a locker room), when I'm in the locker room or hanging out with wrestlers I get exposed to a lot. Firstly, most of the wrestlers are from the Caucauses - Daghestan, Checneya, Ocetia, Georgia, Armenia. Then there are wrestlers from out east, Siberia or farther, Yakutsk, and wrestlers from the west near Belarus and Ukraine. Which is to say we have a fairly international national club here, if that makes sense. And if I don't understand everything in the locker room, it's usually because they're speaking other languages.
But it's interesting to hear how often I'm asked if I'm a Christian (usually to counter against Muslim), or how one Chechen teammate said, "We respect Christians who converted to Islam much more than regular Muslims. If someone were to point to you and say, 'He converted', I'd immediately have more respect for you than a typical Muslim I didn't know." He also showed me clips on his phones (and phones are more advanced here than in the U.S., with videos, radio, mp3s, at least I don't think we have those as often back home) of Chechen fighting and nationalistic scenes, set to sad Chechen music (definitely the best part of the package). I wasn't sure how to react at all, so I kept my mouth shut either way.
Back to the main topic, which is racial views. Another day I was walking to the metro station with one of the coaches - the only one, in fact, that really looks out for me and helps me out with my wrestling, partly because he's one of the lower profile coaches there, partly because his son lives in Canada, so he considers me "a distant relative" - and somehow he got into how peoples with big noses will never catch up. Lumped into this category was, among other groups, Arabs, Africans, and most of the Mediterranean (most notably Italians). It was a flabbergasting display, in a perfectly reasoned, undramatic way. Interestingly despite correctly inferring I was Jewish, he didn't offer anything but positive views on Jews, who happen to possess both Mediterranean roots and big noses.
Anyway, this is just how these things go over here. It's not everybody, but it's more common than in the States. I'm not interested in crusading these days, but it is a little unnerving all the same.
Portable Audio Players: Ok, this isn't really serious, and I hate these in the states too. But here people tend to listen to the things even louder than at home, and the generally Russian musical taste is worse. Meaning where as at home I would run into somebody's irritating choice of heavy metal at audible levels on the bus once a week or so, here I can almost count on somebody listening to DMX or an incessant house beat loud enough for me to hear ten feet away each day on the no. 88 to practice. Not so sweet.
All in all, the feel from Moscow is that things work in spite of themselves. Anyway, really, things are good here, I just figured it's my duty to mix it up. Seriously, let's have a nice group hug, and my next non-event post will be about good things. Here's a picture to close with a smile.
I should note that my neck really hurt after this pose. It was just a few hours after practice, you know. And today in the sauna I took a complete digger stepping down the benches, leading to a landing right on my butt. Only the grace of a D-1 Athlete, I tell you.
Dan
16.10.06
Hi Dears, I just got back from Petersburg
Ducking away from the Bronze Horseman as if I was Nikolai Appollonovich Ableukhov. And if more than 2 people get that, I will be "v shokke", as they say here (in shock).
The story starts a week ago, last Monday. Actually, it starts before then, but I'm going to start on last Monday.
It was a typical mid-October day in Moscow, really. Crisp, a little wet, orange leaves, traffic, and winsome eyes. I left practice feeling relatively fresh, being the beginning of the week and all, and headed into town for a meeting with a fellow Dukie (Danielle R., for those of you who know her) at Pushkin's Statue. We wandered around, double-tracked a few times, and finally found the local popular Russian chain (Ёлки Палки). We ate, talked, discussed, shared our love for Duke University, and so on.
After this she had to go to one train station for a trip to the interior of Russia and I had to go to another to meet my Petersburg tripmate and buy tickets. Since my meeting point was earlier, we went together, hardly realizing that the train stations were about 200 meters apart. We met up in the middle of the Lyubanka metro station (notice the two meeting spots), then took off for the Leningradsky Train Station.
Here is where our plans hit the first bump: Alyona, tripmate, had a ticket in mind for Petersburg for Friday night, only to find tickets available for twice as much (mind you, still only about $25-30). So we gave up on our intial plan, went with Danielle over to her Train Station, looked for tickets there, failed, parted with Danielle, and headed back to the first station. There we decided to move our trip up a day to Thursday. And found the cheap tickets again (376 rubles, or about $14). Success!
Or so it seemed. Our plan was to go up, stay with Alyona's cousin, fiend the city and its nightlife, and then I would go back Sunday night, ready for practice today. And that all looked likely until I got a text on my way to practice Wednesday: my tripmate got ill something serious, didn't sleep the night before, might flat out die on the way if she goes. Despite my efforts to convince her it was just a head cold, it was out of luck. Which also meant I would now have to make my own way with rooming.
I thought I was done with hostel world and Let's Go recs, and in truth they didn't tell me much. I had one number from my father of an old friend who might be able to help me out. I cold called him Wednesday night and it sounded like he hardly knew who I was talking about. I hemmed and hawed my way to getting him to agree to meet me when I get there at some point; I am shameless to an extent, and that is not enough to get me to ask a basic stranger to put me up.
Fortunately, Alyona and her cousin were still on board to help me find a place to stay and show me around the city. In fact, they assuaged my doubts, so on Thursday all I had to do was rest, pack, and get to the station. Oh, and buy a new winter coat. While I'm usually shrewd with my money, I don't think anyone would be surprised if I reported that I went to one store, lingered a bit, got approached by the pretty woman working there, and promptly hooked to whatever they gave me. And though she noticed my accent immediately, she said she liked talking to me and that I should come back, and that I was smart for reading Pushkin. So if you want to draw positive responses, Pushkin is your wingman. (Note: the coat I bought was effective and below the price range my "host mom" here told me to expect, so it's not like I was had. But I could have been.)
My trip out was scheduled at 1:04, and the computer here was busy, so I decided to go into the center, put up a blog post and do other things, and then go to the train station. Except I got to the place and their cash register wasn't working, so they couldn't take on business. The only in Russia moment didn't stint me: one computer was on and logged in and empty, and seeing things as such, I made my move to steal about 10 minutes online. Slick, I know. It also led to this conversation:
Worker: English - Did you pay for that?
Me: Russian - What?
W: Oh, you speak Russian? Did you pay for that?
M: No, I couldn't, here's my money, would you like it?
W: Why are you using the computer if you didn't pay?
M: It was working and I needed to use it.
W: You're not allowed to do that, get off the computer. (Turning it off meanwhile).
Ok, I admit, not riveting dialogue. Anyway, the moment was over and I had to go back out to the streets. Earlier in the day I did my first photographing in the Red Square, and mentioned to my companion, a guy who I'm giving English "lessons" too, that it would probably pretty to return at night, though most successfully with a girl. So, eschewing that last part, I went back out and took some pictures, like this one of the Red Square:
Anyway, after that I finally went over to the train station, bundled up in that coat, which was warm enough to make me feel ready for war. I staggered into the station on time, bought some food to keep my internals warm, and then got on to the train.
Now, having traveled through much of Europe by train, I'd like to say I've picked up a breadth of experience. I've seen all types and sizes, and I understand what I'm getting into. And now I understand how a ticket to Petersburg overnight can go for under $15.
The train looked older than even the trains in Poland. Inside it was all metallic and dirty and Soviet looking, with no thoughts to aesthetic appeal. A wagon consisted of a smoking section, a bathroom, a conductor's room, and then about 10 compartments. Unlike most trains I've been on, the compartments here were not closed, so it was like a giant summer camp barracks. Each compartment consisted of 6 beds. As you walked in the hall, on one side would be a little open space with a table, and on either side of that table, perpendicular to the hallway, 2 beds bunked with a 3rd row holding blankets and mattresses. Then on the other side would be two seats and a little table, which together folded into a bed, with another coming out from the wall above it.
The matresses and the bedding were a nice touch as well. You pay 45 rubles for sheets (pushing the total of the ticket towards the $16 range), roll out a stale/old mattress on your bed, attach all the sheets appropriately, put a blanket on, and hope you don't fall out of your bed if you areon the top bunk. Which I was. Both times. No falls.
The bonus to this sort of train ride is that you immediately bond on some level with everybody in your compartment, sort of a sharing of this crude travel. And since most of my compartment mates were female, well...
Anyway, Petersburg itself was lovely; the cousin was a gracious and great host, I found a fine hotel (actually a hostel mentioned in Let's Go - bastards!), I met my father's friend and he proved to be an interesting, nice person. The city is better suited for summer, when they have white nights, the opportunity to see the fountains on in the city and at Peterhof, and you can stay up late to see the drawbridges across the Neva open. I missed those things, but made out ok by and large. I saw the Hermitage, a huge museum usually placed on par with Louvre, Prado, and so forth, and while its collection was a touch short of the Prado's, for instance, it was more versatile, and it was set in this glorious palace. I got out to Tsarskoye Selo, where Pushkin went to school (if I haven't mentioned it or it isn't obvious, Pushkin is just about the most beloved Russian ever, along with maybe Peter the Great and way way way way higher than Stalin) and the Tsars lived off and on. The Petersburg Moscow relationship is analagous to Barcelona Madrid or Florence Rome, but as with the Spanish example, I prefer the capital. Which is to say I'm happy to be digging into Moscow for the next month and a half.
Some Pictures:
It seems I have a tendency to be late for most of my meetings here, and in this case with tragic effect in Tsarskoye Selo (Царское Село)
If you tell someone from Petersburg this Church (of the Saviour of Spilled Blood) looks like the famous one in Moscow, they may get a little angry at you. But you'd probably be right.
I've really grown here. I have to duck out of the way so you can see the St. Isaac's Church in the background, only the largest church in Petersburg. They feed me well here, I guess.
Dan
6.10.06
I prefer the Party All Around
Those of you in love with the style, have no fear: The mullet is alive and thriving here out east. Admittedly, there are very few full-on, "pure" mullets - shave the sides, spike up top, flow in the back. But many of its descendants, both male and female, are still rolling here following the general principle: Business in front, Party in the back.
Anyway, things continue in almost all wonderful ways. Even the weather hasn't gotten terrible yet (though you wouldn't know based on the haranguing I get about not washing my hair before I go outside from every woman I know). I've figured out the ideal route to practice every day, I still go out in the city with friendly people at least half the week, and things are cool. Throw in that I'm going to Petersburg next weekend and it's all working out.
While I don't have a cohesive post ready, here are a few more things I thought about:
I have not yet grasped the music scene satisfactorily over here, but I do know that they call it "Russkie Rock" (it translates, no?), that I have a DVD full of bands to listen to and cannot claim to be thrilled by any of them, and that one of the bands on that list is from Ukraine, plays reggae, and is named "Friday", except in a punful way (involving the number 5). To repeat, a punny Ukranian reggae band. And they're supposed to be good.
The metro here is pretty fabulous at its core in that the stations are pretty, the trains run pretty frequently and on time, and it covers most of the city very efficiently. On the other hand, they're really stuffy (no AC), they're almost always packed, and if you're looking for a seat you might out of luck, which leads me to...
How to Pick out a Good Spot on the Moscow Metro:
This advice most applies to healthy males ranging from 10-50 in age with at least a small sense of conscience. If you have some of those attributes, you may do well to heed the following as well.
Also, this is best used before 9 pm. After then you can get away with sitting.
You see, the Moscow trains are filled most of the time, and they're filled with a lot of old people. So while there are plenty of seats, they fill up quickly (even when I get on the second stop going into the city), and if you as a healthy person with no visible ailments or warts are sitting down, you are liable to either get stared at or requested to get up. That's if the guilt from seeing other people standing or hearing the voice recording asking us to be polite and give up our seats doesn't eat at you.
The novice move is to take a seat and hope you can withstand all the other pressures. Unless you lack a conscience or are really determined (or can make it look like you're asleep, maybe), this is hard. So you'll take a seat at first, and then give it up and get stuck in the throngs of people in the middle of the car or, even worse, near the entry but without anything to hold onto. Uncomfortable and annoying when your poor balance causes you to fall on pretty women and such (then again...)
So what you should do is enter the car without illusions of getting a seat. Not gonna happen. Instead, work your way to the following points, in ascending order of quality:
- A relatively open space in the middle of the wagon where at least you can hold onto the rail.
- Similar place where you can hold onto the rail without reaching up over your head (especially recommended for you silly little short people).
- Next to a pretty person (there are a lot, so this isn't as high up as you might think).
- Against the wall at the end of the wagon on either side (a bonus if there's a little shelf to put any bags you might have on).
- Against a door on the side that does not open.
- Leaning against the row of seats and the door, in a corner, on either the opening side or the closed side of the wagon.
Now which side is better is a hotly contested battle. On the one hand, if you lean in the corner right where you enter there is never any trouble with getting out when your stop comes (you need to prepare at least one stop in advance otherwise, to be safe). On the other, in a crowded train you may have to deal with more jostling and possibly complaints about hogging space by the door.
The benefit to going far side is that you have more space and less people to deal with. Of course, your access to the exit is worse.
Anyway, just keep that in mind next time you get on at the end of the line and need to go a little while on the same train and see an empty seat. You conscience-less people, you.
I probably have more to say but I can't remember it. So I leave you with the best phrase I tried translating word for word into Russian: Popping a cherry. I got started at berry before I got to cherry, but I came pretty close to getting it all out. I'll probably post the remainders and thoughts on Vienna and Budapest this weekend.
Dan
Anyway, things continue in almost all wonderful ways. Even the weather hasn't gotten terrible yet (though you wouldn't know based on the haranguing I get about not washing my hair before I go outside from every woman I know). I've figured out the ideal route to practice every day, I still go out in the city with friendly people at least half the week, and things are cool. Throw in that I'm going to Petersburg next weekend and it's all working out.
While I don't have a cohesive post ready, here are a few more things I thought about:
I have not yet grasped the music scene satisfactorily over here, but I do know that they call it "Russkie Rock" (it translates, no?), that I have a DVD full of bands to listen to and cannot claim to be thrilled by any of them, and that one of the bands on that list is from Ukraine, plays reggae, and is named "Friday", except in a punful way (involving the number 5). To repeat, a punny Ukranian reggae band. And they're supposed to be good.
The metro here is pretty fabulous at its core in that the stations are pretty, the trains run pretty frequently and on time, and it covers most of the city very efficiently. On the other hand, they're really stuffy (no AC), they're almost always packed, and if you're looking for a seat you might out of luck, which leads me to...
How to Pick out a Good Spot on the Moscow Metro:
This advice most applies to healthy males ranging from 10-50 in age with at least a small sense of conscience. If you have some of those attributes, you may do well to heed the following as well.
Also, this is best used before 9 pm. After then you can get away with sitting.
You see, the Moscow trains are filled most of the time, and they're filled with a lot of old people. So while there are plenty of seats, they fill up quickly (even when I get on the second stop going into the city), and if you as a healthy person with no visible ailments or warts are sitting down, you are liable to either get stared at or requested to get up. That's if the guilt from seeing other people standing or hearing the voice recording asking us to be polite and give up our seats doesn't eat at you.
The novice move is to take a seat and hope you can withstand all the other pressures. Unless you lack a conscience or are really determined (or can make it look like you're asleep, maybe), this is hard. So you'll take a seat at first, and then give it up and get stuck in the throngs of people in the middle of the car or, even worse, near the entry but without anything to hold onto. Uncomfortable and annoying when your poor balance causes you to fall on pretty women and such (then again...)
So what you should do is enter the car without illusions of getting a seat. Not gonna happen. Instead, work your way to the following points, in ascending order of quality:
- A relatively open space in the middle of the wagon where at least you can hold onto the rail.
- Similar place where you can hold onto the rail without reaching up over your head (especially recommended for you silly little short people).
- Next to a pretty person (there are a lot, so this isn't as high up as you might think).
- Against the wall at the end of the wagon on either side (a bonus if there's a little shelf to put any bags you might have on).
- Against a door on the side that does not open.
- Leaning against the row of seats and the door, in a corner, on either the opening side or the closed side of the wagon.
Now which side is better is a hotly contested battle. On the one hand, if you lean in the corner right where you enter there is never any trouble with getting out when your stop comes (you need to prepare at least one stop in advance otherwise, to be safe). On the other, in a crowded train you may have to deal with more jostling and possibly complaints about hogging space by the door.
The benefit to going far side is that you have more space and less people to deal with. Of course, your access to the exit is worse.
Anyway, just keep that in mind next time you get on at the end of the line and need to go a little while on the same train and see an empty seat. You conscience-less people, you.
I probably have more to say but I can't remember it. So I leave you with the best phrase I tried translating word for word into Russian: Popping a cherry. I got started at berry before I got to cherry, but I came pretty close to getting it all out. I'll probably post the remainders and thoughts on Vienna and Budapest this weekend.
Dan
30.9.06
Of Baths, Billiards, Buses, And Bulgakov
Ok, so here are a few topics I'd like to share cohesive thoughts with you about, interspliced with little things that have happened to me in my time here.
For example, best question about America I wasn't able to answer:
In the showers after practice, somebody asked me what the going rate of "grass" is over in the states. The slang is the same as ours. I, being not quite an expert on the subject, tried to think it out. Somehow I came to about $20 an oz, and since there's 28 grams in an ounce, I just rounded to a dollar a gram.
"So cheap?"
Footnote with graphic imagery (you're warned): It's not custom here to shower naked after practice. Happens, but rarely, most of the time we're in our underwear. Those who have ever been on a team with me know I tend to be quite "comfortable" with my body, so this was an adjustment. On the plus side, I wash my (only) shirt every time I shower.
OK, first topic!
Bulgakov's house, now a museum dedicated to him.
Bulgakov, Superstar:
Mikhail Bulgakov was a writer whose creative period collided with the creative period for the Soviet Union. Fortunately, art won out, as always. His acclaimed novel, Master and Margerita, didn't get published for 27 years, but once it finally came out it became a huge favorite in Russia, as I understand it, as well as an acknowledged classic.
That's all well and good, and you may have known that already. What impresses me is that pretty much everybody here confesses their love for the book. It's actually hip to like this book here! I'm actually hip here! (Ok, not so much...)
Since most of the story takes place in Moscow, you can go around and actually see where, say, the Devil meets Berlioz and Homeless, or where Berlioz gets beheaded by a tram, or where MASSOLIT is. I imagine this is very similar to how Dublin is with Joyce, only not nearly as thick and hard to read.
Anyway, this was the first time I pulled out my camera over here, so here are a few more pictures associated with M&M.
Gribodeyov's, home of MASSOLIT, though in real life it was a building named for Gorky
The front door to Cafe Margarita, right off of the Pond. The Russian at the bottom is the famous line, "Manuscripts don't burn". (In Russian, duh)
My guide of the day claimed that Berlioz and Homeless sat on one of these two benches. I think, I can't remember her words exactly. I basically just wanted to point out that I went to the Pond with a girl. Actually, 2, on separate occasions. No euphemism intended, though.
For example, best question about America I wasn't able to answer:
In the showers after practice, somebody asked me what the going rate of "grass" is over in the states. The slang is the same as ours. I, being not quite an expert on the subject, tried to think it out. Somehow I came to about $20 an oz, and since there's 28 grams in an ounce, I just rounded to a dollar a gram.
"So cheap?"
Footnote with graphic imagery (you're warned): It's not custom here to shower naked after practice. Happens, but rarely, most of the time we're in our underwear. Those who have ever been on a team with me know I tend to be quite "comfortable" with my body, so this was an adjustment. On the plus side, I wash my (only) shirt every time I shower.
OK, first topic!
Bulgakov's house, now a museum dedicated to him.
Bulgakov, Superstar:
Mikhail Bulgakov was a writer whose creative period collided with the creative period for the Soviet Union. Fortunately, art won out, as always. His acclaimed novel, Master and Margerita, didn't get published for 27 years, but once it finally came out it became a huge favorite in Russia, as I understand it, as well as an acknowledged classic.
That's all well and good, and you may have known that already. What impresses me is that pretty much everybody here confesses their love for the book. It's actually hip to like this book here! I'm actually hip here! (Ok, not so much...)
Since most of the story takes place in Moscow, you can go around and actually see where, say, the Devil meets Berlioz and Homeless, or where Berlioz gets beheaded by a tram, or where MASSOLIT is. I imagine this is very similar to how Dublin is with Joyce, only not nearly as thick and hard to read.
Anyway, this was the first time I pulled out my camera over here, so here are a few more pictures associated with M&M.
Gribodeyov's, home of MASSOLIT, though in real life it was a building named for Gorky
The front door to Cafe Margarita, right off of the Pond. The Russian at the bottom is the famous line, "Manuscripts don't burn". (In Russian, duh)
My guide of the day claimed that Berlioz and Homeless sat on one of these two benches. I think, I can't remember her words exactly. I basically just wanted to point out that I went to the Pond with a girl. Actually, 2, on separate occasions. No euphemism intended, though. Last Thursday I sat out on a bench on the boulevard ring near Pushkin's statue (the meeting place in Moscow, metro stations excepting) with a group of Moscow youth as we talked, told Russian anecdotes, drank beer, smoked cigarrettes, and played guitar. I'll let you figure out which of those activities I as involved in. But I got to hear a lot of the naughty Russian words I learned, and even a good anecdote about one of them. And the upshot was that I've been asked to write a song for one, ahem, person and may be going to Petersburg not alone in a weekend or two.
Billiards and Bathing:
After our independent day of practice on Wednesday, we hit up the sauna. It's not a completely Russian bath, being dry heat, but I assure you it is sufficient. They just redid the room, so it's this 3-tier large wooden bench with plenty of room and an L bend to it. So, like most saunas, you go in mostly or completely naked and sit there and sweat.
The twist comes in the branch. They have this branch, from a birch tree I think ,though am not sure. Anyway, this branch, what they do, is they hit you with it. Lightly, but to get the blood flowing or something.
So I had been in a sauna like this once before, in Lithuania. It was great and made me so excited that I misused one of my favorite words, sensual - I meant to say sensory. This time I go in for the first session, then step out, cool off. But I didn't take advantage of the showers, and I'm realizing that might have been a mistake. As this doubt worms into my head, I request the branch treatment for my second go.
There I am, the American, and while CSKA's wrestlers hail from all over the country (and Russia's a pretty big country) and a few foreign places, American is about as exotic as it gets. They're eager to get their, err, twigs on me. I lie down on the top level, on my belly. And then the whipping starts. Sensations rush through my back, the heat mixed with the sharp but airy pain, everybody's looking at me, and what else could I do but scream? Ok, more like yelp. And I didn't ask off or anything, I hung in there. But I didn't take the treatment on my front (which I recall being even more sensory) and I took my shower after this, cutting short the standard bath numbering of 3.
Later that day, after taking all those Bulgakov pictures, I headed down to play billiards with one of the wrestlers on the south side of town. That's his job, he manages the pool room at a club once every three days for 15 hours. Seems like a not so bad gig, and he whooped me multiple ways in straight American pool (it's probably called 8-ball, eh?) and 9-ball, though I vultured a couple wins. Apparently billiards is really "fashionable" these days, and so it was a good experience. And I met my first potential English student and heard more of that naughty vocabulary.
Interesting event in between: I ran into a friend from Duke on the same car of the metro on the way to the pool hall. The Moscow metro system is huge, there are 24 hours in a day, many cars on many trains, and she doesn't even live in the city. The chances of us running into each other are low, to say the least. Of course, not as low are the chances that on the day I run into someone from Duke, I'm wearing my Carolina Open long-sleeve, with emblem on the heart and all. Geez.
Buses:
I ride these every day, and let me tell you, good stuff goes down. One day I rode the 88 and there was a drunk who was at first asleep. He was fat, with a 70's styled combover looking hairstyle, and huge sunglasses. I sat next to him, then gave up my seat to an unsuspecting woman. He proceeded to wake up and then rail to whoever would listen (mostly nobody, he went on all the same) about how people could sneak on to the bus for free and it didn't use to be like that, how he was in the army from '82-'84, and the rest of the ills in society. He was great.
Then another day on the bus some kid snuck on (one of about 15 people who did, it happens when the back doors open to let people off), and somebody else caught him and started asking for him to pay the fine (I think it's only 100 rubles, roughly $4). He refused, claiming he had a student pass and it just didn't work, or he didn't use it or something. Anyway, this led to him trying to sneak under the man's arm and off the bus at the next stop, and there was scuffling and jostling and punching. They were both in a huff when we pulled away, but it was funny.
Then there was the dude I saw/met on the way to that guitar playing Thursday night. Slightly balding with reddish brown hair, middle aged, in a sweat suit of sorts, he was doing pull-ups when I saw him at the bus stop. Then he explained it, "You have to use your time wisely", before jogging off to the next stop. He did beat the bus there. Then he got into an argument with an older man about culture and respect. And then he asked me to play on my guitar, cited some old Russian songs. Which led to this gem- "In the future machines will do all the work, so all we'll do is art and sports." I figure I'm all set if I live to 120. Anyway, he lives alone in the same building I live in, his friends just like to get drunk (which led to the woman next to him nodding in agreement), and he got off the bus a stop early to jog to the station. Just beautiful. Ahh, Moscow.
Dan
29.9.06
Prague in Retro
So before I go back to the present with a nice big post on Moscow (there's a lot of ground to cover), here's a full summary, with accompanying pictures, of Prague as I saw it a month ago. This was written before I went out that final night and encountered drugs, sex, and (my own) terrible dancing, though I added a few notes when I typed it up. Hijinx and hilarity tomorrow, I think.
Prague
St. Vitus Cathedral in the Prague Castle Complex
Here’s what Prague has against it: it is cold; relatively easy to get lost in; poorly lit streets at night; an unclear linguistic dichotomy – who speaks what? (As a note, this annoys me because I mildly arrogantly assume everywhere in Eastern Europe has either English or Russian speakers in it, and additionally a lot of these languages are related enough to Russian to raise my hopes up before dashing them with a shovel). More essentially, the main draw of the city is likely the architecture rather than the location, nightlife, or high culture.
Following on that, what Prague is trading on is a familiar authenticity. It is Eastern European, technically, but far more accessible than the barren plains of Poland or the tiny cities of the Baltics, for example. A westerner’s visit to Prague is transportative and nostalgic, but at the same time not that foreign. Similarly, as Prague sells its authenticity, it wins tourists crowding the streets and money. Money that goes to Western businesses like McDonalds.
So as Prague nears its 20th year as an open city in the modern age, it must find the balance between progress with open money and its duty to the city’s past. A quick read of the English paper here suggests that the city politicians may not be up to snuff. And signs frequently advertising “authentic Czech cuisine” show that the citizens might be no better. Let’s hope that changes, because there is a lot of good stuff going on.
What is there to like about Prague? Most everything else. The city is beautiful, especially when walking it at night, and despite the bad lighting and confusing routes, the city feels relatively safe, the occasional prostitute or drug peddler not withstanding. Further, it’s easy to walk the main parts of the city, always a good thing. The metro is unspectacular but good enough for the city-size, and the ubiquitous trams cover much of the rest, running constantly at times, leaving an intrepid jaywalker in a game of Frogger. (Post-facto note: trying to cross a street in Moscow without a light is really like playing Frogger. Don’t worry, I never liked Atari that much anyway.)
The food is a good mix of West and East Europe, or perhaps better said, East and not East. Most Czech staples are meat-heavy, especially on beef and pork, but they’re missing the abundance of starches (read: potatoes) and butter, oil, or just plain fat juice that was endemic in Lithuania, Latvia, or Poland. Top choices were meat skeqers and the beef goulash. I ordered Spatijscke (clearly misspelled), a sort of noodle dish with selected toppings. It could be that I was sick or not hungry or just tired, but I hated it, hardly touched the dish, and then got an extra 15 crowns (about 60 cents) on my bill for the doggie bag, which I left there anyway. The wines here are fine, nothing special, though I usually go cheap as it is.
While many men have touted the Czech/Prague women as gorgeous, I was not blown away but once. They were certainly pretty, with an abundance of leggy blondes, but not world beaters by any means. (PF note: Later that night was when I saw the two very pretty girls at the club, shared a wink, and then got rejected on the dance floor…sigh) There was this one girl with the nicest outfit I’ve ever seen, however, on the Legee bridge, one South of the famed Charles. A red shirt, light, under a tan/warm jacket, with a black skirt to the knees, I can’t remember the shoes, so I’m assuming they were not ostentatious, but her hat tied it all together, this French (?) number, white and round, with a little bill, worn askew to her right. Perfect. Of course, she had a beau on her arms, which leads me to my next point: the best looking women by and large had male companions. Obvious, perhaps, but it knocks the feeling down. As for Prague men, well, honestly, it takes me a little longer period to make any judgments, since I pay less attention to them. No, really, it takes about 8 days instead of 2.
You are now looking up my nose at a statue of Franz Kafka
Culturally, here’s the scoop: the literary tradition is top-class, and the Kafka exhibit here represents it brilliantly. The museum is small with Czech and English titled signs relaying info on Kafka. In essence, they try to build an argument for why Kafka wrote the way he did, and why he’s so alienated and so special. A poor relationship with Pops K, the Hilsner affair leading to anti-semitism in Bohemia, low self-esteem over his clothes and looks, getting called a Ravachol (something akin to a little bastard, I believe), a hatred of his office, and four unfulfilled serious romantic relationships. The stark “plot” is accompanied by eerie music and odd, silent movies. The rooms feel dark and narrow. Never has a museum so effectively sent its message across using all tools available to it.
For art of the visual variety, I stuck with another favorite Prague son, going to the Alfonse Mucha Museum. It was as good as promised with his key posters on display, though rather short on time needed there. They showed a nice biopic that covered his life in about 20 minutes, with a British nar-RA-tor taking us through it. I didn’t see any other galleries and as such am mostly ignorant about other Czech art.
Music came in a couple ways. First, the museum of Czech music had a nice exhibit on Mozart in Prague and than a main, permanent exhibit with old and funky instruments. My feeling is that Prague does not have the strongest creative tradition musically, but they did put on some great music back in their day, and meanwhile pushed the envelope on instrument and scoring style.
Modern music looks unspectacular, but M1, a bar, had indie rock Wednesday and it was both packed and good. Says one ‘tender: “It’s this indie pop/rock shit. I hate it. I think it’s the kind of thing you either really like or really hate.” Touring bands come through here, but not often, and a lot of places have jazz.
I went to a Czech film on my last night and it was great. Marta starts slow, ends suddenly, runs a touch short (and I never say that about movies that are not based on books I’ve read), and features great acting and a mildly veiled plot. It is gruesome, in physical, sexual, and emotional ways, and makes for a great movie. Apparently, it is not representative of Czech film, but it is a good sign all the same.
An example of the not quite spectacular view from the top of St. Vitus. I mean the city!
The mildly silly looking Astronomical Clock in the old town center of Prague, representing the silliness of posting this a month late, perhaps.
Prague
St. Vitus Cathedral in the Prague Castle ComplexHere’s what Prague has against it: it is cold; relatively easy to get lost in; poorly lit streets at night; an unclear linguistic dichotomy – who speaks what? (As a note, this annoys me because I mildly arrogantly assume everywhere in Eastern Europe has either English or Russian speakers in it, and additionally a lot of these languages are related enough to Russian to raise my hopes up before dashing them with a shovel). More essentially, the main draw of the city is likely the architecture rather than the location, nightlife, or high culture.
Following on that, what Prague is trading on is a familiar authenticity. It is Eastern European, technically, but far more accessible than the barren plains of Poland or the tiny cities of the Baltics, for example. A westerner’s visit to Prague is transportative and nostalgic, but at the same time not that foreign. Similarly, as Prague sells its authenticity, it wins tourists crowding the streets and money. Money that goes to Western businesses like McDonalds.
So as Prague nears its 20th year as an open city in the modern age, it must find the balance between progress with open money and its duty to the city’s past. A quick read of the English paper here suggests that the city politicians may not be up to snuff. And signs frequently advertising “authentic Czech cuisine” show that the citizens might be no better. Let’s hope that changes, because there is a lot of good stuff going on.
What is there to like about Prague? Most everything else. The city is beautiful, especially when walking it at night, and despite the bad lighting and confusing routes, the city feels relatively safe, the occasional prostitute or drug peddler not withstanding. Further, it’s easy to walk the main parts of the city, always a good thing. The metro is unspectacular but good enough for the city-size, and the ubiquitous trams cover much of the rest, running constantly at times, leaving an intrepid jaywalker in a game of Frogger. (Post-facto note: trying to cross a street in Moscow without a light is really like playing Frogger. Don’t worry, I never liked Atari that much anyway.)
The food is a good mix of West and East Europe, or perhaps better said, East and not East. Most Czech staples are meat-heavy, especially on beef and pork, but they’re missing the abundance of starches (read: potatoes) and butter, oil, or just plain fat juice that was endemic in Lithuania, Latvia, or Poland. Top choices were meat skeqers and the beef goulash. I ordered Spatijscke (clearly misspelled), a sort of noodle dish with selected toppings. It could be that I was sick or not hungry or just tired, but I hated it, hardly touched the dish, and then got an extra 15 crowns (about 60 cents) on my bill for the doggie bag, which I left there anyway. The wines here are fine, nothing special, though I usually go cheap as it is.
While many men have touted the Czech/Prague women as gorgeous, I was not blown away but once. They were certainly pretty, with an abundance of leggy blondes, but not world beaters by any means. (PF note: Later that night was when I saw the two very pretty girls at the club, shared a wink, and then got rejected on the dance floor…sigh) There was this one girl with the nicest outfit I’ve ever seen, however, on the Legee bridge, one South of the famed Charles. A red shirt, light, under a tan/warm jacket, with a black skirt to the knees, I can’t remember the shoes, so I’m assuming they were not ostentatious, but her hat tied it all together, this French (?) number, white and round, with a little bill, worn askew to her right. Perfect. Of course, she had a beau on her arms, which leads me to my next point: the best looking women by and large had male companions. Obvious, perhaps, but it knocks the feeling down. As for Prague men, well, honestly, it takes me a little longer period to make any judgments, since I pay less attention to them. No, really, it takes about 8 days instead of 2.
You are now looking up my nose at a statue of Franz KafkaCulturally, here’s the scoop: the literary tradition is top-class, and the Kafka exhibit here represents it brilliantly. The museum is small with Czech and English titled signs relaying info on Kafka. In essence, they try to build an argument for why Kafka wrote the way he did, and why he’s so alienated and so special. A poor relationship with Pops K, the Hilsner affair leading to anti-semitism in Bohemia, low self-esteem over his clothes and looks, getting called a Ravachol (something akin to a little bastard, I believe), a hatred of his office, and four unfulfilled serious romantic relationships. The stark “plot” is accompanied by eerie music and odd, silent movies. The rooms feel dark and narrow. Never has a museum so effectively sent its message across using all tools available to it.
For art of the visual variety, I stuck with another favorite Prague son, going to the Alfonse Mucha Museum. It was as good as promised with his key posters on display, though rather short on time needed there. They showed a nice biopic that covered his life in about 20 minutes, with a British nar-RA-tor taking us through it. I didn’t see any other galleries and as such am mostly ignorant about other Czech art.
Music came in a couple ways. First, the museum of Czech music had a nice exhibit on Mozart in Prague and than a main, permanent exhibit with old and funky instruments. My feeling is that Prague does not have the strongest creative tradition musically, but they did put on some great music back in their day, and meanwhile pushed the envelope on instrument and scoring style.
Modern music looks unspectacular, but M1, a bar, had indie rock Wednesday and it was both packed and good. Says one ‘tender: “It’s this indie pop/rock shit. I hate it. I think it’s the kind of thing you either really like or really hate.” Touring bands come through here, but not often, and a lot of places have jazz.
I went to a Czech film on my last night and it was great. Marta starts slow, ends suddenly, runs a touch short (and I never say that about movies that are not based on books I’ve read), and features great acting and a mildly veiled plot. It is gruesome, in physical, sexual, and emotional ways, and makes for a great movie. Apparently, it is not representative of Czech film, but it is a good sign all the same.
Wencelas "Square" from the North, that's the National Museum at the far end
Now, for a detailed run through of St. Vitus' Cathedral and a brief run through of every other tourist site:
St. Vitus Cathedral: Now that I have seen this I feel much better about missing the Sistine Chapel. Not to say this bests that, necessarily, just that it is surely close enough, especially considering more cathedrals are sure to come.
Vitus is in the Eastern European gothic style through and through. On the wings are ornately constructed gold-plated or stained glass homages to Jesus, his mother, the Saints, and various Czech dignitaries. The ceiling is high, pointed, and beautiful, even missing Michelangelo’s touch. Below there is a royal crypt reminiscent of the one in Poznan (Poland), and to the right (South) there is a great tower.
We wound our way up 287 stairs with nary a landing. Some steps were a touch wider and there were windowsills to rest on, but mostly it was a straight hike. The stairwell was narrow, though not quite as slim as the climb to the top of Malbork Castle, where we worried for our broad-shouldered heavyweight’s chances of making it through, and later even more so for a not very slender woman walking there. Two regular-width people could pass each other in reasonable discomfort. The steps just barely were large enough for a full foot, so usually each step left the walker dangling, clinging to the outer wall going down or the central pillar going up. People going both ways stopped, and those coming down offered a smile and words of encouragement. It didn’t matter if we spoke the same language or not: the note in our voices did the trick.
Emerging from the dimly but sufficiently lit stairwell, the feeling is far more relief than exhilaration. We were high up, certainly, and what views there were in Prague, we saw them. Prague’s beauty, however, is far better recognized on the ground level. The climb was worth it, but mostly because it was there.
An example of the not quite spectacular view from the top of St. Vitus. I mean the city!On to the other tourist sites/sights. The old Jewish section had very nice synagogues and its own little block on the north end of the old city. The Jewish community is now dispersed throughout Prague, I read. The old town center is absolutely lovely from all directions, and you can appreciate that while just walking around, especially at night. Charles Bridge is glorious if crowded. The Prague Castle peaks as a whole at the St. Vitus’ Cathedral, literally and otherwise. The museum of torture is blah: no pictures allowed, expensive tickets, gruesome but not so much, and not all that edifying. Wencelas Square is pretty hip, with a walkable middle showcasing modern art and a nice shot of the National Museum; choice.
There is a strong American ex-pat scene here, from cafes to bars to clubs. One of the two Americans I met put the number at 30K Americans in the city. Prague Post is a weekly English newspaper, and I’d guess between 50-75% of native Praguers speak passable English. Additionally, German, Italian and Russian from tourists dot the streets.
On the whole, I’m a big fan of Prague and would love to live here for a year or two, above all other European cities I’ve been to yet. We’ll see how that holds. Interestingly, for my purposes – cultural blitz, traveling adrenaline, and a dose of social life, a two and a half day stay is about perfect. (I should have somehow worked around this all-nighter idea, 2nd of the trip and 1st solo.) I saw most if not all of the sights, got a good feel of the city if not the people, had a great hostel, and had a decent time last night during my brief time out. I could come back here briefly, for a year, or never again. Not a bad place to be, and so I dig on.
The mildly silly looking Astronomical Clock in the old town center of Prague, representing the silliness of posting this a month late, perhaps.Dan
22.9.06
That kind of finish...
Before dishing out the leftover photos from Paris and Rome, courtesy of Ben, here's the best understandable Russian language mistake I've made:
I learned and always thought the verb for finish was "Kon-chat" or "Kon-cheet" (imperfect or perfect form). So I've been using that a lot. And everybody smiles and corrects me, adding a "Za-" to the beginning of the verb. I was starting to get the hang of it, and trying to get it right, but surely there's a context where the true form of "to finish" works.
Finally, walking around museums and Old Arbat (sort of the La Rambla, Greenwich Village, or Fanueil Hall of Moscow, now commercialized), I asked my companion why I couldn't say "Kon-chat." "Does it mean something more like 'to end', or suggest that you died or something?"
She laughed, and then finally consented to explain. Apparently, "Kon-chat" is used for one specific context of finishing, but rather than a death context, it's the quite contrasting sexual context. So while you fully grasp that, I assure you all that I will not make that mistake again, unless I do it deliberately, in my punning sense of humor.
Ok, pictures.
I learned and always thought the verb for finish was "Kon-chat" or "Kon-cheet" (imperfect or perfect form). So I've been using that a lot. And everybody smiles and corrects me, adding a "Za-" to the beginning of the verb. I was starting to get the hang of it, and trying to get it right, but surely there's a context where the true form of "to finish" works.
Finally, walking around museums and Old Arbat (sort of the La Rambla, Greenwich Village, or Fanueil Hall of Moscow, now commercialized), I asked my companion why I couldn't say "Kon-chat." "Does it mean something more like 'to end', or suggest that you died or something?"
She laughed, and then finally consented to explain. Apparently, "Kon-chat" is used for one specific context of finishing, but rather than a death context, it's the quite contrasting sexual context. So while you fully grasp that, I assure you all that I will not make that mistake again, unless I do it deliberately, in my punning sense of humor.
Ok, pictures.
Welcome to Paris. I had no luck finding the Hunchback.
Larger than Life. 
That speck in the middle is me holding on just before losing control and sliding down the face of the park, breaking my sandals and scraping my finger bad enough to last for the rest of the trip (it is healed now, don't worry). Ben would have taken an action photo if he wasn't caught between laughing and wondering if he should catch me.
Instead of running through La Fontana Di Trevi Anita Eckburg-style, as requested, I posed. I think I look almost as good as she did. Or at least my chest is roughly proportional to hers.
And I have zakoncheel, though not koncheel.
Dan
20.9.06
I'm too bright for this city!
Herein will be a retelling of my physical inspection, assorted observations after 10 days in Moscow, and a small essay on Madrid.
So, to get properly admitted into the wrestling club I am training in, I needed to jump through a few hoops, and among them was to get medically cleared. Perfectly understandable, we do it in the states too. But all the same, the whole procedure was quite the event. Allow me:
I showed up a little early, waited and read my newspaper (Soviet Sport, keeping it old school). After some confusion over where I was going, I finally got in to meet with my doctor/advisor for the morning session about 15 minutes late, or standard for Russia, I'd say.
So we exchanged some pleasantries, some personal info, some money, and then I got going.
The first room was the laboratory for a blood test. Again, perfectly normal procedure, prick the finger and poke blood out. Well, except for the time she put my blood in a pipe on one end and then blew it out from the other end into a receptacle. That was a little unusual. And the second time no less.
After we decided that a urine test was unnecessary, I went down the hall, thinking I was going to get my first ever EKG (or possibly EEG, the heart one). While that was yet in store, first I had an Echo test. Which meant that I was to sit there with my hands neatly on my knees, palms out, while this nice old doctor took what looked to be my temperature from various points on my body: second joint of each middle finger, elbow, wrist, temple. After the first try she told me that we should take another one, my results weren't too good, maybe I was nervous. Well ok, first test in Russia and I fail. No biggie. Apparently this test tells how much energy I have ready, on tap, and in reserve, and how my nervous system works, and what type of girl I prefer, and so forth. Very detailed, I can understand how Ivan Drago was constructed now.
On the next one I passed in hovering just above the ground colors, suggesting that I had a lot of energy in reserve and that I should only work out to 80% capacity for a little while. As if it was my choice.
Next came the long awaited heart test, which ever E*G it was. I went into the room, and the pretty doctor told me to take off my shirt and hike my pants up Huck Finn style. Yes ma'am. Then I lie down on the medical bed, and she straps my legs and arms to the bed with metal clamps. Wondering where this could possibly go next, I got my answer in two words: suction cups. The good doctor put 6 cups around my chest, right around nipple area on each side. To say they felt funny would be a mild understatement; they tickled like hell and I was left biting my lip to keep from continuously laughing. If my results showed anything funny, I'd argue that there's a reason for it right there.
Anyway, the show resumed slightly more mundanely with an interview/blood pressure test. Interview because this doctor asked me questions about my medical history, my past with concussions, my favorite food, and so forth. One result was that I learned the word for "Adenoid" is pretty much the same in Russian.
These sort of questions continued in the next room, where the doctor inspected my eyes, ears, and nose. She found that my nose was a little uneven in nostril width. As long as it doesn't bother me I'm fine, and the way I figure, after my haircut I'm one good broken nose away from really looking Russian.
The dermatologist and I had a nice little chat after I barged into her office before she got there. You see, she just got back from vacation, so things were a little confused, and I didn't mean to break that vase...err, anyway, clean skin, I'm golden.
For my reflexes test I met my first male examiner. His first test was to have me pretend I got pulled over: stand on one foot, close your eyes, touch your nose with each hand. If he asked to to recite the Russian alphabet, forwards or backwards, he would have had me dead to rights. Anyway, then instead of hitting the mallot on my knees, he had me kneel on the chair and then hit my ankles. And you wonder why communism didn't work.
I don't even know what my final test was, except it involved me taking off my shirt, going into a little chamber, and putting my chin on a stool. And when the light went on I was to not breath out. I think. It's enough for me to understand layman's Russian, but to grasp doctor speak in another language is a struggle.
Have no fear, my bill of health is clean and I made by on the bill of money. And I've already practiced 3 times, or once a day this week. And I hurt really bad. Other observations:
- The title is a quote from one of the people who has been greatly helping me out over here. She said I was instantly recognizable by the fact that I smiled as I walked around, and that after 3 months I'll be nice and worn down to Moscow standards. Between that and my ears getting really fat because headgear is a foreign concept and I want to fit in, I'll be completely unrecognizable in December. Hooray!
- After seeing all the people on the most inner boulevard circle drinking openly on the benches, whether beer, champagne, or vodka from a plastic cup; getting used to the smoking endemic here and in Europe; and seeing how people drive (with reckless abandon and a passion unrivaled outside of Nascar, namely, they drive it like they stole it) and refuse to let walkers cross the street, I remarked to my uncle on this, and we decided that this is the Дикий Восток (that is, the Wild East).
- My first game of soccer over here was a success: We won 6-3. I had the final goal as well as two assists (playmaker, folks), and I managed to take a pass on the postgame cigarette - and they were wondering why they were so tired out there.
- Just in case you didn't know, Moscow is huge. Both in area and population, this place is swarming. The metro trains are almost always packed, the city streets always swarming, and it takes me an hour plus to get to practice, which is in the same general region of the city as my apartment. More on this later no doubt.
Ok, and now for a few words on Madrid:
Madrid:
The city actually looks baked most of the time, a dusty, rusty red, as seen from Gran Via or Plaza Mayor or Puerta del Sol. There is green to be found in gorgeous amounts, and there correspondingly is plenty of life to be found after dark. But those elements work in Madrid almost in spite of the city, which felt better defined by its walkability, great food at decent prices, and the siestas.
Ahh the siesta, the most intriguing piece of Madrillan (and Spanish) life. With reports/claims that Spanish citizens average an hour less sleep than their European counterparts, and that Madrid brings that average down, it would appear that siestas go for about half of a young Spaniard's daily sleep count.
On the one hand, that's brilliant. Everybody loves a midday nap, and if you can manage, an extra hour spent awake is a bonus. But that's the rub: wouldn't it be more productive, economically or socially, to sleep more and get more out of your waking hours? This could be a Puritanical American heritage speaking, but sometimes this siesta business seems a little archaic and disruptive.
Then again, few feelings are more pleasant than slowly reviving from a midday snooze, with a layer of sweat on the legs and vague recollections of sub-conscious thought. It throws a pause into Madrid's pace, and that pause makes me feel that Madrid is the best city to live in of those we saw in Western Europe.
Dan
So, to get properly admitted into the wrestling club I am training in, I needed to jump through a few hoops, and among them was to get medically cleared. Perfectly understandable, we do it in the states too. But all the same, the whole procedure was quite the event. Allow me:
I showed up a little early, waited and read my newspaper (Soviet Sport, keeping it old school). After some confusion over where I was going, I finally got in to meet with my doctor/advisor for the morning session about 15 minutes late, or standard for Russia, I'd say.
So we exchanged some pleasantries, some personal info, some money, and then I got going.
The first room was the laboratory for a blood test. Again, perfectly normal procedure, prick the finger and poke blood out. Well, except for the time she put my blood in a pipe on one end and then blew it out from the other end into a receptacle. That was a little unusual. And the second time no less.
After we decided that a urine test was unnecessary, I went down the hall, thinking I was going to get my first ever EKG (or possibly EEG, the heart one). While that was yet in store, first I had an Echo test. Which meant that I was to sit there with my hands neatly on my knees, palms out, while this nice old doctor took what looked to be my temperature from various points on my body: second joint of each middle finger, elbow, wrist, temple. After the first try she told me that we should take another one, my results weren't too good, maybe I was nervous. Well ok, first test in Russia and I fail. No biggie. Apparently this test tells how much energy I have ready, on tap, and in reserve, and how my nervous system works, and what type of girl I prefer, and so forth. Very detailed, I can understand how Ivan Drago was constructed now.
On the next one I passed in hovering just above the ground colors, suggesting that I had a lot of energy in reserve and that I should only work out to 80% capacity for a little while. As if it was my choice.
Next came the long awaited heart test, which ever E*G it was. I went into the room, and the pretty doctor told me to take off my shirt and hike my pants up Huck Finn style. Yes ma'am. Then I lie down on the medical bed, and she straps my legs and arms to the bed with metal clamps. Wondering where this could possibly go next, I got my answer in two words: suction cups. The good doctor put 6 cups around my chest, right around nipple area on each side. To say they felt funny would be a mild understatement; they tickled like hell and I was left biting my lip to keep from continuously laughing. If my results showed anything funny, I'd argue that there's a reason for it right there.
Anyway, the show resumed slightly more mundanely with an interview/blood pressure test. Interview because this doctor asked me questions about my medical history, my past with concussions, my favorite food, and so forth. One result was that I learned the word for "Adenoid" is pretty much the same in Russian.
These sort of questions continued in the next room, where the doctor inspected my eyes, ears, and nose. She found that my nose was a little uneven in nostril width. As long as it doesn't bother me I'm fine, and the way I figure, after my haircut I'm one good broken nose away from really looking Russian.
The dermatologist and I had a nice little chat after I barged into her office before she got there. You see, she just got back from vacation, so things were a little confused, and I didn't mean to break that vase...err, anyway, clean skin, I'm golden.
For my reflexes test I met my first male examiner. His first test was to have me pretend I got pulled over: stand on one foot, close your eyes, touch your nose with each hand. If he asked to to recite the Russian alphabet, forwards or backwards, he would have had me dead to rights. Anyway, then instead of hitting the mallot on my knees, he had me kneel on the chair and then hit my ankles. And you wonder why communism didn't work.
I don't even know what my final test was, except it involved me taking off my shirt, going into a little chamber, and putting my chin on a stool. And when the light went on I was to not breath out. I think. It's enough for me to understand layman's Russian, but to grasp doctor speak in another language is a struggle.
Have no fear, my bill of health is clean and I made by on the bill of money. And I've already practiced 3 times, or once a day this week. And I hurt really bad. Other observations:
- The title is a quote from one of the people who has been greatly helping me out over here. She said I was instantly recognizable by the fact that I smiled as I walked around, and that after 3 months I'll be nice and worn down to Moscow standards. Between that and my ears getting really fat because headgear is a foreign concept and I want to fit in, I'll be completely unrecognizable in December. Hooray!
- After seeing all the people on the most inner boulevard circle drinking openly on the benches, whether beer, champagne, or vodka from a plastic cup; getting used to the smoking endemic here and in Europe; and seeing how people drive (with reckless abandon and a passion unrivaled outside of Nascar, namely, they drive it like they stole it) and refuse to let walkers cross the street, I remarked to my uncle on this, and we decided that this is the Дикий Восток (that is, the Wild East).
- My first game of soccer over here was a success: We won 6-3. I had the final goal as well as two assists (playmaker, folks), and I managed to take a pass on the postgame cigarette - and they were wondering why they were so tired out there.
- Just in case you didn't know, Moscow is huge. Both in area and population, this place is swarming. The metro trains are almost always packed, the city streets always swarming, and it takes me an hour plus to get to practice, which is in the same general region of the city as my apartment. More on this later no doubt.
Ok, and now for a few words on Madrid:
Madrid:
The city actually looks baked most of the time, a dusty, rusty red, as seen from Gran Via or Plaza Mayor or Puerta del Sol. There is green to be found in gorgeous amounts, and there correspondingly is plenty of life to be found after dark. But those elements work in Madrid almost in spite of the city, which felt better defined by its walkability, great food at decent prices, and the siestas.
Ahh the siesta, the most intriguing piece of Madrillan (and Spanish) life. With reports/claims that Spanish citizens average an hour less sleep than their European counterparts, and that Madrid brings that average down, it would appear that siestas go for about half of a young Spaniard's daily sleep count.
On the one hand, that's brilliant. Everybody loves a midday nap, and if you can manage, an extra hour spent awake is a bonus. But that's the rub: wouldn't it be more productive, economically or socially, to sleep more and get more out of your waking hours? This could be a Puritanical American heritage speaking, but sometimes this siesta business seems a little archaic and disruptive.
Then again, few feelings are more pleasant than slowly reviving from a midday snooze, with a layer of sweat on the legs and vague recollections of sub-conscious thought. It throws a pause into Madrid's pace, and that pause makes me feel that Madrid is the best city to live in of those we saw in Western Europe.
Dan
14.9.06
From Russia With Love
Man, have I been dying to use that title.
So my place, let me tell you, I'm living in a room with two roomates. And they're cool enough, you know, it's strange. One's shorter than me, kinda fat, kinda hairy, really proud too, sort of doesn't say anything unless he wants to eat, he'll just stare at you kind of funny and yawn if you try to talk to him. But whatever, he's quiet, his name is Timmy (well, Tima in Russian). Then there's Philly (Fila), who's a cool enough dude, a little rough around the edges, he drools when he sleeps and always lies out on my bed. And he's always asking me to go out, he's like, "Danya, come on, we need to go out, I have people I need to see," and I'm like, "Fila, dude, I don't want to go out, I'm tired, and we went out this afternoon already," and he's like, "Come on, you're in Moscow, you have nothing to do anyway," and I'm like, "alright, fine, you're right." Anyway, he's alright otherwise, a bit messy when he eats. Anyway, here's a picture of these two, they're quite a pair, Timski is on the left:
So my place, let me tell you, I'm living in a room with two roomates. And they're cool enough, you know, it's strange. One's shorter than me, kinda fat, kinda hairy, really proud too, sort of doesn't say anything unless he wants to eat, he'll just stare at you kind of funny and yawn if you try to talk to him. But whatever, he's quiet, his name is Timmy (well, Tima in Russian). Then there's Philly (Fila), who's a cool enough dude, a little rough around the edges, he drools when he sleeps and always lies out on my bed. And he's always asking me to go out, he's like, "Danya, come on, we need to go out, I have people I need to see," and I'm like, "Fila, dude, I don't want to go out, I'm tired, and we went out this afternoon already," and he's like, "Come on, you're in Moscow, you have nothing to do anyway," and I'm like, "alright, fine, you're right." Anyway, he's alright otherwise, a bit messy when he eats. Anyway, here's a picture of these two, they're quite a pair, Timski is on the left:
But seriously, yes, I am here in the city of onion domes, red and revolutionary squares, obtuse visa registration requirements, and cyrillic letters. Moscow, be mine. This has been a shockingly relaxing week, with the whole idea of sleeping in the same bed for more than two days a truthfully amazing development. At the same time, I'm on the verge of setting the next two and a half months up quite nicely. Wrestling, visa, maybe work, social life, a soccer team to cheer for in the Champions League (CSKA, where I'm training for wrestling), it's all a pretty good deal. I should also mention that the place I'm staying in is stellar, mostly because the people therein are stellar. A family that includes a generous and dry-witted dad, a very kind and helpful mother, a friendly and slightly dopey son, and an equally friendly and enthusiastic daughter, and the kids are both teenagers. Oh, and listen to our eating schedule: Every meal is followed by tea and sweets, largely in chocolate form. You think I'm in love?
A few more advantages to Moscow life so far:
Watching TV: Educational, always, as it's in a foreign language. And I'm actually getting into Lost, which I never tried watching before, though here it's called "Remaining among the Living" or something.
Music: Well, first, the family I'm here with has an old, not quite functional but decent enough accordion, so I fooled around on it. Number 2, I have a cd player set up in my room with speakers attached that plays mp3 cds, so I have one cd here that has every Beatles record on it, so that's kind of cute. Lastly, I played my 2 Russian songs and "Julian of Norwich" for the folks here. Knocked 'em dead. I plan on hanging out on the hipster street (Old Arbat) and doing the whole playing and putting the hat out thing (I forgot the verb) as soon as I'm legal.
Phone: I have a cell piece, known as a "Mobile phone", here. While there's nothing extraordinary about it, I did manage to set it up so that phone calls from unknown numbers will ring as the opening notes to Bombadil's "Jellybean Wine", and from numbers in my phonebook the notes will be the melody to "Julian of Norwich". So vain.
Fairer gender: I'm told, told mind you, that there's a line waiting for me. Tomorrow I begin to verify.
Anyway, all is well, and here's a little piece I wrote about Barcelona, which wins the following superlatives: Most Intense City, Best City to Vacation in, City most likely to Burn me out.
If that looks like I'm flying, it's only because it's true. Atop Park Guell, with Barca in the background, picture by Mr. Ben Chang.
Barcelona: time spent here: 24 hours +-
Headrush. Barcelona rushes through the visitor as the visitor rushes thorugh it. Fast-paced but in the easy-going Mediterranean style, this city felt like an amusement park. And only partly because modernist architecture, mostly courtesy of Antoni Gaudi, made it look like one (especially the entrance to Park Guell). Barca is high on energy and demands: if you want to go out, you go late; if you want to see the city, you walk a lot and up tall hills.
This felt like the best city to date to vacation in. On th epositive, it offers close to as much high culture as Rome and Paris, meanwhile rounding it out better with beauty, nature, sports, and the beach. More importantly, assuming you don't want to actually rest on your vacation, that Barca energy combines with the high culture for full days. Very full days.
On the negative, that high energy felt constant, and it takes a special type to face up to and meet the standard day in and day out. I would guess Barcelona is not cheap to live in, and as such requires a lot; you might be able to get the best out of it for a year or two, but I imagine burnout is the reward in the end.
Still, I think Barcelona is the "coolest" or "hippest" city of the Western European Cities we visited.
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