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