Lost in Granada

A boring fountain in the more modern part of Granada, before we got lost.

In one corner stood the challengers, Ben and I, who consider ourselves pretty intrepid travelers. We have our fair share of experience, open minds, and a decent bit of know-how. In the other corner stood the champion, Granada is known for its small cobblestone streets in the center of town, as well as many hills. And in this case, the city maintained its title, for the city won.

We did not get lost just once in Granada, nor twice. We got lost four times. Four different cases of utter befuddlement, where maps offered no help, and oftentimes the locals we asked had no idea how to help us. Each incidence had its own flavor, however, so let's look a little closer:

The First Time (Or, how we finally found our aptly named hostel): First is the worst, or so it was for us. We still had hope, we still had the idyllic vision of a perfect trip in our hearts, and more importantly, we still had our bags on.
The hostel wasn't on the map, and neither was the street it was on, Calle de Mirador Rolando. But Gmapping it suggested a general location, and we figured once we got close, we could ask somebody or stumble upon it ourselves.

Ben pulls out the map. This happens to be about 5 minutes away from our hostel as the stray cat walks, 2 hours as the travelers search.

So after a little map consulting and a checking of our gut instincts, we marched through an arch and up a hill. We climbed carefully, listening as other tourists in earshot talked about how this reminded them of "Old Europe." Then, in a touristy plaza near the top of a hill, in the middle of siesta, we started to ask for help.
I still speak minimal Spanish, and understand about as much. Still, from what Ben told me and from what I could piece together, the general exchange went like this:
Ben: "Excuse me, could you tell me where calle de Mirador Rolando is?"
Granada Citizen: "What? Never heard of it. What are you looking for?"
Ben: "A hostel, El Clandestino."
GC: "Hmm. Nope. Maybe they made it up. You should take a left here, go up a hill, and ask somebody at the next plaza."
And so on.

We ran into some interesting people while we hunted. One mother with two little girls had no idea where the street was, but was eager to talk with us and wish us luck. Another woman, a little older, gave us detailed directions which were confirmed by an even older gentleman on a rooftop. At one point we got tired and stopped on a plaza that had a little park and a small platform. Therein we got to witness a girl practicing a little flamenco. That was fun.

Ben filming the flamenco dancer. Meta.

None of this helped us find our hostel, however, and after two or so hours of tramping around with our bags, most of that time unclear of where we were going (we did successfully buy train tickets to get to Sevilla). We took the last woman's advice and went out to a major road, then after marking our territory in case we got lost, we went down Cuesta San Antonio. Ben recognized the street from his Gmapping, so we had some hope. As we proceeded down the hill, we saw a tattoo parlor, and agreed that must be a good sign. Still, we found nothing, and were back at the arch where Ben first pulled out the map.
We were and still are intrepid travelers. Maybe life is easier for the traveler these days, with internet access abundant, a more globalized understanding prevalent everywhere, and the ability to plan out a trip better than ever. But at that point we were stumped, tired, and weary. Smiles still hung on our faces, though not out of joy. Rather, at some point we smiled at the absurdity of our dilemma, and then became too tired to wipe that smile off our faces.
There was no recourse but to continue our efforts, anyway. (I thought we might throw ourselves at the feet of the flamenco dancer and her friend, in hopes they might take pity on us and let us crash on their floor, but that was just a suggestion). Ben went into a motorcycle shop on the incline to that first plaza atop a hill. He stayed in there for a few minutes, so that I got concerned and went back to check on him. There he stood, looking at a map with three other guys. As it turns out, the owner was sure where the place was, and it was indeed not on the map. And we had walked right by it.
So we went back out towards that main road, the one where we had so conveniently marked our territory. We approached the same Cuesta San Antonio, this time with a desperate hope, not knowing what would happen if we failed this time. We espied the tattoo parlor at the bottom of the hill again, our omen of possibility, and as we spotted it, Ben looked to his right, where indeed a stairway off the street led up. We went up, and so it was, calle de Mirador Rolando! A stairway that led to a tiny circle of a street, where indeed El Clandestino lived up to its name. And we, exhausted after 3+ hours of tromping around with our bags, retired to a nice terrace to recover before our nighttime efforts.


View from ol' El Clandestino. It's nice, eh? Maybe not quite worth the effort, but still.

Number 2, or how we couldn't find the hostel again: So after resting up a little bit and generally setting into our hostel, which was very nice, we went out to see what the Granada night had in store for us. Spanish nightlife is largely based around the art of the tapas, where you hop from bar to bar eating small plates of various delicacies, many involving ham, while drinking beverages. But I doubt that anywhere can match Granada in one respect: there you don't pay for the tapas. Order a drink, get free tapas. And drinks are not especially expensive: we didn't pay more than 2 euros (these days, roughly $145) for a drink, and usually a little less.
So we went to one place, squeezed ourselves into a corner right before the rush began, and enjoyed a couple o' drinks. Ben had cañas (little beers) while I usually went to tinto de veranos (red wine with lemon seltzer water). We had a couple of nice tapas plates, one featuring ham, one pork, and some girls from Andalucia talked to us for a bit. Then we headed to another place where we watched Madrid suburbian football team Getafe steal a tie from Bayern Munich in the UEFA Cup Quarterfinals, as well as learning about Zenit St. Petersburg's dominant away win. We had Morcilla (blood sausage, though it was served like chili on a piece of bread) and tortilla (eggs and potatoes, also on bread). Somewhere along the way we had a tuna paste on bread as well. A lot of bread.
Anyway, somewhere near midnight, which is still quite early in the night for Spain, we decided to trek back to the hostel. We planned to wake up at 7 or so the next morning to get out to the Alhambra and buy tickets, so a decent rest was in order. Things were going fine as we walked back to the main drag. We took a turn and wandered into somewhat unfamiliar territory, but we weren't too concerned. While we had seen just about all of Granada when we got lost earlier, we figured that it must look different at night. So we went on. And on. And on.
15 minutes later we saw a sign saying "Centro" and pointing in the direction we came from. Another turn around, another extra adventure. At least we got back without special problems.

This was the next day at the Alhambra. No one is lost, we're just upside down.

The Third Time (Or how we struggled to find our 2nd hostel): So our main man Manuel at El Clandestino warned us that Hostelworld lied, and that he had no availability for Friday night. But also he told us not to worry, because he had rebooked us in another hostel with a private room which was cheaper and even closer to the center.
Friday morning we went to the Alhambra (without getting lost! though we did buy one ticket too many...), and afterwards returned to EC for our bags and directions to our next place, Maktub. Manuel told us where to go and said there would be "plenty of signs."
Maktub is an Arabic word, and the hostel was appropriately located in one of the most Arabic regions of Granada. Granada has strongest Arabic heritage in Spain, as evidenced by the Arabic region and the Alhambra. So as we looked for our hostel, we found plenty of market stalls where one could by handheld drums or incense or clothing.
We didn't find Maktub, of course. We walked right around where it should have been two or three times, again clueless. We asked a couple people, who gave us directions that were less than precise, which left us no better off than before.
The resolution to this episode was quicker and easier, however: A waitress in a nearby bar told Ben to look for the big wooden door, and after we knocked on a couple, we came to the right one. There an Austrian dude let us in, and we witnessed an Israeli and an Australian with huge blond dreads and a Velvet Underground and Nico t-shirt have an argument about whether or not all the food in the fridge was up for grabs. They came to some conclusion, and after an interlude of silence, the following exchange was heard:
Aussie: What are you making now?
Israeli: Pizza. (Pause) You want some?
Aussie: No, I'm good.

No further blood or angst shed, we retired to the terrace for a little break before setting off on our last adventure, which of course led to...

This is actually still at the Alhambra. I'm not lost, but it sure looks like it.

The Fourth Time (Or where we got lost in a good way): We wanted to go to the Sacramonte, a neighborhood with many caves on the other high ground of Granada, North of the Alhambra. We took a bus to the Alhambra, but this time we decided we could scale the hill one way or another.
First we scaled the streets, where we found Mirador San Nicolas. One of Ben's students told him people played flamenco and the cool kids hung out there, so we did as such also, watching various hippie riff-raff selling necklaces and the like while a guy played a pretty mean flamenco tune or two. Impromptu dancing ensued and all was quite merry around us and in our hearts as we set back on our journey to the top of the hill*.
At a juncture below the wall we intended to reach, we saw a sign that pointed to the Sacramonte neighborhood to our right. The wall was clearly in front of us. So we decided to eschew following the sign and proceeded forwards. Why at this point we would spurn help and guidance so clearly offered is a question best left unanswered.
We went up some stairs, came upon sleeping dogs, a rooster, and a goose underneath a car in a street's span, and then we decided to take it off road. Climbing more or less easily marked paths, we got all the way up to the wall we spotted from below. That wall was actually still below the caves, and one of our EC friends told us that the hippie riff-raff hang out there as well. We saw a few such people as we walked around the wall and came to the other side. In front of us were open fields, with barely traces of civilization upon them. To the right was the Alhambra on its hill, actually slightly below us. A grand opportunity stretched out before us, and we took it.
Avoiding a few skinny stray dogs, we took off in the direction of a building we saw from afar that we thought might be the cave museum. Going on and off the paths, up and down hills, we came to a bluff that overlooked the Sacramonte neighborhood, no doubting it. But there was a fence somewhere down there, which put the question of accessing the neighborhood on the table. Still, we carried on, picking our way down the cactus-girded path and past a few caves that looked quite inhabited. We came to within 50 feet of the museum height wise, and it seemed sure that we'd make it.
Alas, a man below spotted me. "Are you trying to make a visit to the museum?" he cried out in English, likely hearing Ben and I speak before.
"No, we'd just like to get down to the streets," I answered.
"You have to go around," he said, and he gestured to my right. "You can't get down that way."
"Can't I just hop the fence?" I asked.
"No!" He laughed. "Where are you from?"
"Moscow," I said.
"Moscow? Well, you have to go around!"

So the shortcut plans were foiled. Ben was still a little higher up on the trail, so I backtracked to him and we went around to a path that led us to the street. On the way we slid by two ravenous dogs (I was armed with a rock, just in case) and then calmed another angry dog, though a chihuahua. At last we came to the streets of Sacramonte, by which point we wanted to do nothing more than return to the main part of the city. As usual, it's the journey, not the destination that counts.

Leaving Granada at last. We earned it.


*I read about 240 pages of Don Quixote over the trip span, so if my prose is a little grandiloquent, that's probably the inspiration.

¡Estoy en España! (And I'm not sure what that means)

This is from Helsinki, not Madrid. But I figured I'd use it somewhere. It looks cool, don't it?

I'm back in Europe. I'm still short, and last I checked still a man. So I figured I'd dust off the 'ol blog, at least to jumpstart my writing, and make fun of myself where no one will read it.

I'm here to hang out with Ben, enjoy a new place, get away from responsibility, blah blah blah. What I'm really here for? To screw up while taking showers.

First I was at Ben's place, where he walked me through a challenging 4 step process to turn on the heat that would provide hot water. In 4 days, I showered twice, neither time with complete success. The results were good, but the process was not flawless - the first time I struggled to light the burner, requiring Ben's roommate's assistance. The second time I struggled with cold water for a few minutes before I remembered that once I lit the burner, I had to crank the knob to the left for full heat.

Of course, that pales in comparison to my foolishness today. Mind you, I'm terrible at figuring out showers anywhere - I once waited in the bathroom for 15 minutes or so while trying to turn on the shower in an on-campus apartment at Duke, only achieving hot water spoutage when my teammate who lived in the apartment returned later that day and demonstrated for me. "You're a funny dude, Shortman," he told me. So much for Massholes being smarter than Okies.

I expected trouble when I moved in to my new place yesterday. It's always awkward to shower and use the facilities when in a new place anyway. Throw in the certainty that I'd have trouble with the shower and my less than shaky grasp of Spanish, and the morning promised to be interesting.

When I awoke, I heard a shout of "Dani!" Fortunately, my landlady Patricia had warned me that when she yelled Dani or Daniel, it meant her son. "¡Es tardissimo!" she screamed. I understood that. Also, I decided that I wouldn't be getting in her way this morning, just in case.

The bathroom is large and convenient. I took care of all my morning issues, but when I got to the shower/bath, I was helpless. There was a round handle that I could turn left or right, but it offered no water. There were three pairs of buttons on the face of the shower, and I thought perhaps pushing or inverting them in appropriate fashion might solve the problem. After trying a few iterations I realized this couldn't be the way, because it would require a combination more detailed than the process needed to get into the basketball offices at Duke. So I decided to skip the shower.

Breakfast went fine, and I was reconciled to no showering for the immediate period. I put on some deodorant, dressed, and went to an "interview" for a teaching job. Afterwards, I was ready to go to the park and watch Ben play some tennis before returning in hopes of catching Patricia and getting the info out of her.

Then a turn in the story; she texted me to say her key to the house didn't work, and that she needed my keys so she could go copy them. (Though again, for all I know, she could have been telling me the weather was nice so she wouldn't be home till tomorrow). I changed course and returned home, where I didn't see her. I went back into my room, unshowered and away from the tennis match.

Patricia arrived moments later, though. She knocked on the door, I let her in, and then once I got a hold of her, I asked her how to use the shower. I had been practicing the line all day, so I said it with only about 3 errors, plus a bad accent. She smiled, went to the bathroom herself, and then let me in to show me that you had to not only turn the handle (which had hot and cold labeled backwards) but push up on it! Of course! I knew I'd regret my stupidity, but I smiled, said gracias, and then showered soon afterwards. A happy, fresh smelling ending.

And now, to my first "lesson", with mutton chops in tow. Hasta luego.

I'm a Full Grown Man

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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