The Return to Ekaterinburg: Part 1

Remember the scene in “It’s A Wonderful Life” when Jimmy Stewart goes back into town with the angel and his beloved Bedford Falls has become the wretched Pottersville? Well, that’s sort of the feeling I have here in Ekaterinburg. Traffic gluts the main streets of the city, high rise elite apartment complexes and steel and glass
business centers mar the view, neon, cafes, restaurants everywhere, all night stores and fast food joints have created a new night life on the once dark streets of the Ural capital.

Can this be the Ekaterinburg I once knew? Yes it is and it has changed. Mostly for the better, a bit for the worse but that’s progress I suppose. The E-burg I once knew isn’t here, there are little bits of it here and there but for the most part it is gone. I walk around the town a bit like Jimmy Stewart staring in disbelief and remembering how things were way back when I first came here in 1992. That was long ago and yet not so long ago.
My biggest amazement so far was my trip to IKEA with my friend Galina. She recently bought an apartment in one of the deluxe new buildings and needed furniture. So off we went in her little KIA to IKEA. Whoa, wait a minute, IKEA in Ekaterinburg?? Yes darlings, in a huge mall called MEGA is IKEA, The Body Shop and all the other material trappings of the west right here on Moskovsky trakt where there used to be a field or a cluster of trees. To think Galina and I used to travel the region checking distribution of food aid, making sure all the babushka and large families were getting it and not shady people out to make a fast buck, and now we were walking around IKEA shopping for a dresser and chairs. It was interesting to observe the Russians looking at the furniture, trying out couches, eating in the café in big family units, kids playing in the kids’ center—doing what everyone else in the world does in IKEA. Shopping comes so natural to the Russians. Thinking back on how wretched things were here in 1992, when there was practically nothing to buy in the shops, sugar, eggs, frozenfish and fresh cow lung, it’s amazing that now I can sit in the kitchen area of IKEA and watch people buy new furniture for their homes. Galina and I sat in the kitchen section trying out chairs and wound up chatting for about 30 mins, catching up on our lives and common friends’ lives as well. It was nice to have a chat in a kitchen without being stuffed with food (going to people’s houses here is taking a toll on my stomach—I can’t eat that much!).
All IKEAs are the same, if you didn’t know, and I whizzed Galina around the store much to her amazement. She was never good at directions and was a bit embarrassed that I knew the way to IKEA better than her. As per tradition with Nina, after our purchase, we have a hot dog and coffee at the snack bar by the exit. Galina was arguing with me that the hot dogs are in the restaurant half way into the store. No I disagreed but she didn’t believe me until I asked a salesgirl and she confirmed
the existence of the snack bar at the exit. So post-purchase, despite the fact we were on our way to her mother’s house for lunch, Galina and I had a hot dog and coffee as per tradition.
I’m big on traditions and as per tradition, I visit my old haunts when in town as I like to do. I go to TSUM, Gum, Passazh (the main department stores) to have a look at the farfor and souvenirs, visit the Art Salon on the corner of Malysheva and Lunacharskogo (it got junky—how many naked ladies and pseudo-O’Keefe’s and Van Gogh’s can one paint?). Some of the other traditional places I like to go are no
longer there but what to do. Another non-materialistic tradition is visiting the Ekaterinburg zoo. A friend of mine, Alexei is the director of the monkey house so I get a behind-the-scene tour of the zoo. His boyfriend, also Alexei, and I meet up and head through the personnel entrance to the zoo. We go check out the monkeys and then go upstairs to Alexei’s office for a chat, then he takes us around the zoo, showing me all the new animals and new buildings that have been built on the territory. This zoo has really come a long way. The first time I came here, one left more depressed than when they entered. The smells, the sad looking animals, the neglected cages and pens. Now it has expanded the cages, built nice brick buildings with proper heating and environments for the animals. Childrens’ art covers the walls, everything is clean and bright. This native born San Diego, who grew up in the world’s best zoo, was quite impressed. It’s fun going around with Alexei and Alexei, because they know all the animals and can talk to them. We had a nice chat with Elza the tiger who after a few puff sounds gave us a big meow. Alexei tenderly calmed down Johnny the chimpanzee who was riled up by a bunch of teenagers who banged on his cage. I
was happy to see my favorite animal in the zoo, Almaz the hippo, was still alive. He just celebrated his 30th birthday and had a big banner above his enclosures (he has a summer one and a winter one). My former office was a block from the zoo and back then, Almaz’s home was right at the entrance so I got to see him everyday walking around, sitting in his pool, sleeping in the sun. Now he has a much bigger space, with egrets and other birds to keep him company. He’s gotten quite fat and when I saw him he was a big blob sleeping with his back to us. Backside or not, I was happy to see Almaz.
Since being here, most of my time has been spent seeing old friends and going from one house to another, eating, drinking, catching up. Ugh! It’s a little too much. Helped Galina put together the four pieces of IKEA furniture yesterday which was a nice break from the eating and sitting around. I need activity, movement and would rather work, walk, whatever instead of eating and drinking and sitting for hours all the time. After putting together four pieces of IKEA furniture however, one goes a bit crazy, and I was ready to sit and eat and drink again. Went to my friend Masha’s house for tea which turned into food and drink and looking at tons of pictures. I forgot how much she talks (a lot about herself mind you) and after a few hours I was ready for a change of scene. She insisted on walking me home so she walked and blabbed all the way. I stopped to send a telegram (I love sending telegrams) and up date my blog. There she was right by my side—Oi vey woman go away!!!! I thought but refrained from voicing my feelings. She showed me all the changes around town which was rather interesting, telling me more things about herself right up to my door. I said goodbye, finally getting the words in between her blabber and went upstairs to bed. Today I’m taking a break from all that and am going to walk around town with my friend Zhenya. He’s not a big talker fortunately so it should be a nice day. I have to go up and see the big cathedral they built on the site of the Ipatiev house (where they killed the tsar and his family), plus visit a few other shops and places as per tradition.

The Moscow Files Part 2

Where did this week go? I was having such a fun time in Moscow that I didn’t get around to blogging I guess. Now I’m in Domodedovo airport sitting in a nice café having some tea and a croissant, waiting for my flight to Ekaterinburg. It’s amazing the changes at this airport. For those of you who remember Domodedovo, it was considered the farthest and the worst of the 5 Moscow airports. It’s still the farthest but far from being the worst. I remember the Intourist registration and the bus out to the little waiting lounge with a junky café on the tarmac. Now it’s as if I’m in a modern western airport. Plus the express train from the city was an added delight to the trip to the airport. No more cabbies with their outrageous cab fares.
My whole week has been sort of a sentimental journey and sentences beginning with “Remember when…” were uttered thousands of times. I’m a sentimental guy so reminiscing about the early days with Mark, Richard, Artem and other friends was great. It’s still amazing to think how much things have changed and how much they haven’t changed since the early 1990’s. Things have gotten more expensive, lots of new development (some nice, others ugly), changes to the way of doing things, more people in the capital. Moscow seems to have become a harsher city, people more aggressive, a bit nastier. I don’t let it bother me too much and when they push and elbow their way on the metro, I reply with a fierce elbow and heavy block. Grrrrr!
I firmly believe in the “You can never go back” theory and I know that in Ekaterinburg things won’t be the same but friends will be the same, as in Moscow—that doesn’t change. Spent most of my mornings in Moscow at the “Chaika” swimming pool doing my laps. It never gave me full satisfaction but more stress due to the fast pace of the place and the oodles of people who came to swim like me. Quite a switch from my “Kaspii” in Astana where Daniel greeted me every morning and chewed the fat a bit before I went into the pool, sometimes a lone or with one or two other people doing laps. I look forward to going swimming in Ekaterinburg in the mornings, wonder if it’ll be as stressful as “Chaika”. The rest of the day was spent lunching, having coffee with friends, walking around the old haunts, etc.
I trekked out to “Dom Farforov” one afternoon in the cold, wet snow to check out tea sets (my long time obsession). The store had changed tremendously, full of Villeroy and Boch, Rosenthal and other European fine china. In a corner at the end of the store was a small case of Lomonosov china (from St. Petersburg) set a ridiculously high prices. Can go back, can you? I sighed and left the store, going to the bus stop that would take me up to the Moscow State University, down passed my old apartment and onto Kievsky train station near Mark’s house. The bus took forever to come and the weather was nasty—bitter cold, wet snow, mud, water everywhere. Still I waited for my sentimental bus ride through the Sparrow Hills. It was worth the wait. Although the new convoluted way of buying a bus ticket caused a few minutes delay as other passengers glared at me as if I was an enemy of the people, the bus windows dirty to the point of not being able to see much, it was relaxing to take a break from the hustle and bustle of the metropolis and enjoy a gentle bus ride through a quiet part of town. Not many changes in the Sparrow Hills to blog about, but on Mosfilmovskaya, my former street, giant buildings loomed over the 5-story Khrushevky a sign that the once quiet heavily treed area was changing. Sad really, but I guess everyone wants a bit of wooded area in the city. Oh developers—the plague of the world!!
Popped in to see my ex, Artem after a swim. He and Richard, his present live about a block from the “Chaika” swimming pool with their two toy terriers, aka Dogs from Hell. Seems I woke him up at the early hour of 11:30 am (Oh these Muscovites start their day late) but still we had a nice visit. After all these years, he and I have remained friends as well as with Richard. Actually Richard and I were friends before they got together. We were together for 2 years and they’ve been together for 12. My how time flies. Most of our time was spent catching up, having some tea, checking out each other’s web sites and keeping those little yappers at bay—ferocious little creatures, at one point one lunged at my leg trying to take a nip out of me. I can go into lots of details about my past with Artem but we’ll save that for my memoirs.
The weekend came and as protocol would have it, there was the whole round of gay bars and clubs to go to. Friday had us all meeting up for dinner at a Lesbian (uh Lebanese) restaurant before heading to “Cherdak” one of the newer clubs in town. It was all the usual things a gay bar could have, music, drinks, go go boys and handsome, mixed crowd. Besides the people I came with, I didn’t seem to know anyone in the crowd. It was OK, I still had fun. After copious drinks there, we piled into cabs and headed to “Shans” the big gay disco in town. I remember being at the very first “Shans”disco in 1992 with Kevin Gardner, passing out condoms and promoting safe sex. It was in a small space in Dom Akterov with not a lot of people. Now “Shans” is in a big space with four bars, two discos, a karaoke bar, a dark room and a great drag show. In a way, just like any other gay club in the world. My how things have changed! Around 6 am I grabbed a cab home, leaving Mark to his own devices at the club, Vincent having left a bit earlier. Vincent’s a crazy character—a bit wild for the Moscow scene (he’s been banned from two bars already) but is a lot of fun. A mass of creative energy, fresh ideas flowing from his brain, some getting fulfilled, others not. He’s got a knack for getting things going so he’ll do well here. He’s already starting speed dating at a bar here. Will be interesting to see how that goes over here in Moscow.
Saturday morning/day found us lounging around the apartment watching “East Enders” and other shows on BBC, nursing hangovers and regaining our hearing after a night of clubbing. Just like in the old days when I used to fly in from Ekaterinburg for the weekend and Rick, Jon and I would go out til all hours on Friday and spend Saturday watching BBC and lounging around the apartment all day until we got enough energy together to go out for a meal or something. Vincent got locked out of his apartment so wound up sleeping with me on the couch which caused a ripple of gossip when Mark passed through the living room and we waved good morning to him. He didn’t know the whole story and assumed we were shagging and went into his room, called Richard in secrecy under his duvet to spread the gossip about us. Ah gay gossip, I don’t get this in NYC.
Andrei, my friend from Ekaterinburg, arrived in the afternoon on his way to a week long conference in Barcelona. Vincent and I met up with him in the uber-glamorous European Center next to Kievsky train station at a café. To think this chic mall sits on a former park that was full of drunks and gypsy beggars in the 90’s was a bit mind boggling. Not many people can remember back that far or were not around in the old days but I was. So was Mark and Richard and we had many moments of reminiscing about the good/bad old days. It still blows my mind how things have changed in such a short time. Back in the early 90’s when people said it would take a good 10 yrs. to develop Russia, it seemed so long. Now it’s 15 years along and things are looking good. Anyway, luckily Andrei wasn’t in a “I have to go to a gay disco”mood but more go with the flow and the flow went to the Kinoteatr “Oktyabr” where we saw “The Queen” in English. A second time through, it was still an excellent movie. Don’t know how well it will translate into other languages because so much of the film plays with the different kinds of English, lot of great nuances in the language that are lost in translation. Post-film, we traipsed around Moscow from restaurant to restaurant in the chilly rain looking for a place to eat. In the end we had Lesbian food again and called it a night.
Sunday was spent at an old colleague’s from the CARE days, Olga, who I happened to find out about through a friend. They say if you know three people, you know the world and it’s so true. So in a casual conversation over a cappuccino with my friend Irina, it appeared she knows Olga with whom I worked with many moons ago (1993 to be exact) at CARE. She was an office assistant back then now she works for the American Bar Association doing all sorts of things. My how far we have come. Her kids are grown, she has a fabulous apartment, just divorced her husband (it was a mutual agreement and they are still good friends) and is very happy. We spent a snowy Sunday afternoon catching up over lunch and a bottle of red wine which was nice. I love reconnecting with people after a long absence.
Post-Olga met up with the boys at Sanduny banya for a steam to round out the weekend. We used to do this regularly when I lived in Moscow and it’s so nice to just sweat, steam, dunk in cold pools and hang around socializing wrapped only in a sheet. Afterwards went to Krisis Genre, one of the swank eateries in town for a meal and to check out one of the waiters. Mark had been chatting with one on line so he wanted to check him out. Anton I think his name was and he was working in the balcony. We couldn’t get seated up there so we sat downstairs and checked him out from below. OK looking but he had a mullet which got a thumbs down from me. It seems the mullet is all the rage here in Moscow—UGH! Little do they know if they come to NYC, they’ll be ostracized if the US Customs guys don’t get a chance to cut it off at JFK. A night cap at another hip bar, Suzy Wong’s (sorry no Asian drag queens) and it was off to bed. Next stop—Ekaterinburg!

The Moscow Files Part 1

You’ll have to excuse the absence of blog postings for the last few days but on the run, one cannot always get to an Internet connection. Plus for some reason, my friend Mark’s wireless connection won’t let me get into my blog site. Sorry dear readers (all four of you—hah!).
Bitter cold here in the Russian capital, that wet cold that goes right to your bones. Not the pleasant dry cold of Astana where you feel great at -20 degrees celcius. First day out, I had to get some swimming in so I metroed down to the “Chaika” swimming pool for a leisurely hour of laps in the pool. Can I tell you that this was the most stressful swimming experience I had? Everyone is on edge in this high paced swimming complex—rush, rush, rush, barking orders. Felt more like boot camp than a place to exercise and unwind. First I had to get a medical certificate to say I was healthy enough to swim in the pool which took about 15 minutes, then I had to rush into the changing room, figure out the ancient locker system, take a shower, and go out to the pool. I opted for the hour pass and they are strict about the hour. Once your hour is up, get out of the pool! The cool thing about “Chaika” is that the pools are outside and well heated so as snow is falling, steam is rising from the two warm pools. Through the lifting steam you can see the coloured swim caps of all the swimmers doing their laps. In my rush I forgot my cap in my locker and one of the guards on duty barked at me, “Where’s your cap? You need a cap!” “I forgot it in the locker, is it mandatory?” I replied. “You can swim in this pool” as he pointed to the smaller one in the back. I plunged in trying to figure out which lane had less people for you couldn’t see them through the fog on top of the water. I put my head under to see which lane had less breast stroking bodies in it and opted for those lanes. For a few minutes I had a lane to myself then I notice I had two neighbors, both slow swimmers. Then I hopped into another lane and was speedily swimming along trying to keep up with Mr. Olympic Swimmer who was always coming up behind me with his fast crawl. By the time my 30 minutes were up, I had actually gotten a good work out even though my nerves were a little frazzled. I’ll go back today and see how pleasant a time I will have.
Post-Chaika I went over to the Arbat to do my one Moscow tradition: eat at the McDonald’s and go to my favorite souvenir store “Arbatskaya Lavitsa”. I was rather hungry from the swim and devoured my Bic Mac meal happily, not caring what damage this meal will probably do to my digestive system. It’s the only time I eat McDonald’s really. So tradition is tradition be it unhealthy or not.
After my McD’s lunch, I had to stop by Vincent’s place to have him register my Russian visa (one of those nerve wracking bureaucratic procedures that needs to be done the first three days you are in country). Vincent is a Swedish guy who runs a hostel on the Old Arbat called Smart Hostel. Basically it’s cheap lodgings for the oodles of backpackers who visit Moscow, their starting point for the Trans-Siberian train trip. Vincent’s assistant was in the process of dragging IKEA mattresses into the hostel on the 8th floor of an apartment building. Somehow Vincent had booked 25 Dutch people into this flat that could technically hold about 12 and bought some more mattresses to throw around the floors of this converted 3 room apartment. I loved Vincent’s “we’ll figure it out as we go” attitude as Ruslan brought in more and more mattresses from the tiny elevator. Reminded me of the old days when we did all these sort of crazy things here in Moscow. Nice to know there’s a new generation of expats giving it a go here. It’s also nice to know that even after a four year absence from Russia, I still have no desire to buy all the tchotchkes that were on display at my souvenir store. Although the prices are reasonable and the ladies so pleasant in the store, I just looked around and thought “What a bunch of crap”. I did wind up buying a few things for friends in the US but refrained from the whole hog shopping extravaganza I usually do. What I really want (and need like a whole in the head) is a tea set. They had some really nice ones but they were quite expensive like in the $400-$500 range. I just need something small and cute that I can carry back on the plane. I’ll shop around at some of my favorite “Farfor” shops around town.

Leaving Astana, Take 1

Well the snow keeps blowing here in Astana. It’s been blowing blizzardly all day and now all night. I don’t think I will ever be leaving. It’s like “Brigadoon” or better yet, “Groundhog Day”. Maybe tomorrow I’ll just repeat what I did today and everyday for the rest of my life will be the same. I get up at 6:30, Gena Goose takes me to the airport, the flight is delayed for hours, the wind and snow erase all objects from view, I go home to my little apartment and wait. I have a feeling right now that tomorrow will be the same. If Sunday is the same then I’m really letting the wild animal out of the cage.
Spent all evening talking with Andrei, a handsome young man who happened into my office a few weeks ago to talk. I felt a homo vibe when he first came to our office, so I accepted his invitation to the local aquarium one Sunday afternoon. We never got to the aquarium (they double the price for foreigners so I wouldn’t have gone anyway—who wants to look at fish for twice the price?) but he came in last Monday and we wound up having lunch together. So here it is a blizzard, I get stuck here for one more day and spend the evening at the bowling alley with this nice young guy. It must be fate. Do you think anything happened? NO! Another one of those “I don’t want to sleep with you I just want to practice my English” dates. Ah men, it’s always something. What does it take to get a shag in this town I ask you??? After all the tea drinking, chocolate eating and yakking all I got out of it was a caffeine and sugar high. Actually I think he was a Christian boy because every time we would say goodbye, he’d say “God Bless You”. Oh just get me back to a normal homo world ASAP.
Tomorrow, so far, all flights are flying but not one has been able to land from Almaty ergo no plane to fly to Almaty in. I’ll have to call in the morning but already it seems that I won’t be going anywhere outside of Astana in the next few days. When I said goodbye to Irina, she said “See you Monday” to which I replied “I hope not”. She better not be right. We’ll see what tomorrow brings. If you read in the papers about an American that has gone crazy in Kazakhstan, it’s just little old me. Til tomorrow dear readers.

The Farewell to Astana Blog (or is it?)

This will be my final blog entry from Astana, just to let you know. Maybe not my final forever final entry but for the five month adventure, this is it. I woke up this morning at 5:30 to the sound of wind and a wall of white outside. NO! I thought, Even Mother Nature wants to keep me here!! Not another f-ing blizzard. Blizzard=no flying today, but as the morning light appeared over the city, the winds died down and the snow stopped.

Whew! I guess I’ll be leaving after all. Gena met me at 7:30 and I dragged all my bags down to his car for our last ride together to the airport. We gabbed along the way about this and that, in between gaps of silence. At the airport he helped me drag my two big bags inside and at last it was time to say goodbye. His eyes were a bit teary as we hugged again and again goodbye. I thanked him for everything and told him tomorrow morning I’ll miss him. We hugged again and then I went through security. He was waiting to make sure I got through OK. I turned and waved a final goodbye and proceeded up the escalator. Through the massive glass front of the airport I could see Gena walking to his eggplant coloured Mercedes, slowly.
How funny that of all the people I met here the one I feel the closest too is a 47 yr old taxi driver. He was part of my everyday life, now I must live without him. Goodbyes are never easy but they aren’t forever. I’m more of a “Til we meet again” kind of guy.

Last night I took my colleagues Irina and Kulyash out for dinner at Eden, a fancy European styled restaurant. It wasn’t hideously expensive and the food was great. We ordered a bottle of Chilean wine which was an oasis in this desert of crude wines. Our waiter was really funny, very over the top in his presentation, trying hard to be as Western European as possible. It was a little too much to the point of funny. How he described the wine as he poured it was like reciting poetry. And how he talked me into having the side dish of cauliflower, the description, the intensity of his voice when telling me about the curry sauce and the crunchiness of each little piece, the cauliflower industry should make him their spokesperson. During dinner we thought up plans for the future, ways to get me back here and stay forever (oh dear). Maybe something will come of it, who knows. On the quiet, midnight streets of Astana, I said goodbye to my two colleagues. Kulyash marched purposely home one way, Irina scurried off down Prospekt Pobedy in her long, to-the-floor coat, like a toy on wheels that can’t be seen.

It’s done. I can leave. I’ve said goodbye to everyone, received oodles of souvenirs, some nice, some not so nice, left a clean apartment. Now I wait in the airport, a two hour delay for my flight, surrounded by big bags and other people waiting for their flight to Almaty. From Almaty, I get on a marshrutka (shuttle bus) and head to Bishkek for 5 days of fun with friends and a visit to Kashka Suu, my summer home 45 mins from Bishkek up in the mountains. The wind is still blowing but not as hard, the snow has stopped and hopefully we can be on our way soon. Miraculously there’s wireless internet here and so the two hours should pass rather quickly, that is if my battery lasts. Farewell Astana and to all your crazy ways. Til we meet again!

LATER THAT DAY: Well it looks like the fates have me in their clutches here in Astana for one more day (or maybe the whole weekend God forbid!). After 5 hours in the airport with wind and snow delaying flights hour after hour, I looked outside at near zero visibility, changed my ticket until tomorrow morning, called Gena and went back to my apartment. I guess if I don’t fly out tomorrow, then it’s fate, I must stay here. God help me no! Maybe there is meaning in all of this snowstorm. Who knows. We’ll see what happens tonight and tomorrow. After all the goodbyes and pleading to stay maybe I have to stay for one more day, or two or three. Who knows. So my farewell address to you dear readers was a bit premature. Let’s see what fate and Mother Nature has in store for Toomey. Read on…

Saturday night cab ride

I stand by the side of Prospekt Pobedy with my hand out, flagging down a car. A Kazakh man stops, agrees to take me to “Bukhara” where my Saturday night gang awaits. The restaurant is not very far but he decides to take a roundabout way there. In the back seat are his two children; a girl about 7 or 8 yrs old and a baby boy who is two years old. They poke their heads between the two front seats to look at me. I turn around to talk with them, the girl smiles shyly, dad tells her to talk, not to be afraid. He asks where I am from, Yugoslavia? No, a bit further than that, New York. Ooh New York, wow the first time I have an American in my car. He looks at his daughter in the rear view mirror and tells her that I’m from New York. She looks at me with big eyes and smiles. She is holding her little brother on her lap; a pudgy thing all bundled up in a light blue snow suit and hat. The daughter’s name is Diana, she’s in the third grade at school #10. I make small talk with her about school. She shyly replies with a big smile on her face as we make our way over the bridge to the Left Bank.
It’s rather peculiar for a man to be driving around town picking up people to make a few extra bucks with his children in the back seat. He tells me that his wife is at work until 9 pm and he thought he’d go out and make a few extra tenge before she got home. He couldn’t leave the children at home alone, I agree with him on that point. His young son begins to cry for his mom, dad passes a bottle of milk to the back seat, daughter feeds her younger brother who quiets down.
I ask my driver why we are taking this long, out of the way route. He reassures me that it’s better than going through the center, less cars, now it’s rush hour and the center is full of cars. Rush hour? I think, on a Saturday night? I question him. I begin to get a little annoyed, looking at the clock on the dashboard, seeing I’m going to be late. Also I sense this long way is another way to milk the foreigner of extra money. I hate being taken advantage of like this. I let out a sigh of exasperation and look out the window. We ride in silence.
The driver’s cell phone rings. He answers it with a loud Hello, then drops his voice to a quiet, hushed tone. Seems like the conversation is private, considering the almost whispering he is doing. Still I hear everything, being in close proximity of him. He tells the caller that he has sadness in his house, a daughter had an operation and didn’t survive, she is dead. Mom is at home, grief struck, crying. She’s unplugged the phones and lays alone at home in her grief. Given the hushed tone in which he is talking, I sense the two children in the back seat do not know what happened to their sister yet. Is this a diversion for them? Putting off telling the sad news about their sibling? The young boy begins to cry a little bit, asking for mama. I turn around to distract him, smile at him while dad talks on the phone. His face looks stoic and blank but his eyes have grief in them as he looks at the road ahead of him.
He hangs up the phone and we ride in silence again. Should I say something? No it is not my place really, not in front of his children. So tell me about New York he asks, breaking the silence with a smile. I begin to tell him about my life back in Brooklyn. He talks to his daughter through the rear view mirror. Did you hear that Diana? Three cats! A house with a garden! We drive on through the monolithic new apartment buildings of the Left Bank. I’m getting the sense this man doesn’t really know where “Bukhara” is, as we drive round and round. Part of me is a little annoyed at this convoluted but I think of the sad news I heard earlier and don’t say anything.
Passed glitzy restaurants: “Sheherazad” “Ararat” “Tugan” and the Eurasian shopping center. I have heard of some of these places and finally I am seeing them for the first time. I think this is it he says but no it is not. Maybe it’s that one down the road. We drive on and on. I tell him where it is, repeating the directions I was given. My friends call me to ask if I am coming. Yes, yes, I’ll be there in a few minutes I reassure them. I sense the driver has no idea exactly where it is but puts on a confident face that we are going in the right direction. He may not know where “Bukhara” is, but worrying about finding it for this American in the passenger seat is a distraction from the tragedy at home. He must tell his children sometime, but let him put it off for just a little while longer. The search continues as we wind through the streets going from one restaurant to the other. He asks me again the name of the restaurant. “Bukhara”I reply slowly, almost spelling it out. Suddenly he remembers exactly where it is and off we go. His young son begins to cry. I distract him with the smiley face on my cell phone. This quiets him down for a few seconds and then he cries again. Up comes the dancing smiley face with a little song this time. He quiets down and smiles at the little screen that illuminates his chubby face in the dark of the car.
We drive into a courtyard amid 12 story apartment buildings, the icy road rutted and bumpy. There in the middle of these towers is an elaborate one story building with the word “Bukhara” shining on top. Oh there it is, he says as we drive over to it. The boy begins to cry again, this time with a cry that even a cell phone cannot calm. The façade is cracking I think. The tragedy of this man’s life is circling, getting closer. Reality must interrupt this distraction as we drive up to the restaurant. The children need to be told, the wife needs comforting, the family must gather to bury this poor child, there are the rituals and traditions that must be followed. I think of all this as I pull out my money to pay him. 500 tenge is sufficient fare but I think of all that awaits him as soon as I get out of his car. I put 1,000 tenge in his hand and whisper my condolences to him. He thanks me solemnly, eyes lowered for to look at me at this moment may cause him to break down in tears. Not now, not here in front of a restaurant with the children in the car. There is an awkward silence between us. I look in the back seat and with a big smile on my face I say goodbye to the children. They smile back and say goodbye, the façade coming to its close as I step out of the car onto the icy street.

Further Tales of Gena Goose

I wake up like a sleeping bear roused from his winter nap. Groggy, I go to the kitchen to make some tea and dabble on the computer. The usual morning drill. I write to wake myself up and get the brain going. Then I head off to the gym, Gena Goose loyally waiting outside on the street. The temperature must have dropped again for I always feel this way when it gets colder. The alarm clock says WAKE UP, the body says STAY IN BED–who do you listen to? Well, considering I want to get the fullest out of my Kaspii membership, I’m up and gear myself up for laps in the pool. The ambassador has return from his month away so I no longer swim alone in the morning. Yesterday the pool was closed for cleaning so I did the exercise machines and pumped a little iron–ooh did that feel good!
Gena Goose met me at the airport the other night when I returned from Almaty. Such a nice man–I love him. He told me another story on the way home about two guys from Moscow coming for an inspection back in the Soviet days when he was a driver for some big wig in the government. Back then it was a big deal if someone came out from Moscow so they had to be met with much fanfare and wining and dining. As protocol demanded (and still does here) after all the work there was a big table set with food and drink prior to their flight. Well, as Gena described in vivid, excited, dramatic detail, these lightweights got so drunk they were in no condition to fly. But they didn’t have a hotel, it was late and they couldn’t get one so the only thing left to do was drag them to the airport. On the way, one of them needs to take a leak so they stop and out he goes but is so drunk, he falls off the side of the road into the snow. No sooner had he done this that the other one did the same thing. So here is Gena and his boss holding up these two guys while they pee, both of them with snow all over their coats. Off they go to the airport, Gena getting more nervous and pissed off at these two buffoons. Nervous because his parents work at the airport and everyone there knows him. So here he comes with this spectacle and all his parents colleagues get to see this. A crowd has gathered for the flight and in come these two wobbling hobbling messes, covered in snow. One of them forgets his briefcase, Gena goes to get it when suddenly there’s a loud scream from the crowd. He turns around to see that his charge has fallen flat on his face into the crowd which has flown to all sides of the hall. Of course at this stage, none of these bozos are going to Moscow, so Gena and his boss think of where to take them. Neither of them will take them home, all hotels are closed for the night so they decide to take them back to the banquet hall where they started this adventure. Gena clears off the table and plops one down there, the other they put on the floor and there they stay to sleep it off. The next morning they go back early to check in on them to find the one on the table fell off during the night and both of them are snoring away on the floor. Lord knows how they ever got home. Gena told this story with such emotion he had me laughing hysterically the whole way home from the airport. I love when he tells me stories because he brings them to life in such a way the story blazes in front of me in bright colours.
Peppered with blyads, khuis and other swear words, his voice booms and then gets soft, a crescendo of emotion and a roar of laughter. By the climax of the story I have tears running down my cheeks.
As we speed toward home, the moon is bright buttery yellow circle in the deep blue night sky. Gena and I debate whether it is full or not, one of those just about full moons or maybe it’s full; depends how long you look at it. Here in this cold, harsh climate it’s nice to find a warm soul. Gena has become part of my every day life, not just a driver but a friend. So comforting to get off a plane and have someone waiting for you, excited to see you, asking about the trip. He is of the old guard from the Soviet era; a simple guy with a heart of gold, without pretenses or a drive to outdo anyone. He’s straightforward and treats everyone equal no matter where you’re from. I’m happy that he doesn’t see me as an American who he can squeeze every last dime from, but rather a client like everyone else. He charges me fair and for that I am a faithful client. Gena wasn’t to happy to hear that I was leaving at the end of the month but I assured him I’ll give him lots of work before I go, as much as I can. Until that day, we’ll drive the roads of Astana and beyond, enjoying each other’s company.

Tea, teach, teacher

You know what I love about this part of the world? I love the fact that you can throw your old tea leaves down the toilet with no problems. Everyone does it. Somehow I’d never do this in the US for fear that all those tea leaves would block up my pipes, but not here with these mega strong Soviet pipes. I’ve become quite the tea-aholic here drinking copious amounts all day. I’m the same at home but here it’s so much a apart of the culture it’s what one can do all day long. Someone comes over, you drink tea, you go somewhere, you’re offered tea. I always offer my private students tea during our lessons. Only Esenzhol ever takes some, the others say no. I chide them, "Oh you Kazakhs! You can’t drink tea and study English at the same time!" It’s true. One of my students told me that drinking tea was a social thing and when studying English they need to be concentrating 100%. Tea I guess is a distraction for them. Well, I like my students to feel comfortable, relaxed so they can speak freely and not obsess over pronunciation and grammar.
Tuesday has become my busy day here in Astana. I spend the morning doing teacher training at the Eurasian University and in the afternoon I hold conversational classes at school #5. What a day yesterday was. Nazgul, the teacher who is after me to be her husband got into it with me during my workshop. We were talking about reading strategies and genres of literature and she just goes off on a tangent about Americans not liking to read novels. "You only like to read short stories and watch TV. Americans don’t read novels, they can’t read that much at one time." Excuse me bitch, thems fightin’words! I was not in the mood to have my compatriots belittled by some plump lady who has never been to the US and doesn’t know many Americans, so I snapped back at her. I rattled off books, facts about book clubs, Oprah Winfrey’s Book of the Month which gets everyone reading. This went back and forth a few times before it dawned on me that no matter what I said, she was right in her mind, so I just dropped it and moved on. At the end of the class, she asked me if I could bring her some books from Almaty that she wanted to order. I flat out said NO, replying "Why should I do you a favor if you want to argue with me during my workshop and disrupt it." Go to GD Almaty and get them yourself! That may not have been the most diplomatic thing to do, but I wasn’t in the mood for her BS so I was honest (as people are used to here, so why not).
School #5 was a different story. Fabulous debating went on during my 11th grade session. We were having such an interesting debate about friends and lovers that we went on two full hours, instead of the planned one hour. I have this book called "Impact Issues" which has various hot topics for conversations: issues about relationships, family, lifestyles, society and life and death. I let one student pick a title (without knowing what it is about) we listen to the talk and then go at it, speaking wise. Yesterday, Damira picked "Friends and Lovers" about boys and girls being friends. Can they only be friends without it turning into love? Well were they a lively bunch and so many opinions, such deep thinkers for their age. They were on fire. I don’t think get much practice in school talking about such things so for them it was great stimulation. I can’t wait until someone picks "Why Don’t You Accept Us?" the one about the gay couple. That’ll be an interesting conversation indeed!
Zhanna, one of the teachers at school #5, invited me over last Sunday for Beshparmak. A lovely afternoon in a Kazakh home. Drinking cognac with her doctor husband, eating horsemeat with noodles, speaking English with her and her three daughters and two nephews. Her husband, my age it turns out, was quite the talker and yakked my ear off. He doesn’t speak much English and went they found out my Russian speaking skills (she didn’t know I spoke fluent Russian before), we yakked away in Russian. So much for the English practice. Seems every time I eat Beshparmak I got so hot, literally sweating. Maybe it’s the combination horsemeat, cognac and the fact that the apartment was 100 degrees that caused me to turn red and have sweat dripping off my forehead. I asked if we could open a window and they did reluctantly fearing we’d all catch colds or worse. Please I beg, I need fresh air, I’m dying!! They did so for a few minutes then their inherent paranoia for drafts was too much and Zhanna shut the window again. Of course she then offered me copious amounts of tea which got me sweating more. Finally I just had to leave it was too much heat, I needed a nice walk in the fresh air. Still, heat issues aside, it was very nice to be invited into a colleagues home and meet her family and be able to enjoy a meal together. In my toast I said that the one word in Russian I don’t like is innostranets (foreigner) because for me it separates me from locals. No matter how well I know the language and culture I’m always reminded that I’m different because of this word. I continued to say that here at their house, around their table I don’t feel like an innostranets but like a regular person, a friend who has been invited over for a meal. And with that I raised my glass of Armenian cognac to their hospitality and warm house (no pun intended).

The Irina blog

Got a text message the other day from my friend Irina. She said “Why haven’t you updated your blog? I need something new to read during lunch.” Alright Irina, alright–this one’s for you. I did two entries but haven’t posted them, so after reading this, scroll down to read more. The fact of the matter is that I’ve been a bit lazy as of late. Maybe it’s the dead of winter got me in its spell, wanting to sleep longer than usual, dragging my ass to the pool, but still I get up at 6 and go down to the pool, not wanting to break the routine. Actually I’ve been doing a lot of reading as of late, Truman Capote’s “In Cold Blood” (masterpiece darlings) reminded me of my trip through Kansas last year at this time with my friend Matthew. We did have an option of seeing the Clutter farmstead and visiting Holcombe but I think it was rather off the main road and we opted for the Barbed Wire Museum instead. Had I known what I knew now, we would have been all over Holcombe. Now I’m reading “Answered Prayers” Capote’s last and what a difference. So jaded, trashy and vapid but still his writing style is enjoyable. Last night I was reading some Roald Dahl short stories and thought how nice it was to just lay about and read. I haven’t done that in so long–no need to rush out, no ESL work to do (well this was sort of ESL work–selecting some short stories for reading), just relax and enjoy the book. Guess that’s one of the pluses of freezing cold winters–keeps you inside more.
Here we are at the end of January already and my February calendar is already booked solid with students, workshops and travels. Going to Almaty, the big apple next week and then down to Bishkek (the capital of Kyrgyzstan for you geographically illiterates) for 4-5 days at the end of February. Already there’s behind-the-scene planning by schools, city Dept. of Ed people and who knows else to get me to stay forever. Find the right salary and maybe you got a deal. But really I must get home. The cats, the house, the garden, the business–it all needs me. So hard to put your life and soul into everything, everywhere. It can be such a burden. One must make choices I suppose. Maybe I can come back in September or October to do some staff development for the city, that could be fun. Three months at a time, OK. We’ll see.
My life has always been guided by serendipity so I don’t worry a lot about what will happen next. The road unfurls before and I go with it. Enough of that. Did you chime in to hear the ramblings of a would be philosopher?
The other day I was in the bank and ran into this guy who was at the night club the night of my debut as an exotic dancer. We looked at each other as if there was some recognition, well there was I remember him, but I didn’t stop to say Hi how are you. Wonder if he recognized me with my coat and big fur hat on. Who knows. Speaking of guys, I put my profile on a local gay Internet site to see about meeting some local guys to hang out with. Hold your horses! Don’t freak out!! In modern times, this is how people meet and I’ve been chatting with some nice guys here in Astana (online). I’m not looking for a boyfriend, but just some sane local gays to talk with. Please, all day with women who are more interested in making you their husband than the methodology you are teaching them. A gay man needs a release ya know. I’ve been chatting with this guy Hermann and he gave me his number so we talked a few times and decided to meet up for dinner. He has a boyfriend in another city but just wants to hang out and practice his English, which is fine by me. He’s a nice guy, intelligent, financially stable, good English, my age–someone to pal around with and talk about other things other than ESL and why I’m not married. He used to be an air traffic controller in Almaty, now he works for a Japanese firm here. Planning to move to Kaliningrad where his family and boyfriend are. We had a lovely dinner at Neapoli, the Italian restaurant by my office. We’ll probably hangout again next week some time.
The site we met on, Gay.Kz has been down the last week so to date that is the extent of my exposure to the gay life of Astana. I’m sure they’ll figure out their site soon and I’ll meet some more locals. Don’t worry though, I’ll be careful. I’m sure many of the local guys will be terrified of my stairwell so they’ll never want to come over. Many of my snootier students comment on my stairwell and that I could find something nicer if I tried. Hey, it’s your reality darlings plus why blow all my salary on rent (my company pays only $500 toward housing). If I got more, hell I’d be living in the “Titanic” apartment building on the river embankment (they call it the Titanic because it looks like a big boat to many I guess).
Thursday was “Tatyanin Den” another goddamned celebration here–how many can you have really!?!?!? It is a Russian Orthodox name day for all the Tatyanas of the world. You’re supposed to congratulate each Tatyana you know, give a little gift, have a little tea party, etc. It’s also Moscow State University (MGU) Day when all the students and alumni of MGU get together and party. Now I must check my calendar for “Maslennitsa” the Mardi Gras of the Orthodox calendar when we need to party, eat as many blini as we can before the beginning of Lent. Sometime in February, as is Chinese New Year. Jesus Lord would these holidays stop already!! I can’t eat or drink that much!!!
Yesterday, Friday, I was invited to School 22 to speak to the English language students there. Of course I forgot my camera so didn’t photograph the event unfortunately. Like a town hall style meeting I was seated in the middle of the room surrounded by about 50 students. I’m used to this set up and what to do so had no problems blabbing away about myself for a while until I took questions from the audience. The kids were great, not shy about asking lots of questions. The girls found it interesting that I wasn’t married and didn’t want to get married. They said it was unusual to meet someone like that, they never have. Asked my opinion about Bush and Iraq “Bush is an idiot!” I replied and expressed my embarrassment to have him as our leader and also my dismay with the quagmire he’s gotten us into in Iraq. Some of the kids were taken aback by my sentiments toward the idiot in the White House, one girl saying “But we love our president”. “That’s great,” I said “If he’s doing a good job for the country, love him, respect him.” “In the US we don’t have to love or respect our president, especially when he’s doing a bad job.” They even asked what I thought of Hillary as president. For the record, I don’t think she’ll win and maybe not be the right person for the White House right now, but hey if she can makes us all feel good as a nation, deal with Iraq and raise our prestige again in the world, why not. Maybe it’s time for a woman to run the country. I know many people hate her but after Bozo, she can’t be that bad.
Our hour long Q & A period was interrupted by a dance performance by the award winning, fabulous Kazkah traditional dancer (and student of School 22) Asel Alibekova. She was great, so lithe and tempting as all Kazakh female dancers should be. As I found out after the performance, men, traditionally don’t dance, only the women. The women dance and swirl about as the men drink tea and watch. It’s sort of part of the traditional mating ritual, they dance and then the men ride horses and fight to win the heart of their beloved dancer. That’s not done much anymore since the guys drive cars and not horses but at festivals like Navruz in March, you can see these ancient traditions revived.
I love working with kids and could have stayed all day but I had a student waiting so had to go home. School 22 is a wonderful place and the teachers are great. I’m sure I’ll be back again. They want me to come work for them, run conversation classes, etc. but really I don’t have much time for that. I’m sure I can do some conversation groups for free during school time once a week. Oy vey, at this rate I’ll be sick of teaching English and desperate teachers by the end of February. Til then I’ll carry on courageously.

A banquet, birthday and marriage proposal

Yesterday I trekked out in the wind and snow to the university to help my 60+ friend/colleague Kulyash celebrate her birthday with her “kolektiv”. I opened the door to her office, only to be met by two long tables pushed together, groaning with all sorts of food and drink (a little celebration she called it on the phone). Seated around the table were her colleagues, all female of various ages. Men rarely go into teaching English in this part of the world so my presence was an added surprise to the party. We spent a pleasant few hours making toasts to Kulyash, the ladies had red Martini, I drinking vodka. When the Martini and vodka finished, the cognac bottle magically appeared from a desk drawer and the party continued. Usually there’d be dancing and more toasts until all hours but a) we were in a small office and b) that wouldn’t be right here at the prestigious branch of the Moscow State University, on the 7th floor of the Eurasian University. Instead we talked of all sorts of subjects, in English and Russian to the soft strains of Strauss waltzes coming from a computer. As the Martini and vodka started its effects, the conversation got less formal and became a natural blab fest of things like prices of food, the bazaars of the city, Astana compared to Alamaty, remembrances of Americans past who came and worked here, and so on. I like these times, when I’m no longer the innostranets, the foreigner with whom we must speak politely. When you start talking about the price of potatoes and compare prices between supermarkets, you know you’re one of them, so to speak.
The day prior, I gave a workshop on integrated language skills at the Eurasian University’s Pedagogical Institute. I’ve done workshops here before and am always warmly greeted by the female dominated inhabitants of this harem like institute. It dawned on me yesterday that they probably aren’t so interested in what knowledge I have to impart but rather how to get into the inner chamber of this single American man’s heart. They could probably give a rat’s ass about how to stimulate student’s interest toward a text and increase their listening, speaking, reading and writing skills all together. Two women in particular are in the lead for my heart. One of them, Nazgul, a plump, short professor of English literature is the more aggressive one. When we first met she rather attacked me with questions of my marital status. Yesterday during our workshop, she slipped me her card and softly said, eyeing me lusciously, “If you have any thought of changing your marital status, give me a call.” Oh Nazgul my dear, if she only knew Oleg, the only man on staff there had better luck than she (too bad he ain’t my type).

Taxi drama and Gena's story PT 1

Pitch black outside at 6:52 a.m., snow, wind , freezing cold outside. Another deep winter January day beginning. I’m feeling sluggish the last few days, would rather sleep all day like a bear in hibernation than get up and go swimming and teach English. But still I drag my ass out of bed, throw my swim stuff together and jump into my waiting Mercedes and head to the pool. Gena Goose, my driver and I have been having some great conversations lately. He was telling me some story the other day and drove right past Kaspii (my sports complex where I swim). Yesterday he told me in vivid, dramatic detail his wife’s stay in the hospital for a blockage in her intestine. How he yelled like a crazy man at the surgeons, threatening to shoot them if his wife died (now that’s love and motivation for the lazy surgeons). 3 months she was in there, a big hole in her side while the stitches healed, food and other stuff coming out the gaping hole in her side. Seems that they haven’t discovered colostomy bags here so Gena rigged one up to his wife’s side to the amazement of the doctors in the hospital. That’s medicine in Kazakhstan for you.
Gena’s been having a problem with Kairat, another driver out at the cab stand by my house. Kairat is jealous because Gena drives the American everywhere and I don’t give him any business. Kairat is a nice guy but the one time I used him, he charged me an arm and a leg. Gena is reasonable, charges me a fair price and he’s a great conversationalist. I like people here who treat me as just a person and not a “foreigner” who must be gouge for more money. Gena and I laugh, crack jokes, have become friends in a way. He’s very much the simple Russkiy muzhik with a heart of gold and would give you the shirt off his back. Not many of these guys left over here.
Gena Goose lives in Chubary, a neighborhood of private homes in Astana. As monolithic, ugly apartment complexes take over, Chubary is threatened. The president wants to get rid of it but the homeowners fight it in court. Rightfully so, they built those houses and most of them are really nice. Gena lives there with his wife. He has two daughters, both married (I think) one lives here, one in Almaty and an 8 month old granddaughter who he loves to pieces. You can see it in his eyes and smile when he talks about her. He has a picture of her on his cellphone, framed in a floral heart wreath. His granddaughter recently had some mishap, bumping her head on a heating pipe by her bed. There was blood, a hospital visit and her head has been wrapped up in bandages since, but I think they’re coming off soon. I’ll check with Gena this morning.

The Incredible Adventures of a Polar Bear

Call me crazy, call me a glutton for punishment but yes I did it. I took the plunge yesterday on Kresheniye. I was "rebaptized" so to speak and on this day if you dunk yourself in a body of water, you will not get sick or have pain all year. Really? Then why am I all achy today??

Anyhow, after my morning swim and a lengthy stay in the sauna to warm up, having a lively conversation with the cultured and overly plump Slovakian ambassador as we sweat it out, I walked along the riverbank, looking for the meeting place that Irina and I had agreed on. In this town if you ask different people where the hole in the ice is (proroob) you get a different answer. And rightly so, because there’s more than one it seems. I was just coming along to the Orthodox church’s proroob when Irina called me from the other side of the river. The church guys were busy forming a hole in the shape of a cross out of the thick layer of ice on the Ishim. The procession from the church was to begin in about a half an hour and they were chopping away furiously at the ice, hoping to finish before the throngs of believers came down to the river for their blessing. Apparently, the priest dips his big silver cross into the river and blesses the crowd, flinging cold Ishim water on everybody. Then they all go back to the church with their empty bottles and fill them up with holy water. More about that later.

By the time Irina called me, I was at the river bank watching the guys shovel furiously. A babushka was there too wondering where to get fill up her jar. I said on the other side and off we took, us two, across the frozen river diagonally to where Irina was waiting for me. Halfway across the river, my poor babushka friend, hobbling on her can and wheezing, looked like she wasn’t going to make it. It dawned on me that in my haste to go swimming before the cold windy air changed my mind, I tired out the poor old girl. Taking her big jar, I ran over to the other side to fetch her a pail of water. The poor thing all along; wheezing, holding herself up on her cane, I felt like an idiot. In between swimmers, I filled her jar up and ran back across the ice to deliver the goods. She thanked me and wished me a good swim and good health. I replied the same I vas takzhe. As I ran back to the hole in the ice, Irina already dressing from her quick dip, it dawned on me that this old lady is going to drink water from the Ishim–YICK! Should I go back and pour it out and tell her to go to the church. She was far gone by now hobbling back with her holy water to the side where we first met. They say on Kresheniye that all water is holy so I’m sure any nasty microbes that are in the water the other 364 days, took a day off and own’t harm my 70+ yr old friend.

The sun was shining, hazily and low in the sky. An orange glow behind the haze, it failed to provide any warmth against the wind and the sudden snow shower that came down as I was undressing. A couple came by, he in his winter sports outfit walking the family poodle, she like a female flasher, wrapped up in a big fur lined overcoat. She opened up her coat revealing her portly one piece and demurely yet quickly descended down the ladder into the chilly Ishim. She dipped herself under three times as per tradition Bog lyubit troitsu God loves a Trinity. In moments she was out and drying off, enjoying the post-dip warmth as the blood rushes to the surface to keep the body warm. The family poodle was scurrying about, probably trying to find comfort for his frozen paws. Irina recounted the story of the Mafia boss who arrived before us in his big Land Cruiser, surrounded by his flunkies with towels and a robe. He popped out of his car, in a bathing suit, dipped himself a few times, flunkies surrounding the hole to keep the wind away (and probably any potential assassins), wrapped him in towels as he got out, put him in a robe, back in the car and off they went. She said it took all of 5 mins if that but the whole show was very amusing.

OK, my turn. Here I go. Flip flops out so my feet don’t freeze, off go the pants, long underwear, layers of shirts and sweaters. Clad only in my new Nike swim trunks, I braved the wind and snow as Irina clicked away on my camera (Hell come all this way and not photograph the event??). Dunking yourself in ice cold water has to be done fast and without thought. Once you start thinking about it, you chicken out. Down I went, rung by rung, the bracing water numbing my legs. As well all know getting a man’s family jewels into the water is the hardest part. Instead of hesitating, I just dunked myself right in–One, Two, Three. Oh my God my body was freezing and before I knew it, I was shivering and jumping around, drying myself off with a towel. Before I knew it, my body was breaking out in a sensation of warmth. It felt so wonderful as I hopped back into my clothes, flicking off the snow that gathered into my long underwear and sweater.

We laughed and prided ourselves on our courageous achievement as we crossed the icy river, heading toward a warm up at our favorite haunt Sladkaya Skazka. We fel warm and cozy all bundled up again. The numbness was leaving my feet, the heavy; hand knitted woolen socks nestled in UG boots working fast to circulate the blood. My hands were frozen stiff and tooka bit longer. It was rather painful too. The nerves seemed to sting really hard as they came out of their temporary frozen state, as if to punish me for doing that to them. Irina commented on how great she felt, all her aches and pains were gone. You know my back was feeling pretty good too. So maybe there is something to all this religious lore after all. As we enter the warm café for a cup of tea, we watched the religious procession; banners, singing and hundreds of devout believers making their way down to the river for the blessing. "Shall we join them Irina, go swimming again?" I asked. "What are you crazy?" she looked at me astonished. "Of course not, I was just kidding! Let’s go have a cup of tea."

The Witch's tit in a brass bra entry

Kreschenskiy Moroz. That’s what it’s called in Russian. Kreschenskiy Moroz. A literal translation would be "Baptismal Frost", but I like the sound of it better in Russian. Plus it has more meaning in the original. So what does nose tingling, feet freezing cold have to do with a baptism? Well, let me tell you. 19 January, this Friday, on the Russian Orthodox calendar is Krescheniye–baptism, which refers to when apparently when Jesus was baptized (although was he baptized??). Anyway, nowadays devout believers reaffirm their faith by being rebaptized on that day. So the local Russian Orthodox church goes down to the frozen river, cuts a big cross-shaped hole in the ice and starting Thursday at midnight, the truly faithful (and crazy) go down and dunk themselves in the icy cold waters of the Ishim. My colleague Irina is planning on doing this and I decided to join her. Hell if I can start the New Year off by swimming in the Atlantic on Coney Island, I can give the Ishim a try. Mind you this just doesn’t happen in Astana but all over Russia as well. Back in the old days, the Tsar used to drink a glass of icy cold water from the Neva to symbolize his rebaptizing. So look for pics on me swimming about on Friday dear readers.
Now why did I bring all that up? Oh yeah, because it’s been really cold here. Luckily the wind hasn’t been blowing otherwise the -18/20 degrees Celsius would be a nut numbing -40 or so. The sky has been clear, the sun shining bright and the little snowflakes fly around like silver glitter in the air. At night they rest in piles on the sidewalks all glittery and sparkling in different colours. I love this time of year, the deep of winter in this part of the world. So magical and beautiful. Some people complain and groan but I love it. The lighting is spectacular and I’ve been snapping away on my digital camera.

Besides pursuing artistic interests, I’ve put together a busy schedule of teacher trainings and classes to fill up my time until the end of February. Already I started work with some students in a local high school–my every Tuesday gig. I’m being bombarded by private students as well and soon I may be giving lessons round the clock. Seems everyone is free in the evenings when I don’t have any more room left. Mornings are free but there are just no morning people here in Astana!

Started "In Cold Blood" the other day and am loving it. Why is it that it has taken me years to get around to reading this great novel? Everything in its own time. Hey I still haven’t plowed through "Anna Karenina" or "War and Peace" ( can’t believe I let that secret out!). Anyway, with my jet-lagged, erratic sleep patterns, I’m up at all hours of the early morning reading away about the murder of the Clutters and the ensuing man hunt to find the killers. I’ve become as of recently a big Capote fan and am trying to get some of these stodgy English teachers to use some of his short stories in class. We’ll see how that goes.

One of my students, Erik, invited me over for a lunch of Beshparmak on Sunday. Beshparmak is a traditional Kazakh dish of potatoes, wide noodles and horse meat. People say it varies depending on the cook but to me it seems all the same and tastes all the same. This was the first time I’ve actually been invited to someone’s house for the dish. When I divulged that, Erik piled more horsemeat on my plate. I tried to stop him but that’s next to impossible when you are the main guest. I don’t mind the horse meat but the horse sausage is a little too much for me. It tastes fine but just the look and texture of it puts me off a bit. I found it manageable when I took the rubber ring of intestine off. Seemed it needed a sauce or something but I was a bit hesitant to ask, not wanting to step on cultural or hostesses’ feet. Erik’s cousin dutifully made the dish and served us, she was ever so gracious and in full on hostess mode. I wonder if they were trying to indirectly set me up with her. Who knows. We watched "Madagascar" and downed more and more Beshparmak until it was pretty much gone. A very pleasant time had by all and I was thankful to be invited into a Kazakh’s home. Not many people have invited me to their homes so it was nice to finally be invited.

OK, I have to go and get new toner for our copy machine and get some work done before the parade of students begins this afternoon. Keep warm wherever you are darlings!

Happy New Year Everybody!

Suly rubs on my laptop, the screen gently wiggles. People walk past my window on their way to work. The tea kettle begins to boil. Another familiar Brooklyn morning, yet it seems a little strange, knowing that in a few days I will be on a plane starting my long 17+ hr journey back to another reality. One deep in snow, freezing temperatures and bitter wind. No worries, after all these years of traveling and living in other places, I adapt.
So New Year’s Eve has come and gone and here we are already five days into 2007. For me it doesn’t feel like we made a transition into another year but we did. I have a slight feeling of starting anew but not the usual full gusto. What will this new year bring? Who knows, I have no resolutions to speak of. I’ll just let things unfold as the year progresses.
New Year’s Eve was spent at my traditional spot–Pete and Jackie’s (next door). Very convenient, I do all my drinking and passing out on my block.. Well, I don’t drink enough to pass out these days but if I did, all they need to do is roll me next door on the down slope. There was enough people there drinking, throwing up and passing out–ah youth, they’ll never learn will they ;). As usual, it was a fantastic party that went til all hours. P&J are the ultimate hosts and always throw a great party. They bring together a great group of people, make super dance mixes and create a fabulous party atmosphere. Never can you say they throw a dull party. Pete’s brother Dave was there all the way from China (yes we had Asia in the house–he and I), Jackie’s sibling who I haven’t seen in a long time: Jamie-the hot and sexy model (now a shirtless model at Abercrombie and Fitch on 5th Ave), Jeff-the chef at Bouchon and Julie-the student in Florida. My Brooklyn family. The piece de resistance of the party was the ball dropping at midnight. Pete wrapped a basketball in foil, then paper towels put it in a metal plant hanger, doused it with lighter fluid and slowly lowered it from his deck to the backyard into a waiting trash can full of water. This annual ball drop is always a little different each year and always rivals the big one in Times Square. We, all 100+ of us, stood in the backyard with our champagne counting down the seconds as Pete lowered the giant ball of fire. The was a brief gasp as the ball hit the side of the house but thank God the deck is all steel and the place didn’t go up in flames. As we yelled out "Happy New Year", there was a loud HISSSSSS of relief as the ball was diminished in the dark, cold waters of the trash can.
So there it was, another year over, a new year begun. But it didn’t feel like a new year for some reason. I sipped champagne with Bryn and Bill in the yard as the rain softly came down on this unusually warm December/January night. We discussed plans for the upcoming 9th annual Russian Old New Year’s party at the Natsional restaurant on Brighton Beach. Maybe that’s why I don’t feel like the new year happened, because there’s still another new year to come. For you rubes, Russian Orthodox has a different calendar and Christmas is January 7th and Old New Year’s is the 13th. We’re celebrating this year on Christmas Eve since I got to go back to Astana on the 11th. I’m sure I’ll be celebrating Old New Year’s there too. Oy! Will this year ever begin?? You know, there are so many new year’s celebrations that if you observe them all, the year never really ends. In the school I worked at here in NYC, we celebrated three: Yom Kippur, January 1st and Chinese New Year. There’s also Navruz (Muslim New Year in spring) and I’m sure there’s a few more in there somewhere.
As per tradition, New Year’s Day found me and many of the people from the party the night before heading to Coney Island for the annual Polar Bear Plunge. In various states of wooziness and bathing attire, we made our way down in the drizzling rain for this fun filled and eye opening event. With thermoses of coffee, flasks of whiskey and bourbon, doughnuts, we had a pre-swim warm up in front of Rubie’s on the Boardwalk. Rubie’s, now defunct, always opens for this event and gouges the public with $9 Bloody Mary’s. At least they make them strong in those small plastic cups. At 1pm when the big horn blew, we, and about two hundred others ran like lunatics into the bracing Atlantic screaming and yelling. There were waves that day so before a giant icy cold wave hit me in my most delicate parts, I dove under it, invigorated and numb all at the same time. Swam around for a minute or two then popped out. There was the obligatory round two, the one for taking pictures and posing in the ocean. It’s amazing what a little dip in freezing cold water will do for your hangover, sort of whisks it away really, zaps it out of your body. When I get back to Kazakhstan, Irina plans to take me to a Polar Bear Plunge. January 19th, "Kresheniye" (means baptism and is symbolizes the baptism of Christ). All those serious Russian Orthodox show their faith by dipping into the chilly waters of a river or pond, a large hole cut out from the ice. Maybe this will catapult me into 2007–wait and see.
Time in New York whizzes by and I’m taking advantage of it. Visiting friends, rebonding with the cats, home projects (a leak in the wall on the first floor, probably from the roof), gathering teaching materials for my workshops, some shopping and of course catching up on movies. The first film on the MUST SEE list was, you guessed it–"Borat". I must say to the Kazakhs, get over it! It’s funny yes but not really offensive to the Kazakhs. Any intelligent, global thinking person can see that a) he’s not at all Kazakh looking, b) speaks Polish and Czech(the fat guy sounds Turkish) c) filmed the beginning in Romania. Kazakhstan should be happy that finally someone has put them on the map and sparked interest in the country. Don’t be so morally outraged–it makes you look like bigger boobs (no pun intended). There are moments when yes, Americans are shown to be gullible geographically illiterate idiots that they are but overall, I thought the film was a wonderful piece of theatre of the absurd. Take an unreal person and put him into different realities and see what happens. It really doesn’t have anything to do with Kazakhstan or America for that matter. Can I just say, the NY subway and the naked wrestling scenes were the highlights for me. I was howling at those sequences. Bravo to Sasha to have the balls to do that kind of stuff. Nice to see a comeback of absurdism.
There’s more films to see as the week rolls by and I’ll give you a full report at the end of my stay. I would like to see "The Departed"again since I was distracted by annoying cell phone calls by audience members when I saw it in Astana. Anyways, there’s tons on my list and not a lot fo time so I better get out and get in the movie theatres now. Talk to you soon.