Flashback: Friday the 13th/ Flashback Friday: The 13th

Let's flash all the way back to Friday the 13th. As in a week ago. A long week ago.

I had literally the LONGEST Friday the 13th of my life. I'm talking 30+ hours long. Fortunately for me nothing too unlucky happened. No broken mirrors or spilled salt. And not a single black cat. In fact, it was overall pretty lucky since I got to spend it somewhere that I (unlike many people) actually enjoy--Airports/airplanes. I left at an hour at which humans should not have already awakened and proceeded out to the car under the clear, starry sky. I entertained a sappy thought about the fact that, as beautiful as the sky is in Germany, it'll be the same sky where I'm going. I got through check in and security without a hitch and, right before boarding the shuttle out to the airplane, noticed that my leggings were on backwards, the hassle of correcting it was too great so I decided to endure it through the 14 or so hours of travel which I was about to embark on. As I drove over, boarded the plane, and waited for take-off I couldn't help but think how cool airports are. They are the birthplace innumerable memories of new beginnings. Hellos, goodbyes, and travel buddies. Everyone is meandering or dashing about in the turning point of their lives. Because, even if they're just going back to the humdum droll of everyday life, where they're coming from has (hopefully) changed them. Then you sit in the plane and wait for it to take off and take you on that new adventure. How much more of a physical demonstration of that change could you ask for than to suddenly start driving down the runway, trying to get up to speeds of hundreds of miles per hour in order to get a huge piece of metal to soar through the air the same way that animals with feathers and hollow bones do. And suddenly you're off the ground. It's kind of miraculous. This is usually the point at which I fall asleep. I don't know what it is. A new beginning lulling me to sleep, I guess. But somehow, in spite of my excitement I tend to wake up and wonder when we got so high up that the seatbelt sign turned off. You whip through a sea of fluffy cotton which I have a hard time believing is only condensation. After a few hours of stiff legs you can see towns below again. Everything comes clearly into view and your heartrate picks up again as you approach the new you. Maybe someone is waiting down there. Or maybe you're going to make your way on your own. They both have their perks. But as I touched down back in America on Friday the 13th a "Welcome Home" sign awaited me. Time for a new adventure. With my leggings still on backwards. Bring it, world.

I'm not sayin', I'm just saying.

Trauma with a Capital Tea

There are some life events that leave scars. It's as simple as that. And sometimes it takes time to realize just how deep those scars run. I had a recent encounter with just such a situation.

I wanted a nice cup of tea. I think I had a tummy ache at the time. But as I attempted to choose my tea I was suddenly plunged into a traumatic memory, not unlike putting my face into a pensieve. Here's where the emotional scar comes into play. I shall set the scene. Date: August 2013. Place: My apartment in Moscow, Russia. That day was much like any other. As I had become customary for me, I desired a cup of tea. I got the water boiling and then pulled out a tea bag of some sort of fruit variety. But as I went to put it in the cup a flutter caught my eye. I looked closer and found this:

 

If you still don't know what I'm talking about, look at the top corner of the pyramid. Right between the soccer ball/football bowl and the pitcher of water. Your eyes are not deceiving you. That is, indeed, a moth inside my tea bag. It was flapping about and everything. I had some yucky feelings and then decided perhaps it was a fluke. I pulled out a second bag, and, lo and behold, it too contained some extra protein. I did not investigate further. My only conclusion is that little moth eggs got through the little weave-holes and the little moth babies were hatched in captivity. Nevertheless, I no longer drink tea in which the bags are not individually wrapped.

So, flashing back to last week, when I discovered that my options to satisfy my herbal tea need were limited to (1) one I did not want at the time or (2) the kind I wanted but not individually wrapped, I was thrown into an emotional, moral, grammatical, and ecumenical (well, maybe not all four) dilemma. Unfortunately for me the trauma of the memory was to great, and I was frozen in a state of indecision, leading me to a default decision of no tea after all.

I just hate it when my past inhibits my present.

I'm not sayin'; I'm just sayin'.

Nothing Ventured, Nothing Gained

Yesterday I pulled out some papers given to me by my grandmother a couple of years ago, containing pictures and stories about her life and the generations before her. And so many thoughts started whirling around my head. Let me try to somehow organize them.

1. I have spent almost two years trying my darndest to see as much of the world as possible and make sure that I maximize my lifetime. But what hit me as I read this was how exciting it was for my family just to explore North America. They found the same intrigue in discovering what was out west. So on the one hand I realized how much I took for granted in my home country. But on the other hand, I'm doing the same thing that they were, I just had the resources to do it on a bigger scale. The possibilities afforded to me in my life probably never entered their minds, for a number of reasons. But they were explorers and adventurers in their own right.

2. Stayin put... what a concept. After exploring for a while they found someplace to stay for generations. They stayed put for a while. And even with the few glimpses I have into that I saw that it looks like it can indeed be quite a grand adventure.

3. They didn't know they were roughing it. They had an outhouse and a pump, and of course no electricity. To them that was normal. To me it's exotic and foreign. I didn't have a cel phone until high school or a smart phone until after college. I already don't know how I survived. I think that the colloquial way to say that is, "I have first world problems". What wondrous luxuries will I chuckle about when I say I roughed it without them?

4. No matter what I do with my life, it too will someday be history. What will I tell my children (these are, of course, theoretical children) and grandchildren (being, of course, just as, if not more, theoretical than their parents)? I'm sure I'll be one of those obnoxious old ladies who are always cutting in with "That reminds me of a time when I was in..." I know this because I already do it. And over the years I'm sure my imagination will start to fabricate those stories. Oh please. I'm sure it already has.  My story will always be just out of reach in a couple of generations. It will exist in my memory and the imaginations of those I've told about it.

5. There is something inexplicably beautiful in the unobtainable nature of history. They worked the land. And they did it out of necessity. This world is somehow a part of me and yet I have no understanding of it. It's a world that I won't find no matter how many exotic countries I fly to.

6. Anyone's life can be exciting. What does exciting mean anyway? "To cause strong feelings of enthusiasm and eagerness (in someone)"? Or how about "To bring out or give rise to (a feeling or reaction)"? Well let's get real. That's not going to mean the same thing to many people. One life is always going to be foreign and therefore intriguing to someone. As much as I hate to admit it or even try to wrap my brain around it, maybe there is no right or wrong answer. That would be the only way for life to be boring--if everyone's were the same.

7. As philosophical as I was feeling after contemplating all of this, I must say my adventure itch is still not satisfied. But as my great-great-great (I think) grandfather was quoted in the history books as saying, *"nothing ventured, nothing gained." Genetics for the win.

I'm not sayin'; I'm just sayin.


*I don't know how first said this but he took it as his mantra

Flashback Friday: Big Ben and the Bug Bite

Anyone who's talked to me knows that I have a story for everything. I'd imagine it gets a little obnoxious, actually. But, since so many things happened before I came to Germany, I thought I'd do a little Flashback Friday. And what better place to start than on my first international adventure-the one where I was bit by the highly infectious travel bug. Little 20 year old me was flying back to school from a visit home, and I realized that it was now or never. I knew that if I didn't go to London that summer then I might never do it. So, when I got back to my apartment I called up a family friend for some help/advice, and I bought a plane ticket to London for a few weeks later. I booked a hostel for the first couple nights and glanced at some possible tourist attractions, but apart from that I was flying by the seat of my pants. And it almost came back to bite me in the seat of my pants when I landed in the UK. I filled out my immigration card on the plane and then waited in the long line to get through passport control. Finally it was my turn. I handed the woman my passport, and that's when the interrogation began.

-What are you doing in London? (of course with a British accent)
-I'm on holiday.
-How long will you be staying?
-Nine days.
-Where are you staying?
-In a hostel.
-In a backpacker's hostel?
-Yes. (But I'm thinking: I have no idea. I didn't realize there were even different kinds of hostels. I'd never even heard of a hostel before booking this trip.)
-And what are you going to do here?
-Uh, you know, see the sights.
-Like what?

This is the point in the conversation where my mind went blank, I maybe should have researched and planned just a little bit better because I suddenly could not think of a single thing to see in London. I stuttered for a moment and managed to spit out...

-...uh...B-big Ben?

She gave me a strange look and then proceeded.

-Have you ever traveled to any other countries? Are you traveling with anyone? Do you have family here? Do you have friends here?
-No. No. No. No
-What do you do back in America? What are you studying? What kind of job do you have? How much money do you have with you? 

The questions seemed to go on forever as I tried not to panic (which anyone who knows me knows is quite a task). Finally she gave me one last look, smirked and said, "Not bad for your first time out of your country" as she gave me my very first stamp.

Really? That's it? This was all some game? Try to make the little American girl wet herself, or at least cry? Well I'm glad someone could have a laugh at my expense. Just imagine the break room conversation. "Well I almost made this little American girl cry today." (laughter ensues). And then she probably marked it off her passport control bingo card.

I'm not sayin'; I'm just sayin'.

Dear Store Clerk, I wasn't stealing...

Dear Tattooed Store Clerk,

I was not stealing from your store. Here's what happened:

I was returning home after a lovely weekend visit with a friend and had only a short time between trains. Since I had been coughing up a storm and had finished my tea on the first train, I decided that purchasing a beverage to get me through the last leg of the trip might be a wise and considerate for everyone involved. I meandered into your store in the train station and walked up and down the aisles with my duffel bag and large purse. In Russia they would have had lockers for me to put these in to avoid suspicion (although I don't think it would have fit, but oh well, it's a train station... people have bags...) I kept running into you as you were stocking in different aisles. I avoided you for one reason and one reason only: I was afraid you might ask if I needed help and I don't like talking to strangers. I deliberated over juices, cough drops and whatnot and then realized that I had totally spaced out and had a train to catch. I hastened to the check out and realized that the lines were a mile long (rounding to the next mile, of course) and judging by the clock which I could see in the station through the doorway, my train was leaving in one minute. I ran frantically back to the aisles to try to return the things when I encountered you once again and you told me that this bigger bottle of juice was exactly the same but a better deal. I really meant it when I said I didn't have any time and had to catch my train (actually I forgot the word for catch so my sentence just kind of faded off after "train"... but you got the point). It was very nice of you to open a new line for me in spite of everyone who probably hated me since they had been waiting for who knows how long. I paid, threw my things into my aforementioned very large purse and ran to my platform, which was, luckily, right by the store. THE TRAIN WAS STILL THERE and the doors were still open. I bounded up the stairs and watched the doors close before my eyes. I pushed the button. Nothing. The train sat there and the people inside did too. I frantically pushed the button a couple more times and hit the door for good measure (with open hand). Then the step pulled up, and I was left standing there next to the empty tracks. As I walked away defeated a nice lady sympathized with me (somehow this exchange with a stranger wasn't so intimidating). I found the next train to my destination and contemplated as I waited. What are the chances that the one I wanted was bound by punctuality and yet this one left 15 minutes late? Karma. Maybe I shouldn't have hit the first one. But in my contemplation time, and between games of "dots" on my phone, I realized that you were not only stocking the aisles, but probably also stalking the aisles, waiting for suspicious people with big bags who don't like human contact. If I had returned the things and tried to just leave you probably would have stopped me and checked my bags anyway. I still would have missed my train. But you wouldn't have found anything because I am not a thief. On the bright side, I had my juice and cough drops on the train and didn't even have to wait in line.

I'm not sayin'; I'm just sayin'.

Culture Shock: Reversed

I learned a lot in my 8 months in Russia and didn't realize how Russian (and by Russian I should be fair and say Muscovite) I'd become until I came back to Germany. Within the first hour I was in culture shock that is still subsiding. (Although I did answer the cashier in Russian just two days ago.) Perhaps this is what you'd call reverse culture shock? The shock of the realization that you have adapted to a new culture and are now back in familiar territory. There are a few places that really seem to highlight the culture difference: 1. The grocery store. 2. The roads. 3. The public transportation 4. The home. But now that I think about it I haven't really gone anywhere else so I don't know that that's fair to say. But let 's start at the beginning.

The grocery store:
No one glared at me, although I did have to stop myself from sending out general scowl vibes.
No one's head turned to commence staring upon hearing me speak English.
I didn't have to play gladiators with my grocery cart to get down the aisles.
The cashiers are all ridiculously cheery and friendly. For anyone who thinks German is a harsh language, go to a small town grocery store and you will hear your error.


The roads:
I drove. And it felt fantastic.
I never once feared for my life
Nor did I get car sick.
No one drove alongside the lanes of traffic
People don't really honk, and when I did hear it for my first time back it was a short "toot" with no accompanying shouting or offensive sign language.

The public transportation:
I didn't quite know what to do with the buzz of chatter and laughter surrounding me which was so opposed to the stony silence I'd grown accustomed to (except when I stirred things up and caused a ruckus).
No pushing involved to get on the train.
One girl even had a short exchange with me about the broken ticket machine

Home:
I feel quite rebellious when I occasionally wear shoes in the house (which isn't actually generally acceptable in Germany)
No one panics that I will fall ill or become infertile if I sit on the floor.
Sometimes I whistle in the house and boldly push through the internal panic that someone will scold me for doing so (Russians believe that you will lose all of your money and your family's money if you whistle indoors; therefore it is a whistle-free country. My friends and I have our theories regarding the source of this superstition, but that's a story for another day)

And in general:
I understand what people around me are talking about.
And I do not feel the need to justify an occasional cough, sneeze or sniffle with excuses: I just have allergies/I swallowed wrong/the smell of your hairspray is too much for me/it's dusty! Nobody panic! I am not sick and will not infect you!

But ok, Russia, in spite of your idiosyncrasies (or maybe MY idiosyncrasies...?), you'd grown on me a little. Russians (or should I say, Muscovites) are like coconuts: Hairy (in the winter) and hard as all get out on the outside, but once you crack 'em open all the juice spills out and you discover they're also a little bit fruity (and by that I only mean quirky). And that's not necessarily bad. Although I'm still going to whistle and sit on the floor at will.

I'm not sayin'; I'm just sayin'.

Volcano!

I went to make a cup and noticed a disturbing fact: the electric kettle was dirty. You'd think that something only used to boil water would simply stay clean. But 'tisn't so. Or maybe you knew better, but remember I'm new to this whole tea thing. I went to it with the sponge but the damage was worse than I had imagined. It's also rather difficult to get one's hand in there when the lid only tilts a little. So I tried using a utensil to maneuver the sponge. But it was to little avail. I thought perhaps some warm, soapy water would loosen it. So I ignored the voice in the back of my head where I keep any sort of sciencey information, and proceeded to put the soap and water in and turn on the kettle. I watched it a little and it seemed not to do anything exciting. I had pretty much given up on that plan when I looked away. As I turned back around, I discovered a soap-volcano spewing on the counter. I retrieved the kettle from the base, and it continued to flow freely. And within seconds the kettle was calm, and it was as if nothing had happened. Well, minus the residual suds all over the counter top. I then followed my instinct to boil vinegar in there. I should listen to that little voice more often. But then my life wouldn't be nearly as exciting.

I'm not sayin'; I'm just saying'.

Correction: I did NOT eat fertilizer!

Ok. I have an embarrassing admission. But it must be made. Yesterday I posted about the delicious tastes of Israel. When a Freundin of mine quite stealthily posted the word "hummus" on my facebook (as opposed to "humus" as I had written), making it look like she was simply commenting on the post, it was brought to my attention that the creamy food made from garbanzo beans, in fact, has THREE possible spellings. But rather than using any of these magnificent spellings, I used what I thought was another alternative but which actually means "the dark organic material in soils, produced by the decomposition of vegetable or animal matter and essential to the fertility of the earth." Oh dear. I didn't eat any of that.

I'm usually rather precise with my spelling and grammar (although I hate proofreading), and I may have tried to let it slide by as a typo, had it just been once. Instead, I have now replaced all seven instances of this word with alternating spellings of "a paste or dip made of chickpeas mashed with oil, garlic, lemon juice, and tahini and usually eaten with a pita." So, to my friend who so sneakily pointed this out without pointing it out (du weißt, wer du bist), I say to you, "Mensch! Unglaublich!" and, of course, "Eine Prinzessin zu Weihnachten". This should be a lesson to all in the importance proofreading and peer reviewing. Although I probably haven't actually learned it.

I'm not sayin'; I'm just sayin'.

Garbanzos: The Israeli Staple

Back to Israel. But not that sappy, serious, philosophical stuff. Let's talk about the important stuff: food. First off hummus. Good grief. I had never heard of hoummos with an omelet. But my GOODNESS what a great idea it is. Basically houmous can and should be eaten with every meal. I need to figure out either how to find it in Russia or how to make it. Both sound like they will take a lot of effort and probably a considerable amount of dough as well... I guess that's why I haven't had hummus since I got back. Also. The Israelis know how to do Shawarma (also with hoummos, and portions big enough for two meals). But to get a little more authentic here let's talk falafel. First off, what a great name. Say it. Just once. You can't say it just once. Because once you say it once you have to say it just once more just to try it a different way. It's a vicious cycle. Or maybe it's just me. Hmmm. Anyway. I'm going to be honest, I didn't actually know what falafel was made of. I finally looked it up and found that it's made of chickpeas, just like HOUMOUS. And it's also served with hummus. May be excessive but how can you have too much of anything with a name like "garbanzo bean"? Come on. So this sounded like one of those foods that should be gluten free but almost certainly isn't. And upon further inquiry I found that there's a shop in Tel Aviv which makes them for special people like me. So, naturally, I had to spend my last night in Israel in search of this restaurant. After about 30 minutes of circling the area I was about to give up and just eat something else. But at that point I was driven by stubbornness. There was no way that, after putting off my evening and wasting that much time, I was going to NOT eat falafel. So I found the little stinker. I walked in and asked if they sold gluten free falafel. And miracle of miracles the man did not look at me like a was speaking Greek. He hooked me up with the works, along with fresh lemonade. There is something magical about Israeli lemonade. I think I drank more in 4 days there than I have in a year. So he handed my bowl and cup over the counter, and, as I tried to pay, he told me just to pay later.

There are so many garbanzos on this plate it's not even funny. Yum.

So I sat down outside in the perfect evening weather. Sigh. There I partook of my very own authentic falafel. And there was joy in my mouth. And stomach. After a little while, Falafel Man came out and chatted with me. He asked me where I was from, how I liked Isreal, blah blah blah. On a sidenote, one problem I kept encountering was that when people asked where I'm from, in order to avoid giving my whole life story, I'd simply say, "the US" and then they'd say, "Wow, you came a long way" especially since I was only there for a few days. But if I tried to simply answer that I live in Russia (live being the operative word) they would say "Wow. Your English is fantastic!" And that it is. My accent even sounds authentic. I should hope that I'd have achieved such a level of proficiency after more than 20 years of practice.  But I digress. I told him that I liked Israel very much. I found it to be a beautiful country with very friendly people (understatements). He thanked me and said "Yes. We try to be nice to everyone. But we try to be especially nice to Americans. When we meet an American it's like meeting another Israeli!" Okay then! I'll take it. Israelis are GORGEOUS!

I'm not sayin'; I'm just sayin'.

Rogue Strawberries and Spastic Mustard

I can be a bit of a klutz sometimes. I know. This information is shattering the image of perfection that you had of me. But it's true. I was fishing through my carton of strawberries trying to salvage what I could and eliminate what I couldn't. But those little stinkers are slippery and one jumped (yes-JUMPED- leapt, even) out of my hand and rolled down my white sweatshirt and grey (or gray-whichever you prefer) sweatpants. Gasp. Pink everywhere. My mind scrolled through all of my stain-removal techniques while being poisoned with thoughts of my lounge-wear bearing my alma mater's insignia simply being ruined forever. But before I had to resort to Pinterest I remembered something remarkable: the last time I was in the US I had bought a Tide To Go pen! I figured this was the time to give it a shot. A looked down 10 minutes later and... TA-DA! A miracle had occurred. Who knew that magic could be bought at wal-mart for only $2.

And yes, rather than reflecting further upon my escapades in Israel, I'm taking a short break to share my stain-removal woes with all of cyber space.

But that's not all. Being the klutz I am, I, of course, couldn't handle only one disaster in the day. So when, upon being opened, the mustard squirted out all over my pushed-up sleeve, I was ready. I knew just what to do. I ran into my room and grabbed the magic stick. I did my thing. I waited. I noticed spots on my arm where my hard-earned tan seemed to be bleached off. Disconcerting. But the sweatshirt looked virtually the same. I tried it again. I waited again. I tried it once more. Nope. Apparently mustard is more resilient than strawberries. I don't even usually eat mustard. Perhaps I should have stuck to that.

I'm not sayin'; I'm just sayin'.

Inescapable Miracles

If St Petersburg was amazing (which it was) then how in the world am I going to come up with a strong enough adjective for my subsequent adventure: Israel. Oh boy. It's taken me this long to post anything purely because I can't figure out how to encapsulate the experience in one or two anecdotes. Then I was reminded of something one of my favorite Germans said. "May I suggest that you reduce the rush and take a little extra time to get to know yourself better. Walk in nature, watch a sunrise, enjoy God's creations..." (Dieter Uchtdorf)

Sunrise over Jerusalem from a rooftop

Sunrise over the Dead Sea from the top of Masada

Sunset over the Mediterranean

If there are two things that are virtually inescapable they are the sky and yourself. They're going to follow you no matter where we go, so you might as well pay a little more attention to both. In 5.5 days I saw the sunrise and sunset from an airplane, a mountain top, a rooftop, a hillside, and a beach (not just any beach, though- the Mediterranean). With each one came a little squeal of excitement and sigh of astonishment. I can't say I'm in a particularly rushed stage of life right now. In fact, this may be the least rushed I've ever been (hence the two vacations two weekends in a row). But there I sat, stood, walked in the Holy Land, a place which I certainly hadn't anticipated seeing for quite some time, and which some people wait a lifetime to see. And as if that wasn't miraculous enough, I was actually taking the time to witness one of the most common and most overlooked miracles of all. So, "may I suggest that you reduce the rush and take a little extra time to get to know yourself better. Walk in nature, watch a sunrise, enjoy God's creations..."

I'm not sayin'; I'm just sayin'.

Sharing is... caring?

Common Class?

The train ride to and from St Petersburg was a cultural adventure in and of itself. My ticket said "common class". Excuse me? Talk about humbling. I quickly learned what that meant. A car with two bench seats and a small table coming out of the wall. I immediately knew I was going to be in for an interesting night. Actually, two interesting nights since I could foresee the return trip being much the same thing. On the way up I went close to 10 hours without speaking. If you know me, this may sound impossible, but I did it. And it was strange. My feet couldn't reach the floor so I tried several positions to keep them from falling asleep, and used my duffel bag to rest my head on. I woke up around 3 am to an amazing dawn with a sliver of a moon still visible and watched the beautiful Russian countryside fly by for about an hour. The small fields between woods were covered in a fog so high that it would have been over my head. There were creeks everywhere and the tree trunks were so thin in proportion to their height that it's a wonder that they can even stay standing. I fell back asleep and awoke a little later to an orange spotlight shining directly into my window. I thought to myself "how many people get to see this?" And then two answers came to mind "How many are looking?" And "No one will ever see this exact one again." I remained silent. How very zen of me.

I'm not sayin'; I'm just sayin'.

Have you heard?

Gloomy? No.
Bleak? Nope.
Frozen underwear? Not even close.

You may have guessed it by now, but I took an impromptu trip up to St Petersburg. It kind of rocked my socks off, which, now that I think about it, makes absolutely no sense. Are we talking about rocking as in swaying back and forth? How would that cause a removal of socks? Maybe that's the point because the rocking was so fierce that the socks flew off. I guess it would make sense then. But I don't think it's possible. So what are they saying on the streets? Well... lots of things. While they were definitely happier than in the movie, there were certainly just as many characters.

I was walking along one of the many bridges and saw a man standing shirtless on the railing. He waited until a tour boat was floating past and then jumped into the water alongside them.

Later I was going down the sidewalk when I saw a man (holding a bottle of some choice beverage...) on the perpendicular street talking to himself. No. Wait. He wasn't talking to himself. He was talking to the pigeons. He saw me watching, chuckled and said something after me. I'm pretty sure it was something about the pigeons being thirsty.

After that I saw two women in a row talking to themselves on the metro escalator (which I timed many times and have concluded that if you stand for the entirety of the ride you will waste between 2 and 3 minutes of your life).

Speaking of escalators, there was a mother-daughter pair who stepped on kind of bracing themselves as if they were surfing. They seemed to have never been on one before.

Then there was the man wearing red warm-up pants, a red hoodie and blue pinstripe cap and strutting with more swag than I've ever witnessed in my entire life. Seriously. Arms a-swinging.

And the man who rode through the park wearing motorcycle gear and helmet yet riding a bicycle. There was music being emitted from his person. I suspect it was the backpack.

Basically St. P is a bundle of laughs. The people are very happy and friendly and made me feel like a horrible person for automatically giving my well-refined Moscow scowl. And yes, I did sing a line of this song walking down the street. What? I couldn't not.

I'm not sayin'; I'm just sayin'.

You'd think buying hotdogs would be simple

Well six months in Russia have flown by. But how could they not when just going to the grocery store is an adventure in communication? Like the time I used fabric softener for weeks to wash my clothes until I finally noticed a little iron symbol on the bottle and had someone read it for me. Or the time I brought home some other kind of ground meat (twice) when I wanted ground beef. Then there was the time that the cashier got so fed up with me not being able to answer her that I think she just gave me some of the food for free. Or, on the flipside, the time the cashier detained my carton of perfect strawberries for some reason unbeknownst to me. And, last but not least, the time I spent 15 minutes reading a hotdog label with the dictionary on my phone just to make sure there was no gluten in them. In spite of all that, Moscow and I are beginning to understand each other. Maybe a little too much since I have learned to scowl with the best of them. And don't worry, my Russian (or at least pretending) has improved in that time period. I'm full of surprises. Sometimes I whip out random words like octopus, raccoon, and passion fruit. And I've got some good, standard phrases for everyday use. "I don't know." "I don't speak Russian" "I don't understand Russian." "I'm sorry." "What are you doing?" "What's that?"... Actually, now that I start to list them it isn't such a short list after all, especially since I spend almost all of my time with Americans. But I feel like the fact that I probably could list them all is still an indicator that my vocabulary could use some augmentation. Hmmm...  Well, it's a work in progress.

I'm not sayin'; I'm just sayin'.

Raining Cats and Dogs

I know I've talked about the rain before, but it LITERALLY rains cats and dogs here. That's the only explanation for the number of animals roaming about. A strange majority of Russians have little rat dogs (I'm assuming this is because they need something that doesn't mind being cooped up in an apartment). In the winter they're all over, dressed up in sweaters and booties. And in summer even more come out of the woodwork. But not just dogs. Cats too.
Sometimes stray. Sometimes with their owner. Creatures peek out of purses and carrying cases and over the laps of their owners on the metro. The other day there was a rather large man with his shirt buttoned only halfway up and one of those small, long-haired dogs with a ponytail on the top of its head snuggled in next to him on the seat. Another time I was going down the escalator into the grocery store and a certain scent reached my nose. I discovered it was the cat perched on the shoulder of the man a few steps in front of me. He too was heading into the grocery store... with said cat... I wasn't thrilled. I've noticed that the stray dogs are generally larger. But then I realized it's probably due to survival of the fittest--the little dogs can't handle street life. BUT it doesn't stop after cats and dogs. One day I saw a young-ish woman strutting down the sidewalk with a FERRET sprawled across her outstretched forearm. And recently I saw a small carrying kennel (this is unusual) on the metro only to discover a chinchilla as the occupant. There was also another kennel with a dog and one with a cat, but the chinchilla took the cake. Needless to say, Russians love their furry friends. Well, except my neighbor whose dog howls at any hour of the day or night.

I'm not sayin'; I'm just sayin'.

You never know what you're gonna get

I know I’ve been sparse lately. But unlike earlier this year, it’s because I’ve been so busy doing this crazy thing called living life. Oh Moscow. You are truly one of a kind. 

In a city where I consume enough secondhand smoke that I'm convinced I'll need the patch just to leave, where the old security guard at your church can send you in a panic trying to figure out what you've done wrong when he simply said "good afternoon", and where you have contests to see who can make the most babushky (old, Russian grandmas) smile at you, step outside on a the weekend and you're sure to be in for a show.

A few notes.

1. I'm not going for an award in cinematography. Don't judge. I may have started bopping a little with the camera in hand.
2. Bet your toe started to tap without your consent.

3. Those American Indians are singing in Russian (although I think the song before I started recording may not have been).

4. The men in ties were legit and basking in how long we were their audience. They even took requests. 

5. The dancers. At least people are enjoying it

I’m not sayin’; I’m just sayin’.

Don't Judge A Milk By Its Carton

I'm not a huge milk-drinker. A couple of times every year I have a sudden craving for it, but otherwise it exists in my fridge for cereal. Then I came to Russia. And that was reinforced. There are approximately a zillion different brands, and you never know which one will be in stock and/or not expired. Someone introduced me to one brand in particular that smells (or rather lacks smell) like American milk. It's a miracle. But there's one brand called "Luxury" with a watermark of a violin on it... I had to. It was convincing marketing.

I made my tea and poured the milk in it as usual, but this time it was "LUXURY". Suddenly there were little white curds floating on the top of it. Hmmm. Suspiciously unluxurious. You milk connoisseurs could probably give me a very simple explanation, but this is just outside my realm of expertise. I poured some into a clear glass and nothing fishy came out. Then suddenly the curds began to form again. I'm sorry. Smell test? Fine. Although I'm not a very good judge since I don't think milk smells very good. Expiration date: Today. Taste test? Alright. Although I'm not a very good judge since I don't think milk tastes very good. So of course I made someone else try it. The decision was that I most likely wouldn't have intestinal repercussions. I put some cereal in the glassful I had poured and scooped the chunks off the top of my tea. The next day I went out and bought the milk with the fat, mustached man on it.

I'm not sayin'; I'm just sayin'.

Content Advisory: Suitable for Children of the 90s

Not too long ago I was youtubing movie clips and came across this... Oh my. There are just so many things to say about this that words fail me. Let's start with the bopping. And hand gestures. The nose touch. And, last but not least, the pants. I will say nothing of the singing itself.


This discovery came at a rather appropriate time in my life. Around the same time I went shopping to discover much denim and many jumpsuits. Many. At first I thought "How very retro." Then I realized that I'm not sure they ever went out of style here in the first place so I guess that wouldn't qualify as retro. I also spotted a Catdog stuffed animal in the back window of someone's car. And then there was the "guess this 90s TV theme song" game that I played with some friends. So let's dwell on that. Not only did the 90s and early millennium leave me with stains of faded denim, writing on the tushy of pants, boy bands, and zig zag hair parts, but I was also enriched with Boy Meets World, Ask Jeeves, midnight releases of the Harry Potter books and gel pens. Come on. We had it pretty good.

I'm not sayin'; I'm just sayin'.

Sunshine... or Angst...

Play and read.

Gosh this song gets stuck in my head so easily-pretty much any time I think "It is a beautiful day out." And that happens quite often actually. Sun. Rain. Sigh. It catchy, Michael. Well done. Or well done whoever wrote the song. Does he write his own stuff? I could look it up, but I don't feel like it. I just like asking. When I first heard this song I had it stuck in my head for DAYS. I can't help it. Then I moved on to other songs and whatnot. But lately it's worked its way back into the forefront. And rightfully so. Have you seen Moscow's weather lately? Ok. Probably not. Sad. You're just going to have to take my word for it. Unfortunately, walking down the streets of Moscow singing is not exactly culturally acceptable. But sometimes I risk it when I'm with a group. I'm a social rebel, what can I say. And then as I sing I remember this is actually an angsty breakup song. Well well well. A little out of the ordinary. I'm still not quite sure how to take it. It sounds like "Haven't Met you Yet", but then he tricks you when it's actually the total opposite message. Sneaky. I think I kinda like it though. And it's still a catchy song.

I hope it's stuck in your head now.

I'm not sayin'; I'm just sayin'.

Possible Wizard Battle in Moscow

Everyone seems to associate Moscow with snow. Well I'm here to tell you that there is a monsoon season here, notable enough to contend for fiercest weather of the year. This means a few things to me:
First, I should not have left my galoshes, windbreaker and trench coat in Germany.
Second, I am now going to have to buy appropriate rain gear.
I have mixed feelings about rain. I actually love a good warm, summer rain. I love getting caught in it. Just maybe not when I'm on my way to meet a client. The drowned rat look isn't the greatest first impression. And leaving the appointment with a children's umbrella donated to your pitiful situation doesn't exactly leave the most positive lasting impression either. As for remaining indoors, nothing beats falling asleep to the sound of rain on the roof. And in this case, it doesn't matter that I don't live on the top floor, the wind is so fierce that the rain hits my windows straight on. I also love thunder and lightning. You know, when you're sitting at the computer with only the sound of the keyboard, the gentle fuzz of constant rainfall, and occasional singing to yourself, and suddenly it sounds like the earth just snapped in half and you find that your whole body has seized up. Your breath catches and then releases in words of surprise expelling themselves involuntarily from your mouth. Then everything lights up for a split second and you think, "It's probably a good time to not use any appliances which must be plugged in." And a car alarm goes off outside. Um... did what I think just happen really just happen? The only other explanation is a wizard battle. Wizards apparating everywhere.

I'm not sayin'; I'm just sayin'.

There and Back Again: My Tale (Part Z)

Of COURSE they provided me with everything I'd need until my new flight. I checked in to the hotel and they asked if I wanted a wake up call. I thought to myself, "Wake up call? That's what the alarm feature of my phone is for," and politely turned down the offer. 11:30 dinner, nice hotel room. I slept in a bed. It was fantastic. In my bliss I suddenly woke and looked at my phone. Thirty-five minutes until my flight was leaving. Hit the panic button. I started to wonder how that happened. Then the morning's events came rushing back to me. They went something like this:
1.*Alarm noise*
2. Turn off all THREE alarms which I had set.
3. "Hm. I fell asleep with this lamp on"
4. Turn off lamp.
5. Say out loud to myself "I love hotels."
6. Flop back down onto fantastic pillows.
Blast. I should have taken them up on that wake up call. It looked like I'd be paying for a rescheduled flight after all. But for some reason I decided to give it the old college try and hope that I could swing by on a miracle. I frantically threw my things all helter-skelter back into my bags and ran to the elevator. I think the receptionist could see the desperation on my face and I practically threw my key into her hand and asked if there was anyway I would make the flight. She called over and I heard her say, "She's a lucky lady." My flight was delayed and a miracle had indeed been on the menu for me that morning. (Good thing too, because I slept through breakfast.) I had exactly 2 hours from the time I got up to the rescheduled time. But I was rather impressed with myself for waking up, getting dressed, packing, checking out, and getting to baggage check in 15 minutes. I got through no problem. Then my flight was delayed another hour... I finally got on the plane and we were off. Back to Moscow. I thought the adventure was over. Until I got to baggage claim. I waited for a while. Then the sign changed to say it was the last chance for the London flight baggage. Still no signs of my suitcase. I went over to the desk to inquire and the woman could only say "London." I hoped that was a question as to whether I had been on the London flight. But no. My other intuition telling me that "London" was in fact the location of my belongings was correct. I had to go to the lost and found office and fill out some paperwork to have my bag delivered the next day. Which it was. But I must say, London had quite the hard time letting go of me.

I'm not sayin'; I'm just sayin'.

There and Back Again: My Tale (Part Y)

Since I'm focusing on the journey itself here, let's skip to the trip back to good ol' Russia now. I flew from the US to London, a fact that I was quite thrilled about. I don't know how the overnight flight flew by so fast, considering how little of it was spent sleeping- or so I thought. I did watch Jack Reacher, though. Anyway, I arrived in London and embarked on the best layover ever. Twelve and a half hours in my favorite city. They really twisted my arm. I think the only downfall to the day was that I didn't have enough time to see everything and my exhaustion and sore feet were starting to hold me down a little by the end. After a fun-filled day I hopped on the Tube for the last time (this time around at least-I'll be back) and made my way back to Heathrow. I got through security and whatnot a little early so I sat around waiting for my phone to charge. A little girl, probably around 3 years old, strutted up to me and said, "'Scuse me!" Then she proceeded to chat away. After a little while she walked back to her mom, only to return a couple minutes later. She started running back and forth and came back one last time and said, "I'm sweaty." Shortly thereafter, she was summoned by her parents to head to their gate. She was a cheeky little thing.
Not too long thereafter, I made my way to my plane. Pre-boarding seemed to be taking forever and people seemed to be trickling up, so I thought maybe I just missed the memo. As I was making my way to the ticket-checker I passed a man on his phone who I heard say, "Yeah. Not many smiling faces..." and then something about Russians. Apparently my Moscow face has gotten too convincing. While I was in transit they announced that there was a problem with the plane and that everyone who had boarded was getting off the plane while we waited for another plane. A little while later they announced that they could not, in fact, get another plane and would be cancelling the flight. Blast I could have stayed in the city longer. Having never had a flight cancelled before I wasn't sure whether they would provide accommodation and transportation and so forth. I wondered if I was going to have to have another sleepover in the airport.

I didn't. But this story is too long already and it gets even better, so that's all I'm sayin' for now. Gosh, airports are exciting.

I'm not sayin', I'm just sayin'.

There and Back Again: My Tale (Part 1)

A wise old man once said to find joy in the journey. I must say that is a lesson I've been having to learn the hard way. I just returned from a journey to the exotic USA. It was the first time since coming to Europe. But I must say that the journeys there and back were just as exciting as my time there. I boarded my flight from Moscow to London and settled in for a long night. Eleven hours and I'm too cheap to pay for a hotel. Someday I'll have to be a responsible adult with children and whatnot and will have to find appropriate sleeping situations. But that is not this day. So I slept in the airport. Apparently in Heathrow you can't sleep just anywhere. They told me there was a lounge. They lied. It's not a lounge; but rather an area in one terminal where they can keep track of everyone. They cattle herd and head count all those who stay behind after official hours. So I fell asleep on a bench. I was awoken about an hour and a half later by someone yelling "Miss! Miss! This way!" We were all led to another part of the airport. A gate. I heard the airport personnel giving each other the number. I can't remember now but I think it was somewhere around 40. I heard them tell one man that we would be led back out to the waiting areas at 4:00 am. I read a little and drifted in and out of sleep lying across a few seats. Some people stayed up chatting. I wondered what time zone they were coming from. Or maybe going to. Some people watched the news. After a few rests I was cold and decided we'd be leaving soon anyway, so I sat up and tried to figure out what to do. A man walked over and sat down across from me. I had noticed him earlier and, from the back of his head, thought he was wearing an eye patch. With now a full look at his face, my suspicion was confirmed. An eye patch indeed. Peculiar. He had some food that he had sat down to eat. As I looked at what he was doing I noticed something spectacular: not only did he have a black eye patch, but he had a hook for a hand as well! I had enough tact-or maybe just not enough guts- to not take a picture, but, looking back, I wager that he must embrace it by now... Rats. I should have seized that day just a little tighter.  But if you think I'm kidding, think again. I would not joke about something as significant as being present at the same sleepover as a pirate.

I'm not sayin'; I'm just sayin'.

Nothing Says May Day Quite Like...

Happy May Day! Apparently it's a big deal here, so I went to a festival-y thing yesterday. Unfortunately I didn't come until the end when most of the events were packing up. But there was some sort of hip-hop gymnastics thing that I don't know the name of. Three guys against three girls doing all sorts of fly-through-the-air flips of every variety. The guys won. It was pretty apparent. They deserved it. The girls would have been impressive on their own, but just didn't quite have it. After that we went over to the concert stage where some guy was rapping and everyone had their hands in the air. It was pretty fierce. Something about being in Russian makes everything just that much more entertaining. We continued, passed the monster trucks parked there (I'm pretty sure they were there purely for aesthetics and to take pictures with) and went to the skate park that had been set up. Half of it was occupied by... scooters. I don't know when scooters became an extreme sport. Maybe I'm old fashioned but there's something slightly less hard-core about a kid racing down a halfpipe on a scooter. On the other side of the park there were bikers though. Then there was the woman wearing flesh-colored leopard print leggings and having a photo session doing a handstand against a tree, perching on the edge of a fountain, etc. They started packing up the skate park and the powers-to-be wanted everyone out. Seriously. I'm talking armed cars. Russians don't fool around. We made some Russian friends... well, I don't know if I'd go that far... but they oogled at us for a while before working up the nerve to talk to the Americans. It started with just one and then one-by-one their little posse shifted over to us. As we left, we were told "You... good girls..." I'm not sure which sense of the word "good" he was implying, but that's probably for the best. We made our way toward the exit, passed a girl in an Eeyore track suit, and left. And to complete the experience, while ascending the bridge over the Moscow river there was a coke bottle filled with... well... not coke. What a party. Good thing I have now been properly instructed in First of May festivities.

I'm not sayin'; I'm just sayin'.

Everyday, Homespun, Grade A Adventure

I don't much take to travel guides. Maybe because they're boring. Maybe because they're overwhelming. Maybe because I don't follow directions well. OR maybe because adventures are so much more fun when you make them up as you go, and discoveries are so much more satisfying when they actually feel like your own. I recently had one such adventure. I "discovered" the love lock bridge. This is based off an international tradition which I had never heard of until traveling to Ireland a year ago. Now I see it everywhere. Apparently, as tradition has it, couples put a padlock on a bridge and then throw the key into the water to symbolize the lasting nature of their relationship. Lock your love and throw away the key? I'm skeptical. But I guess it adds character to the bridge. Strangely enough, however, there was a truck on this pedestrian bridge. This particular bridge has metal trees all down the middle of the path, each of which is covered with locks. Unfortunately for the love-birds of these trees, the love luck had maxed out and the trees were being lifted and carried off by this truck. I'm not sure how that works into the symbolism, but it can't bode well. On came the fresh, new trees ready for fresh, new love birds. I took some pictures and then moved on with my adventure as fountains shot up in the river.

Across the street was a park so I decided to check it out. I'm sure it's just as famous as the bridge, and, were I to crack I travel guide to Moscow, I would have known all about it and sought it out, but there's something so much better about not knowing. There was a huge statue and lots of flowers, which, I guess, is a good thing and makes it a pretty park, but I didn't really know what to do with them so I just proceeded on. There was a huge sculpture at the end of the flower beds. If I were more mischievous I might have crossed the rope with signs saying not to get any closer. It was a fascinating sculpture, however, embodying 15 vices of adults that to which children (who we claim to be the future) are the victims. It was rather profound, as I suppose art is meant to be.  After I read the sign about it and took a few pictures, I surveyed the scene for my next move.

There were several playsets... But I resisted the temptation to be the creepy adult playing alone on the slides and whatnot. Plus I had no one to watch my purse. Instead, I eyed the many benches lining the pathway. I picked one, popped a squat, and pulled out my book. Yep. That did it. I sat in the springy sunshine with a great view and filled my mind with Harry Potter in German. That's how much of a nerd I am. After a while I went back. I passed through several newlyweds taking pictures on the bridge.

Oh and then there was the garbage can on fire. Yep. Another run-of-the-mill, everyday, homespun, grade A adventure.

I'm not sayin'; I'm just sayin'.

The Right to Bear Arms... In Russia

Gosh I love public transportation. It keeps my life from getting boring.

I was wrestling the crowd into the metro when a man standing by a pillar caught my attention. I did a double take at what he had in his hand. 'Twas a sword. I kid you not. It was sheathed, mind you, but a sword nonetheless. Being the length of his leg (and he wasn't exactly a short man), he had the tip on the floor as if it were a cane. No one else seemed the least bit fazed. Um. Hello? There is a man standing nonchalantly in our midst with a sword. Not even concealed. Not that he could have concealed it even if he wanted to due to the size. I can only imagine what would happen to someone in the US standing in a subway station with such a trinket. Oh my. Does that fall under the right to bear arms? I have no idea.

I'm not sayin'; I'm just sayin'.

No Escape

I know. Don't die of shock from the rapidity of my recent postings.

One of my absolute favorite thing about cities is the street performers, particularly musicians. They add so much color and life to the many-faceted, everyday goings on. You step off the underground and as you wind through the tunnels your ears are greeted by an electric guitar, or maybe a violin. Sometimes it doesn't matter if they're good or bad. They can make you think or feel, help you come to a realization, or just put a smile on your face. Sometimes they catch you when you're on the train. You can't leave. You can't get away from the collection bag that they're going to strut less than a foot away from your hands folded stubbornly in your lap. And I won't get into the legal reasons that they do it this way. One day I was sitting on the metro and a woman entered with an accordion. I don't think I'd really even noticed her there until the train started to move and the sound greeted my ears, forcing the cognitive dissonance of wanting to look, but knowing that if you look up you are slightly more obligated to drop in a few rubles (which is great, but simply impossible to do for every street performer). I don't know much about accordion technique, but I will say it sounded good to me. I was a rather tragic piece and, together with her all-black attire and the droning winter outside, it was rather picturesque. A perfect soundtrack. Then, today, I think I had recommenced reading my book when two hipster-ish guys came on and perched themselves next to me. One had an electric guitar, with the amp hanging off him somehow. And the other had none other than a flute. And he worked that flute. They played a catchy little number and I couldn't help but be impressed. By the music itself, but also the pluck of the Russian flautist.

I'm not sayin', I'm just sayin'.

Thawing

Personally, I've always been more of an autumn person. But I must say that Russia really has me warming up to the Spring (bah. No pun intended... or was it...?). It's not like I've never endured long, cold winters before. In fact I've endured longer and colder than this. But there's something amazing about how quickly the entire city thaws. And I mean ENTIRE city. The skies turn from grey to blue, the record snowfall disappears almost instantly, and the people, once shedding their furs, suddenly become more human. Or, shall we say, the shell hiding the surprise inside becomes a little thinner--more transparent. People's facial expressions change and vary in public and they look at each other and have animated conversations. Today I witnessed a chorus of laughter on the metro. Yes. Laughter. And I'm pretty sure it was relatively sober laughter. And people of all ages have started wearing all sorts of colors. I won't go into the hot pink velour track suit WITH bunny ears hanging off the hood.
The other day I got on a trolley and almost fell on a boy of about 12 as we lurched to begin. I managed to hold the bar, but he gave me a glare. Then I heard "Skyfall" playing. After it went on too long to be a ringtone I started rummaging through my purse, thinking that my ipod had started itself as it sometimes done. I found it, and it was off. Then I remembered I don't have "Skyfall" on my ipod. After a few moments of confusion I realized that this boy had it playing from his pocket. Unabashedly. Once it was over some sort of hiphoppy music that I can't tell you the name of but involves strange whistle sounds and reminded me of "Fresh Prince of Bel-Air" came on. The boy's stop came soon enough and he swaggered off with his tunes proudly playing. I sat down and another boy maybe a little younger came on and walked to the back. He was, I kid you not, playing with a yo-yo. And not just up and down but actually doing tricksy stuff. He seemed to think he was pretty cool. I felt like I was back in the 90s. Sometimes I can't help but just laugh to myself and think "Yes. You really DID just witness that. People."

I'm not sayin'. I'm just sayin'.

Russians: A Surprise Inside Every One...

A Smile and a Wink

My first time leaving the US was on a trip was to London--a city I had expected to be magical. And it was, albeit in a different way than I expected. I remember thinking. "Wait a second. Things aren't all that different here. People are still people. And there's still a wide spectrum of types of people." As I've gone further away from my home country, I've started to see more and more differences. After not long in Moscow, I remember thinking back to my naivete in London. "Things are different here-especially the people," the cynic in me said. And then something happened. I saw past the scowls and the furs. I started to see the similarities again. On the rare occasion that I didn't shut myself up in my cyber realm while riding the metro, I began wondering about the stories around me. There was a chunk of thick lens missing from that old man's glasses and I wondered why. There was  the burly and moderately frightening-looking man who offered his seat to the mother carrying her baby in a pack. His face grew tender as he made eye contact with that baby. There was the girl somewhere around my age who actually smiled at me and suppressed a laugh after a piece of the package she was opening flung in my direction.

And then one day I got the real wake up call. I was riding the bus and stuck in traffic on what I already considered a bad day when I noticed something out the window. It was a sunset. The backdrop to the skyline was lit up in hues of orange. And there I was stuck. It was as if the traffic jam was there to force me to look outside my own agenda and feeble misfortunes. It was if the sky was winking at me while saying "Yep. You're late for your appointment. I'm going to continue to make you late until you realize that the world hasn't come to an end."

The next morning I went to open the curtains and he was back--coming up and peeking around the buildings, lighting the tops of the building on fire with a good morning smile. And that night I watched him return back down behind some buildings and a tall, arched footbridge that I had just discovered.

As I turned my back and continued on my way I couldn't help but think of my situation differently. I am living in a city with history in the pavement.

People are people;
There is good in the world;
And no matter where you go, the sun will be there to rise and set, like a giant smile and wink serving as a constant reminder that there is beauty everywhere if you just open your eyes and look.

I'm not sayin'; I'm just sayin'.

You've Got Mail. And Chocolate.

Here I sit. In a chocolate-induced coma (the German stuff--Milka), an empty bottle of Russian Apfelschorle, and You've Got Mail playing. What a holiday. Am I single and in a foreign country on Valentine's Day? You bet. Am I alone. Most definitely not. We here are the few, the proud, the single. And you know what? Single people love too! Let's look at a broader definition of love, shall we? The Greeks had several, very specific words for love. Many people find this to be evidence of the decayed and insufficient nature of the English language. BUT! Just look at how many concepts we can include in this one word. All I have to say is "love" and a zillion (and I'm rounding to the nearest zillion) different ideas come to your mind. What's wrong with that? Nothing, I declare. 

I have a little friend with Autism. Two actually. One day I was playing tag with them. One of them wanted me to pick him up, so I did. He had a grin on his face as we raced around. Then he put his little arms around my neck, looked at me, and innocently pressed his little face up against my cheek. The look on his face spoke novels. It didn't matter that he couldn't use words like other kids his age; in fact, it made his actions pure and sincere. And he taught me an important lesson about communication. And about love. So. I may be missing some boys today. But I can still sing Single Ladies quite contentedly. Although I don't think I ever want to see another Milka again. For at least a week.

I'm not sayin'; I'm just sayin'.

ZOMBIE APOCALYPSE!

I never really got into the zombie trend. Although I was cast in a zombie web-series once. I moved to Germany instead. Rats. Anyway. The best way to describe my colleagues and I is: Zombie Apocalypse Survivors. There are a number of reasons for this. Not that Russians are zombies. Even though they generally don't smile in public. But we're all slightly crazy strangers thrown together to face the odds together, blah blah blah. I think it's a "gotta be there" sort of thing. Sorry. Anyway, I don't want anyone to get the wrong idea about Russians. I have actually met several nice ones and have had some pretty good experiences in my week and a half here. For example...

Yesterday I was trying to jump on the very full bus (and ended up with my face virtually pushed up against the cracked glass which looked like it would shatter at any moment and almost got closed in yet another door). I rustled around for the bus fair in my wallet. A man behind me called out "Girl!" (in Russian) and he and another woman got my attention so that he could give me back a 100 Ruble bill that I'd dropped. ONE HUNDRED RUBLES! Don't worry, it's only a little more that 3 bucks. But Still, I can almost buy three bags of corn flakes with that. Which brings me to my second point.

Russians make the best cornflakes EVER. Light and fluffy, slightly sweetened and not infected with gluten. Yum. Unfortunately, the milk doesn't exactly enhance them, but that's another issue. I don't even know what to say other than- I'm addicted. Sigh. Forget Vodka. I would bring home a whole suitcase of cornflakes.

Speaking of grocery stores (you like my transitions?) I've had a couple cashiers be very helpful and utilize sign language and whatnot. Not that I need it anymore... But my crazy mad Russian skills will have to wait for another day. Prepare to be impressed.

I'm not sayin'; I'm just sayin'.

Foot in the door? No thank you.

Less than 24 hours in Russia and I had already had my first near-death experience. Fantastic. I went out with a couple colleagues of mine to get some things set up for work. One had just been telling me how easy the metro is to use. The train pulled up, and people piled out. It was a particularly full train so it took a while to clear out. The three of us then attempted to squeeze in, but I was first. I turned around and realized there wasn’t time for the other two to get in behind me. Being used to the German metro, I simply reached out to stop the door from closing. Newsflash: This is Russia, not Germany. The door didn’t stop so I started to reverse off the train, but it closed on my hips. The girl I was with pulled me off BUT not fast enough, and my foot got stuck in the door. So there I was, sitting on the cement of the metro station with one appendage still on the train. Anyway, let me say: those things go fast. And the tunnels are narrow. (But don’t worry, Mom!) I tried pulling my foot free and the girl grabbed me by the arms and started pulling, although it didn’t seem to be doing any good. I’m not going to lie, some interesting thoughts flashed through my mind. One being, “Aw, man! What if I have to lose my boot? I just got here.” Fortunately, the man with us noticed a head a little closer to the ground than usual and ran over from the other train door. He took a firm grasp of my ankle and I (and my boot as well) came out virtually unscathed. Oh yeah, then the doors opened for a second and re-closed. Thanks a lot. 

Now, you may be asking “Didn’t anyone try to pull the doors open or push your foot from the inside?” No. No, they did not. I thought they looked irritated, but they were not exactly my biggest concern. My co-worker said they looked shocked/terrified. What? It’s not like you’ve never seen a girl almost dragged by a train before. Sheesh. Needless to say, I now have a strict policy against getting on the train first or last when traveling with a group.

I’m not sayin’; I’m just sayin’.

Todo, we're not in Germany anymore

Hey Guys. So I’ve been here a week tomorrow. I haven’t updated you yet because nothing ever happens. You know how it is, moving to Hicksville, Middleofnowhere. So honestly I’ve been pretty bored ever since I accomplished the one adventure of walking across the entire city in 15 minutes.

Ok you called my bluff. Things haven’t exactly been boring here.

The woman who checked my passport upon arrival was actually nice. Well, all things considered. Once I was approved, I proceeded forward and started on what was the longest escalator of my life. Little did I know, that one was child’s play compared to the metro system. Needless to say, I will never again blindly start running up an escalator when there’s a long line for the standing side—chances are they’re waiting for a reason. Anyway, back on track. The minute I got out of baggage claim, the taxi drivers were there to pounce. They watched me like hawks and didn’t seem to care how many times I had said “no” already. One watched me as I waited for my ride, and after I rejected his offer a few times and began to walk away he proclaimed me to be a “proud girl”. I eventually met up with my colleague and we started on the journey to the apartment I was staying at. Long is all relative since everything is a long trip in this city.

We made a… “friend”… on the bus. I’d heard that Russians like to get to know strangers and will give their whole life story, and, what do you know, I was thrown right into this culture. He started out by offering me his seat (I didn’t take it, if you were wondering). Then he tried to tell me that there was a traffic jam. However he tried to do this with a crude sign language, and, having no context for what he was saying, I was a little taken aback my his gestures. Apparently they're not universal. Over the 2 hour bus ride I was asked if I was 16 (de ja vu of every trip I’ve ever taken) then asked where my children were and why I wasn’t married at my age since I already have my degree (feels like somewhere else I’ve lived). He also compared me to Lara Croft: Tomb Raider, and said something about my eyes being like deep wells something something… I got all of this secondhand from the person I was with who speaks Russian. By the end he told me not to meet people on the streets unless I’m with a guy I know who speaks Russian. Thank you for the advice, Russian Man.

I also looked around as I was riding the bus/metro. It was a sea of black, speckled with scowls and fur. I’ve been practicing the former. (It's just a social norm, though. Many of them have actually been quite helpful). But I don't know how they do it. Sometimes life is just too funny.

I’m not sayin’; I’m just sayin’.

To whom it may concern:

Don't think of this as a love song. If you listen to the lyrics in a new light they take on a new meaning. At least I think so. Soundtrack style: Go!

Gleich werde ich ein Flugzeug einsteigen und ein neuer Abenteuer anfangen. Deutschland war ein ganz schöne Erfahrung und ich werde die Leute und das Land vermissen. Danke für alles das ihr mich gelehrt habt!
Soon I'll board a plane and begin a new adventure. Germany was an amazing experience and I will miss the people and the country. Thanks for everything you've taught me!

Dieses Jahr habe ich...
This year I...

Started a blog
(Re-)learned how to drive
Got my first speeding ticket
Made incredible friends
Learned to play volleyball... and like it
Watched soccer
Followed the European Cup
Learned to speak German
Read an entire Harry Potter book in German
Had a Valentine for the first time (a certain 4-year old...)
Was the recipient of the sweetest kiss on the cheek ever (from my favorite 2-year-old)
Saw a baby learn to walk
Got knocked out by a fighter training for the Olympics
Got two black eyes
May have had a concussion and/or broken nose
Couldn't walk for 2 days
Contracted Bronchitis
Expanded my scarf collection
Traveled to Austria, France, Italy, Ireland, and Switzerland (x3)
Applied to grad school
Met people from a dozen or so countries
Spent my first Christmas away from home
Bought red pants
Ate smoked eel, goose, warm chestnuts, honey pickles, Mässmögge, Raclette and Currywurst and many other foods
Took a beach vacation
Went on the longest roadtrip of my life
Tried herbal and fruit teas
Started drinking carbonation again
Got hooked on smart phones
Learned to dance the "Disco Fox"
Conquered, shall we say, one of my greatest "social fears"
Got used to metric and euros
Rocked the Autobahn
Went to an aquarium, a zoo, and a safari park
Traveled by car, ferry, train, plane, and bus
Rode a bike and a boat
Was mistaken for being 13, 30 and pretty much everything in between
Took chances, made mistakes, and got messy...


*In no particular order, but, in spite of overstatements, understatements, and omissions, this list contains no fabrications.

I'm not sayin'; I'm just sayin'.

Why yes, I DID have a good slide, thank you

Ok Ok I know it's been FOREVER! But better late than never: Frohes neues Jahr and a happy New Year to you. My love for Germans skyrocketed ever since they show me how they live it up New Years Eve.
Hamburg. Bridge. Not super cold. Slight drizzle. Fireworks going off everywhere. And of course a bottle of sparkling grape juice. I was even so crazy as to drink out of a bottle that had been passed around. Gross. But it's a new year so I thought I'd be wild and crazy. We had a ball (as in a dance, not as in a really good time, but now that I mention it I supposed both actually apply) beforehand so we were all dressed up fancy-like. And hugs all around. Not to mention screaming/squealing. I'm still trying to catch up on sleep. I LOVE GERMANS!

I'm not sayin', I'm just sayin'.