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’.