The Irish Bar at Sheremyetevo 2
I was up at 5 a.m. packing my 12 bottles of vodka. I do not travel light when returning from a trip to Russia. My purchases almost always remain under $50, but over 50 pounds. This trip was especially loaded as I agreed to take a fellow American’s winter clothes back for him. One of my bags was 3 kilos over, and I spent 10 minutes rearranging my luggage. Shifting books, shoes and rolls of film from one bag to the other. It was still not enough and I had 1.5 kilos to go. So, as much as I dreaded the extra weight in my carry on, I took out the metal tin containing a decorative 1 litre bottle of vodka from Chuvashia from the depths of the green duffle and placed it on the countertop of the Delta check-in. Someone may have mistaken it for a bribe, but I had no intentions of giving it away at this point. I zipped up the remaining 32.7 kilos of paraphernalia with a proud grin on my face, wiping the drips of sweat from my eyes. The check-in woman, satisfied that she had done her job properly, smiled a sweet relaxed smile, no sweat anywhere near her body.
Why they couldn’t allow the total weight to rule remains yet a sign of continual bureaucracy. It could be Delta more than Russia, or perhaps she just wanted to see me sweat.
I also discovered that due to new anti-terrorism rules, they check every piece of luggage. It was nearly 30 minutes for them to go through all my luggage. The man was obliged to tell me that he could only allow me 5 litres of booze, after I proudly declared I had a whole case. What was I thinking? I could have said it was bottle water, but he probably wouldn’t have believed me. He called his supervisor over, who said he didn’t care what brand it was, and that people bring all sorts of stuff, like Russian black bread. I laughed and said I have 4 loaves of bread as well. Cautious about how friendly and desperate I should be, I smiled and tried charming him, bracing myself for an argument I already felt doomed to lose. I was hedging my bets that an American girl with a half kilo of Mishka candy, 4 loaves of bread, a small jar of caviar, a litre of Kvass and 12 bottles of cheap vodka is probably not a high security risk. I won. He let me go.
The total value of it all, was, oh, $30 probably. Aftet all of my luggage had been searched, the man behind the table came round to help me put the garment bag back inside the huge blue and red checkered plastic bag I bought at the market yesterday for $3. It’s the traditional shop-tour bag that Russian merchants use to transport their bundles of cheap clothes from Turkey and China. I have several of them at home. Although I’ve only been to Turkey once, and I’ve never been to China.
When I left Russia in 1997, I arrived at the airport using Valerie’s truck. I had 9 bags (7 of which were those big blue plastic checkered ones), a bike, which I boxed up on site at the airport for $15 and 2 cats in a carry-on. I paid an extra $900, although it would have been less if I didn’t reveal the contents of my carry on. I pulled Misha and Shurik out of the bag before they hit the x-ray machine. It would only have encouraged the animal rights people as their tiny little empty stomachs would be x-rayed, exposing my starvation method of transport. After all, 9 hours on a plane is a long time for a cat to hold itself.
The memory of my final departure a distant one, I stood there dripping with sweat. I finally got through customs and check-in only to proceed to passport control. Hot and still dripping, I felt as though this mornings’ shower was weeks ago. Passport control was relatively painless except for the plump Russian woman with henna head who moused her way past me in the cue, claiming that she was first as she looked back at me and rushed to the window. Too tired to react, I waited a few more moments.
I turned right and wandered around the airport, dragging my now 40 pound hand luggage with me, the extra bottle of vodka and 20 rolls of film I had to add in order to lighten my check-in luggage tugging on my shoulder. I was grateful they do not yet weigh hand luggage. The thought of spending an hour at check-in dining on brown bread, caviar, chocolate and vodka was one that turned even an iron stomach to jello. More shops, more stuff to buy, and $9 for Irish Stew at the Irish Bar. It was just noon, and I was looking forward to a cool pint of cidar. Sadly, the Irish bar is no longer Irish, except in name. Perhaps that still is Guinness they pour from the tap, but in place of Kilkenny, Harp and cidar, there is Bochka and Pilsner Urquell. I suppose the remaining Irish brews disappeared years ago, along with the Irish. I ordered a Pilsner Urguell, an excellent Czech draft and the $9 Irish stew. With nearly 2 hours until my flight, I didn’t think I could wait for the free airplane food. Besides, the Irish stew really did taste like Irish stew.
Sheremyetevo is shaped like a horseshoe, so if you go the wrong direction, you end up at a dead end and must return the other way. I saw that my flight seemed to be delayed by 20 minutes. However, at nearly 1 p.m., I discovered it was the Aeroflot flight that departed at 1:35, not Delta. Scrambling with my awkward 40 pound duffle, I searched for someone who might be able to tell me where the Delta flight was. I saw a young female airport official emerge from a door in the internal wall, and I must have said, “izvinitye” at least 7 times, a bit louder each time as I trudged closer and closer to her. No response at all. I then approached a kiosk attendant selling magazines and asked her where the Delta flight was departing from. She said gate #1 usually, the only gate in the U I didn’t see. Quickly, I dashed to the end and was quite the last one on board, almost finding myself stranded amongst the matrioshki, $9 snacks and $12 miniwine bottles.
Funny thing, I thought that I could buy a small bottle of wine that would be cheaper than the airplane wine at $5 a bottle. I had forgotten to get wine on my way to the airport in the city. It was too bad, because as it turns out, the minibottles were 280 rubles a piece, or nearly $12!! Are they crazy? It’s only American carriers that are charging for booze. Not only are smokers deprived of their habit for 10 hours, but now they have to pay for drinks to compensate for it. I didn’t see a lot of drinking going on, even considering it used to be such a hedonistic journey in the good old days. There weren’t even that many adopted kids on this flight. There has been some new legislation lately in Russia banning or restricting adoptions. There have been a few cases of abuse and deaths among adopted Russian children in America. It’s a shame that a few horrible cases may ruin it for the hundreds of good, healthy, successful adoptions. I suppose that’s a story for another day.
Thursday, July 28, 2005
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
HADI HAS A TWIN IN MOSCOW!
This guy looked so much like Hadi at the Leaning Tower of Pizza. He was the general manager at this Italian restaurant in Moscow. We had a lovely chat and I asked to take his picture, since he looked like Hadi, and then he proceeded to give us a tour of the new building. This gorgeous new modern office complex houses some investment bankers, law firms and various other wealthy companies. Downstairs, you will find a private cafe, a World Class fitness center, some shops and a VIP movie theatre with the most overpriced tickets I've ever heard about. Thirty dollars a ticket to see Mr. and Mrs. Smith, the same movie that is showing at other theatres around town for $10!! I suppose if you put VIP in front of it, and charge 3 times the regular value, you'll get the show off crowd to come.
That sparked an idea I had about my Bay Area bilingual tours. Someone else had suggested if I put VIP in front of it, I'll get my clientele. Now, I just have to get my VIP brochures and programs together and start cycling them through the casino and nightclub crowds and investment banking/law firms/automobile and oil company crowds. I'm not sure our casinos will be as entertaining to them. After all, I remember Cherry Casino and Metelitsa well - check your weapons at the door, hundreds of tall, leggy sexy Russian women, exotic drinks. I'll have to do a bit of market research.
Monday, July 25, 2005
Life is Never Dull With Dennis
Dennis, or Denise as it is pronounced in Russia, is one of my oldest friends in Russia. We met back in 1989 when I was studying Russian at the Steel and Alloys Institute and he, Vanya and Alexei were young students at the Music Conservatory, fresh out of the army. We had a wonderful time in those carefree Soviet student days. Life has changed for all of us. Vanya, from what I hear, remained in the music profession, Alexei became a mafiosa small fish and is probably dead (no one knows) and Dennis, well, he’s been wheeling and dealing for 16 years now and his lifestyle exhibits the results of his labor. He is an avid wind surfer, traveling to Bali and Maui on a regular basis and just recently picked up poker.
Upon my arrival in Moscow, I found him on his cell phone at 1 a.m. in Las Vegas where he had just arrived to enter a poker championship competition. He was there for a month, and I managed to catch him on his one week back in Moscow before leaving for Turkey to windsurf. He was tanned with a handsome 5 o’clock shadow and his notorious devilish grin, short hair, shorts and flip flops. He picked me up in his big black SUV and showed me his furniture warehouse and his auto service/car wash/parts shop on the ring road and then took me to Fauchon, a high class French pastry shop for jasmine tea and decadent sweets. It’s the first place since I’ve been back that has cloth napkins.
He has been in and out of several businesses, making them successful and selling them off and going on to bigger and more profitable ventures. At 36, he’s managed to survive and thrive with some extremely savvy business skills, a little luck and a lady killing charm. He’s still playing the female field and professes to have no children, than he knows of I’m sure! He’s into construction these days, a booming business, and is looking for investor money. Seems the cost of borrowing locally is much too high and foreign investors are not good risk takers. I’d love to talk to some venture capitalists, because as far as I’m concerned, Dennis can make money out of anything!
Back in 1990, he came to the States for a visit, bought some camera equipment in New York which he had in the trunk of my car. We were down in South Philly and my car was stolen, along with all his hard earned money. He took it in stride and has always seemed to exude a nonchalant non-attachment Buddhist approach to life, although Jewish by tradition.
I think he still hangs out with me because we go so far back, otherwise, I am sure my life is much too dull for him. Anyway, I don’t get many opportunities to see him, and when I do, it’s usually late in the evening somewhere in Moscow, either eating or playing the black jack or pool tables in a casino or bar. He stopped drinking, except herbal tea, but still chain smokes. I will look forward to our next encounter. Perhaps he’ll drive me past his latest megamall project.
Dennis, or Denise as it is pronounced in Russia, is one of my oldest friends in Russia. We met back in 1989 when I was studying Russian at the Steel and Alloys Institute and he, Vanya and Alexei were young students at the Music Conservatory, fresh out of the army. We had a wonderful time in those carefree Soviet student days. Life has changed for all of us. Vanya, from what I hear, remained in the music profession, Alexei became a mafiosa small fish and is probably dead (no one knows) and Dennis, well, he’s been wheeling and dealing for 16 years now and his lifestyle exhibits the results of his labor. He is an avid wind surfer, traveling to Bali and Maui on a regular basis and just recently picked up poker.
Upon my arrival in Moscow, I found him on his cell phone at 1 a.m. in Las Vegas where he had just arrived to enter a poker championship competition. He was there for a month, and I managed to catch him on his one week back in Moscow before leaving for Turkey to windsurf. He was tanned with a handsome 5 o’clock shadow and his notorious devilish grin, short hair, shorts and flip flops. He picked me up in his big black SUV and showed me his furniture warehouse and his auto service/car wash/parts shop on the ring road and then took me to Fauchon, a high class French pastry shop for jasmine tea and decadent sweets. It’s the first place since I’ve been back that has cloth napkins.
He has been in and out of several businesses, making them successful and selling them off and going on to bigger and more profitable ventures. At 36, he’s managed to survive and thrive with some extremely savvy business skills, a little luck and a lady killing charm. He’s still playing the female field and professes to have no children, than he knows of I’m sure! He’s into construction these days, a booming business, and is looking for investor money. Seems the cost of borrowing locally is much too high and foreign investors are not good risk takers. I’d love to talk to some venture capitalists, because as far as I’m concerned, Dennis can make money out of anything!
Back in 1990, he came to the States for a visit, bought some camera equipment in New York which he had in the trunk of my car. We were down in South Philly and my car was stolen, along with all his hard earned money. He took it in stride and has always seemed to exude a nonchalant non-attachment Buddhist approach to life, although Jewish by tradition.
I think he still hangs out with me because we go so far back, otherwise, I am sure my life is much too dull for him. Anyway, I don’t get many opportunities to see him, and when I do, it’s usually late in the evening somewhere in Moscow, either eating or playing the black jack or pool tables in a casino or bar. He stopped drinking, except herbal tea, but still chain smokes. I will look forward to our next encounter. Perhaps he’ll drive me past his latest megamall project.
Sunday, July 24, 2005
The American Bar & Grill on a Sunday morning
Bob Marley, again and again. Window tables turning over and over with new late night party goers. Smoke fills the room and the mood is mellow tinged with slurred Russian vodka talk. Who would have guessed the busiest time of day for the American Bar & Grill would be 7:30 a.m. on Sunday morning?
The most adorable gay couple sat on the opposite side of the restaurant, their pouting profiles sillhouetted against the white stucho wall graced with pictures of old hollywood movie posters. I watched as the one with spiky bleach blonde hair argued with his lover, thin flailing arms swirling their cigarette smoke through the air. The brunette, a bruised look on his face, offered a softer rebuttal. I could only imagine his reply, “Ny, Kolya, shto s toboi sevognya?” The spiky one then half sat up in his chair, leaned over and gently patted his partner on the head and brushed his cheek with his lips. The make up session complete, they enjoyed the tender moment, the one reaching for a bite of salad and filling his lover’s mouth with the wilted oily spinach. From time to time, the spiky one would again, like an impish elf, reach over and affectionately kiss his partner on the cheek. They both rose to leave, bumping into one another, clearly the remains of the evenings’ alcohol still spinning in their heads, and the two, both about 5’5” petite and cuddly in their casual jeans and t-shirts, found their way to the exit like little wooden kookly dolls.
To their right, a couple sat, the woman in a plain skirt and red blouse, hunched over her bowl of kasha, or oatmeal, swirling the brown sugar around. She sat grim and silent most of the next 45 minutes. The man, long silver streaked hair and thick black rimmed glasses, seemed as distant as she, shared a similar bowl of kasha. They carried an adidas sports bag, and somehow didn’t seem to look as though they had been out all night. Three young guys sat at another table, moderatly engaged in conversation, but one seemed to be scoping out the girls nearby, dragging on his cigarettes like a stallion prowling his potential lovers.
Unfortunately for him, I am probably the only available female in the bar! As those tables clear out, new folks take their place.
The other 3 or 4 tables were brimming with sexual energy coming from the glow of late night drinking and eating. Three groups were Russians in their late thirties or early forties. One man, nearest to me, sat firmly on the small leather seat of the wooden chair, one hand resting on the back edge of his partners chair, the other alternating between cigarette and shot glass. “Larisse, Larisse, slushai mnye” He slurred, eyes drooping, head bobbing as he tried to make a point to one of his friends. Philosophical heavy conversation seemed to engross them. The blonde in the 4 inch heals and big light blue sunglasses, carefully listened, holding her cigarette with soft slender fingers perfectly manicured in a pale shade of pink.
The last table of partygoers was much younger - late twenties. One woman was stunningly beautiful in a light pink satin spaghetti strap dress barely covering her tight body. Long naturally curly blonde hair, she was quite striking. The man she was with strutted like a peacock, clearly proud of his choice of female for the evening. On his way to the toilets, he encountered an acquiantance between tables. As they stood there, he in his casual blue jeans and CCCP t-shirt and shoulder length wavy black hair, the other fashionably dressed in a very sexy 5 o’clock shadow and handsome suit to match. A pause of nearly 10 seconds revealed the gleam in their eyes as they met was a definite shared unspoken signal that they both planned to get lucky as soon as the diner experience is over. Then, the requisite male kiss on the cheek and solid hug, cigarette hands patting shoulders, acknowledging further that male hunting that bonds the species. They departed around 8:30 a.m.
Enter 2 guys with cell phones and notepads, shortly joined by a third. All eagerly hunched over the table, rapidly conversing, consulting someone on a cell phone. Wonder what business is going down over there? Two suits arrived - it’s not even 9 a.m. on Sunday morning. Oh, to have bionic ears would be nice. I could make up conversations, I suppose, it might even be more interesting than the real thing.
Empty shot glasses and cigarette packs, looks like the big guy with balancing problems is finally going home, his exhausted philosophical mind has taken it’s final course. He’ll spend the rest of the hot and humid day in bed, I am sure.
Two new guests arrive, both men, both alone, both sit quietly on opposite sides of the restaurant, unassuming and pensive, their cigarettes their only companions.
You could make a whole experience out of this. Ah, there go the suits. I don’t think they even had time to chew their food. It’s just after 10 and I’ve been here for nearly 3 hours. One table of party goers from my original arrival remain deep in conversation and french fries. They are looking at their watches and coming to the realization that it is 10 a.m. Probably at this point, they are beyond their fifth wind. Endless energy in a city that never sleeps. I even had trouble at 7 a.m. this morning crossing Tverskaya illegally. There are probably only 2 times at which this would be possible - early on a Sunday morning, or anytime that traffic is so thick in both directions that you can safely weave your way between fenders. But even on a Sunday morning, beware of the mercedes going 110 miles an hour. They tend to come out of nowhere and stop for no one.
The first family has arrived. My friends Ira and Dima met me yesterday for breakfast at 11:30. By then, it was more or less busy with late morners brunchers. They come here all the time. You can now even get a frequent breakfast card! Every fifth breakfast is free. Kid friendly and cheap, the AB&G offers free coffee with breakfast. Internet access is free, and if you find a cozy table near the wall, you can plug in and stay for the day. I’m tempted to do that, to see how the crowd changes, but alas, I still want to visit some old haunts and I need to pick up a matrioshka for Lisa at some point as well as my staple loaf of Russian bread and jar of caviar.
So, I think that last group of party goers is going to outlast me! Troopers to the end.
Bob Marley, again and again. Window tables turning over and over with new late night party goers. Smoke fills the room and the mood is mellow tinged with slurred Russian vodka talk. Who would have guessed the busiest time of day for the American Bar & Grill would be 7:30 a.m. on Sunday morning?
The most adorable gay couple sat on the opposite side of the restaurant, their pouting profiles sillhouetted against the white stucho wall graced with pictures of old hollywood movie posters. I watched as the one with spiky bleach blonde hair argued with his lover, thin flailing arms swirling their cigarette smoke through the air. The brunette, a bruised look on his face, offered a softer rebuttal. I could only imagine his reply, “Ny, Kolya, shto s toboi sevognya?” The spiky one then half sat up in his chair, leaned over and gently patted his partner on the head and brushed his cheek with his lips. The make up session complete, they enjoyed the tender moment, the one reaching for a bite of salad and filling his lover’s mouth with the wilted oily spinach. From time to time, the spiky one would again, like an impish elf, reach over and affectionately kiss his partner on the cheek. They both rose to leave, bumping into one another, clearly the remains of the evenings’ alcohol still spinning in their heads, and the two, both about 5’5” petite and cuddly in their casual jeans and t-shirts, found their way to the exit like little wooden kookly dolls.
To their right, a couple sat, the woman in a plain skirt and red blouse, hunched over her bowl of kasha, or oatmeal, swirling the brown sugar around. She sat grim and silent most of the next 45 minutes. The man, long silver streaked hair and thick black rimmed glasses, seemed as distant as she, shared a similar bowl of kasha. They carried an adidas sports bag, and somehow didn’t seem to look as though they had been out all night. Three young guys sat at another table, moderatly engaged in conversation, but one seemed to be scoping out the girls nearby, dragging on his cigarettes like a stallion prowling his potential lovers.
Unfortunately for him, I am probably the only available female in the bar! As those tables clear out, new folks take their place.
The other 3 or 4 tables were brimming with sexual energy coming from the glow of late night drinking and eating. Three groups were Russians in their late thirties or early forties. One man, nearest to me, sat firmly on the small leather seat of the wooden chair, one hand resting on the back edge of his partners chair, the other alternating between cigarette and shot glass. “Larisse, Larisse, slushai mnye” He slurred, eyes drooping, head bobbing as he tried to make a point to one of his friends. Philosophical heavy conversation seemed to engross them. The blonde in the 4 inch heals and big light blue sunglasses, carefully listened, holding her cigarette with soft slender fingers perfectly manicured in a pale shade of pink.
The last table of partygoers was much younger - late twenties. One woman was stunningly beautiful in a light pink satin spaghetti strap dress barely covering her tight body. Long naturally curly blonde hair, she was quite striking. The man she was with strutted like a peacock, clearly proud of his choice of female for the evening. On his way to the toilets, he encountered an acquiantance between tables. As they stood there, he in his casual blue jeans and CCCP t-shirt and shoulder length wavy black hair, the other fashionably dressed in a very sexy 5 o’clock shadow and handsome suit to match. A pause of nearly 10 seconds revealed the gleam in their eyes as they met was a definite shared unspoken signal that they both planned to get lucky as soon as the diner experience is over. Then, the requisite male kiss on the cheek and solid hug, cigarette hands patting shoulders, acknowledging further that male hunting that bonds the species. They departed around 8:30 a.m.
Enter 2 guys with cell phones and notepads, shortly joined by a third. All eagerly hunched over the table, rapidly conversing, consulting someone on a cell phone. Wonder what business is going down over there? Two suits arrived - it’s not even 9 a.m. on Sunday morning. Oh, to have bionic ears would be nice. I could make up conversations, I suppose, it might even be more interesting than the real thing.
Empty shot glasses and cigarette packs, looks like the big guy with balancing problems is finally going home, his exhausted philosophical mind has taken it’s final course. He’ll spend the rest of the hot and humid day in bed, I am sure.
Two new guests arrive, both men, both alone, both sit quietly on opposite sides of the restaurant, unassuming and pensive, their cigarettes their only companions.
You could make a whole experience out of this. Ah, there go the suits. I don’t think they even had time to chew their food. It’s just after 10 and I’ve been here for nearly 3 hours. One table of party goers from my original arrival remain deep in conversation and french fries. They are looking at their watches and coming to the realization that it is 10 a.m. Probably at this point, they are beyond their fifth wind. Endless energy in a city that never sleeps. I even had trouble at 7 a.m. this morning crossing Tverskaya illegally. There are probably only 2 times at which this would be possible - early on a Sunday morning, or anytime that traffic is so thick in both directions that you can safely weave your way between fenders. But even on a Sunday morning, beware of the mercedes going 110 miles an hour. They tend to come out of nowhere and stop for no one.
The first family has arrived. My friends Ira and Dima met me yesterday for breakfast at 11:30. By then, it was more or less busy with late morners brunchers. They come here all the time. You can now even get a frequent breakfast card! Every fifth breakfast is free. Kid friendly and cheap, the AB&G offers free coffee with breakfast. Internet access is free, and if you find a cozy table near the wall, you can plug in and stay for the day. I’m tempted to do that, to see how the crowd changes, but alas, I still want to visit some old haunts and I need to pick up a matrioshka for Lisa at some point as well as my staple loaf of Russian bread and jar of caviar.
So, I think that last group of party goers is going to outlast me! Troopers to the end.
Saturday, July 23, 2005
CHEBAKSARY XHLEBOZAVOD #4
I promised to tell the story as to what brought me to Russia in the first place. It started in May, when I realized I needed to go somewhere. It had been 19 months since my last trip outside of the US. I did a tremendous amount of traveling in 2003, but have gone almost no where since. The last time I had been to Russia was November 2000. It was time for a visit. At this point, I couldn’t justify buying a ticket and going through the whole process of visas just for a short visit, so I started to look at opportunities. I found one in a short term project to consult with a huge wholesale bakery in the Republic of Chuvashia. I had never heard of the Republic of Chuvashia and a short search on the internet found it 400 miles southeast of Moscow, near Nizhny Novgorod. The capital, Chebaksary, lies on the banks of the Volga. It boasts a progressive autonomous government and was rated the number one city for cleanliness in Russia last year.
The factory is the oldest Soviet bread factory in Chuvashia and during the Soviet era was the main supplier for the region. Bread, of course, was and still is the main staple food in Russia. A politically charged commondity, today it is the center of a market-driven competition for domination. In the early 90’s and late 80’s the growth in the economy forced the Soviet Union to build a few additional bakeries in addition to the main one. As the market collapsed, all of these former government owned factories were privatized. Unlucky for #4, their equipment remained the oldest and most outdated, creating a disadvantage in this new competitive environment.
There are only a few kinds of traditional Russian bread: batonis (oval shaped white bread), pshenichni (heavy white brick shaped bread), and then 3 variables of heavy dark brick bread - orlevsky, darnitsky and borodinsky. When 100% of the population lived on a diet of 80% bread, it is a commodity that will never ever disappear. The market, however, like any other market in Russia, has been growing and diversifying, offering choices to the consumer that were never here before. With that variety, is a need to educate the consumer about their choices. This educational approach to creating markets gives companies the ability to distinguish themselves favorably from the competition. Those that can bring good, quality products to the market will succeed.
These basic bread types remain one of the only remaining unbranded product in the market today. You can walk into any supermarket or visit any small shop or kiosk and have 3 types of bread. With 5 major bakeries and dozens of smaller new bakeries vying for the bread market, consumers rarely know which factory’s bread they are purchasing. More or less, the product is the same.
Enter western marketing and packaging. It was about 2-3 years ago that the Xhlebozavod introduced new items that were packaged with brand name and logo. They developed a logo and new hip name “xhlebushko”. It was progressive enough to take a bite out of the competitors’ brick and to force the competition to copy the idea. Now, the main fight is between Factory #2 and Factory #4, both of which have had consultants visit to assist them with marketing.
Larissa, the 40 something General Manager of the factory, had been the main Sales and Operations Director for the 20 shops before taking on general management of the factory. The former GM, her husband, stepped down and remains in the wings as a consultant. Larissa is a fabulous energetic and sharp woman, who also happens to be charming and sociable. Her natural instinct for sales and marketing give her an advantage, but her managerial skills, her weakest area, have prevented the key operational factors that will ultimately need to be developed to drive the business into the future.
The basic strategy of the factory is to diversify and have a base of products in addition to bread, as the future of basic Russian bread is grim and if they remain pidgeonholed, they will die a slow and painful death.
As consumer tastes expand and demand for better quality, better packaging and brand names grows, the possiblity to implement a merchandising and consumer education program will become crucial to build and strengthen their business. The company employees nearly 800 people from bakers to drivers to a huge base of shop sales staff. I enjoyed my visit and felt as though I had some impact on their business. If they can implement just a few key suggestions and focus on a common mission, I believe they could succeed in rebuilding their share of the market and becoming a symbol of creative innovation, rather than an outdated and dying Soviet dinosaur.
Pictures will be up next week.
DENVIEW REUNION - JULY 22ND
Yesterday was definitely a successful day in terms of tracking old colleagues and friends down. I managed to finally meet up wtih Evgeny Vasiliev, my old boss from Denview. We had a good chat about life, work and interesting new projects. Funny, I just did a consulting project in the bread and bakery industry (to be a new post SOON, I promise), and he's getting into the industry now.
Turns out there was a reunion of old Denview employees planned for that night - so I hooked up with a handful of folks I would never have been able to track down on my own. It was fantastic! Everyone is in a new company, except Liuba. Denview has been transformed. It was great to see everyone and get the scoop. So many interesting opportunities.
I took photos and posted them on my web site. If interested, you can check them out:
http://www.lkmcreativesolutions.com/denview/denviewreunion.htm
I also saw Misha, another old boss from my Hershey days. After living 6 years in America, he's returned to Russia to try to find more interesting work here. Revisited the old Starlite Diner - same old place, but now with wifi access and a nice terrace. If you're nostalgic for American coffee and diner food - best place to go. They don't serve American beer - it's all RUSSIAN now and quite good. Do svidanya Budweiser and Miller - your days are over. Sadly, few American companies took the leap into real investment here and have been easily replaced. Another story for another day - I'm getting out of this smokefilled bar and taking my camera to the streets!
Yesterday was definitely a successful day in terms of tracking old colleagues and friends down. I managed to finally meet up wtih Evgeny Vasiliev, my old boss from Denview. We had a good chat about life, work and interesting new projects. Funny, I just did a consulting project in the bread and bakery industry (to be a new post SOON, I promise), and he's getting into the industry now.
Turns out there was a reunion of old Denview employees planned for that night - so I hooked up with a handful of folks I would never have been able to track down on my own. It was fantastic! Everyone is in a new company, except Liuba. Denview has been transformed. It was great to see everyone and get the scoop. So many interesting opportunities.
I took photos and posted them on my web site. If interested, you can check them out:
http://www.lkmcreativesolutions.com/denview/denviewreunion.htm
I also saw Misha, another old boss from my Hershey days. After living 6 years in America, he's returned to Russia to try to find more interesting work here. Revisited the old Starlite Diner - same old place, but now with wifi access and a nice terrace. If you're nostalgic for American coffee and diner food - best place to go. They don't serve American beer - it's all RUSSIAN now and quite good. Do svidanya Budweiser and Miller - your days are over. Sadly, few American companies took the leap into real investment here and have been easily replaced. Another story for another day - I'm getting out of this smokefilled bar and taking my camera to the streets!
Friday, July 22, 2005
Mokvichi on phones
I remember back in the mid-90's when I was in Helsinki. Every single Finn had a cell phone. Our "code" for Finn watching was Finn on a phone. We said it everytime we saw one - and that was almost constantly. You can imagine how old it got. Nowadays it's Moskvichi who have the phones,
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
Another “biznis lanch”
I took Herman’s advice as I was near Prospect Mira and I was hungry. It was a challenge to find, but it was worth it. A restaurant called Grabli, where they have all kinds of delicious Russian style foods in an a la carte cafeteria style setting. Upscale metal railing steps and trim, a lovely wooden verandah with hanging baskets, quaint round tables: it was a treat to enjoy the summer sun and neighboring cigarette smoke along with my cheese and sour cream smothered trout and garlic cheese and sour cream stuffed tomato. I opted for a mini club soda, taking a break from the aqua minerale crap that coca cola markets. The cherry juice looked appealing, but it was probably too sweet. I was also pleased to find broccoli, albeit smothered in cheese and sour cream. (A quick note - the coca cola refridgerators all over town sit outside the food kiosks. I bought a bottle of water, and the saleswoman said, “okay, go ahead and open the door.” And that is how it is, magnetic locks with buzzers for security and convenience.)
Outside at the end of the verandah, a mother sat alone with her infant in a carriage, dancing her pint of beer in front of the child’s face. Two elegantly dressed 30 something Russian women daintily ate their fish and vegetable entrees, young Russian men in short sleeved shirts, jeans and moccasins (programmers?) ate quietly together. Maybe HP or Sisco has an office nearby. There were several of those types dining around.The place was packed with young, upper class Russians.
I have been noticing that the average age of people out and about on the streets and in the restaurants seems to be around 30. Very few older or elderly people can be found. I was wandering around the Manezh mall near Red Square on a weeknight around 10 and it was filled with young people listening to live music and drinking beer. All of my walks in the downtown area have yet to uncover any elderly or older people. Everyone is fashionably dressed and thin. A startling contrast to my earliest memories of Moscow.
If you go underground into the metro, there is where you will find the real Russia. The Russia of former years - the big heavyset older women in frumpy dresses carrying enormous sacks, the elderly men, dressed in ancient but formal business attire, the young poorer mothers with children and less fashionable middle aged people who ride the metro, dine at home and don’t know where the new Benetton Shop is. If you go further from the center to the endless horizon of Soviet era apartment complexes, I am sure you will find the old people. They haven’t all died nor disappeared. There just is no place for them anymore in the new Moscow downtown.
I had an epiphany that was shockingly sad. All the old people have been replaced or moved out for their prime real estate. All the prime space inside the boulevard ring has been grabbed up by the wealthy, the businesses, the new political elite who renovate and resell/release offices and apartments for enormous amounts of money. Those who once lived there, if they were lucky, negotiated a good deal for their homes. If they weren’t, they no longer have any leverage and have been banished to fend for themselves in this harsh capitalist land.
I recall a conversation in 1993, when my colleagues and I worked on one of the floors of an apartment building near Pushkin Square. We were discussing the mysterious disappearances and numerous deaths of elderly people. People falling from their apartment windows, found dead inside their flats, quietly disappearing after they signed off their rights to their apartments to some stranger or agency. I couldn’t believe it at the time, but had no time to worry about it, as I had to sell chicken to new supermarkets. It seemed horrific, and in hindsight, if it were true, nobody seemed to care. A small 4 sentence piece may appear from time to time in a paper, but it continued to happen, the insidious silencing of the elderly.
Last night, I visited Zhenya and Vitya, a Russian couple in their seventies that are of the former intelligentsia crowd - art collectors, Pushkin and Axkmatova readers. They are friends of my friend Danielle and really lovely people. As we sat, catching up after so many years, Zhenya reminded me of a story she tells everyone when talking about me. I hadn’t recalled that story myself, as my memories are so faded. Perhaps it is also because it isn’t such an isolated instance for me.
As she tells it, years ago, Danielle and I were enjoying a warm summer Saturday morning at Izmailovsky. We passed several people selling adorable fluffy kittens. We had been drinking beer and were feeling giddy and light. So, for a mere pittance, and if I recall, it may have been $2, we purchased the cuddly creatures and brought them home. Misha and Shurik, the masters of 66 Leningradsky Prospect, were not in the least amused at these squiggly newcomers. Separate quarters were in order, and as the effects of the lager wore off, Danielle and I were all too aware that we were in a bit of a mess. We couldn’t have returned and paid double to give the kittens back.
Katy, our third flat mate, and probably the most practical of us all, in her high pitched Manchester English, told us she would have none of it. The scolding English tone bathed us in shame and we felt like two foolish American girls. So, the next day, in penance, I went with Katy to the evangelical English speaking Christian church near Gorky Park. There is a large expat core that attend, and it was there that I found 2 small children who belonged to the Ambassador of Ghana, or Zimbabwe. They fell madly in love with my purring duo in a blanket and promised that their mother would approve of them. So, guilt free and without a moments hesitation, I pawned them off and rushed out of the church.
Now, if I had to recall that moment myself, I’d have to wait until my next life; but Zhenya recalls that story with such passion and joy, sharing it with humor when the topic of crazy American girls comes up in her conversations.
I took Herman’s advice as I was near Prospect Mira and I was hungry. It was a challenge to find, but it was worth it. A restaurant called Grabli, where they have all kinds of delicious Russian style foods in an a la carte cafeteria style setting. Upscale metal railing steps and trim, a lovely wooden verandah with hanging baskets, quaint round tables: it was a treat to enjoy the summer sun and neighboring cigarette smoke along with my cheese and sour cream smothered trout and garlic cheese and sour cream stuffed tomato. I opted for a mini club soda, taking a break from the aqua minerale crap that coca cola markets. The cherry juice looked appealing, but it was probably too sweet. I was also pleased to find broccoli, albeit smothered in cheese and sour cream. (A quick note - the coca cola refridgerators all over town sit outside the food kiosks. I bought a bottle of water, and the saleswoman said, “okay, go ahead and open the door.” And that is how it is, magnetic locks with buzzers for security and convenience.)
Outside at the end of the verandah, a mother sat alone with her infant in a carriage, dancing her pint of beer in front of the child’s face. Two elegantly dressed 30 something Russian women daintily ate their fish and vegetable entrees, young Russian men in short sleeved shirts, jeans and moccasins (programmers?) ate quietly together. Maybe HP or Sisco has an office nearby. There were several of those types dining around.The place was packed with young, upper class Russians.
I have been noticing that the average age of people out and about on the streets and in the restaurants seems to be around 30. Very few older or elderly people can be found. I was wandering around the Manezh mall near Red Square on a weeknight around 10 and it was filled with young people listening to live music and drinking beer. All of my walks in the downtown area have yet to uncover any elderly or older people. Everyone is fashionably dressed and thin. A startling contrast to my earliest memories of Moscow.
If you go underground into the metro, there is where you will find the real Russia. The Russia of former years - the big heavyset older women in frumpy dresses carrying enormous sacks, the elderly men, dressed in ancient but formal business attire, the young poorer mothers with children and less fashionable middle aged people who ride the metro, dine at home and don’t know where the new Benetton Shop is. If you go further from the center to the endless horizon of Soviet era apartment complexes, I am sure you will find the old people. They haven’t all died nor disappeared. There just is no place for them anymore in the new Moscow downtown.
I had an epiphany that was shockingly sad. All the old people have been replaced or moved out for their prime real estate. All the prime space inside the boulevard ring has been grabbed up by the wealthy, the businesses, the new political elite who renovate and resell/release offices and apartments for enormous amounts of money. Those who once lived there, if they were lucky, negotiated a good deal for their homes. If they weren’t, they no longer have any leverage and have been banished to fend for themselves in this harsh capitalist land.
I recall a conversation in 1993, when my colleagues and I worked on one of the floors of an apartment building near Pushkin Square. We were discussing the mysterious disappearances and numerous deaths of elderly people. People falling from their apartment windows, found dead inside their flats, quietly disappearing after they signed off their rights to their apartments to some stranger or agency. I couldn’t believe it at the time, but had no time to worry about it, as I had to sell chicken to new supermarkets. It seemed horrific, and in hindsight, if it were true, nobody seemed to care. A small 4 sentence piece may appear from time to time in a paper, but it continued to happen, the insidious silencing of the elderly.
Last night, I visited Zhenya and Vitya, a Russian couple in their seventies that are of the former intelligentsia crowd - art collectors, Pushkin and Axkmatova readers. They are friends of my friend Danielle and really lovely people. As we sat, catching up after so many years, Zhenya reminded me of a story she tells everyone when talking about me. I hadn’t recalled that story myself, as my memories are so faded. Perhaps it is also because it isn’t such an isolated instance for me.
As she tells it, years ago, Danielle and I were enjoying a warm summer Saturday morning at Izmailovsky. We passed several people selling adorable fluffy kittens. We had been drinking beer and were feeling giddy and light. So, for a mere pittance, and if I recall, it may have been $2, we purchased the cuddly creatures and brought them home. Misha and Shurik, the masters of 66 Leningradsky Prospect, were not in the least amused at these squiggly newcomers. Separate quarters were in order, and as the effects of the lager wore off, Danielle and I were all too aware that we were in a bit of a mess. We couldn’t have returned and paid double to give the kittens back.
Katy, our third flat mate, and probably the most practical of us all, in her high pitched Manchester English, told us she would have none of it. The scolding English tone bathed us in shame and we felt like two foolish American girls. So, the next day, in penance, I went with Katy to the evangelical English speaking Christian church near Gorky Park. There is a large expat core that attend, and it was there that I found 2 small children who belonged to the Ambassador of Ghana, or Zimbabwe. They fell madly in love with my purring duo in a blanket and promised that their mother would approve of them. So, guilt free and without a moments hesitation, I pawned them off and rushed out of the church.
Now, if I had to recall that moment myself, I’d have to wait until my next life; but Zhenya recalls that story with such passion and joy, sharing it with humor when the topic of crazy American girls comes up in her conversations.
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
Wheat grass Juice makes it’s debut in Moscow
Okay, okay, I admit it, I’m feeling a bit like the girl from Kansas come to the big apple. It’s not just that the new places that have opened are so chic and hip, but that the Russians that patron them are no longer distinguishable from any other people. You used to be able to tell a Russian apart from a foreigner, but now, the shoes don’t even give them away.
People don’t even look Russian anymore. I almost feel like I’m in some strange futuristic sci-fi movie. Last week at the hotel, I tried to distinguish the foreigner’s in the hotel restaurant. I thought I was sitting near the American who may have been another ACDI consultant. He then began speaking, and it was fluent native Russian. Hmm, it really is impossible to distinguish anyone anymore.
What about the real changes?
I just spoke with an old friend who has been working in Russia for 14 years! From our brief conversation, I sensed that fundamental changes in the country are still far and few between. Perhaps I’m still awestruck by the superficial novelties - wifi in a coffee shop called Zen, smoking and nonsmoking sections in cafes and restaurants, elite sexy cell phones in the palm of every hand, real coffee shops and sushi bars on every corner, but at a deeper level, corruption is still rampant and real local production and manufacturing of international quality and standards is still limited.
Fushi, a trendy English health food salon, has opened it’s doors to Muscovites just five days ago with selected herbal infusions, organic pasta and fresh squeezed wheat grass juice. I suppose after walking around the streets of Moscow, breathing toxic fumes, you can purify your system with a shot of pure energy. However, wheat grass is priced a bit more reasonably in California. Here, a shot costs 150 rubles, or $6.00. I think I’ll stick with the unhealthy caffeinated high fat $5 cappuccinos.
I didn’t find a “biznis launch” as I decided to revisit an old classic - the American Bar and Grill. I remember when it first opened - way back in 1994, it was a haven of American burgers, salads and french fries that were priced reasonably moderately next to the few high end restaurants in town.
I must admit, it was comforting and familiar. Although, the quality has definitely declined. For $12, I had the bbq chicken sandwich, a spoonful of slaw and a handful of fries. I watched the tail end of the Tour de France on their tv while surfing the net on my laptop via a free wireless network. I spent most of the afternoon inside while the rain came and went on the streets, researching a bit into the head hunting industry here. I found my old boss at brainpower.ru - an executive search firm owned and operated by the French that used to go by the name of LO Recruiting. Ironically, it was the same firm through which I found my job at Denview years ago. Marc is now a co-consultant, still living and working here in Russia, after a brief stint in Istanbul. I wonder if I should try to contact him. Imagine, Marc placing me in some company in Moscow!
Okay, perhaps it’s the 2 glasses of cheap French wine, but I’m going to bring this topic up. Back in the 90’s, I was in my 20s and worked my “*&(*&& off - dating was limited. It seemed that beautiful Russian women were too difficult to compete with for men’s attention. Now, I’m older and, well, hmm, heavier, and it’s that much more difficult.
However, after meeting with a former colleague and friend, a lovely Russian woman of 32 who has the most charming personality and sense of humor, and a much more traditional heavyset Russian figure, I see there is hope. She has been visiting a psychology “chat room” since May. It has transformed her social life as this group is jovial, friendly and local. They began to meet in person, and she has made many new friends via the internet. They may be getting together on Friday, and I’ll get a chance to meet them and see this new scene.
Along these lines, I was thinking of putting an ad in the Moscow Times. They have a section called “Introductions”. It’s not personals, I don’t seem to see a personals section. Rather, it’s a list of Russian women who are stunningly young and sexy, with names like Natasha, Olga and Tanya - with only a phone number and picture. I was thinking of writing my own ad - American woman looking for a Russian man - business and pleasure - will sell green card to the right candidate. What do you think? Could it work?
It’s 9 p.m. and still quite bright outside. This cafe is absolutely bursting with life. My computer battery light is in the red, so I must bid you farewell.
Okay, okay, I admit it, I’m feeling a bit like the girl from Kansas come to the big apple. It’s not just that the new places that have opened are so chic and hip, but that the Russians that patron them are no longer distinguishable from any other people. You used to be able to tell a Russian apart from a foreigner, but now, the shoes don’t even give them away.
People don’t even look Russian anymore. I almost feel like I’m in some strange futuristic sci-fi movie. Last week at the hotel, I tried to distinguish the foreigner’s in the hotel restaurant. I thought I was sitting near the American who may have been another ACDI consultant. He then began speaking, and it was fluent native Russian. Hmm, it really is impossible to distinguish anyone anymore.
What about the real changes?
I just spoke with an old friend who has been working in Russia for 14 years! From our brief conversation, I sensed that fundamental changes in the country are still far and few between. Perhaps I’m still awestruck by the superficial novelties - wifi in a coffee shop called Zen, smoking and nonsmoking sections in cafes and restaurants, elite sexy cell phones in the palm of every hand, real coffee shops and sushi bars on every corner, but at a deeper level, corruption is still rampant and real local production and manufacturing of international quality and standards is still limited.
Fushi, a trendy English health food salon, has opened it’s doors to Muscovites just five days ago with selected herbal infusions, organic pasta and fresh squeezed wheat grass juice. I suppose after walking around the streets of Moscow, breathing toxic fumes, you can purify your system with a shot of pure energy. However, wheat grass is priced a bit more reasonably in California. Here, a shot costs 150 rubles, or $6.00. I think I’ll stick with the unhealthy caffeinated high fat $5 cappuccinos.
I didn’t find a “biznis launch” as I decided to revisit an old classic - the American Bar and Grill. I remember when it first opened - way back in 1994, it was a haven of American burgers, salads and french fries that were priced reasonably moderately next to the few high end restaurants in town.
I must admit, it was comforting and familiar. Although, the quality has definitely declined. For $12, I had the bbq chicken sandwich, a spoonful of slaw and a handful of fries. I watched the tail end of the Tour de France on their tv while surfing the net on my laptop via a free wireless network. I spent most of the afternoon inside while the rain came and went on the streets, researching a bit into the head hunting industry here. I found my old boss at brainpower.ru - an executive search firm owned and operated by the French that used to go by the name of LO Recruiting. Ironically, it was the same firm through which I found my job at Denview years ago. Marc is now a co-consultant, still living and working here in Russia, after a brief stint in Istanbul. I wonder if I should try to contact him. Imagine, Marc placing me in some company in Moscow!
Okay, perhaps it’s the 2 glasses of cheap French wine, but I’m going to bring this topic up. Back in the 90’s, I was in my 20s and worked my “*&(*&& off - dating was limited. It seemed that beautiful Russian women were too difficult to compete with for men’s attention. Now, I’m older and, well, hmm, heavier, and it’s that much more difficult.
However, after meeting with a former colleague and friend, a lovely Russian woman of 32 who has the most charming personality and sense of humor, and a much more traditional heavyset Russian figure, I see there is hope. She has been visiting a psychology “chat room” since May. It has transformed her social life as this group is jovial, friendly and local. They began to meet in person, and she has made many new friends via the internet. They may be getting together on Friday, and I’ll get a chance to meet them and see this new scene.
Along these lines, I was thinking of putting an ad in the Moscow Times. They have a section called “Introductions”. It’s not personals, I don’t seem to see a personals section. Rather, it’s a list of Russian women who are stunningly young and sexy, with names like Natasha, Olga and Tanya - with only a phone number and picture. I was thinking of writing my own ad - American woman looking for a Russian man - business and pleasure - will sell green card to the right candidate. What do you think? Could it work?
It’s 9 p.m. and still quite bright outside. This cafe is absolutely bursting with life. My computer battery light is in the red, so I must bid you farewell.
Zen Coffee at Belorussky Vokzal
Well, it’s 1 p.m. and I’ve been sitting by the window at Montana Coffee’s Zen Coffee Shop since around 10:30. They have great coffee but at $4.30 for a large cappuccino, I won’t have a second cup. A calm, welcoming atmosphere with air conditioning and no cigarette smoke, it’s a nice relief to the stifling heat and humidity in my flat. The scene outside is quite civilized, traffic flowing fairly well, pedestrians striding at a normal pace in the mid afternoon sun. The beautiful Belorussky Vokzal, or Train station, is opposite the shop across the 15 lane main thoroughfare connecting Leningradsy Prospect with Tverskaya St., which takes you directly from the Kremlin to the airport. Summer in Moscow - everyone is on vacation!
Coffee is good, service is excellent and I wonder where I am - Moscow or Palo Alto? Advertising surrounds me everywhere! From billboards, to live digital video ads on the rooftops of historic 4-story buildings, offering the latest in digital cameras, cellphones, computers, European cars, vacations
Yesterday, I went out to find a place to have lunch, and the choices within one block were endless. I could have a business lunch with soup, salad, main course and beverage from between 190 and 290 rubles, or $6.50 to $10,00. I opted for the Japanese lunch, wondering what kind of quality fresh raw fish I was going to get in the middle of Moscow. It was superb, and other than the incredibly slow service for a “business lunch”, I was impressed.
Russians are crazy over sushi - there are sushi bars on every corner these days. I suppose investing in fish farms would be a great business here.
I’ve been trying to track down my old friends and colleagues and finding it difficult. Since I was here last in 2000, so many companies have disappeared, merged, reemerged and many people have moved, either up and bought new apartments, or out. I can’t find them. As it turns out, some districts have had major restructuring of the phone system, making myriad of numbers null and void. Access to cell phones, as I mentioned, is so easy, that everyone seems to have one. In a city of 12 or more million, that is a lot of phone numbers.
The handful of people I have found are so busy, rearranging meetings as they fly to and from various parts of the world. I have met up with a few, enjoying a yoga class on the Old Arbat (new vocabulary for me as I twisted and turned my body into contortions that would challenge a real yogi), a concert at an old palace, and the dacha.
Ah, the dacha. Life in Russia in the summer wouldn’t be the same without the dacha. I remember visiting Zhenya’s parents at the dacha about 12 years ago. We drank samogan, or homemade spirits, and grilled meat. This time, we drank Russian plum wine and Bulgarian red wine out of a box, called bag in box, and grilled meat. They now have electricity, but still no plumbing in the outhouse. The little 2 story dark blue dacha was built about 20 years ago. It boasts a small utilitarian kitchen, an entryway which doubles as storage, a medium-sized living room with a big oval dining table, a pale green sofa and a 17 inch tv equipped with dvd player. There are 2 bedrooms downstairs and a narrow creaky staircase takes you up to 2 more rooms and a balcony. Even at the dacha, the fresh air was not enough to relieve the humidity of a July evening and suburban Moscow mosquitos. Again, a torrent of biters ripped through my socks, leaving big red bloody wounds around my tender ankles, these were worse than the Chuvashian ones.
We took the kids to the lake, softly treading through the forest, picking wild strawberries along the way. We sang songs and listened to distant festivities of various others enjoying the late Saturday afternoon sun. Dozens of enormous gated new dachas along asphalted roads were now crowding out the horizon and creating a world of have and have nots. Zhenya told me of a theft that took place at a businessman’s dacha. The thief, who stole a laptop, was caught and ordered to not jail time, but community service, the businessman being the recipient of his community service duties.
On Friday, I managed to get into the Ria Novosti building on Zubovsky (or tooth) Boulevard, opposite the Cultural Park Metro Station. I arrived 45 minutes early, which gave me time to ultimately deal with the negotiation process of getting in without a pass. None of the 4 elevators would stop on the 4th floor, so I walked down from the fifth, only to be escorted back up again. I met with two British blokes from the new Russia Today English Television Station that is hoping to launch this Autumn. It seems the Russian government has $30 million to invest in showing the world that they can compete with CNN and BBC with an international and fully reliable and objective news station. Government sponsored and paid for, I understand how challenging it will be for them to create a credible objective view of world events from a Russian perspective.
It was a long shot, but they are looking for native English speakers to become correspondents, copy editors, etc. and they called me in to chat. Must admit, my marketing, sales and PR experience would probably be best used in an English speaking Russian reality television program. I suggested they focus a daily or weekly segment on cultural issues and interviews with Russians on the street: get the every man or woman’s perspective on things from Putin to the Oligarchs to shopping and home repair issues. Connect an American audience to things that they are concerned about - show them the human side, the emotional connection.
Who knows, maybe one day you’ll see me on an international Russian station interviewing Muscovites. In the meantime, I’ll research the market for apples. Apples, apples everywhere, but none to eat. Argentinean, Chilean, Chinese, Moldavian, but where are the Washington Apples? Ask the Washington Apple Commission - they seem to think it’s time to reinvest a bit in the Russian apple market and take a bite out of the pie. After all, with nearly a dozen varieties and high quality produce, as well as a niche in the organic market, Washington could become king of the high end apple market in Russia. But do they have the stomach for making business here?
Well, it’s time to wonder off and find another “biznis launch” somewhere downtown. Wish I could hook up with a friend, but the reality here is that no one eats lunch - they are too busy making business.
Well, it’s 1 p.m. and I’ve been sitting by the window at Montana Coffee’s Zen Coffee Shop since around 10:30. They have great coffee but at $4.30 for a large cappuccino, I won’t have a second cup. A calm, welcoming atmosphere with air conditioning and no cigarette smoke, it’s a nice relief to the stifling heat and humidity in my flat. The scene outside is quite civilized, traffic flowing fairly well, pedestrians striding at a normal pace in the mid afternoon sun. The beautiful Belorussky Vokzal, or Train station, is opposite the shop across the 15 lane main thoroughfare connecting Leningradsy Prospect with Tverskaya St., which takes you directly from the Kremlin to the airport. Summer in Moscow - everyone is on vacation!
Coffee is good, service is excellent and I wonder where I am - Moscow or Palo Alto? Advertising surrounds me everywhere! From billboards, to live digital video ads on the rooftops of historic 4-story buildings, offering the latest in digital cameras, cellphones, computers, European cars, vacations
Yesterday, I went out to find a place to have lunch, and the choices within one block were endless. I could have a business lunch with soup, salad, main course and beverage from between 190 and 290 rubles, or $6.50 to $10,00. I opted for the Japanese lunch, wondering what kind of quality fresh raw fish I was going to get in the middle of Moscow. It was superb, and other than the incredibly slow service for a “business lunch”, I was impressed.
Russians are crazy over sushi - there are sushi bars on every corner these days. I suppose investing in fish farms would be a great business here.
I’ve been trying to track down my old friends and colleagues and finding it difficult. Since I was here last in 2000, so many companies have disappeared, merged, reemerged and many people have moved, either up and bought new apartments, or out. I can’t find them. As it turns out, some districts have had major restructuring of the phone system, making myriad of numbers null and void. Access to cell phones, as I mentioned, is so easy, that everyone seems to have one. In a city of 12 or more million, that is a lot of phone numbers.
The handful of people I have found are so busy, rearranging meetings as they fly to and from various parts of the world. I have met up with a few, enjoying a yoga class on the Old Arbat (new vocabulary for me as I twisted and turned my body into contortions that would challenge a real yogi), a concert at an old palace, and the dacha.
Ah, the dacha. Life in Russia in the summer wouldn’t be the same without the dacha. I remember visiting Zhenya’s parents at the dacha about 12 years ago. We drank samogan, or homemade spirits, and grilled meat. This time, we drank Russian plum wine and Bulgarian red wine out of a box, called bag in box, and grilled meat. They now have electricity, but still no plumbing in the outhouse. The little 2 story dark blue dacha was built about 20 years ago. It boasts a small utilitarian kitchen, an entryway which doubles as storage, a medium-sized living room with a big oval dining table, a pale green sofa and a 17 inch tv equipped with dvd player. There are 2 bedrooms downstairs and a narrow creaky staircase takes you up to 2 more rooms and a balcony. Even at the dacha, the fresh air was not enough to relieve the humidity of a July evening and suburban Moscow mosquitos. Again, a torrent of biters ripped through my socks, leaving big red bloody wounds around my tender ankles, these were worse than the Chuvashian ones.
We took the kids to the lake, softly treading through the forest, picking wild strawberries along the way. We sang songs and listened to distant festivities of various others enjoying the late Saturday afternoon sun. Dozens of enormous gated new dachas along asphalted roads were now crowding out the horizon and creating a world of have and have nots. Zhenya told me of a theft that took place at a businessman’s dacha. The thief, who stole a laptop, was caught and ordered to not jail time, but community service, the businessman being the recipient of his community service duties.
On Friday, I managed to get into the Ria Novosti building on Zubovsky (or tooth) Boulevard, opposite the Cultural Park Metro Station. I arrived 45 minutes early, which gave me time to ultimately deal with the negotiation process of getting in without a pass. None of the 4 elevators would stop on the 4th floor, so I walked down from the fifth, only to be escorted back up again. I met with two British blokes from the new Russia Today English Television Station that is hoping to launch this Autumn. It seems the Russian government has $30 million to invest in showing the world that they can compete with CNN and BBC with an international and fully reliable and objective news station. Government sponsored and paid for, I understand how challenging it will be for them to create a credible objective view of world events from a Russian perspective.
It was a long shot, but they are looking for native English speakers to become correspondents, copy editors, etc. and they called me in to chat. Must admit, my marketing, sales and PR experience would probably be best used in an English speaking Russian reality television program. I suggested they focus a daily or weekly segment on cultural issues and interviews with Russians on the street: get the every man or woman’s perspective on things from Putin to the Oligarchs to shopping and home repair issues. Connect an American audience to things that they are concerned about - show them the human side, the emotional connection.
Who knows, maybe one day you’ll see me on an international Russian station interviewing Muscovites. In the meantime, I’ll research the market for apples. Apples, apples everywhere, but none to eat. Argentinean, Chilean, Chinese, Moldavian, but where are the Washington Apples? Ask the Washington Apple Commission - they seem to think it’s time to reinvest a bit in the Russian apple market and take a bite out of the pie. After all, with nearly a dozen varieties and high quality produce, as well as a niche in the organic market, Washington could become king of the high end apple market in Russia. But do they have the stomach for making business here?
Well, it’s time to wonder off and find another “biznis launch” somewhere downtown. Wish I could hook up with a friend, but the reality here is that no one eats lunch - they are too busy making business.
Friday, July 15, 2005
Mozart in an 18th Century Palace
Imagine you were a Sheremyetev earl, living in Moscow in the late 1700's and it was June. You waltzed around the gardens in the refreshing summer breeze, and were treated to a musical ensemble playing the contemporary music of Mozart in the grand ballroom.
Well, that is almost how I felt on Thursday evening after Sasha and I drove through over an hour's worth of rush hour traffic to arrive at the Kuskovo Palace in the Southeastern part of Moscow. I remember fondly several visits to Kuskovo. First in 1988 in July as a student at the Pushkin Institute. We had an "official" excursion there with a tour in Russian, where we wore felt boots over our shoes and shuffled through the ornate and elaborately decorated rooms, careful not to scratch the floors. Then I returned often for picnics along the edge of the lake, and concerts in the ballroom. In 1994, the summer my cat died and I became mother to 5 adoring kittens, I traveled around Moscow in my Niva with a basket of kittens. I took them to a concert, where I hid in the back, until one ornery kitten began biting his brother who screeched octaves higher than the orchestra, forcing me to flee from the concert. I made a lot of friends that summer!
Again, I returned many summers for the once a year concert I could manage to attend during my wild work days. It was March of 2000 that I took Michael there - blistery and cold, we were the only ones at the museum. This trip was quite nostalgic as all these various memories came flooding back to me. I enjoyed the brief encounter once again. The crowd was jovial, the orchestra quite talented, with a flute solo by a young man that must have been no older than 18! He remained well composed in his bow tie and tuxedo, even in the high heat and humidity.
The singer for the second half did not arrive, so we were subjected to a repeat of the first half. I must admit, that was a first for me. I thought perhaps they might have something else in their repertoire, but I guess if it's good once, it's as good or better twice. As soon as the concert was over, the guards began to shuffle people out of the gardens. Their task was challenging as dozens of young lovers stargazed and sauntered, oblivious to their commands to leave. I took one last look at the reflection of the Italian hall reflected in the little pond as the sky behind it glistened a pale orange and then turned away, my mind full of colorful memories, the eternal notes of Mozart's 15th Symphony still ringing in my ears.
US Ambassador to the Russian Federation, Alexander Vershbow, bids farewell to Moscow.
This morning, at a breakfast held by the American Chamber of Commerce at the Marriott Grand Hotel in Moscow, approximately 100 chamber members were greeted with their “last lecture” by Ambassador Vershbow, as he so eloquently put it himself. He was given a crystal egg from Andrew Somers, President of the American Chamber of Commerce in Moscow, as a parting gift from the Chamber.
I had the pleasure of attending this breakfast as a guest in the city. My home is Palo Alto, California, and I have returned to Russia on a brief trip to survey the landscape. It has been nearly five years since I last visited Russia, and 8 since I lived here. In the mid-90’s, I had the opportunity to experience the dramatic economic changes that a new free-market economy brought. During those times, the rapid changes were not as visible to one who lived amidst them. However, to a returning guest, first in 2000, then in 2005, the changes are dramatic. Most visible, of course, is the explosion of construction in the capital which has so changed the surface of the city to be almost completely unrecognizable.
I listened intently to the words of Ambassador Vershbow, hoping to glean some new insights into the political and economic environment that now exists in Putin’s Russia. I must admit, there was nothing all that new as Ambassador Vershbow diplomatically addressed the key issues affecting the business community: staggering bureaucracy, pervasive corruption, lack of government restraints, as defined as terrorism by tax authorities, and the emergence of a new class of state oligarchs. These ever present obstacles, unless addressed effectively by Putin’s government, will continue to create road blocks to investment.
Ambassador Vershbow applauded those in the room for their continual determination and efforts to make business successful and strive to create an ethical civil society, fighting for equal treatment. One man at my table works in the entertainment industry, producing music CDs for both American and Russian artists. The continual piratization and lack of government intervention to stop it, remains a serious headache. Russian musicians cannot make a living off their CDs and must continually give concerts in order to make a living. This dampens their creative and progressive musical futures as they do not have time to invest in developing new work. He’s been in Moscow for 10 years and feels that the situation has gotten much worse in terms of corruption.
However, not all feel that way. There is always continual optimism in Russia, a common personality characteristic for most individuals doing business here. It seems the city is progressing and developing at a much saner pace than the 90’s, where now, real inroads are being made to create solid infrastructure for the future.
I bought a cell phone and registered a number for only $65 and I can buy a prepaid card from almost any kiosk in town at reasonable rates. An internet card for dial-up from home can be found in any kiosk as well, and for $10 you get 20 hours and can access the internet from any phone line in the city with you own laptop. Of course, you would be hard pressed to find a public pay phone anywhere. The other side to that, is that all the cell phone numbers I had in my database from 2000, no longer belong to the individuals who registered them before.
I have another 12 days left to visit, explore, and connect to a city with a history for me that goes back 17 years. It has been challenging, as I find people move quicker here than in Silicon Valley. Russia is a fascinating country that many choose to explore. Perhaps as Ambassador Vershbow and his wife finish their time here in Russia and move on to another post, I will be yet another American, returning to Russia to continue the web of relations that exist between Russia and America today.
Thursday, July 14, 2005
Just a quick, off the top of my head ramble for the afternoon.
I just got back from walking around downtown Moscow. It's hot and sunny, traffic as usual, but many more shops, cafes and offices. The other night, I walked outside to find myself an internet card at a kiosk and as I stood on the corner near Belorussky Vokzal waiting for the pedestrian light to turn green, I scanned my surroundings. I almost could not believe it, but it could have been any corner in NYC! Russia, or at least, Moscow has changed so drastically, it's almost unrecognizable.
Today, I came across two chains of coffee shops that have about 30 shops each all around the city. They didn't exist 4 1/2 years ago and now they have a logo, an image, an atmosphere. They could rival any Starbuck's or le Boulanger. One chain is apparently co-owned by former McDonald's employees.
I'm just scratching the surface of this city. Tomorrow, the present US Ambassador is having a fairwell breakfast at the American Chamber of Commerce. I hope to glean a few insights from his experiences here over the past several years.
My mind is racing with the potential opportunities and ideas I have for business here. I need to slow down and breath. Unfocused creative imagination is one thing, true grit and business building is another.
I just got back from walking around downtown Moscow. It's hot and sunny, traffic as usual, but many more shops, cafes and offices. The other night, I walked outside to find myself an internet card at a kiosk and as I stood on the corner near Belorussky Vokzal waiting for the pedestrian light to turn green, I scanned my surroundings. I almost could not believe it, but it could have been any corner in NYC! Russia, or at least, Moscow has changed so drastically, it's almost unrecognizable.
Today, I came across two chains of coffee shops that have about 30 shops each all around the city. They didn't exist 4 1/2 years ago and now they have a logo, an image, an atmosphere. They could rival any Starbuck's or le Boulanger. One chain is apparently co-owned by former McDonald's employees.
I'm just scratching the surface of this city. Tomorrow, the present US Ambassador is having a fairwell breakfast at the American Chamber of Commerce. I hope to glean a few insights from his experiences here over the past several years.
My mind is racing with the potential opportunities and ideas I have for business here. I need to slow down and breath. Unfocused creative imagination is one thing, true grit and business building is another.
Monday, July 11, 2005
I had the opportunity to visit with my oldest friends from Moscow - Ira and Yuri. I met Ira in 1988 when I was student at the Pushkin Institute. She had taught Russian to a former Russian teacher of mine from Penn. We met in the summer as she was just going off to St. Petersburg for her annual holiday. Her fiance, Yuri, was working in Moscow and he and his friends used to come over to play frisbee football at the Pushkin Institute with us. We used to sneak them into the dormitory and have great times drinking too much vodka and singing songs.
I returned in the Fall of 1989 and recall writing a song with my roommates at the Steell and Alloys Institute close to the end of the semester. It was based on the 12 days of Christmas and we titled it the 12 days in Moscow. As we were chatting over tea in their kitchen, Yuri and Ira remembered they had just recently come across a paper I wrote 16 years ago. Yuri and Ira have been living in China for nearly 5 years and were home this month on annual leave. I was grateful to meet up with them this trip, as it’s been nearly five years since I saw them last in Moscow. Yuri quickly jumped up to fetch the paper. It was yellowed on the edges, but indeed, it was my handwriting.
I run the risk of making a fool of myself, but I did write this 16 years when I was a student in the former Soviet Union. You would never apply it today.
I’m sorry if this offends anyone. However, as students in a dormitory in 1989, we found it necessary to adapt to some difficulties and explain some cultural differences through humor.
On the first day in Moscow, my roommate said to me, “Never sit down on a cold bench.”
On the second day in MOscow, my roommate said to me, “Carry tissues with you, and never sit down on a cold bench.
On the third day in Moscow, my roommate said to me, “Eat lots of salo, carry tissues with you, and never sit down on a cold bench.”
On the fourth day in MOscow, my roommate said to me, “Never talk to Georgians, eat lots of salo, carry tissues with you, and never sit down on a cold bench.”
On the fifth day in Moscow, my roommate said to me, “Zakaz a day before you’re homesick. Never talk to Georgians, eat lots of salo, carry tissues with you, and never sit down on a cold bench.
and so forth:
sixth - Slam dance on the metro
seventh - Wear dirty laundry
eighth - shower every 3 days
ninth - plaster on the make-up
tenth - love your “tarakani”
eleventh - “v gosti” for 10 hours
twelth - become an alcoholic
A few explanations: Salo, is pure lard, which was often spread on black bread with salt added. To zakaz was to order a phone call at the main post office/telephone/telegragh on Gorky street. You had to pre-oder a phone call in order to call the US. Russian women would always scold us for sitting down on cold surfaces, telling us we would get a cold or lose our fertility. The metro can be so packed, you felt like you were being slammed around. We had to do laundry in the bathtub, so we rarely did. Hot water was not always guaranteed, so we would go several days without one. Back in the 80’s heavy blue eyeshadow was the female fashion trend. Tarakani were cockroaches, which were out compatriots in the dormitory. V gosti means to go to someone’s house as a guest - which we did, and ended up staying for hours and hours and hours. Well, the last one, is sad, but true - the amount of alcohol consumption we did that semester topped my 4 years in college (almost).
I returned in the Fall of 1989 and recall writing a song with my roommates at the Steell and Alloys Institute close to the end of the semester. It was based on the 12 days of Christmas and we titled it the 12 days in Moscow. As we were chatting over tea in their kitchen, Yuri and Ira remembered they had just recently come across a paper I wrote 16 years ago. Yuri and Ira have been living in China for nearly 5 years and were home this month on annual leave. I was grateful to meet up with them this trip, as it’s been nearly five years since I saw them last in Moscow. Yuri quickly jumped up to fetch the paper. It was yellowed on the edges, but indeed, it was my handwriting.
I run the risk of making a fool of myself, but I did write this 16 years when I was a student in the former Soviet Union. You would never apply it today.
I’m sorry if this offends anyone. However, as students in a dormitory in 1989, we found it necessary to adapt to some difficulties and explain some cultural differences through humor.
On the first day in Moscow, my roommate said to me, “Never sit down on a cold bench.”
On the second day in MOscow, my roommate said to me, “Carry tissues with you, and never sit down on a cold bench.
On the third day in Moscow, my roommate said to me, “Eat lots of salo, carry tissues with you, and never sit down on a cold bench.”
On the fourth day in MOscow, my roommate said to me, “Never talk to Georgians, eat lots of salo, carry tissues with you, and never sit down on a cold bench.”
On the fifth day in Moscow, my roommate said to me, “Zakaz a day before you’re homesick. Never talk to Georgians, eat lots of salo, carry tissues with you, and never sit down on a cold bench.
and so forth:
sixth - Slam dance on the metro
seventh - Wear dirty laundry
eighth - shower every 3 days
ninth - plaster on the make-up
tenth - love your “tarakani”
eleventh - “v gosti” for 10 hours
twelth - become an alcoholic
A few explanations: Salo, is pure lard, which was often spread on black bread with salt added. To zakaz was to order a phone call at the main post office/telephone/telegragh on Gorky street. You had to pre-oder a phone call in order to call the US. Russian women would always scold us for sitting down on cold surfaces, telling us we would get a cold or lose our fertility. The metro can be so packed, you felt like you were being slammed around. We had to do laundry in the bathtub, so we rarely did. Hot water was not always guaranteed, so we would go several days without one. Back in the 80’s heavy blue eyeshadow was the female fashion trend. Tarakani were cockroaches, which were out compatriots in the dormitory. V gosti means to go to someone’s house as a guest - which we did, and ended up staying for hours and hours and hours. Well, the last one, is sad, but true - the amount of alcohol consumption we did that semester topped my 4 years in college (almost).
Sunday, July 10, 2005
A transcontinental physiological meltdown
I took the return train from Chuvashia to Moscow last night. My hosts graciously delivered me to my comfortable first class compartment on wagon #9 where we made our farewells with three kisses to the cheeks. I can only describe how I felt by attempting to create a visual image of the crossroads of my physical and emotional states. The evening before, we had a celebratory last dinner at the dacha with quite a few bottles of wine, champagne and vodka (that’s another story for another day). Needless to say, my Saturday morning body was feeling those effects all day. Add to that the sevearl dozen minefields that the local Chuvashian mosquitos left around my ankles. But it doesn’t stop there. I’m sure you may recall that moment when you know you are coming down with a cold, your throat is sore and you can almost feel the cold virus crawling through your blood and invading every nook and cranny of your being. Your immune system slowly losing the battle for control. Then, of course, ladies, you can relate to the moment right before your monthly cycle. Estrogen and progesterone battling it out on the emotional plane and wreaking havoc on your mammary glands as well as other parts of the anatomy. to complete the picutre, imagine a plate full of grilled meat, scallions and lavash washed down with 2 shots of Ukrainian pepper vodka, and you have, what I call, a transcontinental physiological meltdown.
I sunk as deep as I could into the hard wooden bench that, with a 1 inch thick blanket, doubled as my bed for the evening. My windows drenched in droplets of condensation, the outside landscape was unavailable for the Dr. Zhivago experience this time, so I succumbed to my bodies desire for rest and surrendered for the evening. Somewhere in the early hours, the light through the crack in the curtain awoke me, and I began battling the mosquito minefields around my ankles. Through the crack in the bottom of the window, I watched the early morning light as it settled on the birch trees and country homes. Too early on a Sunday morning for any activity. Something about the rhythmic rumbling of the iron wheels upon iron tracks and the gentle back and forth motion reminds me of the present moment, breathing deeply and calmly, my eyes taking in the world outside my cabin. I’ll be in Moscow momentarily and the next step in my adventure will begin.
I’ll be writing this a bit backwards, as I have so many impressions of Chuvashia to share. I just haven’t had a moment to really reflect and record.
I took the return train from Chuvashia to Moscow last night. My hosts graciously delivered me to my comfortable first class compartment on wagon #9 where we made our farewells with three kisses to the cheeks. I can only describe how I felt by attempting to create a visual image of the crossroads of my physical and emotional states. The evening before, we had a celebratory last dinner at the dacha with quite a few bottles of wine, champagne and vodka (that’s another story for another day). Needless to say, my Saturday morning body was feeling those effects all day. Add to that the sevearl dozen minefields that the local Chuvashian mosquitos left around my ankles. But it doesn’t stop there. I’m sure you may recall that moment when you know you are coming down with a cold, your throat is sore and you can almost feel the cold virus crawling through your blood and invading every nook and cranny of your being. Your immune system slowly losing the battle for control. Then, of course, ladies, you can relate to the moment right before your monthly cycle. Estrogen and progesterone battling it out on the emotional plane and wreaking havoc on your mammary glands as well as other parts of the anatomy. to complete the picutre, imagine a plate full of grilled meat, scallions and lavash washed down with 2 shots of Ukrainian pepper vodka, and you have, what I call, a transcontinental physiological meltdown.
I sunk as deep as I could into the hard wooden bench that, with a 1 inch thick blanket, doubled as my bed for the evening. My windows drenched in droplets of condensation, the outside landscape was unavailable for the Dr. Zhivago experience this time, so I succumbed to my bodies desire for rest and surrendered for the evening. Somewhere in the early hours, the light through the crack in the curtain awoke me, and I began battling the mosquito minefields around my ankles. Through the crack in the bottom of the window, I watched the early morning light as it settled on the birch trees and country homes. Too early on a Sunday morning for any activity. Something about the rhythmic rumbling of the iron wheels upon iron tracks and the gentle back and forth motion reminds me of the present moment, breathing deeply and calmly, my eyes taking in the world outside my cabin. I’ll be in Moscow momentarily and the next step in my adventure will begin.
I’ll be writing this a bit backwards, as I have so many impressions of Chuvashia to share. I just haven’t had a moment to really reflect and record.
Friday, July 01, 2005
PUBLIC TOILETS HAVE FINALLY ARRIVED IN MOSCOW!
Perhaps it seems a topic that nobody wants to discuss, but where do you go when you have to go? Back in my student days, it was always a challenge to find a public toilet, and a decent one at that. I remember hoping to be near a hotel, like the Intourist, Moskva or Rossiya, in order to sneak in and find a toilet with toilet paper and running water. Nowadays, most cafes, restaurants and bars and even some shopping centers, have good public toilets. However, this new portapottie for pay is new to me. They are now all over the city and for a mere 7 rubles, or 25 cents, you even get paper! I just wonder how much they pay the lady to monitor them.
Thursday, June 30, 2005
June 30, 2005
With the sun going down at nearly 11 p.m. and rising just after 4 a.m., I’m grateful to have an eye mask with me. I’ve always been one to wake up with the sun, and besides the 11 hour time difference, the sun is a natural alarm clock. I was met at the train station and have been “taken care of” every moment since. Anna from the bakery and Oleg the interpreter have made sure I have everything I need. Anna, a petite older woman with short spiky brown hair and a soft muffled voice, wears custom-made conservative suits and small almond shaped wireless glasses. Oleg, a Chuvashian with a strong jutting jaw, a crew cut and light crystal like blue eyes, is a nice young man from the local language institute. He’s more relaxed in jeans and like most men, tries to sneak away to have his cigarette. He spent a month in Texas, and fortunately, is open-minded enough not to believe that Texans are synonymous with Americans.
The hotel Rossiya is not as technologically advanced as the Bega, but the dezhurnaya, or the floor den mother, Tanya, does everything with a smile. I have managed to get a dial-up connection from my room now and if I ever get a moment alone, I’d like to explore the city and find some internet cafes to see what they are like. It’s been a nonstop feeding frenzy since I arrived. I ate breakfast on the train, but Anna ordered breakfast at the hotel for me upon my arrival. Even if I were starving, I couldn’t have eaten all that food!
At noon, they picked me up in the grey volga and gave me a tour of the city. We drove halfway across the Volga. What an enormous river! I don’t know what to equate it to - it’s wider than any river I’ve crossed. The city of Chubaskary is wide and short, no buildings very tall at all. They have an old town on the bank of the river with several historic churches, fountains, a monastery, theaters, a walking boulevard, parks. I am very impressed with how clean it is. Apparently, it is known for it’s cleanliness and friendliness. I’ve been promised a trip to the river this weekend for swimming.
We drove to the bakery, where I met Larissa, the General Director, and we bonded instantly. She’s probably in her late 40’s with beautiful skin, blue eyes with matching heavy blue makeup, straight blonde hair that shapes her oval face. Her Rubenesque body fit nicely into her elegant black evening dress and classy black blazer. She seemed to manage to float in her 3 inch spiked heels, giving her modest height a small boost.
Like extroverted and jovial twins, the two of us talked all afternoon and into the early evening, Oleg and Anna quietly listening. They treated me to an enormous meal - stuffed tomatoes, fresh cucumbers, peppers, dill and tomatoes, cabbage soup, a variety of breads, sausages and cheeses, calamari, shrimps, mussels and salmon. Then a main course of some sort of fried meat or chicken with melted cheese and mashed potatoes and of course, pastries from their bakery, fruit and tea. We drank champagne and vodka and made the usual toasts to our work together. At 6:30 when they dropped me off at the hotel, I quite literally passed out for 3 hours! I’m a bit rusty on the alcohol consumption and have grown to prefer wine over vodka.
The next morning, Anna arrived at 8:45 a.m., took charge of my diet and ordered me breakfast. She waited in the lobby on my floor, until I guess she couldn’t wait anymore and came charging into my room. I was working on my computer, so she just started reading some of the bakery journals I brought, then my photo portfolio. We had 40 minutes to wait for the driver. She went to visit with her cousin who works as a den mother on another floor.
We arrived at the bakery and were almost immediately seated in front of another table full of food and told to eat. It’s becoming clear to me that it’s all about the food. Perhaps it really was in Russia where my food problem began. I was led into the conference room, where 10 people awaited my arrival. Larissa introduced me like a VIP visitor from America who has come to help them with their sales problem. At one end of the table were samples of about 30 different products that they produce and at the other end of the table were the 8 samples I brought from the States. The pastry and bread chef proceeded to describe each product and cut up a sample for me. By the end of the session, mutilated loaves and pastries lay prostrate in piles on small plastic plates. I was surprised how much more room I actually had in my stomach. We sampled the stale California loaves of Artisan bread. I tried to do enough research into bread to paint a more or less realistic image of the diversity of the bread market in America. I’ll be spending the next few days trying to understand theirs.
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
Perhaps Larissa from Dr. Zhivago sat on this very train, in this very cabin crossing the country many years ago. The beriozka trees, or birch trees, ripe with green summer foliage meander past the dust stained windows of my cabin. The occasional dacha flickers in and out amidst the branches as though hide and seek were the game of choice here in the Russian countryside. Who lives there now? Side by side: old and new, big and small cabins stand side by side, like Cinderellas and step sisters lined up at the ball. It’s nearly 10 p.m., and the sky is just slowly growing gray and cobalt, a light peach mingling on the horizon above the green caps of the forest. Oh, how lovely and inspiring. The tea is hot, and the cookies are sweet, served with a delightful smile from the lady in uniform.
I arrived at the Sheremyetevo airport 35 hours ago. My seat mate from NY was a Russian Jewish immigrant named Allan. He was born in Ekaterinburg and has not been back for nearly 20 years. Today, he practices psychology with his Ukrainian wife in Santa Barbara. This trip will be a catharsis for him, as he returns to his motherland to retrieve the skeletons from his closet and bury the hatchet of his youth, one spent as a Jewish boy in an anti-semitic world in the middle of Siberia. Our conversation was philosophical for most of the journey, as we touched upon relationships, spirituality, education, capitalism and the fine art of drinking just enough to sleep, but not enough to get sick on a plane! They're now charging $5 per alcoholic beverage on trans-Atlantic Delta flights! Wish I'd known, I would have stopped and picked up a 4 pack of mini-red wines at the supermarket.
I have tried to open my eyes and ears to what I see and hear right now, but so many memories of my former life come flooding back to me. I see the past in my present, as I sit beside Barry, who sees only what is there now. Barry arrived on the same Delta flight from New York. He’s another volunteer with ACDI/VOCA and this is his first trip to Russia. How fascinating to spend my first day in Russia with a seafood processor and professor from North Carolina who has never stepped foot in Russia and doesn’t know a word of Russian! I have contemplated becoming a tour guide for Americans who want to come here, and after the profuse gratitude that Barry bestowed upon me, I think I should take this idea more seriously.
Upon arrival, I noticed immediately the patience of the passengers waiting their turn to get off the plane. I remember a time when nudging, defined as just short of shoving the person in front of you, was the norm. The line at passport control went slightly more quickly, and the light fixtures seemed to be a bit brighter. I was prepared to bribe the trolley person in baggage claim, when I saw a sign in Russian AND English that read, “free carts.” So, I put my money away and went over to fill out my customs card. I figured I would have plenty of time to retrieve my luggage, which would normally have taken 30 more minutes, but I had to rush over to grab my bag before it went around the carousel again! Boy, have times changed.
As I approached the 3 men at the green channel, I asked them in Russian as I handed them my customs declaration, “don’t you need this?” They looked at me with expectation that I was going to declare I was carrying guns or pot, then proceeded to read my declaration, rolled their eyes and handed it back to me. Now, I am starting to feel stupid. Thank goodness Sergei was there with an ACDI/VOCA sign. I might have tried to haggle with an official cabby, offending his yellow and black checkered good senses and his accurate little counterbox. Where's the mafia?
Driving down Leningradsky Shosse from Sheremyetevo airport, we hit horrible traffic. It’s summertime and that means millions of tourists and travelers bursting the edges of the highways around the city. As I was telling Barry a story, and I told him many in 35 hours, I gasped, “oh, my God,” in mid sentence as I noticed an enormous mall and cineplex on the left hand side of the highway. I almost thought somehow I was tricked and the Delta pilot had returned me to San Francisco and I was on 880 North just past the Dunbarton Bridge.
I tried so hard to anticipate seeing my 6th place of residence in Moscow along Leningradsky, and it seemed to be forever. We nearly passed it before I recognized it. IKEA was there before I left and seemed to be the same. A few new Mcdonald's as well as the enormous glitzy Audi and Mercedes dealerships lined the highway.
The real shock arrived when we emerged from Teatralnaya metro and something seemed to be missing. I asked several people, and indeed, the Moskva hotel was in that spot! I guess I’ll have to update my slide show, since THAT building no longer exists. Nor does the Intourist hotel. I’m beginning to feel a lot like Allan, although I have relatively young skeletons to dredge up.
We arrived at the Bega hotel next to the Hippodrome. They gave me a credit card type key, the ones you find in all hotels in America, instead of a clunky old Soviet key. My room was small and simple, but if I were a horse lover, the view was spectacular. I noticed immediately that I could get a wireless connection to the internet, so I signed myself up. I can’t complain. I can’t believe it, Moscow is truly almost like any other city in the civilized world! That’s exactly what Barry kept saying.
I arrived at the Sheremyetevo airport 35 hours ago. My seat mate from NY was a Russian Jewish immigrant named Allan. He was born in Ekaterinburg and has not been back for nearly 20 years. Today, he practices psychology with his Ukrainian wife in Santa Barbara. This trip will be a catharsis for him, as he returns to his motherland to retrieve the skeletons from his closet and bury the hatchet of his youth, one spent as a Jewish boy in an anti-semitic world in the middle of Siberia. Our conversation was philosophical for most of the journey, as we touched upon relationships, spirituality, education, capitalism and the fine art of drinking just enough to sleep, but not enough to get sick on a plane! They're now charging $5 per alcoholic beverage on trans-Atlantic Delta flights! Wish I'd known, I would have stopped and picked up a 4 pack of mini-red wines at the supermarket.
I have tried to open my eyes and ears to what I see and hear right now, but so many memories of my former life come flooding back to me. I see the past in my present, as I sit beside Barry, who sees only what is there now. Barry arrived on the same Delta flight from New York. He’s another volunteer with ACDI/VOCA and this is his first trip to Russia. How fascinating to spend my first day in Russia with a seafood processor and professor from North Carolina who has never stepped foot in Russia and doesn’t know a word of Russian! I have contemplated becoming a tour guide for Americans who want to come here, and after the profuse gratitude that Barry bestowed upon me, I think I should take this idea more seriously.
Upon arrival, I noticed immediately the patience of the passengers waiting their turn to get off the plane. I remember a time when nudging, defined as just short of shoving the person in front of you, was the norm. The line at passport control went slightly more quickly, and the light fixtures seemed to be a bit brighter. I was prepared to bribe the trolley person in baggage claim, when I saw a sign in Russian AND English that read, “free carts.” So, I put my money away and went over to fill out my customs card. I figured I would have plenty of time to retrieve my luggage, which would normally have taken 30 more minutes, but I had to rush over to grab my bag before it went around the carousel again! Boy, have times changed.
As I approached the 3 men at the green channel, I asked them in Russian as I handed them my customs declaration, “don’t you need this?” They looked at me with expectation that I was going to declare I was carrying guns or pot, then proceeded to read my declaration, rolled their eyes and handed it back to me. Now, I am starting to feel stupid. Thank goodness Sergei was there with an ACDI/VOCA sign. I might have tried to haggle with an official cabby, offending his yellow and black checkered good senses and his accurate little counterbox. Where's the mafia?
Driving down Leningradsky Shosse from Sheremyetevo airport, we hit horrible traffic. It’s summertime and that means millions of tourists and travelers bursting the edges of the highways around the city. As I was telling Barry a story, and I told him many in 35 hours, I gasped, “oh, my God,” in mid sentence as I noticed an enormous mall and cineplex on the left hand side of the highway. I almost thought somehow I was tricked and the Delta pilot had returned me to San Francisco and I was on 880 North just past the Dunbarton Bridge.
I tried so hard to anticipate seeing my 6th place of residence in Moscow along Leningradsky, and it seemed to be forever. We nearly passed it before I recognized it. IKEA was there before I left and seemed to be the same. A few new Mcdonald's as well as the enormous glitzy Audi and Mercedes dealerships lined the highway.
The real shock arrived when we emerged from Teatralnaya metro and something seemed to be missing. I asked several people, and indeed, the Moskva hotel was in that spot! I guess I’ll have to update my slide show, since THAT building no longer exists. Nor does the Intourist hotel. I’m beginning to feel a lot like Allan, although I have relatively young skeletons to dredge up.
We arrived at the Bega hotel next to the Hippodrome. They gave me a credit card type key, the ones you find in all hotels in America, instead of a clunky old Soviet key. My room was small and simple, but if I were a horse lover, the view was spectacular. I noticed immediately that I could get a wireless connection to the internet, so I signed myself up. I can’t complain. I can’t believe it, Moscow is truly almost like any other city in the civilized world! That’s exactly what Barry kept saying.
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
There are bikes in Moscow! Not many, and even I wouldn't want to ride my bike on the streets. These two young teens just bought their bikes a week ago and were smart enough to stick to the sidewalks outside the Russian whitehouse. The summer weather in Moscow has been perfect - 70's, breezy and warm, no humidity. We didn't manage to take a boat ride, as we decided to take the metro south to Kolomenskoye, a wonderful park with historical churches and a few old log cabins that were one summer residence for Peter the Great. We were debating whether or not to enter the tiny museum, and Barry and I were speaking English, so the woman at the entrance was going to charge me the Russian rate and Barry the foreigner rate (3 times the price). Barry refused (keep in mind, it was $2 for russians and $6 for foreigners). I have to admit, I was impressed she was going to charge me the Russian rate.
Saturday, June 25, 2005
I'm off tomorrow morning and I'm no techy. I've tried this blog thing before, and here goes again. I don't know if it'll work and I certainly know I can't spare the time to figure it out, but hey, procrastination can be fun! I think I have everything I need with me, although I'm sure I'll manage to need something that isn't available in Chuvashia. I hope I've left my bills paid. I still use the old-fashioned method of envelopes and stamps and monthly bill cycles mean paying in advance without the ease of invoices with account numbers and envelopes. I'll be leaving my car on the street and the window doesn't work, so anybody who wants a free buick with radiator troubles for a month, is welcome to it! I'll keep this brief (for me) to test the blog layout and make sure it works. At least I still have access to 1-800 numbers.
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