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.

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.

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.

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.