The Red Vineyard in Moscow

The faculty room was abuzz with the names of different places in the four corners of the wind. The long-awaited mid-term break had finally arrived, and most were looking forward to hightailing it out of Moscow. The names of various destinations and means of travel were spewed out in succession; cities and towns in the UK, off to London … connecting from Dublin, driving from Dublin airport, flying first class to Paris, Durban, South Africa, a resort in Turkey, Dubai, were among them. There were fervent discussions about one another’s activities and how great it was going to be not to be in Moscow, where people don’t speak English like in other big cities in Europe, and it was currently just too cold and grey. It would be nice to get some sun and eat some nice food elsewhere. None of these views about Moscow were untrue, but...

“No, I’m staying in Moscow. I still have a lot to explore here.” I replied, when asked if I was going somewhere.

“Well, enjoy Moscow then.”

“I certainly will. See you next week”.

For once, I was looking forward to a lie-in and leisurely strolls in Moscow; weather permitting, and that was an important condition. On Saturday I enjoyed my lie-in with the intention of starting my expeditions the next day.

Not unsurprisingly, Moscow was blanketed with a white sheet of snow on Sunday. I woke up to witness the first snowfall in Moscow on October 28^th – big, fast descending flakes for hours; long enough to pile up for deep, clear footprints all over the city. Had it continued snowing throughout the day, it would have been better. Unfortunately, as day broke and the temperature rose, it turned to rain. For hours, it rained non-stop. Most of the snow turned to slush and fast-flowing streams and puddles I had to jump over on my way to the Pushkin Museum - my chosen destination.

I made it safely to the metro which I rode to Krapotkinskaya. Outside, on my right stood the majestic white and gold-domed Christ the Savior Church where Pussy Riot had staged their infamous riot, the result of the worldwide, media-covered, on-going trial in Moscow. I was in the Museum Quarter where a series of palace-looking buildings housed the most prominent museums in Moscow – Roerich, Pushkin… and a few others. I successfully navigated my way across the street, over a pile of snow and fast running streams, narrowly escaping a heavy splash from a huge, speeding four-wheel drive to the museum. The 45-second journey took on the dangers of an expedition in the jungle.

At the museum, I went through the metal detector sans bag and umbrella. Cleared of any subversive acts, I proceeded to the cloakroom to unburden myself from the coat and wet umbrella to enjoy a tour of the three floors housing canvases and sculptures of contemporary art authored by some of the most famous hands and brushstrokes in the history of the art world.

Although the price of the ticket was not an exorbitant amount, I was not happy to be charged exactly double what Russian citizens would pay. It wasn't the ticket seller's decision, so why would I address it? And even if I'd wanted to, I doubt that it would have been possible. She had the phone receiver glued to her ear during the whole transaction, engaged in an apparently important, interesting conversation with her interlocutor on the other side of the line. I duly paid my 400 rubles and walked up to the first floor.

What a pleasant surprise to be welcomed by all these familiar artists' works – Goya, Corot, Constable, Fortuny, Ingres, Courbet, and to discover a few I didn't know, Virgile Narcisse Diaz de la Pena or Jean-Baptiste Carpeaux. Interspersed among the beautifully framed canvases, were the museum wardens sleeping peacefully in their comfortable, sometimes, uncomfortable, chairs. This is a repeated scene in most Russian museums - grey-haired, sullen-looking, elderly women employed as wardens, openly taking naps on the job without a care in the world. I wondered if the CCTV cameras actually worked as people photographed paintings, and warden dosed away; both usually, utterly forbidden elsewhere.

The opportunity to take in all those works, colors, scenes, portraits was a wonderful treat. And it didn't end there. The second floor offered an even greater variety with Degas's well-known ballerinas among many others, as well as more sleeping babushkas. The third floor housed the Matisses, Chagalls, Legers, Rousseaus, Picassos, Miros, Kandinskys. My plate was overflowing, but I kept adding more spoonfuls of art to it. I couldn't get enough. I also discovered Boris Taslitsky and Utrillo – another wonderful treat. It was just sublime!

I found the Pushkin Museum to be a manageable, bite-size museum where I was able to spend about three hours of a very leisurely morning. Although there were other visitors, it was very comfortable to move around and stand in front of a painting for as long as I wanted, alone, or sit on the comfortable benches provided in some of the rooms to contemplate the scenes depicted in the paintings and get lost in them.

The abundance of paintings from different eras of French painters, Renoirs, Monets, Pissaros, Cezannes, as well as a few paintings from Picasso's blue period, all transported me to the Musee d’Orsay in Paris, filled with paintings of contemporary art, where it is unfortunately almost always crowded. Similarly the Louvre and the Hermitage, both venues of impossibly long queues, elbowing, pushing and shoving, where a strong athletic background and a fat wallet seem to be the entry requirements. Eventually, you get in after paying a hefty price for an entrance ticket, but you find you are exhausted and hungry after standing for three hours, or more, in inclement weather. You need rest, sustenance and refreshment, so you spend a small fortune in the museum cafeteria recovering and refuelling before you embark on the viewing tour which you cannot enjoy as a result of all of the above. Not to mention the merchandising; gift shops selling books, fridge magnets, calendars, posters, note pads, mouse pads, kitchen towels and every imaginable object with the print of a well-known work of art on it.

The thought of the absence of those hurdles created an atmosphere of enjoyable intimacy at the Pushkin museum; a pleasant contrast to previously exhausting experiences in over-crowded museums which I have decided not to endure anymore. Despite the intense revelry of walking around admiring the masterpieces, at the end of the tour I felt I had room for more. 

I could easily have done another tour, but I chose instead, to just take two of my favorite paintings home with me. I could look at them every day as they brightened and livened the bare white walls of my apartment, in contrast with the grey skies I can see, and will be looking at for the next, possibly, six months. I chose Van Gogh's “The Red Vineyard” and one of the several themes of Matisse's “The Painter’s Studio”.

The Red Vineyard, as the title suggests is predominantly red in the foreground. Several harvesters, both men and women, can be seen hunched over attending to the grapes. The women are dressed in long skirts, men in pants, a rudimentary farm look about them, and one distinct figure standing among the workers, holding an umbrella - the overseer, more than likely. The luxury of an umbrella while the others labor away under the hot sun! A vividly scorching sun, which occupies the far right corner of the canvas in a bright yellow, projecting strong, yellow rays reflected on the river which occupies the bottom right of the canvas. A lucky fellow is fortunate to be wading in it, possibly freshening up after several hours of work.

A straight row of mature, leafy trees with seemingly manicured, triangular big boughs and big, circular trunks act as a demarcation territory between the vineyard and the main road occupying the left side of the canvas. A tractor with a lonely driver missing the fun in the vineyard stands alone in the middle ground, far from the vines – his only companion is the worker currently unloading a basket of harvested grapes into the buggy.

A hut, possibly the workers living quarters can be seen not too far from the vineyards, whereas far beyond the vineyard, the tractor, and the hut, on the right, we can see a series of concrete buildings which could be the church, and vineyard owner’s chateau.

The Painter’s Studio, a huge wall-size painting showing exactly what the title professes is also a very colorful scene; a room with a predominantly pink floor, a carpet, a yellow floor mat, walls painted in mauve and a high window which opens onto a garden with leafy trees, currently closed.

An easel, several rudimentary stools and coffee tables with ornamental objects have been placed at different angles. The main object which draws the audience into the picture, however, seems to be a divider draped with a bright blue blanket with yellow motifs. It is unbelievably suggestive. What happens behind the divider? Is the blanket always on the divider, or is it removed at times to be draped over something else? A body, perhaps?  Several vases, which may contain drinking water, or meant for cleaning have been strategically placed around the room as well. The bright colors and the cosiness depicted in the room made it difficult to leave it behind.

Both paintings are currently hanging on the walls of my apartment. The Matisse is in on the left wall as I walk into my bedroom. It is keeping my bed and bedside tables company, and the Van Gogh, much smaller, is on the living room wall, just above my desk where I can see it now as I write. Virtually.

Sensual Shopping

Colorful, hand-painted matryoshkas of various sizes and prices, raccoon and fox fur hats, fine goats hair scarves and garments, Soviet-era maps, music boxes, precious stones, watches, antiques, icons, Faberge eggs, books, photographs, wooden toys, dead animals' heads; some beautiful, some not so beautiful, all enclosed in the walls of Ismailovsky Market. It lived up to its reputation as a Russian souvenir shopper’s paradise, as my two companions filled their bags with gifts for their families back home.

It wasn't as crowded as it usually is in the summer with the hordes of tour groups around Moscow – that season is over for the next few months, and colder, despite the mid-October afternoon clear skies. The merchandise, shops and sales people had not changed much, although this time I came across two African salesmen I hadn't seen on my previous visits. One of them from Congo at a shop selling products made of malachite, was an extremely gregarious character who addressed me as his “sister”, and did his best to get us a generous discount for a set of Matryoshkas from his neighbor’s stall. We had a good laugh as he playfully engaged with the woman in an argument about giving away the merchanidise. “Are you husband and wife?” I ask. He said they weren't, but added that the woman was in love with him, which gave place to more glee as he playfully teased, hugged and kissed her. We thanked them both for their help and moved on.

It is a short walk from Partizanskaya metro station, included on the tour of metro stations organized by the Museum of Architecture in Moscow.  The station deserves more than a perfunctory glance to admire the rectangular columns and the two gigantic statues on the platform commemorating a male and female Soviet hero and heroine. Another monument to party militants and workers stands high atop a pedestal in the vestibule - people with their work tools, weapons and ammunition, heavily protected in thick winter coats beautifully molded in solid bronze. Outside, the street leading to the market always seems busy with people on their way there, to the adjacent shopping mall or hotels in the area, or to the Kremlin for a wedding ceremony.

We paid the ten-ruble entrance fee at the gate and walked in. Our first stop was at a stand with several knick-knacks, among them a few metal tea boxes. Rusty, dented and unable to close properly, they certainly were antiques. The salesman eagerly informed us that the oldest one dated from 1840, as the date on the box testified, and it looked like it was from that era. It cost five thousand rubles – more than a hundred dollars. A slightly newer one was said to date from 1920. We showed little interest in that one and were not informed of the price. I hadn't shown any interest in any of the boxes, my friends chose not to spend that kind of money, so we thanked the man for his kindness and walked on past more and more matryoshkas of various shapes, sizes, glitter, colors and appearances.

We gravitated to a stand of very nicely decorated compact mirrors which had captured our interest. Affordable, they seemed to be the perfect gifts from Moscow for female friends. We spent a few minutes there looking at different ones and bought a few. We were drawn to another shop that sold Christmas decorations. They were worth having as they differed from the usual ornaments I had seen outside of Russia. Beyond the market walls from that stall, you could see the colorful turrets of the Ismailovo Kremlin Walls where a few wedding couples were headed to immortalize this special day on a digital screen or film.

We eventually found one of my companions who had gone off on her own busily chatting to a fur hat salesman and trying on different ones as she posed for pictures in them.  We heard her loud laugh a few meters away. It was certainly an enjoyable moment which she described as the most sensual experience she had had since she came to Moscow. She described the young man's detailed attention in placing the hat on her head and gently adjusting it before giving her a mirror to look at herself. He seemed an expert at it. She turned this way and that, threw her head back, laughed flirtatiously with the young man of Asian features she was busy entertaining, but not making a purchase. She tried on a few more hats, fox, raccoon, another fox one of a different color. I am convinced it was more to experience the salesman's sensual touch than to find one that fit to buy. A few hats, laughs and photographs later, we thanked the man, who unfortunately had not managed to make a sale but must have had a good time being entertained by a tourist, and left promising to come back another time.

We made another stop before we headed to the smoky barbecue stand for lunch. An elderly man was at a stand selling wooden toys – bears on a see-saw, bears on bicycles, bears building furniture and the cutest tray of pecking hens with a handle to shake the hens into action. It looked adorable; an alternative to a rattle with a gentler sound. I helped the salesman and my friends to breach the language barrier needed to conduct business successfully. The satisfaction derived from the business transaction earned me a gift for my services as a translator. Not only was I proud that my linguistic skills had been acknowledged, but glad as well that they had been honored.

Just as we were about to leave, another customer who had engaged my companions in conversation at the toy stand, and whom I had taken to be Russian asked for my help with the salesman. He wanted to buy the tray of pecking hens for his nephew, he said. He then asked for several ones in different colors. Did he say nephew or nephews? I wondered. We found out to our surprise that he was Italian and christened him Luigi or Giovanni. He did not offer his name and we did not insist on finding out. The rest of the evening was spent making jokes about Giovanni or Luigi. I had not had Shannon’s sensual shopping experience, but I have my gift to keep forever as a reminder of this eventful day – a miniature blue and white matryoska with blue eyes, big, bushy eyelashes and a friendly smile. The first part of the shopping done with overwhelming experiences, it was time for some rest and a meal.

The cooks manning the barbecue grills were eager for us to get some food and offered us a variety of choices. To make sure we would stay and eat, they assured us that the meat and fish were fresh and offered us pieces to taste. It seemed a pleasant enough place with pleasant enough people so we chose to stay. The chicken, fish and lamb kebabs we were served, washed down with warm wine was delicious. We greatly enjoyed it all and profusely thanked the two kind babushkas who came to clear the table for us. All done, we complied and dutifully paid the tourist fees we were charged although we live in Moscow. We had a chance to go through our purchases as we waited for our meal, admired them, commented on them and thought about the recipients as well as what their reaction to the gifts would be.

Our tummies filled, and feeling warmer than when we first arrived, we took another lazy tour around the market, and although we could see the vodka museum in the distance, we decided to leave that for another time. It had been a late start to the day and we had to prepare for work the next. We hadn't had time to go to the top floor to see the antique icons either. With that in mind, we scheduled another visit to the market to go to the places we had missed.

More Celebrations - Teacher Appreciation Day

No sooner had we reveled in the joy of the festivities commemorating 'back to school', than we had the opportunity to do so again. This time we were to be honored as teachers in Russia on October 5th. Friends, colleagues and acquaintances in different parts of Russia posted Happy Teachers' Day messages on social networking sites, with or without pictures or smiley faces. All had a reason to bring in goodies to combat the munchies when they could finally take a breather from their heavy schedules – it would be the time to share a joke or two about what Masha, Dasha or Sasha said; or what Misha or Grisha had done; or what Denis didn't do. Every class seems to have one or two of these names so their ears must be ringing all the time.

I was in an exuberant mood as I braced the strong winds on my half-hour walk to work; more because it was Friday and another hard week had come to an end. I was anticipating the busy weekend ahead of me during which I would be able to take care of personal errands and attend a cultural activity or two. As I walked on, I looked at the poor trees gradually shedding their green-turned-yellow leaves, shedding their protective shield and beauty, soon to become stark trunks and sticks covered in icicles. However, that was yet to come, so I was enjoying the crisp morning weather all muffled up. Children going to other schools in the vicinity were laden with different sizes and colors of bouquets and gift boxes, obviously for their beloved teachers. My earlier mood piqued even higher to see such appreciation from caring students. Were they caring, or were they atoning for all the grief they'd given the teacher just this first month of school, and paving the way for all that there was to come?

At the gate, I was welcomed by a 'Happy Teachers' Day' from the security guard, sans smile of course, but I was still thankful for the acknowledgement, and showed him my gratitude as I wished him the same. I hadn't expected anything else until I walked into the basement where the faculty room is located, or at least as it is known by name, to be received by a sumptuous spread in the work area. Maria, the kind, lively, friendly retired worker now turned cleaner at our school, welcomed me with a warm smile as she wished me a Happy Teachers' Day. I can’t generalize that people here are unfriendly – there are all sorts. She had come in earlier than usual to clean up and set the table before the teachers arrived. I thanked her profusely for her hard work and her kindness, then we exchanged a few niceties and a few laughs about mundane issues.

The table, which under normal circumstances is never big enough for more than six teachers to sit around at a time to do any work, was laden with all sorts of treats squeezed next to one another - all sugar and flour-based. Usually an early bird, I was the second to arrive that morning. Perfunctory greetings exchanged between the first arrival and me, he went on to make his morning coffee, ready to help himself to a giant portion of cake, or cookies, or pastries, or all three to keep the spare tire growing. Knowing I could not partake in this feast, I took a picture as a reminder of this important occasion in Russia which I don’t remember experiencing anywhere else. That done, I headed to the third floor where my lessons usually take place.

At the summit, I yelled my wishes across the hallway to my colleague and friend Vera Nikolaevna who volleyed them back at me. We had our usual discussions about the day, what lay ahead of us and back to our rooms to get on with work. Our students started arriving, likewise laden with bouquets and gift bags, as I’d seen on my way in. I wasn't particularly looking forward to receiving anything; a day without having to raise my voice or send anyone out of class, or a promise not to do so for the rest of the semester would have been enough for me, and actually the best gift I could receive – but alas! We don’t always get what we want, do we? 

A student I’d sent out of class more than once this week and threatened to go further handed me a small carrier bag. I accepted it graciously and thanked him, however, he refused to give me a hug in exchange. At the end of the day, I opened the bag to find a beige, long-sleeved, polo-neck lycra top - surprising. He saw me everyday and knew my size but I didn't expect that. A later discussion with some other teachers revealed they got the same item from the same student. Was it from their shop and not selling well? It certainly didn't look cheap.

I received more gifts from the same class where the same students have caused me, on numerous occasions, to lose my voice; the same three I could live very happily without. One of them presented me with a gold and red gift bag containing items from a cosmetics store which uses natural products for soaps and creams. They were nicely wrapped in a yellow and black kerchief with a bumble bee tag. It felt soft and mushy, and smelled very nice. It would come in handy for the long, relaxing, nicely-scented bath I was anticipating at the end of the day, thanks to those three. The icing on the cake was receiving a gift from the most behavior-challenged student in that class who actually abused me verbally a few months ago. He had clearly manifested his dislike for me and the language I teach, which he was not interested in learning or speaking, for that matter. I wasn't sure whether to accept his gift which would be a reminder of a very unpleasant, ongoing situation with no prospects of improving, but I did. I thanked him to be gracious, but clearly expressed my surprise, and would have given my left arm to know what was going on in his head.

Every time I descended to the bowels of the school building for copies, books or other business, there was a number of teachers sitting around the table, happily savoring the spread which no longer was. It had been gradually dwindling as teachers in their free time sat to chat, mull and munch.  By the end of the day, the plates were wiped clean, except for the crumbs left around. Maria would stay behind to take care of that, just like she had come in earlier to set it all out. I thanked her for her work, although I did not have a single bite of any of the food. I made sure she felt appreciated too, and gave her one of my several boxes of chocolates which I hope she could enjoy by herself, or with her coworkers when she put the mop in its place to take a breather.

At the end of the day, I sat down to take care of the usual administrative duties a teacher is responsible for, in addition to planning and delivering lessons. My inbox was graced with a group email to all the teachers from the general director in poor English as usual, acknowledging the event and asking the teachers to enjoy the food provided. I could't help but think that the departed head teacher would have had an assembly with the teachers and students, reminded the students about the significance of the day and reminded them that it wasn't just about gifts and food. It is more about cooperation, hard work, respect, trust and creating an atmosphere where all are happy to work and learn. It is too late now to go back and celebrate the European day of Languages which was not acknowledged. I have decided that wherever I am next year, I will take it upon myself to celebrate it, even it is just in my classroom, to raise awareness.

The celebrations continued over the weekend, although in honor of different occasions. I had been invited to break bread with some of my colleagues for Canadian Thanksgiving. Unfortunately, I took a rain check because I had also been invited to Vinzavod. I felt a quiet walk around art galleries, art and antique shops appealed more to me than more merrymaking. At the end of the day I was glad I chose the latter. Tonight, it's the Kremlin Palace for another ballet - the Gala of Russian Ballet Stars.

Sister Act in Moscow

The gale force winds and heavy rain the day before were in no way indicative of how bright, dry and sunny it would be the next. As such, it was impossible to resist an invitation for a walk in the pleasant, warm weather. The forecast has predicted a colder winter than usual this year, compelling us Moscow-dwellers to make the most of the few possible outdoor city activities before it actually hits.

Along the Garden Ring, I walked from Sretensky Bulevar metro station, past the monuments to Alexander Griboyedov and Nadezhda Krupskaya, and finally to the church within the convent walls where I was to experience for the first time an all-female small choir sing at the opening of Saturday evening mass. Alexander Griboyedov was a 19^th century playwright and diplomat, whereas Nadezhda Krupskaya was no other than the wife of Vladimir Ilych Lenin, a revolutionary, no surprise there, and a writer. That section of the pedestrian walk was being remodeled, and it seemed to me that Nadezhda was getting a face lift as well, so I couldn’t get close enough.

There seemed to be a great amount of bronze in the area. The third statue I saw within that short walking distance was not of a person, but a goat. It was hanging on the wall over the door outside a Czech beer bar called “kozyol”, meaning billy-goat - looking down, I suppose, at the drinkers. It was an interesting sight right opposite the Church of the Assumption of the Virgin. A short walk further along the Garden Walk brought me to an imposing building on my left. It had the customary thick walls of the monasteries I’d seen all over the city, but differed in color. It was red. The domes within the walls confirmed it would be a church, and further investigation revealed it to be Nativity Monastery. It is said to have been founded in 1380, and is one of Moscow’s oldest monasteries.

I donned a headscarf at the entrance as is customary, and ventured in, surprised to see a uniformed security officer on the premises. I had never encountered one during any of my visits to other religious institutions in Russia. I walked past him to look around and was welcomed by beautifully manicured lawns and well-tended flower gardens. The colorful flowers looked healthy in their beds and invited to be picked, but I resisted the urge. It was quiet. Visitors and church-goers walked silently or spoke undertone. It seemed difficult to believe I was in the heart of a big city with a population of about 12 million.

The comforting silence was broken by the sound of bells chiming in the imposing bell tower under which you had to walk to enter the monastery grounds. It was painted in a pastel yellow. Unlike the gongs signaling the time of day in churches elsewhere, the sound of church bells ringing in Russia is always a pleasant tune. A friend once said she liked to hear them "rocking the bells”. It wasn't unlike the feeling you would get in a gospel church. I waited till the ringing was over before I made my way into the church on the second floor.

My initial intention was just to take a look around, admire the interior architecture and decoration, possibly try to steal a picture, enjoy the atmosphere and leave. The iconostasis was white and gold. I’d been used to seeing a darker shade of wood. Was it because it was a convent? The paintings of all the religious figures were in white and gold frames, the walls were a pale blue covered in frescoes, and for the first time I saw nuns. In an elevated headdress, they were draped in long, black, floating habits. As they hastily gathered, their robes swish-swishing, I realized I had come just in time to witness the beginning of a liturgy; happy to have the experience.

Led by one of the nuns, the small choir, made up of nuns and secular ladies in headscarves and long skirts, sang melodiously. Her hands moved gracefully and sharply in the air as she signaled the pitches and dips and rounded it all up. Full of rhythm though the song was, it was not as daring as the ones Whoopi Goldberg’s character in Sister Act had her fellow sisters bobbing their heads, tapping their feet and eventually dancing to. Nonetheless, I could not help but reminisce about the American comedy set in a convent in New York as the singing filled the church creating an uplifting atmosphere.

After the first hymn was over, the priest came out with his incense burner from behind the iconostasis, a purple and silver-threaded robe over his black cassock, his beard nicely kempt and his hair held in a neat pony tail. A path was opened from him to walk through and all bowed to receive his blessing as he swung the incense burner in each person’s direction – an act of purification, I presumed. I was one of them and followed their example, getting a whiff of the incense. His deed done, he returned to where he had emerged from behind the iconostasis. Invisible, but audible, he called out phrases according to the ritual, and these were responded to by the choir in song, as the small congregation on their feet made the sign of the cross over and over again, bowed and touched the floor. The solemnity of the place and the ritual was very touching. The 70 years of repression and persecution of those who dared believe flashed through my mind and I applauded their faith. After a few minutes partaking in this service, I mouthed a few phrases in thanks and left.

I walked around on the peaceful monastery grounds again. There were three churches altogether. The main one I visited open to the public, and two others shut to the public – possibly undergoing restoration. A long row of doors and window were probably the monks' and nuns' cells. The security guard was carefully watching for any trespassers, stifling my urge to sneak beyond the barriers. I had enjoyed my visit and was happy to have made this discovery on my walk. As I made my way out of the gate, I looked back and made a promise to myself to come back for another visit.

I reached Trubnaya Square continuing my walk along the Garden Ring shortly after leaving the monastery. In fact, from Trubnaya Square with its column commemorating all the Russian soldiers fallen in the line of duty, you could see the imposing red fortress-like building on a promontory, with the majestic domes and golden orthodox crosses. Back at the square, at the base of the column is an engraving of another replica of the Pieta. It seems to me that this Italian sculpture by Michelangelo is the most copied piece of art - I have seen replicas even in India. It also seemed to be a convenient spot for people to advertise their wares as the ground was covered with several colorful ones.

A few meters away was the Moscow modern theater staging “Snow”, and not far from this appeared an interesting discovery - an amphitheater-like structure, with an elevated stage in the open air with three levels of bleachers. I could only assume that amateur plays would be staged there in good weather; there not being any signs anywhere to indicate what it was. I took a seat on the hard, cold, middle level bleachers to get a feel of what it was like, but could not conjure any images. I wouldn’t expect them to be staging Shakespeare. Russian literature has more than enough plays of its own without having to resort to the English bard to liven up the city.

The Garden Ring seemed to have a lot of interesting cultural attractions. Several people wielding cameras, aiming and clicking away drew my attention to look the direction of the object they were all concentrating on. Quite easy to miss is the façade of Number 4 Krapivensky Pereulok on a small side street. An Art Nouveau building sporting brown, white and black bricks and Arabesque arches worth a picture. I could see other churches in the horizon, but had settled for a short walk and chose to move on. Passing a Ukranian restaurant along the way, a host offered free copies of the restaurant publication. The cover I soon realized was graced by a full-size picture and signature of Steven Seagal, as well as short note thanking the restaurant for the best food he’d enjoyed. He certainly looked like he enjoyed his food, and not only at this Ukranian restarant - Korchma.

 The walk was over for that day. Fortunate to live in Moscow, I could leave the rest of the route for another time, so I joined two colleagues at a French coffee shop with the best macaroons ever. I had an assortment of macaroons and some red fruit tea to celebrate a great day.

Pechatniki - a quiet suburb in Moscow

Phoebe Taplin, writing in the Moscow News, an independent online newspaper, calls those who venture towards the end of the light-green line on the Moscow metro “intrepid explorers”. I would like to consider myself one of those intrepid explorers, although I visited and explored the area in the south-eastern suburbs after I’d moved out to live in another part of Moscow.

I first arrived in the Pechatniki district from Domodedovo airport on a January 6^th. I had been expecting the weather to be mercilessly cold, and difficult to deal with as I’d flown in from Abu Dhabi, but I was very comfortable in my protective gear. The ground everywhere was covered in snow and ice. Despite the very low temperatures and dark skies, children and their parents were having fun in the park in front of the building I was to move into. I could see a make-shift ski slope in the playground. Some took to tobogganing. Others were actually on skis and holding poles.

From my fifth floor apartment, I had the view of a school, a hospital, and slightly further ahead, a white church building with black gables and gold trimmings. I later found out that the church was actually a monument that had been built on the site of a terrorist-bombed building which killed scores of families in 1999. The bombs had been detonated at midnight when most were very likely to be sleeping. On the way home one evening, an African taxi driver narrated to me in detail the order of events as he had experienced it, living not too far from the devastating occurrence at the time.  I took in that view every morning, as I made and had breakfast before I set out, and gave a thought to the victims.

What with the freezing weather which lasted till May, and the time I needed to adjust to my new job and new host city, exploring the neighborhood was the last thing on my mind.  As the weather got warmer, I made my first attempt and set out for the Nikolo-Perervinsky Monastery I’d heard of. It was a nice walk there, but it was closed, so I enjoyed a walk along the river instead. Seeing people in the park barbecuing, riding bikes, running around, listening and dancing to music, lying on the grass, just enjoying the pleasant atmosphere was a very refreshing sight. It had taken a long time for all those layers to come off, and I was enjoying the effect of the nice weather as well. However, before I could go on more walks to explore the area where I lived, I had moved out to another apartment, and so it was that when I came back to Pechatniki to visit the monastery I wanted to view from the inside, it was as an “outsider”.

I was greeted by the familiar convenience stores in Guryanova Street just outside the metro station, where languages other than Russian were mostly heard. These stores were interspersed with rotisserie chicken and shwarma stands manned by Uzbeks, Tajiks and nationals of some of the countries of the former Soviet Union; donning chef’s hats, sharpening their long knives ready for business as they painstakingly avoided making eye contact with me or stared blatantly – there was no middle ground. I reminisced about my way home from the metro after work when I’d get some chicken, or some fruit, depending on what I needed. They always wished me “priyatnovo apetita” and I thanked them for wishing me an enjoyable meal. They saw me walk by every day and I interacted with them more often than not, but the reaction was always the same.  

This time though, I wasn’t there for grilled chicken or fruit, so I walked on past the stores, minding my own business. I crossed the road and for the first time ventured into a small shopping center I had passed by every day for several months but had never entered. I found a clothes shop selling coats at affordable prices; something unusual in Moscow and very appropriate for the upcoming season. I also walked around a drugstore where I purchased a few items. I was discovering Pechatniki.

The shopping done, I set off for my intended destination along Shosseynaya Street. It was a nice walk in the cool streets. Although sunny, the clouds in the horizon were menacing rain. I figured that I could be there and done before the downpour started. Soon enough, the blue domes of the monastery loomed into sight on a busy single-carriage road at a traffic light. It was Sunday and the church was open for service. A few amputees in wheel chairs were sitting a few steps away from the gates whose hinges were built into the fortified walls typical of the monasteries I’ve seen in Russia. On the right hand-side as I walked in, was a building housing the gift shop, icons, and I presumed the monks’ cells. Straight ahead is the statue of what I thought would be a representative of the Russian Orthodox Church. I took in the sight on the church grounds in sunlight and eventually made my way inside.

It was warm. Hundreds of candles could be seen burning, lit by loved ones for the departed and for those in need. Mass was being said, the congregation made signs of the cross when prompted to, mothers were carrying children tired of standing as is customary in the Russian Orthodox Church. A few young monks in black cassocks were gracefully chanting what sounded to me like Gregorian music.The head priest with his long shoulder-length blond hair and carefully trimmed beard, head crowned in a miter and colorful robes over his cassock, was reading the gospel in a powerful voice. I only understood snippets, but enjoyed the solemn atmosphere.

After a few minutes, I joined a queue requesting prayers. My request was for a sick friend of mine undergoing treatment for a serious illness. I wanted her to get well, for herself, for her family and so that we could sit, chat and laugh as we used to. Although I’m not Russian Orthodox, I have prayed in mosques, in Buddhist and Hindu temples, as well as other places not conducive to prayer. I thought to myself, what difference does it make? Every little bit counts. Then it was my turn. The woman looked strangely at me, wondering how she would communicate with this person. I snapped out of my reverie of visits to different places of worship and addressed her in Russian, making my request. I gave her the piece of paper I’d written my friend’s name on and what I wanted the prayer for.

“Are you Catholic or Orthodox?” she asked me kindly.

“Catholic” I answered, wondering why I could only be either in her eyes.

She looked at the paper, back at me and asked me to wait a minute. She left her post and ran through the crowd of worshippers to the altar to confer with the one in charge, I speculated. After a few minutes of absence, forcing every one behind me to wait and wonder what was happening, she returned with a smile. She said it would be alright, however, since I was not Orthodox, I would have to pay ten rubles. I happily forked out the amount and added some for candles I wanted to light. My prayer request accepted, clutching my candles, I went off happily to light them. I stood in the church a little longer, admiring the architecture, the frescoes and the iconostasis before turning around and walking out. The sermon was still going on.

Outside, I took a deep breath of the cool, fresh air, looked up at the sky and saw the dark clouds getting closer as the faint sunlight was disappearing. It was time to start walking back. A short tour of the grounds again, a quick look in the gift shop and back onto Shosseynaya to the metro. There was an open market close to the metro which I had been to previously when I lived there, and fancied looking at the fresh produce again – vegetables, fruit, honey, pickles, nuts. It was a pleasant stroll and the atmosphere in the market was noisy, chatty, lively with different whiffs from different stands. Some very pleasant, others not so pleasant.  All of a sudden my adventure was over. It was time for me to get back on the metro and head back home.

Unlike some of the very elaborately decorated metro stations in Moscow, Pechatniki is nothing to write home about; brown rectangular pillars on the platform on both sides as in a central nave in a cathedral. It was built in 1995 according to the plaque and the floor is kept clean. Just before I descended underground and was welcomed by the loud screeching of the metal wheels on rails, I felt I was being asked when I would return. “Soon”, I answered, “before the first snowfall”. The forecast says the first part of this winter in Moscow is going to be colder than usual. I am bracing myself for it. That will be the best time for museum visits. 

Expat Life

It is inevitable, whenever a group of expatriates get together, no matter how hard they try, that the conversation does not focus on their woes about living in their host country – communication difficulties due to language barriers, bad service in shops and restaurants, the major differences between how things are done back home and how their done where they currently live, the weather, the food, most importantly the situation at work, which is why they are here, and every other possible inconvenience they may have encountered.

Everyone has an interesting anecdote to tell with vivid descriptive details which keep the gathering lively as the drinks are flowing, glasses and jugs are repeatedly clinked at every new round, toasts are made to new resolutions and the new buzzword for the week is voiced in unison and laughter to share this very special inside joke. Those outside the circle need an explanation for this new phrase which they would add to their personal dictionary and may or may never use. Everyone is having a good time laughing at someone else’s sorrows and for a few hours we all forget that these same situations had us fuming, screaming, cursing, threatening to kill whoever was at the source of the trouble. For the duration of the get-together, as in confession, our sorrows, anger, anxiety, frustration and overall tension are washed away with the drinks and the revelations until we go back to our routines.

The mood was festive at “Torro Grill” in Pervaya Dubrovskaya Street where we had all met to celebrate the birthdays of two colleagues – Mike and Laura, secondary and primary teacher respectively. Several tables had been put together for us at a non-smoking back room to form an L-shape in order to accommodate about twenty people. As is usually the case, people sitting together just hold conversations in their little group till a roar of laughter has everyone else with an enquiring look facing the direction it came from hoping to be made privy to the cause of such hilarity. The story is repeated loudly to be shared with all at the insistence of those who feel left out and finally everyone joins in the merrymaking.

Except for a few people in the group, all the rest were new staff who had been in Moscow for barely a month. Most were still experiencing cultural shock, but doing their best to settle in. One had actually just arrived two days earlier and not settled in yet. It was our first big social group meeting and a great opportunity for all, as we hardly said more than a few words of greetings to one another when we met in the hallways on our way to class. We would all finally have the opportunity to unload what had been bothering us.

Work, however minimally mentioned, was bound to be discussed. There was a story about the general director telling teachers who had gone to request to be paid, to manage their money better.  “How insulting is that!” I exclaimed. “And what did you say back to him?” I asked. The teacher in question said she informed him they had not been paid, therefore there was nothing to be managed or mismanaged. The fact that he only responded with a blank stare sparked a whole range of opinions about him, voiced out freely in his absence. There were stories about this same general director’s lack of understanding of curriculum-based issues, and suggestions offered about how to deal with it, or harsh criticism about these shortcomings.  I was part of the latter. In the course of these discussions, a gentleman who had been dining at another table approached ours. He had heard American accents and wanted to make sure we were all registered to vote. He offered explanations on how to get our absentee ballots, how to mail it and the whole procedure. He was very friendly and I'm hoping to meet him at the party he said he would be throwing. His interruption was welcome as it steered us away from the topic of work on to other subjects for a while.

The waitress could not look more irritated when she had to take our order. You would think we had crashed at her house and demanded she cook for us. I ordered an ostrich burger on the menu to be adventurous, only to be rebuked that this particular restaurant didn’t serve this meal, although no one had taken the trouble to remove it from the menu. I finally ordered grilled salmon, which was served burned on one side, and steak fries. I haven’t been disciplined about my resolution to stay away from white carbs and thoroughly enjoyed them, and even had another serving. It was a special occasion, after all. The orders took long enough to arrive to irritate most people by the time it finally did.

While we waited, different people shared their horror stories. There was one about the teacher who had arrived at 3 am and was taken into a sparsely-furnished apartment with only a bed, mattress and a couch. She had to sleep in her coat and go to work the next morning, practically a few hours later, without a shower since there were no towels, soap or shower gel to use. She had assumed she would be in a hotel for a few days which would give her time to prepare for her new living arrangements. What a rude awakening! By the end of her first week, she was off sick for two days from the lack of rest, jet lag and difficulty adjusting at such speed, basically from shock.

Then there was the one that had us all in stitches. It was about paying utility bills and Murphy’s Law. The first few months I lived in Moscow, I was lucky enough to have someone take care of it for me, and even then I found it complicated. It was complicated enough that I didn’t want to hear the intricacies of it anymore after it had been explained to me the first time. I just wanted to be told how much I owed and to fork out the money. The bill is sent to you but the amount to be paid is not clear. Ildar, a math teacher at our school, helped me take care of it. He would come to my house once a month when the bill arrived, and would spend no less than half an hour on this task. I always found it baffling. I have since moved to another place where it is included in my rent so I have been spared this torture.

The first time he came, he asked me for a device I still haven’t found a name for. When he asked me for it, his words were “do you have that thing for the bathroom?” The thing for the bathroom could be anyone’s guess. He then said that there was supposed to be something that you used to open something in the bathroom, in exactly these words. I remembered that when I first moved into the apartment, I found a plastic, orange, plunger-looking device with a handle where you would fit your knuckles. Not knowing what it was, I moved it aside carefully as I arranged my toiletries. Fortunately, I remembered exactly where it had placed it and brought it to him asking if that was what he was looking for. His face lit up as he realized his visit had not been in vain.

I handed it over to him and he headed to the bathroom where he proceeded to remove a tile from the wall. I looked at him, bemused, as he proceeded to detach the tile under which the water meter miraculously appeared. I chose not to ask how he knew which tile to detach since all along, that tile did not look detachable to me. With a flashlight, he read and noted the reading, carefully putting the tile back. He then went to the electricity meter and repeated the procedure. After that he sat at my kitchen table fiddling with numbers for about fifteen minutes. I had to ask what was taking so long. He explained to me that there were different rates for different times of day which had to be computed accordingly, then added and finally determining the total amount to be paid. Being winter, there were heater bills, snowplowing bills, the building janitorial bills, elevator maintenance bills, all in the one bill. I left him to it and when he was done he conveyed the message to me. He told me how much I owed and then offered to pay for it which was very kind of him. However, he also said he need an equivalent of about ten dollars because you were charged money for paying bills. I chose not to argue although I didn’t understand the concept. I handed over the money and silently wondered about this policy of being charged money to pay a bill.

    

This year however, the number of international teachers has increased dramatically and the poor man is unable to handle all these matters in addition to his teaching job, so he has explained the procedure to the teachers to do it themselves. Mike, who had his first bill-paying experience exactly the day he turned forty regaled us with his nightmare. He narrated his grief about trying to pay his utility bills in full detail – the amount of time invested in calculating the different items, his several attempts at trying to pay the bill online, which he’d be shown how to do in order to save him the inconvenience of going to the bank, queuing and needing to speak Russian to complete the transaction.

After numerous attempts in vain to pay it online, he asked a Russian-speaking colleague for help. Lexi, who is Russian and knows the procedure, was also unable to carry out the transaction online. The only option left was to physically go to the bank to deal with it. Mike found out to his horror that, not only had his landlord chosen the only utilities company which did not accept online payment, as the system required a ten-digit code for the transaction and this company lacked this code, but that he would have to go to the bank every month for this transaction. The worst part was that when he handed the receipt and money over for the bill, after standing in line for more than half an hour, he was directed to another window where he had to pay some money to be given a receipt which would then enable him to pay the bill. And to add insult to injury, he was dealing with this lengthy, complicated situation when he was ill, running a temperature, feeling like he was at death’s door and couldn’t speak any Russian.

   

Eventually, the bill did get paid and he went home to bed trying not to anticipate the same ordeal month after month so long as he lived in the same apartment in Moscow. That called for some hilarity as glasses and jugs were noisily clinked and his heroism in bill-paying in Russia was toasted to. By the time his story ended, our meals had arrived and the conversation changed to the quality and taste of the food as people compared notes on what they’d been served and how it differed or not to what is was like back home. The arrival of the meal and its consequent enjoyment seemed to bring a close to the complaint session, as almost everyone had managed to release their bottled-up frustrations by then. It was washed down with more drinks, and shortly afterwards we were all ready to leave.

Most people, I presumed, would have a lazy Sunday in preparation for the coming week of new experiences, in a new job, in a new country. I, however, had planned a trip to the Monastery in Petchatniki, the neighborhood where I first lived when arrived in Moscow. On my first visit there, it was closed, so I couldn't get in. I was hoping that since it was Sunday this time, it would be open for mass. I would go in to take the opportunity to light a few candles and be thankful. A colleague chose to join me when I mentioned it.

Moscow Celebrates

Every evening over the last week, I’d heard the loud explosions outside indicative of fireworks. I had also heard colleagues living in different parts of the city talking about it at work and praising the spectacle. Most had not needed to leave their homes to enjoy the view; they had just gone to look out the window after they'd heard the noise, saw the fireworks and enjoyed it from indoors. Everyone I’d heard talking about it was quite impressed and all agreed that it was very short, lasted just a few minutes, but very beautiful.

One particular night, the sound was very close to my house, but already curled up in bed with the low temperatures we’d been experiencing, I did not feel like wrapping myself up in heavy layers to go and stand at the window with the hope of seeing a show. The next day, however, I was lucky. Just as I left my tango practice class in Malaya Ordinka on my way home, I walked right into it. First I heard a loud explosive noise, then I sensed the sparkles and raised my head to be regaled with a great display of colors bursting into the dark sky – reds, greens, yellows, arches, sparkles, small explosions, gigantic ones, all with their accompanying “boom”, “boom”, “boom”. I stayed rooted to the ground together with a few others who felt it worth stopping for, my head raised, enjoying it till the end; rather sad when it all ended. Another military marching band concert had just come to an end.

Moscow was in full festive mode. The headlines on the front page of the Friday edition of the daily Metro publication dated August 31^st read “Happy Birthday, beloved city! J. The city had turned 865 and was celebrating in full pomp. Several cultural activities had been organized over the weekend around the city to toast to this very special occasion, and the program details were mapped out on pages 16 and 17 for all those interested. There was a variety of activities – concerts, dances, food stations, theater plays … and that was just one event!

Moscow’s birthday is not the only event celebrated in September. In June 1812, Russia defeated Napoleon in the Battle of Borodino on the outskirts of Moscow and the troops had had to retreat. Muscovites, at the time, burned the city down to prevent the French from seizing it. Leo Tolstoy elaborately and beautifully penned this event in his great masterpiece “War and Peace”, as did a few others in English, with titles such as "Borodino 1812" and "1812: Napoleon's Fatal March on Moscow" .  The Russian history teacher at school had made sure her classroom reflected the evidence of the event putting up pictures with captions of different battle scenes as well as informative texts. This 200^th anniversary was also a good reason to go out partying, if nothing at all, to pay tribute to all the fallen from both sides.

The commemoration of the battle itself was celebrated with  an elaborate reenactment of the battle in a field outside of Moscow. At the time of this event, I was watching the witch and wizard welcome us back to school. For the first time, it is said, the event was attended by several dignitaries. There was a fair representation of French citizens, and even former President Valery Giscard d’Estaing was among the guests. I admire the stoicism of all the attendees of the event – children and adults alike who braved the rain and cold weather as they took in the fine spectacle, I presume, of a fight between historians, amateurs and fans from both sides, dressed in brightly-colored French and Imperial Russian army uniforms.

No celebration would be complete without the customary accompanying music, and to this effect, military marching bands from different parts of the world had been invited to Russia to show off their skills and entertain us. I had seen the posters around the city advertising these concerts, but uncertainty about availability of time kept me from buying tickets for any of the scheduled concerts which took part in different parks in different parts of the city. The end of each concert culminated in a feast of colors in the dark sky every night, resounding loudly enough to draw people in their homes to their windows.

I’d had my fair share of celebrations with the back to school event after which I had to go home to prepare for the week ahead, so I didn't join the crowds in the jollification of Moscow’s birthday bashes or the revelry at the concerts, but observed these events somewhat more quietly. The Kremlin Palace was hosting a series of ballets I had bought tickets to. It is such a relief to finally get to the venue after being pushed and shoved on the metro, ascending and descending stairs and escalators. It would have been better had they been spaced out over several weeks or months instead of cramming ten ballets into three weeks. However, if I wanted to enjoy them, that would be my only chance, and I was determined to do so since they were so reasonably priced, unlike the extortionate ticket prices at the Bolshoi.

And so it was that I set off to my third ballet in a week yesterday, on a beautiful sunny day; one of the few we get to enjoy occasionally in Moscow. It would have been my fourth, had I not been unwell for the first one which was “Swan Lake”.  I had seen it in other places, but seeing it in Moscow would have made a difference. I’d seen “Figaro” and “Don Quixote” and the same Kremlin Ballet Ensemble was performing “The Nutcracker” yesterday. Unlike the other two occasions when I just walked in a few minute before it started, this time there were throngs of people. It was pleasant to see families and young couples dressed to the nines for the occasion. Groups of Japanese and Chinese tourists were also present for the performance which was every bit as enjoyable as every ballet performance I've seen in Russia – the colorful, elaborate costumes, the graceful, sublime movements, the beautifully choreographed dances, the powerfully soothing music.

I feel fortunate to have the opportunity to see all these wonderful performances and I am impatiently looking forward to seeing “Sleeping Beauty”, “Esmeralda”,” Gisele”, “Le Corsaire” and “A Thousand and One Nights”. I was born too late and in the wrong place to see Alicia Alonso dance “Gisele” – that would have been a treat and a half, but I still get to see it, albeit sans Alicia. Unlike “The Nutcracker” and “Swan Lake” which I’ve seen many times in different places, the others are all a first experience. The icing on the cake, however, is the coming National Gala of the Stars of the Stars of Ballet, where there are short performances of different dances by first dancers and prima ballerinas of different companies.

I saw a similar performance in June at the Tchaikovsky Concert Hall which left me speechless. It featured all kinds of dances; traditional dances such as zarzuela, flamenco, contemporary dances choreographed by Nacho Duato, tango, classical ballet and more. It was such a brilliant performance, I was dumbstruck at the possibility of such beauty and grace. The audience couldn’t stop clapping and screaming out “bravo”. The best part of it all was meeting one of the dancers at the Tchaikovsky Café adjacent to the concert hall where we went for a coffee afterwards. He had executed one of my favorite performances which was a tango, as he flipped around a cowboy hat he would wear and toss alternatively as he danced. I nearly screamed as I saw him walk in with the hat in his hand, and it took a lot of self-restraint not to go and ask him for an autograph. I knew that even if I did, I was past the age where such things meant much; seeing him standing next to my table in the flesh was more than enough for me. In the end, I was quite sure he would take the metro at the station two doors down from the Café, Mayakovskaya, back home, just like the other eleven million people in Moscow do everyday, and blend into the crowd.

Still in celebration mode, long after the marching bands have gone back home exhausted, and the remnants of the festivities of the birthday party have been cleared from the different parts of the city, I will still be attending ballets and concerts in Moscow. Fortunately, there are always plenty of those for every palate.