Peanut Butter Supplies at Critical Lows

Peanut butter. Do you take it for granted? I can almost guarantee that if you're an expat, you do not. We hoard the stuff and it is difficult to find in Russia. For me, a spoonful of peanut butter helps the oatmeal go down. That with a few raisins thrown in is a comfort food from childhood. But peanut butter is out of stock at the moment. Except for the one choice, below. . .

Sad isn't it. Here we are in the ice cream section, where peanut butter is stocked but there's one lonely little jar sitting there, left. It's from France. It doesn't even speak Russian. We. Or Wii. Or Oui Oui. Nor do I. But there it is. See that's $7.70 for that jar (235 rubles w/ 30.5-ish rubles to the dollar) and it has a different taste. It reminds of peanut butter-flavored icing. Say, let's go check in the honey section.

Here we are in the Department of Honey. Click to enlarge because of course you want to see this yourself. ;) It's mostly honey but at the bottom left, there is some peanut butter squirreled away. But it's that French variety again. They call it pate because they're kind of fancy, even with peanut butter.

Seems as though twice a year, this big supermarket gets a shipment of peanut butter from Kentucky. It comes crunchy, smooth or light. I go for the crunchy, thank you for asking, komrads. So I stop by regularly to see if they're restocked so I can hoard. It's not inexpensive and it's not light to haul it home but, boy howdy, it's so good stirred into that bowl of steamy hot oatmeal. And in breakfast burritos with mashed banana and raisins. But to each her own.

Well, this honey is reminding me of something back across the store. Come along, please. May I call you Honey? Oh, that was my mother's nickname as a child. Honey. And according to family legend, that's the only name she would answer to at home. Funny though, we got away with calling her Mom. Come to think of it though, I'd gladly call her Honey, if that meant having a few precious moments together. . . Just realized that if my dear mother where still in the land of the living, I wouldn't even have to think about peanut butter, she'd be sending it to me regularly. Now that I'm complaining, you understand, just wistful.

Here's the Department of Honey from the Don Region, not to be confused with that commercially canned stuff from who knows where. Seems as though the Queen Bee of this little department has zipped on home for the evening but that doesn't stop us from looking. Look, all different kinds of local honey made from various flowers in the area. And I had to take this picture pretty fast because, well, there were reasons. . . let me just say that sometimes in these parts, we gotta be surreptitious about things.

Honey or nyet, there's no real peanut butter to be found in this store, and if it's in any other store, that's a well kept secret. You know, I used to haul jars of it from the US back to Rostov, back in the days when we were allowed two 70-pound bags on international flights. And I remember bringing back lots of peanut butter, thanks to cousin Earl who's with Smuckers, and they do peanut butter in a big way. But those days are history because can you believe, there are things more important to pack than peanut butter.

Interestingly, over the years, several packages sent me from the US have never arrived. Mysterious, yes. Those packages had one thing in common: They each contained a jar of peanut butter. Hmm, maybe the guys at the customs office have started adding peanut butter to their oatmeal, too. ;)

Transition Day: Down off the Mountaintop (Part 1)

Last evening I caught the 22:18 train from Donetsk, Ukraine back to Rostov-on-Don, a 115 mile trip. Eight hours later, we pulled into Rostov right on schedule at 6:31, a golden morning with cumulus clouds back-lit beautifully by the rising sun.

But back in Donetsk, just before heading to the train station, I tweaked a little essay that I'd been writing, hit SEND and shared it with several special friends. I named the story, His Eye is on the Sparrow. . . and I told about what a faith-building experience the last two weeks in Donetsk have been and the overall tone was effusive. But see, that's how I am sometimes. When I recall how the good Lord holds me, a trembling little bird, so tenderly in his hands I go beyond gushy. (Time out while I get myself a tissue or two. . .)

But today it was down off the mountaintop and back to reality.

True, there had been no particular hassles at either the Ukrainian or the Russian border. Although that has not always been the case. . .

* * * * *

You see, there are two particular soft spots that I’m still trying to work out in my travels. One is arranging ground transport from the train station to home. What the national folks do is have a family member meet them at the station and that includes help with the luggage and probably catching a bus.

Call me stubborn or fiercely independent (oh, now there's a joke) but I’m just not going to bother somebody with fetching me at the train station any time of day. Especially at 6:30 a.m. Unless of course that person is a taxi driver. For one thing, I need help with my bags since not much of anything is easily accessible – sure there’s an elevator and escalator – but expect them to be out of order. Expect to be hauling things up a long staircase that goes over the tracks and then down to ground level. Oh yippee.

Taxi drivers are waiting out front of the station, that is true, but they’ll overcharge significantly because that’s how that bunch operates. We call them the taxi mafia. For me, the perfect thing is to call my favorite taxi company in advance and have the driver come meet me at the train. That’s an extra level of service that I need. Although their usual policy is to wait in the parking lot and let the traveler met them there. But hey, word gets around when a person leaves a respectable tip for the extra help. And that I do.

The only catch is, that plan requires calling in advance and I have yet to work out just how to do that. I figured it would work for me to call the taxi company from Donetsk the day before departure.

Dispatcher Lena answered the phone.

Lena, this is Eileen – and I’m calling from Ukraine. Can you hear me?

Don’t ask me how, but she seems to know me.

Eileen-oochka? (That suffix makes it a dimunitive meaning sweet Eileen - not something I necessarily hear every day. . .) Oh Eileen-oochka, I can’t hear you. . . our connection is so weak. Please call back.

Tried, nothing better. Tried again, no luck.

On to Plan B: I would call from the train an hour before arrival in Rostov. A lovely plan. Truly it was.

The train was set to arrive 6:30 a.m. I set my cell phone alarm for 5:30 which would allow me to be first in line to the wagon’s facilities next morning. And I then could make my phone call. The train would stop briefly in Tagenrog like 30 minutes before we reached Rostov, it would be a little quieter, that should work. Lovely plan.

Things were fine until I was compelled to swap SIM cards, trading the Ukrainian service for the local Russian service. Nice in theory. But the cell phone suddenly wouldn’t recognize my local SIM card.

Hmm. This little strategy has always worked before. On planes as we taxi into somewhere, I change SIM cards and it works slick as a whistle. Hmm. Tried several times and no dice. Oh my. Things weren’t looking good and we had already pulled out of Tagenrog. . . (Of course in hindsight, I realize that I probably could have swapped back to the Ukrainian SIM card, used roaming services and made the call. It would have been significantly more expensive, but I think it would have worked.)

Anyway, I casually mentioned my SIM card dilemma to the 40-something lady on the bunk opposite me. I need to confess that up to this point, I had found her annoying. She had major rolls of, um, fat lopping her waistband and hanging off all over. And then at regular intervals she would rub her knees through her polyester knit pants which made swishy sounds during the night. (Arthritis setting in?) And she kept guzzling from her 2-liter bottle of water during the trip making gurgling and gulping noises. (Diabetes?) But what really irked me, was her unsolicited advise that I, as a foreigner, didn't need to fill out the documents I was completing as we approached the Russian border. Excuse me little Mrs. Busybody, but obviously you have absolutely, not one iota of a clue about this. (Bossiness setting in.) So I had decided hours earlier that we would not be swapping email addresses and we certainly would never be best friends.

But then she offered to help with my SIM card. It was then that I noticed BusyBody's nice smile and kind eyes. And besides she was equipped with special tools for cell phone surgery. Yes, they were delicate bits of plastic glued to her fingertips probably at some beauty salon, I'd guess.

Well, sorry to say that Mrs. Busybody had no luck with the SIM card either. She tried several times, just as I had. And the cell phone still wasn’t recognizing it. Drat.

Then Busybody offered to call the taxi company on her own phone. This was a generous offer. And it was supremely thoughtful because that meant she had to wait around with me until the taxi driver appeared on the scene - so that the taxi company could call us when the driver arrived.

So finally a taxi driver made it to our platform 20 minutes later after we had pulled in to Rostov. Seemed he had worked all night and so he didn’t win any awards in the charm department. Later when he and I arrived at my apartment, he wanted 200 rubles, around $8.00. I’d say 150 rubles would have been reasonable. But by then I was just glad to be home. I told him he was overcharging but resisted the impulse to add some remark to teach him right from wrong - which, if I'm not mistaken, is one of the duties of a first-born child. Thing is, I was just glad to get home.

But those annoyances faded when I opened my door, or rather, when I tried to open it. Oddly enough, I had been locked out of my apartment from the inside. I wasn’t expecting anybody to be there. And that brings me to the second soft spot, an area to be smoothed out when I’m on the road. (To be continued. . .when I'm good and ready. . .)

The Caloric Hazards of Furlough

Being on missionary furlough provides joy in many realms -- social, spiritual, intellectual and physical. And that would include, of course, favorite indulgences such as the new homemade-type cookies which I encountered at McDonald's across Texas, Arkansas, Tennessee, Kentucky, Ohio, and North Carolina. Cracker Barrel Restaurants in the same states carry chocolate-covered mint candies in their country stores. Oh yum.

Then there's the Bit of Honey chewy treats at the gas station shops where they also have Grandma's Peanut Butter Cookies not to mention Snowballs - you know, the pink coconut marshmallowy layer over chocolate cake. Now there's a comfort food from childhood. Yes, the culinary joys of being in the homeland are immense.


But then excess baggage becomes an issue. . . and that, my dear friends, is considerably less fun than packing it on.

Ask me how I know.

Dealing with Plan B: The Joys of Visa Renewal

As you may be aware, I’m in the US on a visa-renewal trip. According to Plan A, I was to be back in Russia a week ago. But here I am in Dallas, wait-wait-waiting out the visa process. Why all the dilly-dallying? Because prior to this week, the all-important Letter of Invitation had yet to be issued by the Rostov Office of Visas and such. That office usually requires one month wait time for that document although the form could be completed in ten minutes. But such are the ways of bureaucracy.

Plan A had been to return to Russia, new visa affixed inside passport, last week on Thursday, May 8th in time for the all-Russia Christian Conference in Moscow. What a lovely plan, eh? But alas, those days came and went and I was still Stateside, visiting – as I recall – in Atlanta and Knoxville instead.

Thank goodness for Delta and their willingness to work with me on this. We postponed my return flight and the airline is allowing me to keep the date open-ended until we have more information. All for a 150-euro penalty plus any fare increase.

But there is hope. (Insert music) Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Word has it that the Letter of Invitation is in the mail, yes, it is being Fed-Ex-ed across the big pond at this very moment. After it arrives early next week, the next step is to collect the various papers required for visa application, including the $350 fee for 2-day processing, and express mail it all to a Russian consulate. Either that or make a personal visit to the new Russian consulate office in Houston.

Sounds as though I could have that new visa in hand by the end of the month. And then head on back to Rostov-on-Don.

But, oh. . . if only it were that simple. The thing is, new visa laws went into effect January 1st. Now, the law for (most categories of) one-year visas, allows a person to be in Russia for a maximum of 90 days before exiting the country for 90 days. And then repeating the process. This is not news to us and we’ve had a plan in place to deal with it. Our plan was to request a 3-month visa and, when it expired, exit Russia and try to renew in Eastern Europe somewhere, probably Kiev. And then repeat that for three months as long as necessary. What a lovely, lovely plan that was.

Problem is, thanks to (what at this point, at least, appears to be) a royal blunder, sounds as though my Letter of Invitation is for the one-year-two-trips-out visa. Boo hiss. So, looks as though I might well be serving on Plan B for 2008-2009. Talk about being in the state of flux.

And so today I’ve made numerous phone calls to Rostov-on-Don to talk with co-workers there and to St Petersburg to talk with Igor Egirev, our former preacher and OVIR (bureaucracy) guru, currently enrolled in graduate school there. Thanks to Igor, we do have some ideas on how we might deal with this. In the mean time, may I request your prayers for wisdom and patience. Wisdom in saying what needs to be said and handling someone else’s major blunder. Creativity for somehow using this inconvenience in a positive way. Creativity for coming up with a better option. Somehow.

Holey, holey, holey: The Care and Feeding of Moths

A wonderful church in the Dallas area stores my 50-some boxes of material possessions in a spare classroom. They keep the door locked and one person has the only key. My treasures have been secure there for nearly a decade now. Or so I thought. But the one thing we overlooked was posting a sign in English, Spanish and Russian: Moths, Keep Out!

Recently I was in Dallas and sorting through my boxes of treasures. And what a surprise awaited me from those pesky little critters. Behold this beautiful wool skirt, lined even. Besides that, moths found my stash of Pendleton wool. But at least they confined their feasting to the top few layers of that fabric before they moved on to greener. . . garments.

Moths mystify me. How do they manage to get into a locked classroom in the first place. How do they sift through boxes of books, photos and cookware and keep searching until they find fabrics. And, connoisseurs of fiber they are, how do they sort through the cottons, the silks and acrylics, saving their appetite for the wool. Those little rascals.

Should come as no surprise though. Jesus himself said, Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal. But lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, and where thieves do not break through nor steal. For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also. (Matthew 6: 19-21)

On the plus side, this holey skirt is one fine visual aid for the fleeting nature of things: material things. Especially when that material is wool.

And how about You, dear blog reader. Have you had insects chew up something of yours? How do you store woolens?

Care Package from the USA: Bane or Blessing?

So what can we bring you when we come back for the boys?

I was talking with a neat couple from southern California who were in Rostov for an adoption visit. I had helped them a bit and they wanted to show appreciation.

What do I want from the US?

Listen carefully dearly beloved, those are the golden words, the absolutely most beautiful words to the ears of any expatriate. And the answer was easy. Really, really easy.

I want file folders. I need file folders. Throw in a PayDay candy bar and a magazine or two – People, Good Housekeeping, something light - right off the rack and that would do me a world of good. Especially the PayDay.

That was mid-January.

Neat Couple returned last week to get their boys and invited me to Hotel Rostov to get the goodies. Two packages of file folders and indeed, they are beau-ti-ful!

And then there was the candy. We need to talk about the candy. First, there was not one Payday in the bunch. Not to worry though. There were packages of Butterfingers, Babe Ruths, Junior Mints, 100 Grand, Reese’s peanut butter something new-fangled, Twix. Oh yum. Yummy, yum yum.

Decisions, decisions. What to do with all that candy. In the interest of health and safety, I decided to sample one of each for quality assurance. Hard to know how high altitudes and crossing of time zones might affect the goods. Fortunately – or unfortunately depending upon ones perspective – the quality was excellent. So far, so good.

Then I buckled down to work on my long-overdue newsletter, a project which brings me considerable strain and trauma. Not to mention mental anguish. It really is one of the hardest things I do. During all that I realized what comfort the Butterfingers would bring. And they were calling to me from the other end of the house. I could hear them through the plastic bags and the cabinet in which I had hidden them. It was that loud, truly. Just three of those little Butterfingers couldn’t hurt all that much. . .

Well, things went downhill from there. By the time evening came, I was in a sugar-induced stupor. Let’s make that a self-inflicted, sugar-induced stupor (SiSiS) and I needed help.

I called for intervention.

Hello? My name is Eileen. I’m a sugaraholic and I need help.

I’ll be right there.

The voice belonged to Andrey, the neighbor kid downstairs. He knew exactly what to do with all that candy. He and his buddies would handle chocolate faster than you can say sugar diabetes.

That wasn’t the first time Andrey and his family have helped me out. Thank goodness for neighbors, eh?

Hold on, hold on. Do I hear my name? It’s those pesky file folders, feeling abandoned. Oh do they smell fresh and crisp. Paper, a cellulose product, a source of roughage perhaps? Just a tiny little nibble surely couldn’t hurt anything. What a concept – fat-free file folders! (FF- FF)

Neat Couple probably will never understand how much I got into the care package they brought. Yep, absolutely devoured it.

This is my office. See how much I trust you ~ with all this information? But surely you agree that file folders would be useful to organize all this.

These are photos are of my office exactly as it is, not one little thing done to makie it tidier for this little photo shoot. As embarrassing as it is though, it's more attractive than the extra kilogram that has shown up on my bathroom scale since then.

Surely I'm not alone in this. What particular food that you have learned to stay away from? Other than Russian caviar, of course. ;)

What Would Condi Do?

Condoleezza Rice, U.S. Secretary of State with Victor Yushchenko, President of Ukraine. (Photo courtesy of Yahoo!)


One snowy afternoon in January, I took the tram across town to my former neighborhood and went to the post office to renew my P.O. box there. While waiting in line, I watched for the young clerk with whom I had butted heads almost two weeks earlier.

I would recognize her immediately. She was taller than average, streaky blond and loud. After finishing my business, I waited in the lobby area in hopes that she would come along. Sure enough, soon she emerged from a back room and strolled through the lobby, heading outside for a smoke.

As she came toward the door, I caught her eye.

I need to talk with you for a minute. Last time I was here, we had an unpleasant conversation and I was impatient with you. Forgive me please.

Oh it wasn’t all that bad, she shrugged.

That’s one thing I love about Russian folk. They’re so quick to forgive.

And that was that.

Back out on the street, I felt such relief.

That feeling was so different from how I’d felt ten days or so earlier after our confrontation. That day, I kept asking myself, how would Condoleezza Rice have handled all that?

That had been my third trip across town to renew said post office box. The first two times, one clerk or another said something like, Oh come back another day. It’s only 30 minutes until closing time and we really don’t want to haul out that paperwork again.

I probably said something such as, Well, it’s not all that easy for me to get here. I live in another neighborhood now and so it’s not as though I live around the corner.

But I did come back again the third time and was making progress. I waited dutifully in the fill-out-the-renewal form line and the clerk there – to her credit – went far beyond her duties, helping me with the paperwork. Next, in the pay-for-the-box line, when I got to the front, my progress came to a screeching halt.

You’ll need to come back another day. I’ve already put away that stuff. Come back tomorrow.

So I explained that we’ve been through this before and all this was quite unnecessary. That it really would not be hard to take my rubles, write me out a receipt and stamp it in five places to make all official as they’re wont to do here.

The clerk was pleasant enough but she shrugged and turned to the next person. During our conversation, a teenage clerk was standing at the other end of the service counter with a gaggle of her clerk buddies.

She’s American isn’t she? she asked just loud enough for all to hear.

Next time, I’ll just ignore that.

Yes I am. And at least in America there is decent customer service.

Next time, I'll direct my best withering gaze in her direction. (Note to self: Start practicing this look in the bathroom mirror.)

So there was a little back and forth between us there, mostly her laughing with her friends. As I started to leave, I decided it was time for some eyeball-to-eyeball conversation with the Miss Mouthy and headed in her direction. She saw me coming, let out a loud shriek of laughter and fled to the back room.

Is your friend okay? I asked her co-worker. Was she was laughing at me?

Oh of course she’s fine. No, of course she wasn’t laughing at you. We were laughing about. . . about something here in the newspaper. She motioned to the tabloid open there on the counter.

That’s a typical response. People can lie in a heartbeat, without blinking an eye.

So I left and felt pretty good about all that for about 30 seconds but then it dawned on me that I’m the first American many of the other customers have ever encountered. And while it may be true that most of them would have a complaint or two about customer service, I was uncomfortable with the tone of our conversation.

How would Condoleezza Rice have handled that? Her diplomacy and grace come to mind quite often. It doesn’t hurt that she specializes in Soviet studies and is said to speak fluent Russian.

* * * * *

We learn a lot about ourselves when immersed in another culture. We see how we handle stress of smashed expectations. We see how we deal with the frustration of communicating at a child’s level. Cross-cultural living is a magnificent growth opportunity. But only if we use it as such.

After an unpleasant incident, it’s important to mull it over, ruminate on it and analyze it. First, what happened? How did I feel about what happened? How did I respond to what happened? How will I handle it differently next time?

I have no control over the twerpy behavior of a 17-year-old postal worker. But I do have control over myself. As long as there aren’t any sweets involved, that is. I can choose to ignore a verbal jab. Or I can respond with humor.

So, let’s rewind the whole scene.

She’s an American, isn’t she?

You’re close. Actually I’m from Antarctica. And believe me, your customer service here is far superior.

Who knows, Condoleezza Rice might be so impressed with such diplomacy that, in an historic move, she would appoint me first U.S. Ambassador to Antarctica. No lines and no waiting for that job!

Words Worth Savoring

Sounds like you’re having a wonderful summer!
We really enjoy hearing about you teaching God’s Word!
The pictures are great – they bring back memories of my trips to Rostov!

Those are a few responses to the June edition of *From Russia with Love,* an email newsletter about my service and the congregation here in Rostov-on-Don. Usually I would have found those words delightful and heartwarming. But in June, they hit me like a splash of cold water.

I had started that newsletter telling about the early-morning telephone call I had received the previous week and learning about the death of my dad. Beats me how that sounds like part of a wonderful summer. Of course we can assume that those dear people didn’t make it past the title and certainly not into paragraph one. But for us writer-wanna-be’s who imagine that our golden words are worth savoring, well, that’s a bit deflating.

I was mulling over possible responses, considering letting those folks know that they didn’t fool me, no-siree, pretending to have read my sparkling missive, when another thought hit me like a tidal wave: How often have I given a cursory glance to words from God? How often have I dozed off reading my Bible (no offense, Jeremiah) or not opened it for personal reading to savor its richness and depth? How often has my New Year’s resolution of Bible reading fallen apart before April? Seventy times seven is a number that comes to mind as does 144,000.

Surely it grieves the heart of God when we barely glance at His words, painstakingly written and preserved for us over the centuries.

In all fairness, I hasten to mention the steady stream of communication between me and God. I regularly forward Him the current list of my needs, my wants. I’m often asking for wisdom and guidance, thanking Him for manifold blessings and mercies. But I’m coming to realize that our conversation tends to be lop-sided. I’m doing most of the talking, seems like. And the touching thing is, perfect gentleman that He is, the Good Lord is so patient that He blesses me just for dropping by to chat mostly about myself. I'm starting to do more listening.

Quite a few newsletter recipients did make it through paragraph one and sent me notes of comfort and encouragement, words that considerably eased the sadness. Several read through to the very final notation about Dad’s obituary being posted at www.legacy.com, went to the site and signed the on-line guestbook there. How that extra measure made me smile. And surely we warm the heart of God and bring delight to Him when we respect and value His Word, savoring each morsel, even wading through the “and so-and-so begat so-and-so,” knowing that it’s there for a reason.

Thy word is a lamp to my feet and a light for my path. (Psalms 119:105)

And What Are YOU Staring At?

I turned around and there were 16 pair of eyes on me. Conversation stopped, all were turned in my direction and gazing unabashedly.

I had stopped by the office of a particular foreign consulate and to my surprise, there were no lines at the service windows. The room was full of people waiting for their documents, however, and officials were busy in the back offices.

Eventually, an official came to the window and gave me his attention. I showed him my passport and began talking through the speaker. My explanation was in Russian, of course, but after two sentences he interrupted and said in English, "WHAT do you want."

He meant it as a question but I wasn’t sure what to think. His words sounded abrupt because of his emphasizing the WHAT and not raising the pitch of his voice at the end of the sentence. Nevertheless, I followed his lead and switched to English. Shortly he interrupted again and told me that I would need to speak with another official later. I doubt that he understood much of what I was saying.

Then when I turned from the window, every person in the waiting room was staring. They had overheard our conversation through the speaker, of course, and found it quite interesting. Just between you and me, I don’t relish being an object of curiosity, particularly when I’m trying to take care of personal business. But, welcome to Russia!

* * * * *

I had a similar experience recently at the bank when picking up funds. The teller was giving me instructions, all in Russian of course, about where to sign the various documents. She was speaking loudly enough that the entire room could overhear and then when she announced the grand cash total, I felt my mouth go dry.

“It wasn’t necessary to broadcast that to everyone.”

I looked around and other tellers had paused mid-task, customers had turned to look and even the security guard was staring in my direction.

* * * * *

And so you see, staring happens and it ranges from gawking at passersby on the street to curiosity about private transactions. I find it unnerving to be stared when I’m conducting personal business. The staring is only momentary, of course; gazes shift to another person or perhaps to a fly buzzing in the window. But after several uncomfortable staring incidents recently, I decided to that I must address this issue of staring. How to deal with it? Through understanding and through humor. As though that were easy. First, a Google search: staring and culture.

First, there were tips for a person from an Okay-to-stare culture being transplanted into the Australian culture:

“. . .it is extremely rude to openly and curiously look at someone you don’t know. . . Some Australians interpret this kind of looking behaviour, no matter how harmless it is intended to be, as an aggressive assault on their privacy and may even challenge you to a fight. When dealing with strangers, Australians try very hard to only glance and perhaps smile briefly at the stranger and then carefully avert their eyes.”

And then I found insight for the person from a Don’t Stare culture who finds herself unnerved in, say, Italy, Indonesia or. . .Russia.

“Remember, you are quite an unusual creature in this setting. Many people on the streets will have had little contact with foreigners. What you look like, what you do, and how you behave will generate intense interest. Don't get angry or try to "educate" people on the idea that staring is rude. It will only increase curiosity, and frustrate you. Relax. Let people look. After all, you are doing your own exploration of the people and places here. What you are reacting to is not so much the staring, but your cultural interpretation of the action”

Okay. I'm understanding staring a bit more. Now for some humor. How about I burst into song with “The Eyes of Russia Are upon You” to the tune of “The Eyes of Texas…,” and add a little soft-shoe shuffle. That would be sensational, especially when I pass a hat for contributions.

Sources: Website of the Indonesia Australia Language Foundation (www.ialf.edu). Different Pond, Different Fish. (March 2004.); India Web Site.Travel India: An Insider’s View. Cultural Pointers. (2005).

Face to Face with Vladimir Lenin

On a bright morning in early March, I had 10 hours to fill in Moscow and, like most visitors to the city, I headed directly to Red Square. St Basil’s Cathedral was exquisite in the early morning light and so, after photographing to my heart’s content and thawing my frozen fingers over a breakfast of tea and blini with a local friend at a quiet café, I headed toward Lenin’s Mausoleum, which overlooks the area.

Red Square is cordoned off in the mornings until the mausoleum closes at 1:00, we learned. That translates into walking about ten times farther than necessary to reach the entrance to the mausoleum. But that, dear comrades, is another story.

Lenin wanted to be buried next to his mother in St Petersburg, they say. It wasn’t his idea to be placed in a glass coffin, his mortal remains on public display for the next 80-plus years. But since his death in January of 1924, thousands have filed past the body of this man who so influenced the world.

Lines are considerably shorter nowadays and on the day of my visit, only handful of us were there. I was totally fine with that. Once inside the mausoleum, it was quiet, dark and chilled. The narrow corridor was lined with black, granite-like stone leading to the steps down into the tomb. In the semi-darkness, only the face of a soldier was visible and he stood under a single light at the end of the corridor. His gloved hand was held chest-high and pointed to the right. So I went that-a-way. At the end of that corridor was the same sight, an expressionless face lit by an overhead light, a gloved hand pointing right. So I shuffled along in the dark, trying to anticipate the steps.

What I saw next reminded me of a phrase of a beloved hymn, Low in the grave He lay. There was the body of Vladimir Illyich Lenin. Very quiet, still and cold. No surprise there. A walkway surrounds the glass sarcophagus on three sides and I paused to view the body that had been there for decades already. The face was almost translucent, like fine porcelain. A guard approached me.

Lady, you must keep moving.

Well, okay, I thought. But I’m the only one in here at the moment, save for those ever-so-watchful guards. I’ll keep moving but it will be slow enough that I can soak in details. See, a person can walk around that coffin in a heartbeat and that’s the end of it. From there,  another dark corridor leads outside. There are no displays and no memorabilia. No photographs and no plaques. All is very solemn, quiet and dignified. And very black.

I was itching to jot down the details quick-like before I forgot. I stepped out into the sunlight, reached for my notebook and started scribbling notes. I needed a place to sit and write. What better place than those stone benches that flank the mausoleum. Before brushing off the snow to sit down, I walked over to the guard for permission.

Nyet, he said semi-apologetically.

That’s understandable, I figured. Those are the review stands from which dignitaries watch official parades and such. But nobody was there; it wasn’t as though I would be taking anyone’s spot. But I understand. The place was to be sacred versus common.

So, how about if I just stand here and write, I bartered?

Nyet, you’ve got to keep moving.

All-righty then. I can walk verrry slowly and keep writing. As I neared the end of the review stands, another soldier there was watching. It was a slow day on Red Square and his full attention was on me.

Zdrast-vwee-tye, I greeted him formally and nodded. His eyes widened slightly, hearing a foreign accent.

Lady, why are you writing? What is it that's of interest to you here? He took at my notepad and I imagined he might confiscate it.

Everything is interesting. I want to remember all these details. And if I don’t write it down right away, I’ll forget it. I wanted to add, And furthermore, in about 30 years when you’re 50, you’ll understand perfectly.

Well, lady, you must remember what you see and write it down after you leave. You may not write while you’re here.

Welcome to modern Russia, I said with more of a smile than I felt.

Da, he chuckled. Welcome to modern Russia.

* * * * *

How about you, dear Blog Reader, have you visited Lenin's Mausoleum? Please do share. . .

The Etiquette of the Queue

I joined the queue at the bank and congratulated myself for being third in line. It was sure to go fast. Normally we would be using the ATM on the street, but it freezes up in the winter and so we were using a window inside. After 15 minutes, however, we were no closer to the teller and the line was even longer.

Two young men in line behind me seemed to know each other.

"Let's go have a smoke," one said.

When they returned, the guys wanted back their places in line. But first they had to persuade the blond in the cream coat to let them in. After some fussing, she complied but she began a campaign of complaining about the slow service.

The two guys were talking louder now and aiming their remarks at the lady who was first in line. She was wrapped in mink from hat to hemline and had buddied up with lady #2, clad in a cotton coat, scarf knotted under her chin. Lady Mink stayed cool despite the on-going comments from the line and kept signing the long slips of paper that the teller pushed to her through the sliding tray.

"All this waiting for ten rubles, her whole pension," quipped one guy loud enough for all to hear. Her check would be pocket change is what he was saying.

Mrs. Mink didn't look up; she just kept signing her papers.

This wasn't the first time I had observed issues of the queue. Two summers ago, I was 6th or 7th in line, in this very line. As we inched forward, a couple of babyshkas, Russian grandmothers, charged up to the head of the line.

"We're next," they announced. "We've been waiting and we're next."

Actually, they had been resting in chairs along the wall. It's not uncommon here to step out of line to rest or to run another errand. Someone might be in line at the bank, at least in theory, while they are actually at the post office. When they return to the bank 10-15 minutes later, they want their spot back. Those waiting usually accommodate the multi-tasker with a sigh of resignation. But for me, the situation calls for more than a sigh. Perhaps it's all those years of teaching school and monitoring lunch lines, perhaps it's my fondness for etiquette or perhaps it's a reflection of my own culture where one waits in line or loses the spot. So, although I'm learning to be diplomatic about it, I do tend to verbalize displeasure at being pushed back in line. Rarely do I hear anyone else expressing annoyance about this or anything else for that matter.

That summer's day, however, I saw the Russian queue in a new light. The young people in spots 2, 3 and 4 weren't in the mood to be pushed back and they weren't budging. They were standing tight and close.

When the babyshkas got louder, the young security guard came over to investigate. He was blond, boyish and hesitant to get involved. He understood that Russian babyshkas are not timid souls. Chances are he had dealt with a babyshka of his own.

So he tried using persuasion. "Please, people. Please let these grandmothers get in line."

No one moved.

"You've got to let me in line. I'm a hero of the Great Patriotic War!" cried one. With that, she was playing her trump card. Being a war hero has its privileges, which include going to the head of a line and getting a seat on the bus. In theory, at least.

The young woman in spot #2 wasn't impressed.

"Check her documents," she countered. "She's probably just saying that."

Lady #3 had stories of her own. "Well, I've suffered too. My father perished in the war and I was orphaned. Besides that, I had a heart attack last week."

I was rather enjoying the conversation around me. For once I was not involved in upgrading the behavior of the queue.

Another babyshka shuffled into the bank and joined me at the end of the line. She smiled shyly.

"Won't you please allow me ahead of you? I won't take long. And my health isn't so good."

"With pleasure," I said, surprising myself at what a softy I had become.

The security guard overheard our little chat and recognized it as fodder a persuasive speech. He headed back to the front of the line where things were quieter although no one had given in just yet.

"Ladies, there's a foreigner here who was kind enough to let one of our babyshkas in front of her. Let's follow example of this foreigner and be kind to our own elderly."

Oddly enough, I don't remember how things turned out that day at the bank. But I do know that the etiquette of the queue continutes to challenge me as I adjust to Russian life. It's a culture which itself is in transition as younger people are more willing to be assertive and nudge public interaction to a higher level.

So, think you're next in line? You might be. Then again, if you happen to be in this neighborhood, don't bank on it.