How to tell your car was WAY overdue a wash...

Moscow is a mucky city.  Not in the sense of being covered in litter - it isn't, it's admirably tidy - but as far as the dirt is concerned.  The authorities try to keep a handle on it, they really do, with fleets of orange trucks travelling in convey along the streets and spraying water to keep the dust down, but it's a thankless and interminable task.  I suspect that the reasons for this are multiple; pollution, open ground, power stations in the city (although I suppose that falls under pollution), the number of cars on the streets (ah - pollution again), and diesel trucks.  Which is of course, also pollution...

Anyway, keeping your car clean is like Sisyphus's task of rolling a huge boulder uphill only to be forced to watch it roll back down at the end of every day - an endless job.  The car is cleaned, and by the time you get back from your next trip to wherever, it's already looking dirty again.  This is made even more fun by the fact that you are not actually allowed to clean your car on the streets of Moscow (because of - doh - the dirt and pollution it causes), or even in most compounds; you have to take it to a car wash where they dispose of the dirty water in the correct manner.  Whatever that may be*.

Many people still manage to have spic and span motors, but they tend to be those who have drivers to deal with such things.  Their driver takes the car to the moika (Russian for 'car wash') once a week to keep it gleaming when they have to fill a couple of hours between dropping their client off somewhere and collecting him / her again.

We, however, do not have a driver.  Keeping our car clean is pretty much down to me - and frankly, I have better things to do with my time - so our car is, much to my children's embarrassment, usually one of the dustiest ones in the school carpark.

But even I am forced to admit that the cleanliness of the car might deserve to be slightly higher on my list of priorities when, the morning after I finally got it cleaned, Boy #2 (who didn't see it the night before) walked out of the back door to find it parked next to the house and asked "Who's car is that?"


* I have my suspicions that 'the correct manner' may just be down the drains like the rest of us would do, but then I'm cynical like that and of course I have no proof...

Today's definition of 'Irony'

It was a beautiful day, today.  The sun was shining and not in Moscow's usual 'bright blue but minus 5degreesC' March kind of way, but in an 'Oh my god it's still March, but it's +18degC and I am TOTALLY wearing the wrong shoes to drop the kids off at school' kind of way.

So I hotfooted it (quite literally) home and changed out of my trusty Timberland knee-high boots and into a pair of ecco bowling shoes.

What I did not do - crucially - was change my thick winter socks.  So a couple of hours later I found myself yomping through the middle of town on a series of errands in shoes that were right for the day, but socks that were rubbing, chafing, generally giving me hell, and most definitely were not right for anything other than deepest darkest Russian winter.

This, dear reader, is a rather lengthy back story to give you some idea of why the following might have happened.

I had just exited one of the most beautiful stations on the Moscow Metro (and for anyone who has visited this city and taken public transport, you'll know that is no small claim) Mayakovskaya, and was walking up the stairs.

In front of me was a living, breathing example of what fellow Moscow blogger Jennifer Eremeeva calls 'The Banana Generation'.  6 foot tall, weighing no more than 8 stone, looking as if it wouldn't take more than a St Tropez gentle breeze to blow her over, this girl was dressed in high Russian style, with her never-ending legs on show in a micro-skirt and vertiginous heels.  And when I say 'vertiginous', I'm not talking about your run of the mill 4" numbers, no;  I am talking about 6" skyscrapers.

To say I was fascinated is an understatement.  These shoes were not designed to be worn in 'real life'.  They were designed to be worn between car and A-list restaurant, or between car and A-list nightspot.  Admittedly, Russians do love their heels - finding an attractive pair of shoes with heels below 3" is an almost impossible task - but 99% of this city's die-hard high heel wearers would normally balk at wearing such weapons of choice on the metro.  And I don't mind admitting that as someone who is not a natural high-heel wearer (in the same way that Victoria Beckham is not a natural bowling shoe wearer), I was impressed.   How the hell was she standing upright in these things?  In fact, never mind, standing up - how was she walking?  And even more importantly; what on earth was she going to do when she reached the stairs that were fast approaching?

Well.  Sadly, I can't tell you how Ms Banana Generation 2014 fared on the stairs.

Because, in a turn of events that will be no surprise to my nearest and dearest, I was so intrigued with watching her teetering along, that I - the flat, sensible shoe wearing one in this story - tripped and fell up the stairs myself.

Oh, the glamour...

Passport photos and the disappearance of my principles...

I need to renew my passport.  What could be simpler, I hear those of you who live in the UK ask.  Well, many things.  Many, many, many things.  Like...  pushing a camel through the eye of a needle.  Finding your way through the Moscow metro system first time as a new arrival.  Getting your kids to proactively pack their school bags in the morning.  You know the sort of stuff I mean.

But renewing your passport as a British citizen from within Russia?  Not simple at. All.

And it's not about the forms, the supporting documentation, the references, or the amount of time the system takes. (Although...  No.  I'm not going there.  Not yet, anyway).  No, the main roadblock to getting a British passport renewed whilst you're living in Russia?  The ruddy photographs, to the point that when I next get back to the UK I will just get a whole load taken and put them away until needed.

Husband assured me it would be no big deal.  He would take me to a friendly photo shop he knew, he said.  Somewhere he always goes for his visa photos etc, he said.  Somewhere they are really helpful, he said.

This is why, on the way to said photo shop, he stopped the car, pointed at a random building at the side of the road, and said "Actually this one's closer.  Let's go here."

Me:  "OK.  Ummm - have you been here before?"

Husband;  "No.  But I'm sure it will be fine."

We walk in.  There is a small unwashed-looking gentleman lounging behind an office desk, surrounded by photographic equipment.  We look at him.  He looks at us.  We all look at each other.

Silence.

Husband (blinking first and losing face in the process):  "We would like some passport photos, please."

Unwashed gentleman.  "What?"

Husband  "Passport photos.  Of my wife.  Can you help us?"

Unwashed gentleman (yet to crack a smile or welcome us into his store), to me:  "Take off your coat, sit there."

I took off my coat, sat there.  He looked at me, critically.

"Tell her to turn to look to the side*."

Me:  "We don't have to do that for British passports.  We just look straight ahead."

"Tell her to push her hair back."

I push my hair back.

"More."

I push it back more.

"No, more!  Behind her ears!  We need to show her ears!"

Me:  "We don't need to show ears in Britain.  We just - oh, for pete's sake." I push my hair back behind my ears.

"Tell her to push her fringe off her forehead."

Me to Husband.  "We don't have to do that in - Can you just tell him to take the frigging photograph?"

Husband laughs.  "Don't get stressed.  Why are you stressed?"

Me:  "Because he's being so rude!  Why is that necessary?  I just want a passport photo...my fringe is fine..."  I give up and push my fringe to the side.

He takes the photo.  One photo.  I suppose it would be a waste to press that finger on the button twice.  He looks at the photo on the camera and sighs heavily.  I am clearly not Russia's Next Top Model.  Glumly, he downloads it to the computer.

He then starts messing about with the cursor.

Me:  "What are you doing?"  No answer.  "Husband, what is he doing?"

Husband, barely holding in the mirth.  "Photoshopping your hair, darling.  Apparently it needs work..."

Me:  "He's what?"

Husband, smirking:  "Calm down.  We're in Russia. It's what they do."

Me:  "Well, it's not what they do in England.  We just use the photos of us, as we are.  And if he starts to mess about with my face I'll never get the passport."

Silence, whilst unwashed gentleman - who has ignored me throughout - begins to adjust the photos to the correct size.  I consider my options, then turn to Husband.  "But, since we are in Russia, maybe you could ask him to tighten my jawline whilst he's at it?"**



*Many countries require a slight turn to the head so that they can see half profiles in passports.

**OK.  I didn't ask him to do that.  But god, the temptation...

Too... much... writing...

... and none of it on here, it seems.

So just to keep things moving, here's a brief excerpt from an ongoing conversation with my younger son.  Boy #2 is, as ever, obsessed with all forms of public transport.  His current passion, following a weekend trip to Karelia (click for link if - like me before our visit - you have no idea where or even what that is), is sleeper trains.

His latest plan is to design the ultimate sleeper train that will run all the way from Britain to New Zealand.  He is undaunted by the existence of such fiddling annoyances as the Pacific Ocean; this train will simply use the underwater tunnels that are to be built for it, which will have the added benefit of allowing the passengers to view the undersea world around them as they travel.

He has already decided on the placement of the restaurant in the train (in the middle, between 2 of the 2nd class carriages, to allow easy access for all), the location of the offices of the company that will operate it (on the train, natch - why run it if you don't get to travel on it?), and the power source (this will be a maglev, it goes without saying).

He has even decided on his customer base (people who want to travel to New Zealand - duh).

It all seemed very well thought out - until I asked him how long this incredible journey would take.  Oh, he answered airily.  About... 16 days?

Hmmm.  Without wanting to quash his enthusiasm, I asked him - gently - what it was that he thought would make people want to travel by the train for 16 days when they could do the journey in less than 2 by plane.  He thought for a moment.  How much would an air ticket to New Zealand cost, he asked me.  I pulled a figure that seemed likely out of thin air - £800.  Well, there you go, he said.  It will be cheaper to travel by this train.

Really?

Oh yes.  I think it will probably cost - how much did you say the plane was, Mum?  £800? - I think it will probably cost about £700 to take the train.  Or maybe - £799.

Perhaps it's time to start giving him pocket money in GB£?

This started out as post about Weetabix and ended as one about the media reporting of Sochi 2014...

.... if you can believe that.  Because after 4 years living in Moscow, this week I finally found plain Weetabix available in my preferred reasonably-priced supermarket (rather than at the rather less reasonably-priced alternatives), and was so excited that I bought 5 packets of the stuff.  

You UK and US based readers may laugh, but healthy breakfast cereal for nut-allergic children can be hard to come by here, so whilst I may have gone just a little over the top, I now have Weetabix that will last us until the summer and - I hope - have encouraged Auchan to continue stocking it.

Result.

Of course, I now have no space left for any other cereals in our cupboard, but that's beside the point, I'm sure you'll agree.

Anyway, I planned to write a post on how things are slowly but surely changing in a country which, if you were to take your view of it from what you read in the Western press, is still stuck in the dark ages.  Funnily enough, Weetabix didn't feature in that.  What actually came out was the following rant about the Olympics which, it seems, could no longer be suppressed...


Ah, Russia.  So much has changed in this country, not only in the 22 years since the USSR was dissolved, (because yes, it was that long ago), not just in the 19 years since I first visited (Christ, has it been that long?), and not even in the 4 years since we first moved over here as a family.

From the outside, of course, from the fabled Free West, you might be forgiven for thinking not much - if anything - has evolved.  Russia is apparently still a nation of grey brutalist architecture, a land of snow and ice, inward-looking, jingoistic and uninterested in taking note of progressions taking place elsewhere.  Admittedly, Russia doesn't help itself in this by many of it's political processes and decisions and by being what is still a hard-to-get-to (and indeed, often hard-to-get) destination, making it difficult to obtain visas and having been less welcoming to tourists than it might have.

But leaving that aside, I would put a sizeable share of the blame for Russia's poor image abroad squarely at the door of the Western Meeja, and an experience I had in the 90's has not seemed so far from the tone of what was going on recently in the reporting of the run-up to the Sochi Olympics.  Back then, I believed what I saw on-screen.  The news was the news, right?  If you couldn't trust the news, then...  But one day in 1996, whilst calling Husband in Moscow, from London, I commented on the snow I had just seen behind the BBC reporter as he stood with the Kremlin as a backdrop.  I mention this incident to illustrate how what you see in the press is subject to manipulation in ways you would not imagine; the snowy day I had commented on was in fact a reasonably mild +14degC and the reporter had been standing in front a blue screen.  The producers in London had simply called up their stock-backdrop for Moscow - cold and snowy - without actually checking the reality in Russia.

Sometimes, especially when looking at photographs of culled wild dogs purporting to be taken in Sochi but which can actually be traced to a news story from Kiev three years ago, it seems that not much has changed.

I sat back and watched the media feeding frenzy that preceded the Sochi Olympics with disbelief.  Certainly, from the reports we received from friends and acquaintances who were on the spot, things were not going smoothly in the run-up to the event itself.  Billions of dollars were wasted, disappearing who-knows-where, and the authorities were working up until the last minute to make sure that the facilities were ready.  Individuals from non-ethnic Russian backgrounds were ruthlessly exploited, whilst during the Games themselves, security was incredibly tight (I was going to write 'ridiculously', but when peoples' lives are at stake...), and travel around the venues - particularly out to the ski-hills - was apparently time consuming and difficult.

Gosh, Russia is just so damned different to all the other Olympic venues, isn't it?  I mean, it's just so Russian, boo hiss.  These things would never happen elsewhere.  Only in Russia, right?

Hmmm.  Wasn't it amazing that none of these things happened at previous Olympics?  I mean, we had no problems in the run-up to London 2012, did we?  It's not as if the streets of London were ever made impassable by the extensive network of roadworks, line extensions, or building sites that were worked on until the very last minute.  There were no scare-stories in the UK press about the possibilities of Olympic venues not being ready, or over-spends on the budgets*, were there?  There was no need to put soldiers on the streets to ensure the safety and security of locals and visitors when the company hired to do just that proved unequal to the task, or anything like that.

And there were no suggestions that in Canada in 2010 there was anything other than fair play in the minds of the organising authorities, thank goodness.  There was no difficulty in scheduling track or training time at the venues for visiting countries teams was there?  Heavens, no.

And in China, 2 years before that, wasn't it great that the 2008 Games were being held in a country with such a fantastic human rights record?  There were no missed deadlines or last minute work on the venues there - at least, not that the press ever had the access to, to report.  And there was certainly no slave labour or below-minimum wages in THAT nation, no sirree.  And isn't it great how China at that time allowed individuals of all faiths, persuasions and beliefs to live their lives as they wished?

Now.  I am not for one moment suggesting that all is right with the world here.  Or even that very much is right with the world here.  But the biased, dog-in-the-manger, looking for the downside of everything approach in all forms of media to what was happening in Russia in the few months coming up to Sochi 2014 had to be seen from the inside to be believed.

A fair, free, and balanced approach by our media.  It's what we expect, or at the very least, hope for.  But are we getting it?


*And no, I am not for a moment suggesting there was anything shady about the money spent on London 2012.  Although the people who compiled the original budgets in order to get backing for the bid back in 2005 might be accused of being just a little optimistic when they pulled out their calculators first time around...

You can always rely on your children...

... to say something mildly embarrassing, can't you?

We just returned from a week skiing.  Whilst the high point for me has to be watching my sons tearing down the mountain having the time of their lives, and the low point was realising on the first day, after the first run, that I can no longer keep up with either of them when they have boards strapped to their feet, one of the most disconcerting moments came courtesy of Boy #2.

He and I were heading down the mountain at the end of the afternoon, and found ourselves sharing a gondola with his ski teacher, a mid-20's Belgian who speaks 4 languages fluently.  As you do.  This guy - let's call him Julian (because that's his name) - told me how he spent a few weeks last summer in Moscow, in an attempt to improve his Russian.  (Because the Russians are coming, oh yes indeed.  At least, to the ski fields of the Alps, they are).

He told me how impressed he was with Moscow, and how much fun it is to party there in the summer.  He said how different it is to many places he had visited, and whilst we chatted about this, dropped in the comment that the girls there really go to a lot of trouble with their appearance, more so than he's used to back in western Europe.  He was amazed by the difference between some of the guys in their tracksuit bottoms and laid-back attitudes to clothing, and their girlfriends teetering along on their arms in high heels and - well, you get the picture.

I laughed.  And then, Boy #2 - probably trying to be supportive - said something along the lines of "You dress up when you go out too, don't you Mum?"  Well, yes, I do, I said.  When you're surrounded by people who make an effort, it seems rude not to yourself.  And then, addressing the other little boy from his class that Julian was taking back down the mountain, Boy #2 said  "And you know what type of dresses she wears when she goes out?  Sexy dresses..."

He's 8.  I'm not sure he even knows what the word 'sexy' means (we live in a cable tv-less house, which rather cuts out the opportunities for raunchy r&b type video clips), and he's probably mainly heard it on Psy's Gangnam Style.

Nevertheless, whilst Boy #2 may not know what the word means, Julian The Ski Teacher clearly did - and from the rather non-plussed expression on his face, it was not a word he would have immediately applied to the 47-year-old-no-make-up-wearing-rather-tired-and-a-bit-sweaty-after-a-day-on-the-slopes mother of one of his pupils in front of him...

Ice Dipping - could I be THAT stupid twice?

Three years ago I wrote the post below.  Tomorrow, I may repeat the experience and throw myself into the same frozen lake (duck poo on the bottom, and all) again.  Just for, you know, fun.  Husband thinks I'm insane.  He may be right - although of course, this time I plan to be better prepared.

This time, I am taking a flask of hot chocolate.

Ha!  Yes, that will definitely do it...

(Oh, and Heather - I will also take the flipflops again.  Top tip, that one.)


Here's my post from 3 years ago...

This is an e-mail I got on Tuesday night, from a friend who organises a cross-country ski group that meets a couple of times a week near our home.

Hi Ladies

Today was the first day of spring and the forecast is for more sunshine tomorrow!

It is also my birthday and I was hoping to go into the "icy pond" by the lake today but have delayed it until tomorrow and so the plan is to warm up with a ski and then I ( and anyone who would dare join me) will dip. I have ordered some limoncello and so will take it along for you all to enjoy.

x

I read this and laughed. My friend had been threatening to do exactly this for a while now, but I never really thought she would get round to it. Climb into a frozen lake, in the middle of the day, sober? And then ski home? Was she crazy?

But then, completely unbidden, the thought came to me; 'Why not do this with her? No. No! Don't be an idiot, PM.

Although...

I am in Russia. I am relatively young, fit and healthy. I would never get the chance to do this in the UK; ski through a forest, take an ice-dip, and ski home again.

So I did what any self-respecting woman would do these days; I asked Twitter. The overall response that came back was unsurprising; what the hell would you want to do something like that for? That should have put an end to it of course. But funnily enough, I found that I didn't like that answer very much ('what's wrong with me?'), so I asked around some more. I asked Heather from Lapland, who encouragingly told me to wear flipflops going into the water (how practical, not something I would have considered myself), and I e-mailed a friend who's lived here for while. Her response?

'My husband did the ice dipping and got double pneumonia shortly after... but otherwise apparently it makes you feel great!'

Definitely not a good idea, then.

But you know what?

Yesterday morning I put my swimsuit on under my ski clothes, skied for an hour, stopped by a frozen lake, got undressed, and my friend and I jumped in.

Well, when I say 'jumped', what I actually mean is that she bravely waded into the water and spent a minute in there, whilst I gingerly climbed in, dipped once, and climbed straight out again (putting my flipflops on as I did so - such a good tip, Heather, thankyou!).

Was it cold? Hell yes. So cold that I lost the ability to speak whilst I was in there. The water smelt, a little, but then since the lake is essentially a large pond it was always going to do that. And I have to say taking my swimsuit off and replacing it with dry underwear whilst standing on a snow drift in -8degC and in full view of the anyone who cared to look was not something I had planned on, but the changing shed by the ice hole was locked so there was nothing else for it (skiing home in a wet bathing suit under my snow pants appealed even less than the thought of flashing a boob as I struggled into my bra under my thermal t-shirt, for some reason...).

But, it was a beautiful day. The sun shone so brightly on the white snow that it was like standing inside a light-bulb. I had worked up some heat during the ski there, so my circulation was buzzing, and admittedly the adrenaline of 'what on earth are you doing?' might have helped bring on a bit of a sweat. And standing on the banks of the lake afterwards, wrapped in towel, wearing a swimsuit and flipflops and nothing else whilst I knocked back a shot or two of limoncello in celebration, I didn't feel the chill at all.

Husband, when I spoke to him later, was amazed; he never thought I would do it. The Russians I've spoken to about having done it have been uniformly confused. Why would I do such a thing? They know I'm not an Orthodox Christian (for whom this is religious cleansing experience), and I'm not a health nut, so clearly the only explanation is that I am certifiably insane.

They may be right.

But as Husband said to me, over the last two years my boundaries of what I will and won't do have expanded considerably*, and whatever else I may feel about Mother Russia, I have to give her a lot of the credit for that.

Ultimately though, my motivation for doing this probably idiotic thing was impulsive; 'Fxck it. I can do it, so I shall. Life is for living.' And if there's one thing that doing that dip made me feel, it was ALIVE.

* extreme waxing, going blonde, bungy jumping and throwing myself out of airplanes are still off the menu, by the way...