Settling in

As I write this, my piano is being tuned. Pling! Pling! Pling! Eighty-eight keys, one at a time. Over and over. In fifths. In octaves. Over and over. I don't know what's worst, listening to myself practice The Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies or this. I want to be in the room with the tuner because my computer is in here. It's a security thing, even though I can tell where his hands are even if I'm downstairs. Pling! Pling! Pling! But security is security. I also want to be on hand in case he has any questions. Not that I'd be much help. He, naturally, speaks Russian and they didn't cover vocabulary for getting one's piano tuned at the Foreign Service Institute.

My piano being here tells you that all of our things are now here. The piano had to be winched up and over the a railing onto the upper balcony, then moved across the fourth floor room into my writing/music room. You may watch the excitement here:

Some dread the process of unpacking and putting things away. I like it. It's like New Year's Eve. This time I'll . . . and I begin a litany of organizational goals, tidy practices and self-improvement plans. I'll use these three flights of stairs as exercise, then I won't have to sit on that bike and sweat. Sounds good until I either arrange things so I have a bottle of water, box of tissues and pair of reading glasses on every floor or decide I can do without. If I always put my keys and sunglasses here when I come home, they'll always be here. Right. Unless I leave alone and come home with Douglas after dark who has his keys out and opens the door for me, in which case my key remains in my handbag, the bottom of the grocery sack or my pocket. If we keep shoe racks on the first floor and make the practice of taking off our shoes as soon as we get in the door, the floor won't get the grit and muck from the goat path strewn all over it. Sounds good, but what about coming home after walking thirty minutes after a cocktail-rich event and needing the bathroom really, really badly and knowing that you must climb two flights of stairs to get to one? The purse gets tossed  on the bench by the door, the hat and gloves are unceremoniously dropped on the first flight of stairs, the coat on the second and the shoes stay put. That's what that's about. If I keep all the sweets on the highest shelf on the first floor, I'll have to make a determined decision to have them. I'll have to go down all the stairs, all the while trying to talk myself out of it (it could happen!), carry the step ladder down the last flight and climb it to reach them. Sounds good, but what I hadn't thought of was the one Heath bar I squirreled away in with the Zone Perfect Double Dark Chocolate bars. I dutifully grab the Zone Perfect bar (because I've convinced myself that it's better for me than candy) and leave the Heath bar which torments my mind for the next two days at which point I eat it. How did I reach the Heath bar? I left the step ladder where it was and stood on the extra chair from the dinette set which we (I) conveniently store underneath the candy shelf in the storage room. Hey, it had to go somewhere.

Settling in means getting used to the appliances. We have a normal sized washing machine and a drier that fits one sheet or two towels. It takes about two hours to dry anything. Yesterday, I did three loads of wash - clothes, towels and sheets - and was at it for over ten hours. The dishwasher is about a third of the size, maybe half the size, of a normal dishwasher. I can put in three or four large items or several plates, bowls and glasses. The shortest cycle is ninety minutes. I could wash them in ten minutes in the sink. I hate washing dishes, but I hate waste. Time will tell which I loathe more. We have a full-sized freezer on the first floor. It is a practice here to stock up on food that can be frozen to avoid trips to the grocery store during the winter. The roads are hilly and icy. They don't do much in the way of salting and plowing them in Vladivostok. (We had our first snow which quickly turned to ice. I walked up the hill with no problem. Walking down, I found myself in a free-glide toward the main road where traffic was plentiful. I froze. I balanced myself. I rode it out praying that I'd stop before reaching the street. I did. On the way back, I had to step creatively (think walking through a mine field) to avoid sliding in reverse with arms full of groceries.) Back to the freezer. The thing is, we've been eating mostly rice and vegetables here. (I'll give those of you who've long known me time to regain consciousness.) I know fruit can be canned (as in mason jars). I'm wondering if I can can sauteed peppers, onions and squash, our staples. (I'll wait while you reach for the smelling salts.) Those of you who do know the spaghetti-o's loving, Pop Tart popping Laura are surprised by this. (I made a typo that I'm glad I caught: Pop Tart pooping! Sometimes the truth must be censored.) One change that has come upon me in menopause is the lack of daily cravings. Except chocolate. And Pepsi.

And now a brief tour of our house. We are blessed to have a beautiful view of the sunset every evening from large windows. This is a view of our living/dining room (on the second floor) from those windows.

Note the handsome man seated in the chair reading. The diplomat at (rare) rest. The picture of the woman you can see hanging above the couch is a print of a self-portrait of popular Russian artist, Zinaida Serebriakova. It's one of Douglas's favorites. We'd heard rumors that when posted in Russia, we should expect that our houses will be occasionally rummaged through. I think those were just rumors, but just in case we decided to display our love of Russia in our art and music. (I brought a couple Tchaikovsky books to leave out on my piano just in case.) Here's a link to better see the picture and see more of her art: https://www.google.ru/search?q=zinaida+serebriakova+self+portrait&newwindow=1&hl=en-RU&authuser=0&rlz=1C1NDCM_enUS692US693&tbm=isch&source=iu&ictx=1&fir=EF7NMQrB7Qs7pM%253A%252CfOiBqefSk-GIcM%252C_&usg=AI4_-kRCNMAWZyvwNRWCF6QkV7pGEYH17A&sa=X&sqi=2&ved=2ahUKEwiSkMGbrf3eAhXNAxAIHcNWA28Q9QEwBXoECAAQDg&biw=1280&bih=579#imgrc=EF7NMQrB7Qs7pM:


This is our bedroom (on the third floor):

Housing always comes institutional-white. We had some walls painted since we're going to be here for at least three years. (It's difficult to tell in the picture, but the wall behind the couch in the living room picture is a pale, grey-blue.) The print you can see above the bed is a gift for me from Douglas. It's a print of Rembrandt's The Philosopher in Meditation. I saw this picture somewhere years ago and remarked on it. About two years later, Douglas surprised me with the print. It has inspired a short story that I've written. Here's a link to get a good look at the picture: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Rembrandt_-_The_Philosopher_in_Meditation.jpg

This is the top floor where Douglas has a desk and where we watch television:

I spend a lot of my time reading up here because Douglas closed off the heat and it's cooler. Behind me is my room where my piano and writing desk are. I'll show you two pictures, one of each end of the room:

The music area. You can't tell, but on the piano is an arrangement of The Nutcracker Suite. I've been trying to learn to play this for years. Every year I get a little closer. The harp you see was a gift from the daughter of a woman at my church. It needs some repair work, but sounds nice. I'm hoping I'll spend time learning to play it while here. The woman who plays organ at the church where I sang last Sunday plays harp; I may be able to get some lessons.

The other end of the room is for writing:

I write here and I study here. The picture on the (painted) wall is by Cole Wolford. Here's a link to Cole's website so you can see more of his work: http://colewolford.com/gallery/ I met Cole while living in Munich where we were in a creative group together. He gifted me this print, which I cherish. Here's a close up of it:

It's called Coming Undone. It reminds me that when I sit and write, I need to bare myself. I must be able to shed whatever has been put on me, what I've put on myself and tell what needs to be told. I like that this man seems to be in a church, in God's presence, which is the safest place to bare oneself and shed the world. My writing is the second safest place for me. A good writer, when finding herself living somewhere like Vladivostok, would delve into the society and write about it as richly as she can. I will try to do this for you in my blog. I will try to do this for me. Until next month, Merry Christmas and Happy Hannukah.

Barefoot in the Glass

There is a beach near Vladivostok in Ussuri Bay that is beckoning for a fairy tale. Instead of just sand, this beach seems to be covered in gemstones. As I walked it for the first time Sunday, I tried to come up with a story.  I could see a place where people dropped offerings to God in thanks for the beautiful view, giving God a wonderful view in return. I imagined a magician casting a wonderful spell on the nearby volcano making it cast out liquid emerald, ruby, sapphire and amber that cooled into colorful jewels.


This beach is one of the only places on the planet where litter has been turned into beauty. (There's a glass beach in Fort Bragg, California.) Apparently, there was once a porcelain factory that regularly dumped its unwanted glass, ceramics and porcelain into the river or bay or onto the beach (depending on which story you read). Over the years, it has been smoothed and now lies glistening in the sun and water. Where it's dry, the colors are dusty and muted; where it's wet, they gleam and sparkle. Both are beautiful. (If you want to see some good pictures, Google glass beach in Vladivostok. They have much better pictures than I do.)

Here are some treasures lying in the dark, volcanic sand.

As much as we strike out against nature, it fights back against our "progress" in many ways. As annoying as it is in our driveway, I love seeing plants growing up between the cracks of sidewalks and patios. You're not going to stop me! They proclaim. In this case, nature has also protected us from ourselves by smoothing out the glass so that you can walk barefoot on it. I'm told the beach is most beautiful in the winter when the colors shine in the snow.


I wanted to play around and take an artsy picture. Here's my effort. Let me explain the somewhat disturbed expression on my face. At first, I lay down and spread out my hair to get a picture of myself with the glass around me. My friend Mary noticed how close to the breaking tide I was. I knew I was quite close because I could hear it. She watched and told me when to snap so that I could get the white of the tide breaking just out of reach of my head. Just as she was telling me the tide was near and I was ready to snap the picture, her voice changed as though I were in mortal peril of being covered by the water. I looked like I was in the middle of a curse, which I wasn't. So I'm not publishing that picture. I then lay there waiting for about five minutes for another wave to break nearby. Apparently those other waves were rogue, because no more came near enough for me to see in a selfie. (Why I didn't ask Mimi, who had the good camera with her, to take a quick picture, I don't know.) So I moved closer to the water. And waited. And waited. Patient Mary told me to get ready. As you can see, when this wave broke, it seeped down under my neck and into my shirt explaining this expression.

I looked prettier in the other pictures I took without the waves (you'll have to take my word for that), but I think this one is much more interesting.

One goal Douglas and I set for ourselves was to get out and do things like attend concerts. Last weekend, we saw The Firebird and vignettes from various ballets at the Mariinski Theater. It was lovely. The pianist and a cellist played Saint Saens' The Swan as a ballerina glided en pointe across the stage Her arms were liquid as they fluttered and alternately went above her head like the swan's neck and head, then contortionist-like behind her back as its wings. It was exciting - even scary with the dancing demons and special effects. Red glitter fell as fire in one scene. The demons' costumes were painted with paint that changed their appearance as they moved around the stage in and out of black lights. Last night, while Douglas was in Yakutsk, I went to see Serenade - a ballet by Balanchine - and The Carmen Suite, which uses music from Bizet's opera Carmen. Even I could tell a difference in the Balanchine ballet, though I'm not sure I can verbalize it. One thing that struck me was the lack of constant balance - four dancers on one side, four on the other and the principal in the center. Also, there were times that the company danced far stage left or right and some were momentarily in the wings out of sight.

I am going to Bachata dance classes Monday and Thursday evenings. I am reminded of why I was never on cheer or pom in high school. I can do all the moves, but when we put them in order in a dance, I can never remember what comes next, so I'm always a beat behind. Sigh. But, the teacher wants to learn to speak better English, so I show up early on Thursday evenings so we can talk. She's kind enough to split our time between English for her and Russian for me.


I attended the Consulate's English language book club and was pleasantly surprised to recognize two people there: my dance teacher and one of the drivers from the Consulate. When Douglas and I were in Silver Spring, we each sang in a couple of choruses. Through our connections there, we wound up singing with other groups on occasion. It was fun to attend events in such a big place where we knew relatively few people and run into familiar faces. I hope that continues to happen for us here.

These are the keys to the lighthouse (our townhouse). Rather large. The red is for the back ("neighbor") door; the black is for the front door. It barely fits into the pocket of my exercise shorts when I go running. Next month, I'll post some pictures of our townhouse - after our stuff arrives.

That glass beach is just tugging at me to write. At first, fairy tales came to mind. Now, I'm feeling more philosophical, poetical. When the glass was first dumped, walking on it barefoot would have shred your feet. Today, after the ocean has tossed it around, it is smooth. Today, our society is in the raw glass, shredded feet stage of some contentious issues. We need to keep tossing them around in order to smooth them out. So let's keep talking about the president, immigration, the environment, sex and religion. We need to talk and we need to listen without an agenda. The ocean had no agenda with the littered shards, it just kept tossing them around and look what happened.


I have special files for the novels I'm working on called streams. These files are where I write random thoughts and ideas about the story or a scene or character. Usually it's not very good writing, but it gets me thinking and it gets me in the chair writing, working. I think that we need to allow for this in ourselves and each other when we discuss things. We need to allow ourselves to hear outrageous statements by others without editing them, shutting them down or insulting them. We need to feel comfortable making awkward statements and risk having them misconstrued while we work out or feelings and seek the truth. Saying I don't wish to discuss this won't ever get us there. That not only shuts others down, it shuts us down. It prevents others from ever understanding us and it allows us to remain incapable of expressing our perspective. I'm going to challenge myself and you, dear readers, to listen without assigning too much gravity to what the speaker is saying - maybe they're still working it out and they need to hear it come out their own mouth before they know how they sound. And allow yourself to speak and correct yourself and contradict yourself and admit you were wrong or admit you have no factual basis for what you're saying - you just think it.  I got this idea from the glass beach. Maybe it makes sense; maybe it doesn't. Maybe writing like this explains why I'm not a poet. Then, again, maybe this is why I should be a poet.