Vladivostok Sights

I last wrote that my next blog would be more fun, less heavy than the last two. That was two months ago. It's not that nothing fun has happened here. That's not why this blog post is an entire month late. I worked on it a month ago to get it out on time, then ran into computer problems (as usual) and walked away in a huff (as usual). In the meantime, Douglas was away for training for a week and I met up with him in Moscow . . . excuses, excuses. I know. Anyway, I have a friend, Alexander, who has promised to help me improve my blog. Technically. There's nothing he can do about the writing, that's on me. We keep trying to get together, but it hasn't happened yet. I've included some videos. I hope they work. If they don't, that is something that Alexander will one day help me with. So, my apologies for skipping the month of November. Here's the fun blog I promised.


One of my favorite places to go in Vladivostok is Russky Island. It's just a bridge-span from the mainland. The sisters from the church where I sing live there in an old building that housed officers for the Russian navy under the tzar. There are ruins on the island that look like they may have been old armories. Russky Island is home to Far Eastern Federal University and the medical complex associated with it. About a month ago, I got up early to join a friend to watch the sunrise and hike on the island.

Sunrise on Russky Island

Great views on the hike. (Not me-what's behind me!)

Something you don't see every day.

Considerate hikers preceded us!

The view from the top.

One more good view from the hike.

Douglas and I went hiking on the island on one of his (rare) days off, and we stumbled onto a labyrinth. What a surprise, and what a treat! Strewn among the stones were coins, shiny kopecks. I felt like I was in a dream, as I occasionally dream of finding a coin, then I see another, and another until I realize that the ground is covered with coins. We walked the labyrinth, then left a stone atop another before leaving. Then we went to one of our favorite restaurants for lunch, Novik. They not only have a great menu, they gather their own honey and make their own mead.

The Russky Island Labyrinth (with one of the bridges in the background).

Vladivostok promotes the conservation of tigers. September 29 is Tiger Day. People dress up like tigers, there’s a parade. It’s festive. In 2022, Vladivostok will host the International Tiger Summit. There is a safari park nearby that began with the rescue of a single animal. (Forgive me for not remembering the details; it’s been months since I was there, and the stories I heard were in Russian, so I didn’t understand everything.) Someone found out that a man was caring for one, so another was brought, and so on. He wound up taking on a job driving a cab in order to pay for the care of these animals. Word spread and people began to donate. Eventually, he was able to buy enough land to give the animals more space. Today, there are not only tigers there, but also Himalayan Black Bears (also known as the Moon Bear or White Chested Bear), deer, wild pigs of some sort, a leopard and cranes. The population changes over time. They promote this place as not being a zoo where animals are in cages, but that’s not true. The tigers are certainly caged, though the terrain is natural and they might have more space than your average zoo. What is unique are the walkways over the spacious cages where we can look down on the tigers. 

I don't think this tiger likes being stared at.

Vladivostok is nicknamed the San Francisco of Russia. It is full of hills - not as steep as those in San Francisco, but hills none the less. We live on one of them, which is why we have such a nice view of the bay and sunsets. The closest path to and from the Consulate is a road that we affectionately refer to as the Goat Path. It was apparently paved years ago, but has long fallen into disrepair. We recently found out that according to city statute, it is up to the neighbors on that road to maintain it. They don't. Here's a little video of me making my way down the Goad Path after a rain:

One of these days, I'll write an entire post about the Goat Path.

Have a blessed Advent everyone. Merry Christmas from Russia!

Crawling Out of the Cave

For this blog post to make sense, you must have read last month's. This could easily be a book, but I'll do my best to keep it succinct.

Escaping the cave I grew up in took time, distance and experience.

First, I had to age out and leave school and home. I needed to experience others' lives, homes and ways and I needed to form my own manner of living. I had to work back and forth between living as I always had and trying new ways. I had to recognize the difference between the concepts of right/wrong and different (wherein falls better and not-so-good).

I'll share a few pivotal moments. I dropped and broke something that belonged to a boyfriend. I remember bracing myself for his ire. Instead, he gasped and said intently, "Are you alright?" I was gob-smacked. Instead of chiding me for clumsiness or inattentiveness, he showed concern. Instead of being punished, I was being cared for.

I was a big fan of Walt Richardson and the Morningstar Band back in the day in Phoenix. I remember being on the dance floor at one club where they were performing. Some guy jumped up on the stage, danced around and sang. Walt just kept playing, watching him and waiting. The guy eventually jumped down. Walt kept playing and watching him until he caught his eye. Then Walt gently shook his head and said, "Don't do that, man." They guy nodded and kept dancing. On the dance floor.

These are two of many instances that showed me that the entire world was not waiting for someone to err and pile on punitive consequences.

While this is not as specific as the above incidents, I remember when I first started hanging around people who, when they didn't know something that someone else was talking about, listened, asked questions, then listened some more rather than laughing in discomfort or rolling their eyes in mockery. I learned to respect those who had knowledge I lacked, rather than calling them a nerd (back when it was not a compliment) or taking on a snide well, good for you attitude. This worked two ways. I also learned to comfortably admit I didn't know something, because I knew I'd be taught rather than ridiculed. While I refused to take pedagogy in college, I grew up loving to teach, perhaps as a result of those experiences.

Crawling out of the cave is a long, ongoing process. It takes my mind a long time to catch up to newfound knowledge and ways. I'm still surprised when I go out to eat and order a salad. In a moment of determination, I signed up to run ten kilometers in the local Bridge Run last Saturday. I made it! (No walking!) I've been practicing. (I can't bring myself to call it training, as I still don't see myself as an athlete after all these years.) When I started the run, my mind flooded with thoughts of: Who am I trying to fool? I'll never make it. I'm glad I brought money to get a cab ride home. I can always just walk. Etc. And those are doubts I still have of physically proven changes in myself. Imagine how long it takes my mind to catch up to realizations like: Not every clerk or waiter who doesn't smile is unfriendly. Not every homeless person is a lazy addict. Not everyone of a different faith is doomed to hell.

We create caves. The people who elected Donald Trump, who behaves abominably by making untrue, bigoted, racist and sexist comments unapologetically, create caves of ignorance and intolerant, punitive, loveless judgement. (I guess I must admit that he is, unfortunately, a sadly accurate representation of a large part of the United States of America, some whom I know and love. He is not a representation of me.) We are so intent on not changing the way we live, that we mock science rather than prepare for great changes in attempt to keep our natural world functioning the best it can. We believe news as we comfortably hear it rather than researching to verity its truth. We so want to be right that we surround ourselves with like thinkers and don't develop the ability to share opposing thoughts and sort out truth from fallacy.

Jochen Wegner gave a good TED talk on matching up people of opposing viewpoints to have conversations about their differences. That is what I want to hear about, not political rally violence incited by a presidential candidate.

Even if what you teach in your cave is the truth, opposing viewpoints need to be known to better teach. I can't tell you how many times Douglas and I have gone round and round on an issue only to eventually, finally realize that one of us (usually me) had a misconception they were going by. Some people would have said we were arguing, but we weren't; we were discussing opposing viewpoints until one of us realized we'd somehow latched on to misinformation. It's exhausting, it's rewarding and it's vital to our society.

If we cannot, in our own society, crawl out of our caves and see the array of truths outside of it, we can have no hope that religious zealots who want to leave women indoors covered with bolts of fabric or lop off our heads for our beliefs will ever hear us. Not the least reason being that we are shamefully unprepared to formulate and gently, wisely share what we know and believe. We need to find our way out of our various caves and practice experiencing more of life.

Next month, I promise something lighter, more fun, with some pictures from Vladivostok.

A Little Plato for You

In “The Allegory of the Cave” Plato describes a group of people who are so isolated that they see nothing of the outside world. They are chained head and foot facing a cave wall, able to see nothing but shadows produced from artifacts being passed in front of flames from the center of the cave. Any sounds produced are presumed to echo so that, from the perspective of the captives, it seems as though the shadows themselves are producing the sounds. That is their reality.

Imagine one of the captives being led from the cave for the first time. It would likely cause physical pain for the captive to be moved, and, I would add, scare them. The fire in the center of the cave would be so bright, it would hurt him to look at it. Imagine the effect the sun would have when he first stepped outside. How long would his eyes need to adjust before he could even see any of the strange things outside the cave? (Would he even want to open his eyes?) Would those dragging him around understand why he couldn’t see anything, why he couldn’t look? Imagine the influx of sounds. (I can only imagine it may be akin to a hearing-impaired person receiving cochlear implants.) Upon being told that this is the world, this is reality, not the dim, quiet cave, how long would he need to process that?

Having been exposed to, accepting and adjusting to the reality of the world, imagine the former captive returning to the cave. How long would it take his eyes to adjust back to the dimness and see the subtle shadows he once knew?  Perhaps the others would think that seeing the light ruined his eyes. Would they not resist anyone who tried to rescue them? Would they believe anything he had to say about what was outside?

The myth goes on, read it when you have a chance.

I, as I believe we all are, am struggling with truth―finding, recognizing, knowing, telling and sharing it. I’m extremely frustrated―enraged at times―with people in charge and friends and family who deny provable facts and are comfortable with ideas that shut out reality, ignore the future and oppress their fellow man. Plato writes of the captives in the cave, “They are like us.” I need to remember this and check my anger and frustration when I’m confronted with what I consider backwards thinking (e.g. promoting coal power over renewable energy, emulating ancient China by building a wall on our border, repressing women by not giving them free reign of their own bodies, e.g.). I spent a long time in a cave and still hear the echoes of it in my mind. None of us emerged from the womb wise or intelligent. Some were simply born into a better situation that promoted a broad education and wisdom.

The power of story is often stronger than bare facts. If I were with someone in physical pain (as the man in the story when emerging from the cave), would I be impatient with them? What if that pain were long-term? Constant? If they were confused, would I respond with anger? If they were scared, would I mock them? I think we'd all answer a resounding "No!" to all those questions. But, get a group of people who were born thousands of mile away and are scared, confused and in pain near our border and suddenly the written law means more than the needs of humanity. In the story, I think many of us would picture ourselves rescuing the people from the cave and helping them adjust to real life. But in reality, how many of us help even a homeless, unemployed person?

There are many caves in this world in which people are being raised. The cave may be a house or a country. It may be a cave of religion, mental illness, political agenda, personal or family fame, prestige or power, or sheer limitations—whether they be physical or opportunistic. They may have been born in that cave, forced into it or stumbled dumbly into it. Caves, like situations in life, can stretch deep underground for miles; it can take a long time to find your way out if you’re lost-if you even know you're lost. Sometimes caves are spacious enough to stand up in, sometimes you can barely crawl through them. Plato picked a good analogy for our situation in life.

The words to Mercy, Pity, Peace and Love by William Blake come to mind. Stanzas 3 and 5:

For Mercy has a human heart, 
Pity, a human face, 
and Love, the human form divine. 
and Peace, the human dress.

And all must love the human form, 
in heathen, Turk or Jew; 
where Mercy, Love, and Pity dwell, 
there God is dwelling too.

Kupala Night

Saturday, July 6^th, Douglas and I joined some other Consulate staff to celebrate Ivan Kupala Night. It was held at the charming Usadba Vavilovo. (For better pictures than mine, look it up on line.)

Ivan Kupala is a mid-summer festival that, depending on what you read, celebrates the summer solstice, the summer fertility god or the wedding of sun and water. Tossing water about is part of the mischief associated with Ivan Kupala. I was grateful that there was none of that at this event, as it was just a teensy bit chilly.

We started by looking at a cottage full of gingerbread houses, always on display at Usadba Vavilovo. They’re designed to portray scenes from various Pushkin fairy tales. This whetted my appetite for reading them, as I could only recognize one story in all the scenes.

At the entrance is a tiny cafe with a bakery where we bought pastries, cookies and cakes. Just outside that was a small smoking area. There was no smoking in the large, garden area which made the evening very comfortable. Since we didn’t have to breathe cigarette smoke, we could small the shashlik (marinated, spiced meat often on skewers) cooking. We were getting hungry and saw a few people eating, but none of us could politely find out how to get some for ourselves!

When we entered the main garden area, the women were given ribbons tied to our wrists. (It was definitely a female-centered celebration.) Women of all ages and marital status wore garlands or wreaths on their heads, though it’s my understanding that this was traditionally done by younger, single women. I had to check my attitude seeing the older women wearing wreaths, but by the end of the evening, I got caught up in all the festivities and was planning my wreath for next year. 

A group of musicians helped me get into the spirit of Kupala. They took the stage, then strolled and played and sang. There were about six singers and players. I think they all sang, plus one man played tirelessly on an accordion, another played an instrument that looked like a small recorder, but had a reedy sound and another played various rhythms. I wish I could tell you more about them, but they started to play, and they played non-stop for about two and a half hours, at which time we were ready to leave. They coaxed people up to dance. Mostly women responded, but there were some men willing to dance with the lovely women. The dancing went on for about an hour and a half. Some of the dances were little more than holding hands and threading in and out in circular patterns, but some were more involved. The players spent enough time to allow everyone to catch on to the steps before changing the dance. Douglas and Mike were pulled into a dance that involved some cheek-kissing. They were both teased about the lipstick left behind from all those lips!

There was a wreath competition, but, as I watched woman after woman go up and receive a prize, it seemed to me that everyone who wore a garland or wreath got a prize. Afterwards, some women cast their wreaths into the water that flowed into pools in the center of the garden. Traditionally, single women did this to read the petal patterns on the water to discern their romantic future. Sometimes, men would pull a wreath from the water to get the attention of the woman who’d cast it off.

The women were called to take off the ribbons we’d been given and tie them to a bunch of branches that were to be burned. This symbolized the burning of our worries and problems. After they were ablaze, people lined up and jumped over the flames. This is interpreted as bringing good fortune, longevity or to test a relationship— it is said that a couple who fails to make the jump while holding hands will not last in love. (Hopefully I'll be able to post either a picture or short video of this soon.)

We were guests this year and paid no admission. Next year, I’d gladly pay to attend. I’d be ready to dance more, stay longer so I can talk with the musicians and find out how to score some shashlik.

A Curse on Thongs

I am once again tardy in posting. I have a pretty good excuse this time. I was visiting my family and friends in the States and didn't get back until July 2nd, the day before our Consulate Fourth of July celebration here in Vladivostok. I'm glad I waited, however, because I didn't know what I wanted to post. Yesterday, fate intervened and gave me an idea.

A curse on the thong! I admit my undies drawer is full of them. Well, not full. They’re so small, I could fit them all into a coffee can. A small coffee can. So, there you are. I wear them. I hate panty lines. When I was 14 or so, Underalls were new, popular and sought after. They were a cross between seamless panties (panties without seams, not what Victoria’s Secret sells – the ones with seams) and pantyhose. (Look up and watch some old Underall commercials for a few laughs.) My friends and I wore our Underalls knowing how much better, more alluring we looked without those ghastly panty lines. That was the 80’s.

Now we have thongs. My cousin refuses to wear thongs. “If I wanted to give myself a wedgy, I’d just reach back there and yank!” She says. I say, I know where my underwear are headed once I start walking, sitting, bending and standing; I’d rather put them there myself, thank you very much. It makes me feel more in charge.

I remember feeling a bit old-fashioned when a young friend (16) of mine came to visit and laundered a bunch of thongs. Almost as put-off as I felt when my mom told me that she’d ordered some thongs from Victoria’s Secret. (It turned out she’d ordered the kind you wear on your feet, but I didn’t find that out soon enough to erase the unbidden images that had formed themselves in my mind. Sorry, Mom.)

So why am I feeling a particular disdain for thongs today? Well, I’ll tell you.

I went down to move laundry from the washer to the dryer. The laundry had managed to knot itself into such a complicated and secure knot that the captain of the Queen Elizabeth II would have been satisfied to leave the old girl at dock, step into a pub and hoist a few knowing she'd still be securely tied up awaiting his return. In the knot were two pairs of my jeans, my hiking pants, Douglas’s dress shirt, a favorite shirt of mine and I don’t remember what else. Maybe that was all. That was enough, brothers and sisters. I couldn’t loosen anything at first try. There were sleeves and cuffs and collars leading in and out as though a giant pinball ball had bounded about, trailing a magician’s handkerchief behind it.

I sighed. I groaned. To my great credit, I did not curse.

I removed the few loose items that didn't get caught up in the knot to get a better look. I removed apx. three socks (there is never an even number of socks, is there?), two pairs of underpants and a t-shirt. There was one shirt of which only the sleeve was tangled. This ought to be easy, I foolishly thought. I leaned over, blocking out what little light got down into the washer, and started feeling for the end of the sleeve with my fingers. I managed to loosen whatever was wrapped around the sleeve (which was now considerably longer than when I put it in the wash) just enough to free it. This took about four minutes.

I was hoping (again, foolishly) that this would loosen everything else. Nope. 

There was something that had stretched around the agitator and had worked its way underneath three out of four of the flipper-like things that stick out from it. The agitator was living up to its name. Whatever was stuck down there seemed to be the impetus of the knot and its attachment to the agitator was the anchor. What was it? It was unrecognizable. Probably something of mine that I love, and, along with the shirt that now had one three-quarter length sleeve and one full-length sleeve, I will now never be able to wear again.

Douglas’s work shirt was the next least attached item. Unfortunately, to free it, I had to thread the bulk of the shirt through a teensy opening I managed to maneuver. My back was starting to hurt. I briefly considered leaving the whole mess for Douglas-this was, after all, his shirt. But as my job is to make his life easier, I rejected that outright.

Twenty minutes later I found out what the mysterious stretched out item was at the (literally and figuratively) bottom of all this. You probably already know. It was one of my thongs. But it was my least favorite pair! The pair I only wear if all the others are dirty. The pair I wear on airplanes because I don’t care. The pair I put on if I’m changing clothes, but not showering. The pair that sticks up over my pants whether or not I’m squatting or bending over. That pair.

Ah, me. As I wrote this, I thought of Irma Bombeck. She used to write a column for the Arizona Republic. She also wrote books, one of which was titled Motherhood, the Second Oldest Profession. She was funny, God rest her. There's something else nostalgic you can look up and enjoy.

Next month, I'll try to be on time and have some pictures to share.

Alexei

Douglas and I were walking home recently, when we came to a crosswalk at the top of some stairs we regularly pass on the way to the Consulate. An old man stood there holding a cane in one hand. His pants were half-way down his legs and he was futzing around the front of them with his free hand. I immediately averted my eyes and moved to the other side of Douglas, telling him that I wanted him in between us as a buffer. The light turned, and I was about to bolt across the street when Douglas said, “He fell.”

The man had fallen, not on the sidewalk, but down the stairs. These stairs are metal steps, three flights.

I’m going to interrupt this narrative and posit that Douglas, in his response, and I, in my inward and outward responses, represent three factions of society.

When the man fell, I thought, He belongs there. I thought this because: I assumed he was drunk, I assumed he was being vulgar with his pants down and his hand messing around in the front of them, and because, somewhere in my mind, it stood to reason that if someone is a drunk pervert, they deserve to fall down stairs. I’m ashamed that I thought that.

Douglas ran down the stairs and I followed fumbling with my phone trying to find the emergency number I’d programmed in for convenience. Douglas pointed at a woman nearby and told her to call for help, twice. She did. The man was lying face down, upside down on the steps bleeding from his head. His cane was a half flight of steps above him. He wasn’t moving. Douglas felt for a pulse. We knew not to move him. Douglas talked to him to see if he’d respond. I dug into my purse and took out some tissues to put under his head for a bit of comfort. The man started to stir, tried to sit up. “Спокойтесь,” Peace, Douglas gently said, rubbing his back. The man kept lifting his head, trying to move. So, assuming nothing vital was broken, Douglas tried to straighten him out so he wasn’t lying across so many steps at such a steep angle. I put my hand on his head and silently prayed. The man found the tissues and blotted his head. I held his other hand. The hand I held was missing fingers, either entirely or partially. The stubs that weren’t covered in dirty gauze were black. It sickened me to hold his hand. But I thought of all the stories I’d heard of people who were comforted simply by someone holding their hand. So, I held it and prayed and tried to drive away the ugly thoughts popping into and out of my mind. (I’d better not catch anything.)

I never smelled any alcohol as I crouched beside him.

He closed his eyes as though he might fall asleep. Douglas told him not to, then asked him what his name was, Alexei. He was forty-four. Alexei is gray-haired, weathered, thin as a rail and stooped at 44 years.

The bleeding stopped. Once in a while, he tried to move. Douglas kept saying, “Спокойтесь,” talking to him, using his name. I wondered if he wanted his cane, perhaps his only possession, so I brought it to him. He then tried to stand up. Douglas told him to wait.

A small crowd had gathered. Only one man used the steps, walking over Alexei. He was polite about it. A few kids climbed up the side of the railing of the steps, leaving us undisturbed with Alexei.

When paramedics showed up, one came down the steps, one stayed up at the top looking down. The one who stayed up at the top looked like Douglas’s brother-in-law. Funny the things you notice in difficult situations. Douglas told the responder who came down Alexei’s name and age. He practically ignored Douglas. He didn’t even cursorily examine Alexei, he just stood over him and told him to get up, that he needed to get into the truck, which was parked on the street a flight and a half of steps up. But Alexei couldn’t get up, though he tried. The responder reached to help Alexei get up, but only grabbed the back of his jacket in one hand and pulled. He did this after putting on gloves. Douglas, with his sore shoulder, did most of the assistance getting Alexei up.

So you have a picture of our society: Those who jump into action when they need to; those who ignore the needs of others, judging that they’ve brought it on themselves; and those who, with a load of misgivings, do the right thing. I’m glad I was with Douglas that afternoon. I’m glad I’m married to someone who sets such a good example for me and others.

When we got to the top of the steps, Douglas heard a young boy say to him (in Russian) “It would be better if there were more people like you.” The boy was right.

A couple of weeks later, Douglas saw Alexei on the street. He approached him and introduced himself. Alexei remembered Douglas helping him. He said he had been injured in fighting, whether in the military or not, Douglas wasn’t sure.

I want to close with a quote from Henri-Frédérick Amiel. “Life is short. We don’t have much time to gladden the hearts of those who walk this way with us. So, be swift to love, and make haste to be kind.”

Divided, We Limp Along

(Those of you who open my blog for the pictures may skip to the end if you'd like.) 

Before moving to Russia, I’d heard all sorts of things about Russians. I had a piano teacher in high school tell me that the Russians were controlling the weather. News reports have long told me that they’re always spying on us. I was warned that, while living here, there would be Russians rummaging through our house when we weren’t at home. I have been told flat out that they don’t like us.

The Russians have experimented with cloud seeding in attempt to have sunny days for special outdoor events. Sounds pretty sinister to me. Though not quite as sinister as rejecting sustainable energy in favor of coal power or, as I’m guilty of, continuing to drive gas fueled automobiles instead of electric─both of which, as I understand it, ultimately affect the weather in the form of global warming.

I really wouldn’t know if Russia is spying on us. Of all the nerve! Have those other countries heard of that? Do you think we’d ever consider such a thing?

If they don’t like us, they have a funny way of showing it. (Read my previous few blogs for details.)

I’m no sociologist, but I can understand how mankind formed groups to separate themselves from others because of beliefs, lifestyles, etc. What I don’t understand is how that degraded into mocking and insulting those who live differently. That has degenerated into refusing to socialize with and give aid to those who are different. That, at its absolute worse, has devolved into random killing and genocide.

It starts young. I remember hearing and saying, “Our school’s better than your school,” “Girls are better than boys.” 

But we don’t grow out of it. Women have our unique challenges in the world, yet still we manage to pit ourselves against each other.

I had a friend who moved to the San Francisco area and, within a month of living there, claimed that the Chinese didn’t know how to drive because she’d been cut off in traffic several times by someone who looked Chinese. As often as I rode with her and heard her yelling at the other drivers in Phoenix, I never once heard her say that white people didn’t know how to drive. 

Religions that have more in common than in contradiction are always at odds. Even common religions form off-shoots that often look askance at the other sects. (A quick Google search showed 19 divisions within the Baptist church alone!)

Whether it’s race, gender, religion or politics we will find a way to divide ourselves.

I was going to try and write this blog satirically, but I’m not sure I’m skilled enough. I was going to try and use humor. But every sentence I started wound up too true for there to be anything to laugh at. Example. We call our country the United States of America. We have a congress that works toward party agendas rather than American interests. If you look at our country as a family unit and consider the office of president and congress in the parental roles, it’s no wonder the people can’t/won’t sit together to discuss and dialogue in order to form a more perfect union.

I’m going to be living in Russia for three, possibly four, years. I’m trying to listen and observe so that I can bring home truths with me. I’m trying to be involved so I can share good, real stories with you, my readers. Stories of people who live and believe differently than you and I as well as stories of people who are just like us, but happen to live on another continent.

I’m attending a Catholic church here in Vladivostok. I’ve visited Catholic churches only on rare occasion. I lost interest in the faith after trying to understand it from a small variety of members. Here’s a conversation I once had. (I should say, in my defense, this conversation was with the father of an old boyfriend whom had asked me to marry him. His father wouldn’t even consider inviting his friends and family to a marriage ceremony in any church other than a Catholic church. The Catholic church wouldn’t marry me to my boyfriend unless I was Catholic or could prove that I was baptized. The airing of my faith, what was in my heart, wasn’t proof. They wanted documentation. Cold, meaningless paper. Needless to say, the relationship did not last.)

Me: What is Catholic?

Tony: It’s my church.

Me: Well, what Catholicism?

Tony: It’s my faith.

Me: What do you hold faith in?

Tony: The Catholic church.

Me: Well, uh . . . okay. The Catholic church. What is Catholic church?

Tony: It’s what I believe in.

Me: Okay. I believe in God, Jesus, the Holy Spirit, prayer . . . What exactly do you believe in?

Tony: Catholicism.

No kidding. I had a similar conversation with someone else, who, after getting exasperated with my persistence, offered me a book written by a stranger to explain what they believed in their heart. I’ve met one person who could actually answer my questions about Catholicism. I’m in the company of four delightful sisters now and I look forward to our years together. I want to form a good friendship first. Our friendship has a good base of our love of God and music. I’ll eventually start asking them questions. Then I’ll report.

We need to be building bridges, folks, not walls. Hold me to my words and, in the comment section of this blog, as I challenge you with these words, ask me if I’ve followed through with what I write.

I recently read the parable of God separating the sheep (the faithful) from the goats (the unfaithful). God praised the sheep for feeding, clothing and visiting Him when he needed it. They wondered when they had done such a thing for God. God said they did it whenever they did it for a fellow human. Contrarily, God chastised the goats for refusing Him food, clothing and care. They protested and asked when they’d ever denied God anything. God told them that when they refused their fellow man, they refused Him.

If you are a reader of this blog who is not concerned with God, then I leave you with this famous quote from Niemὂller:

First they came for the socialists, and I did not speak out─

         Because I was not a socialist.

Then they came for the trade unionists, and I did not speak out─

         Because I was not a trade unionist.

Then they came for the Jews and I did not speak out─

         Because I was not a Jew.

Then they came for me─and there was no one left to speak for me.

Okay, that's it for the heavy stuff. Now for the fun stuff.

Here are some differences in life in Russia. First, grocery carts. 

They're small. (You should see the kiddie carts!) This is a standard grocery cart with my (empty) bags, jacket and purse and a sack of potatoes. In this picture, it was not yet winter, so my jacket is small (you can see part of it underneath my red hat). Add my down coat to this mix and I'm simply stacking groceries on top of everything or trying to manage two carts.

Kit Kats! They have Kit Kats in Russia!? Yummy. 

Wait. They're green??? At first, I thought it was a fun nod to St. Patrick's Day, but no. These are, I believe, made in China and they contain seaweed. I had to admit, they tasted good. This is not the first blend of seaweed and chocolate I've come across, unfortunately.

A sign of spring in Vladivostok. Dancing in the park. Who cares if he's a beat behind? He's a good sport!

The local pool hall. Okay, there's more inside this beautiful building than a pool hall, but this is where I go to shoot pool. It's associated with a pub (!). You can sit in the pub and eat, then go to the pool hall, or you can go straight to the pool hall and still order from the pub menu. You can even, for just a few dollars more, have a private room. I shot American pool, but I do want to try Russian billiards while I'm here. In Russian billiards, the balls that you sink are a mere three millimeters smaller than the pocket. You must be very accurate. The goal is to carom the target ball off another ball and into the pocket, rather than using a cue ball to shoot another ball into a pocket.

Post Themes

Every post in the Foreign Service seems to have a theme. Tashkent was my social post. Though I worked hard studying Russian and wrote quite a bit, I attended balls (a first for me), regular luncheons and bazaars with an International Women’s group, many dinners and parties, participated in a book discussion group, and hiked with an international hike group on many Sundays.

Munich was my writing post. I was the sole non-visual artist in a creative group. Some of us wound up forming a writer’s group. I loved these groups. We’d share our progress and set goals for ourselves at each bi-monthly meeting. When we didn’t achieve our goal, there was never any shame; everyone rallied to help figure out how the goal could be met in the coming weeks. We even had an exhibition—one I figured I’d not be a part of since I wrote. But as they began planning—within a few minutes—someone said that I should tell an original story. Our theme was being homesick for somewhere we’d never been. I challenged myself to compose this story strictly orally. I made a few notes, but, otherwise, didn’t write it down. I practiced it aloud as I walked through the beautiful English Gardens. It wound up being a good, if unusual, fit in our successful exhibition.

Our United States post was my music post. I kept up with writing, even took a couple of classes, but my time was mostly devoted to music. I sang in a church choir. While in Munich, I sang in the Munich English Language Choir. When I told the director I was leaving for DC, he told me to contact Christopher Betts at Episcopal Church of the Redeemer. Chris had been his organ teacher. I did and wound up in the perfect church. I met Lisa, a cellist, who encouraged me to practice some piano accompaniments so we could play together. She and Joy, a flautist, encouraged me to practice my recorders and join the Taize ensemble. There, I met Donnette, a harpist, who passed on some simple harp music to me which got me to pull out my folk harp, dust it off, tune it and practice. We played a duet for a service. I was even gifted a harp from the daughter of one of my fellow choir members. Douglas and I sat in with a few local choruses for various performances. That led to our auditioning and singing with a professional choir, Carmina. I also sang in Illuminare, the director’s women’s choir.

That brings me to Vladivostok. Although we're settled, it's too early to give this post a name. I have, however, dubbed it the post of waste. There are no recycling programs here, so everything goes into the trash. This is confusing to me, in this day and age. Russia beat us into space. This is not a technologically unevolved country, but when it comes to waste, it’s acting like it. Moscow is shipping its trash (which, apparently is apx. one fifth of Russia’s trash) to other cities because its landfills are full. You can probably imagine how this makes the residents of those areas feel. I don’t want to make Russia sound dirty. From my perspective, it’s not. You may remember my writing that I don’t see a lot of trash on the streets of Vladivostok. It’s regularly cleaned up (except on the unpaved, washed out road where we live). But it bothers me to throw away recyclable materials. I’ve asked two residents about the lack of recycling. Both seemed disgusted that there isn’t yet a recycling program in place. It reminds me a bit of being in Tashkent and seeing the water waste along side the disappearing Aral Sea. (The North Aral Sea, by the way, is apparently on a rebound with the return of some freshwater fish.) But I must be careful to not throw stones when I still drive a car and am from a country with an administration that is still trying to promote coal power.  

While it’s too early to assign a theme to Vladivostok, I envision it as being a post of firsts, some of which I’ve already written, one of which occurred on February 22^nd. Douglas and I ran in the annual Ice Run.

From the left: Our neighbor and Community Liaison Officer Yancy, Consul General Michael, Me, Consular Officer Noah, Douglas and our Public Affairs Officer Darren.

You know how they say that the camera adds 10 pounds? Well, posting pictures on a blog adds about 50% more frump than is actually there.

I also see it as being a post of completion. (That’s another blog entirely.)

I will leave you with this beautiful picture of a sunset. This is what we see every day from our little lighthouse that overlooks the bay. This will perhaps factor (at least poetically) into the theme of our life here in Russia. 

January Firsts

The latest news from the lighthouse is of first experiences. I wrote in my first post from Vladivostok that it was my intention to soak up new experiences. I’m keeping my word.

January 19 (midnight) was a holiday (holy day) called Kreshenie (pronounced kresh-eh-nee-yeh). Traditionally, people go to the bay where a hole has been cut through the ice and dip into the water three times. It is in honor of Jesus’ baptism. Some believe that there are healing properties in the plunge. There is often a priest on hand to oversee this holy rite. I joined some friends from the Consulate and, sans priest, took the plunge.

Our Public Relations Officer was with us, so we had a videographer and photographer even though it was not an official event due to the government shut down. I waited outside while some went indoors to suit up. We stood outside in our swim suits for pictures to be taken. The temperature was 15˚with winds gusting to eight miles per hour. (I know, I know, that doesn’t sound like gusts, but when you’re in a swim suit and when that swim suit is wet, it is typhonic.) I was the first one in the water. 

(People called me brave. Ha! I was tired─and cold─ of waiting.) I had good intentions. I told my Russian teacher that I intended to be thinking of my soul as I got into the water. N-n-nope. My soul was one of the furthest thoughts from my mind. I grabbed the wooden plank that crossed the hole, and lowered myself into the Icelandic water for the first time. I gasped wondering if I could do it a second and third time. I did and turned to get out. Thank God for a kind hand to pull me out, because I think I’d have died there otherwise. The first thing I noticed upon emerging from the water was the sensation of ice crystalizing on my skin. I doubt this actually happened, but I felt it, and it was eerie and alarming. I made my way to my towel passing my friends who may have been talking to me, I don’t know, patted off, wrapped up, grabbed my clothes and headed indoors. After reaching the heat, I felt guilty for not watching the others take the plunge. But, in keeping with my New Year’s resolution (I’ll get to that later), I stayed inside and got as dry as I could and dressed.

The weekend following Kreshenie was a three-day weekend and Douglas and I were invited to a traditional Russian banya or bath. We were invited by our Public Relations Officer (who was also our social sponsor when we first arrived, making sure we were properly welcomed) and hosted by members of the Japanese Consulate. We were met by many smiling faces and welcoming bows. There were two couples, their children and a man whose wife was in Japan. Also awaiting our arrival was a small feast of sushi, dumplings, shashlick (kabobs), a strange dessert I’ll describe in a minute, juices, beer and champagne. We ate, got acquainted, then stripped down to our swim suits and began the bathing process.

It’s not a bath as we think of it. I came out in my swim suit and saw a Jacuzzi. I stuck my toes in the water to see how hot it was. It was cold. Not hole-in-the-ice cold, but cold-cold, nonetheless. I learned that you begin a banya in a dry sauna where there is a bucket of water and a dry, leafy birch branch to dip in the water and splash onto the hot rocks making the room steam and intensify in heat. The dry leaves brushing against each other mixed with the water droplets falling onto the hot rocks and steam sounded like fine, fluid maracas. The branch is then used on the bare skin of the bathers. Everyone at this banya was gentle with the slapping so it felt good. And it smelled good, fresh and woodsy. I neglected to look at the temperature in the banya, but, having endured 124 ˚ in Phoenix, I’d guess at least 135˚. I’ve read that some Russians consider 212˚ a “decent temperature.” After getting good and hot, there are two choices: go outside and watch the steam come off your body or jump in a cool, deep Jacuzzi-like pool. I chose the pool first. The water felt good; I was in there for a few minutes before getting out and going for round two. After the sauna, I alternated between the cold water and cold outside air. Douglas took a picture of my steaming on the porch. The steam isn’t very visible, but perhaps you can make it out near my head.

After we finished with the banya, we returned to the table of food. This is when I decided to try the strange looking dessert. (There was no chocolate.) It was round, rather large and whitish. I overheard that it was made with pureed red beans and sugar. Gads. But, in keeping with experiencing new things, I tried it. When I picked it up, I was surprised at how dense it felt. I bit into it. It was soft and thick and surprisingly tasty. The outside was sugared rice paste (?). Inside was a large, sweet, delicious strawberry surrounded by the sweetened red bean concoction. I had expected to give the rest of it to Douglas after tasting it, but it was so good, I ate the whole thing, which was several bites. Look up images of Japanese Daifuku to see what they look like.

I bought a pair of ice skates with Christmas money and have been skating once a week. The second week I showed up, a woman named Elena saw me changing into my skates on the side of the rink and called me to follow her. (This was all in Russian.) I followed her to a warming house I hadn’t known about. That was nice of her, I thought. As we changed into our skates, she showed me where I could leave my boots next to a radiator so they were warm when I came back to change. She also gave me a chunk of chocolate. Подруга! (Friend!) I said. After we’d gone our separate ways on the ice, she came over to me and showed me some rudiments to practice. She’d then leave me to practice, return after 20 minutes or so and show me some more. I was getting skating lessons! I’ve long wanted ice skating lessons and now I was getting them. For free! She was there the following week and we picked up where we’d left off. She also took pictures of me. I need to tell you that Russian women (and Central Asian women) pose for pictures. Unless they work for an Embassy or Consulate and are standing amidst a bunch of Americans, you’ll not see one simply stand in front of a camera and smile. They Pose. Before she took my picture, she commented that I needed make up. I explained that I hadn’t any with me. She had some, she offered. No, thanks. She then proceeded to take my braid out and rebraid it, bringing it over the front of my shoulder. Mr. DeMille, I’m ready for my close up. She also took some video of my skating. I’m not sharing that because the file is so huge, I don’t want to bore you and I fall down. I have learned over these three weeks that I always fall on the same side of the same knee. I need knee pads. And wrist braces.

Now, my New Year’s resolution. You may or may not remember that I gave up guilt for Lent. I so enjoyed that, that my New Year’s resolution is (excuse me for a moment) f**k it. Let me explain. I’m the kind of person who is always trying to better themselves. But, naturally, I foul up from time to time. I am sick (and tired) of getting to the end of a day during which I worked on Russian, practiced music, exercised and prepared a delicious meal for Douglas and I and cleaned up afterwards, but go to bed feeling guilty because I didn’t write or pray or whatever. A day in which I do everything is rare.

So, I named this blog January Firsts. I'm not very creative when it comes to naming my blog posts. This one is well titled. In Russia, we have the January 1st new year, the orthodox new year on January 14 and Chinese new year on February 5. Lots of beginnings. I'm good with beginnings; not so good with endings. Perhaps that's another post yet to come.