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.

Welcoming

(I’ll warn my regular readers—all four of you—that this is a long one. I was going to edit it, shorten it, but decided that there was nothing I wanted to leave out, so here it is.)

I’ve had a warm reception in Vladivostok. The Consulate staff, the church choir, the professional choir, patrons and employees at Art Etage, shopkeepers, neighbors and people on the street have all welcomed me in their own way.

I have turned to some of the Consulate staff to find out where to buy things like Douglas’s Christmas gift (pictured below), harder-to-find grocery items and face cream. The answers I got came with written instructions, pictures from Google street view, bus routes and brand names to try or avoid. This, I’ve learned is the nature of Vladivostokians. When I’ve asked for directions on the street, I have as often been walked to my destination as directed.

This is a podstakkanik. (It literally means "under glass," referring to the elaborate holder.) I saw a man at the Consulate drinking tea form one and commented to Douglas about how handsome it was. He agreed and said he wanted one. 

There is a house down the hill from us – we walk past it every time we walk to the Consulate – onto which a wall has recently been added. I’d started waving to the men out working. They waved back. One day, a man came out to greet me, in Russian, of course. I explained my Russian limitations. It turned out he spoke English. He was a visiting relative who was only there for the week. A couple weeks later, I walked by the house and heard a man yelling, Amerikanka! I looked up, and he said (in Russian) my relative was talking to you. We had a short exchange, and I walked away warmed. We had an in with each other and we grasped it to have a short conversation. More, hopefully, will follow. I haven’t seen him since the weather has turned to cold.

Sometimes, the way we're made to feel welcomed is by being treated as no different than the locals. Douglas and I were walking down what we refer to as the goat path (an unpaved road in great disrepair) to go into town. It had snowed and was a bit slippery. A man from up the hill yelled at Douglas calling him a hooligan for not holding my hand and helping me down the hill. He explained that he had offered and I'd rejected him. (I didn't want to slip and take Douglas down with me or vice-versa.) Douglas came over to me, took my hand and told me to hold it until we were out of sight of him! And I thought it was only the babushkas who commented on people's behavior in public.

The Russians have a saying that there's no such thing as bad weather, just bad clothing. This is me as I appear on the goat path to and from  the Consulate and church.

I've attended Bachata and salsa dance classes twice a week with an American friend. The instructor speaks a little English and wants to learn more. After a few classes, she asked me if I’d meet with her to talk so she could practice her English. I wanted to say no. I was committing more of my time with four Russian classes a week instead of two and choir rehearsals, and I wanted to keep up with my writing, exercise and music practice at home. But I said yes without hesitation, and I’m so glad I did. We met about an hour before class for what turned out to be a mutual show-and-tell session. Olga likes to read about quantum physics in her spare time. She also teaches music to children and dances in competitions. I wish you could see her face and hear her voice when I walk into class, Lora . . . she says and hugs me. I wish I could express the comfort I got out of her classes when I was going through a funk recently. I wanted to stay home, hole up and feel sorry for myself. I went to class instead and floated out of the room afterwards. (There will be no pictures of the dance classes. Ever.)

Music, we all know, is an international language and I am reminded of that when I sit and sing with the church choir or the professional choir. I met the director of the church choir at the Thanksgiving dinner at the Consul General’s residence. Sister Katarina, and the other sisters, are Americans. I started singing with the sisters in the choir and kept hearing talk of a professional choir. I asked Sister Maria Stella (the organist) for an introduction to the director. On a rainy evening in November, I was to meet her at the church (where the professional choir also practices). I arrived with one wet foot (I'd stepped in a puddle that was deeper than it looked), but Sister Maria Stella wasn’t there yet. I saw a woman who was eyeing me. I assumed she was the director, so I approached her, introduced myself and, as best I could, told her that, though I didn’t expect to start that night, I’d like to sing with her choir. (They had been rehearsing since October for a Christmas concert.) She stared at me a moment, then asked, “Why not tonight?” I didn’t have an answer to that, so I took the music she pushed at me, called Douglas and told him he was on his own for dinner and sat down to sing. One song we sang was in English, so I was a good resource for pronunciation. 

During the first rehearsal, I heard a woman behind me saying something over and over. Then she said, понимаете? (Do you understand?) Next thing I knew, an arm was reaching over my shoulder. The hand at the end of the arm pulled a few sheets of music out of one of the plastic sheet protectors in the folder I'd been given. All the music up to that point had been single sheets; for some reason, this entire song was in one protector and I hadn't noticed. I'm afraid I'm a bit high maintenance in rehearsal.

Alexander, a tenor in the choir who speaks English, made sure I knew that I could turn to him if I ever needed help during rehearsals. Katya, our rehearsal accompanist, comes up to me smiling and talking away in Russian in hopes I’d understand enough. Slava, who speaks some English, talks to me in hopes of improving his English. Vasili, who plays a Japanese instrument called a koto, is looking forward to a musical gathering at our house. I’ve never exchanged phone numbers so freely. I’m even considering getting on WhatsApp.

With that said, I want to talk about the other side of being welcomed: making myself someone they want to welcome. I can’t stand they myriad ways of keeping in touch. I don’t want to sit at this box checking email, blog comments (of which there are painfully few, by the way), twitter, texts and answer the phone and Skype when someone calls. How many ways do we really need, folks? I stood my ground in Munich, refusing to get onto Facebook. I remain glad of that. I came to Vladivostok with the determination that I was going to experiment living differently. I have more apps on my iPhone. I’m reluctantly texting, though I don't like it. No sir. I want to live up to this warm welcome and reciprocate by welcoming them into my life.

Saturday, December 29^th, I had a rehearsal at church for an upcoming ecumenical music festival. I found out that the next morning at church there was to be a funeral service. Sister Katarina asked me if I could show up early and sing for it. She also mentioned a memorial  luncheon (a pominki) i could attend after the noon mass. That sounded like a long day at church. I thought about it and decided that, since I was now part of this community, I’d act like it. At first, I felt like I may be a little out of place at the pominki. But the deceased was the twin sister of one of the altos in the choir; I had a connection. So, I made a small plate of food, showed up early and sang for the funeral, then the regular service and stayed for the pominki.

I sat with Sisters Fastina and Joanna. I was quite hungry. I’d eaten breakfast around 7AM and it was 2PM before we sat before a huge spread of food. I was told that the first dish served and eaten at a pominki was koliva. Koliva was traditionally made with boiled wheat, sugar, fruit and nuts. But during a famine, rice replaced the wheat and some traditions have continued to use rice. What we ate was white rice with chopped grapes. We watched the other end of the table, where the bereaved sat, for cues as to when to serve ourselves. The sisters were waiting for a prayer before eating. When you sit with the sisters, you must behave yourself. So I sat for about twenty minutes with plates of sausages, bread, cheese, fruit and vegetables awaiting a prayer. (I, myself, was already praying that my stomach wouldn't growl too loudly.) Eventually, Sister Fastina said we could eat; apparently there would be no prayer. We were served a hot bowl of borscht (which is pronounced borsh in Russian), red wine and vodka. There were long toasts given throughout the afternoon. I walked home from the six or so hours at the church feeling good about making myself an active part of the community in such a supportive way. I was giving back the welcome that had been extended to me.

While Douglas was in DC for a training, I invited Sisters Katarina, Maria Stella, Fastina and Joanna over for lunch. I showed them around the townhouse (the lighthouse!) first. We spent a good half hour in my room where the piano and harp are. We took turns playing for each other. We ate, then made spritz cookies together. They’d never made them and had so much fun. We watched four hours pass together. I was high with the excitement of having new friends. Like a child, I said “We should do this every Wednesday!” I look forward to learning more about the Catholic church and the commitment and lives of the sisters. I can tell you that these are four smart, talented women who sing beautifully together and, by their own devices, have learned the Russian language.

Between the sisters from the church and the employees at eh Consulate, I’m surrounded with strong, smart women. I anticipate that this will be a post of growth for me.

Douglas standing in front of the yolki in the main square in Vladivostok. New Year's is the big holiday in Russia, not Christmas. The Consulate observes local holidays as well as American holidays and is closed the entire first week of January. On Christmas day, I sang in a noon mass and had a rehearsal that evening, just another day.

There are a few signs of Christmas. The New Years trees (yolki) look Christmassy to my American eyes. Then there's this poor Santa who fell from  I don't know where. 

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.