Browler

Anya is here.

2007-03-26T02:58:00.000+04:00

So Browler is back (for a while).

I swore to retire from blogging when we left Russia last May. But people want to see pictures of our new child (or, really, we want to show them), so I'm loading some.

Anna Jean Fach Brower was born at 11.55 on Friday, 23 March, in the same hospital as her brother: UCH, in central London. The labour hardly did justice to the word (or so it seemed from my comfortable position at Sandra's side). Sandra felt her first contraction at around 10.30; we were in a black cab at about 11.20; we got to the hospital at about 11.35; Annichka was born 20 minutes later. No drugs, no epidurals, no bathing pool; just a handful of pushes and out she came.

Sandra and Anya came home yesterday (Saturday) and she's been an incredibly easy baby for her first 55 hours or so of life outside of the womb.

Weight: 3.470 kg (about 7lbs 10 ounces for the old-fashioned/across-the-ponders).

She looks the spit of her brother at her age (and, truth be told, much like most other new-borns look).

Sandra is incredibly sane, quite rested, and recovering nicely.

Among those to thank are: the excellent midwives at UCH, the community at Goodenough College who have stepped in with efficient help (meals, etc) already; Joy and Sorway (and the love of Leon's life, Serwin, their daughter); my parents, who were down to visit this afternoon; and everyone else who, from a distance, have given much support. Sandra's mother arrives soon (and father a bit later), and she will be another excellent addition to the support network.

A word about Lev. His world might have been shattered on Friday, but he's adapting well, taking great interest in his little sister, and remains the greatest earthly joy of our lives. I hope he will soon get used to the fact that such joy is, unbelievably, able to replicate itself. Because as swiftly as this baby was born, so has another batch of parental love.

Derek

ps. The pictures are mostly self-explanatory. The sneaky one is pre-birth, showing Lev sitting atop Sandra's bump.

pps. Her first middle name, Jean, is after my beloved grandmother Brower.

Do svidaniia

2006-05-29T02:31:00.000+04:00

Goodbye St Petersburg.

Thank you for everything.

We love you and we will miss you sorely.

What We'll Miss...

2006-05-29T02:30:00.000+04:00

1. Friends. We had great friends here, and we made great friends. Among the Russians (in no particular order): Stas, Masha, and family; Vera, Kolya and Denis; Katya, Dima and Milana; Masha, Zhenya, Iuliia and Violetta; Lena, Leon’s favourite person ever; Tanya, our teacher; Davide and Tanya in Moscow (always there for advice and friendship, even at a distance); and others. I hate stereotypes (actually, I love them, but anyway…), but, Lord, Russians are generous people.
Among the non-Russians: Tomas, Nikki, and Aarno – friends for life; our church friends.
2. Prices: to hear live music, to eat good food, to travel on excellent transport, to buy consumables.
3. Canals, rivers, bridges, boats, waves.
4. Quiet evenings watching DVDs.
5. Pirate music and films.
6. Russian.
7. Snow.
8. White Nights.
9. Free garderobi.
10. Good tea, made well.
11. Blini on the street.
12. Freedom from telephone and bills.
13. The pram ramp on the steps down into the Metro
14. Public works getting done. Quickly.
15. Smetana.
16. Having people tell it to you straight.

Things we won’t miss

1. More dog crap than you can shake a stick at (if you wanted to).
2. Aggressive babushki.
3. Russian dubbed over English films.
4. Litter.
5. Water cutting off at inopportune times.
6. Waking Leon every night to move him into the other room.
7. The old guy with his big dog and gun downstairs.
8. Russian “driving”.
9. Russian nationalism.
10. Icy pavement.
11. Being asked for exact change during every transaction.
12. Pumping techno music. Good for nightclubs, but nowhere else.
13. Soldiers, police, and zillions of other uniformed men everywhere.
14. Having to carry your dokumenty everywhere.
15. Paperwork and pen-pushers.
16. Russian plumbing.
17. Having people tell it to you straight.

Things we won’t enjoy returning to

1. English prices.
2. Rain.
3. The Tube.
4. English centreoftheworldness.
5. Heathrow.
6. Petty crime.
7. English wankers marauding the streets.
8. English high streets.
9. Living in a fundamentally less interesting place.

Things we will enjoy returning to

1. Friends and family.
2. BBC (radio 3, radio 4, TV).
3. Proper pubs and good beer.
4. The World Cup.
5. London parks.
6. Multiculturalism.
7. Good curry.
8. Mild winters.
9. Real cheese.
10. Baby-changing facilities in public places.
11. Fresh milk.
12. Markets.

One Small Step for a (little) Man...

2006-05-22T22:47:00.000+04:00

The footage above is of Leon taking his very first consecutive steps (and his papa exploding with pride). He's been standing without support for some time, but his first steps came during the week that he turned one year old. (Apparently, that's the same week that his father took his first steps, too.)

The amazing thing is that Ken (San's dad) was trying to figure out how to take video footage on his camera -- and the first footage he took sucessfully was of his grandson starting to walk.

Tonight -- a week or so since those first steps -- Leon got up to nine consecutive steps. A whole new realm of trouble-making is upon us.

Zapiski materi 24 - The Lion Sleeps Tonight

2006-05-22T18:36:00.000+04:00

22 Мая

My notes have been appearing only every month or so. Then I say it will be the last one and three days later I’m back (sounds a bit messianic!). I had to write a note because my little cub (I’ve now decided he reminds me more of a little lion cub – after his name – than a bug) has his first temperature (or at least the first one I’ve noticed). I’m not worried yet, but this is new territory for me. So my poor cub has to suffer while the lioness keeps jamming a thermometer in his ear every half hour or so. Of course then I feel bad and give in and let him play with it (you press a button and wait for a beep…button, button, did somebody say button!?).

It wasn’t too high this morning so we stuck with our plan to go to Iuliia’s first birthday party. But it started to rise (maybe due to all the fun and excitement). My friends gave me all sorts of advice. For example, Russian paediatricians say that paracetamol suppositories are better than liquid medicine like our Calpol. Needless to say Russian generosity struck again so I came home with a package of them…maybe Lev will experience another first!

Perhaps Lev is feeling badly for us that we didn’t get a chance to use our expensive insurance and he’s determined to get us inside the clinic down the road before we leave. Or perhaps this is his way of protesting my aim to have him completely weaned in a month – he’s not into drinking milk from a bottle right now. In his state he prefers it with a little TLC (i.e. I’ll suckle, thanks!). When a child is sick one of a mother’s many worries is dehydration so, of course, I oblige.

But the comfort isn’t his alone. Because we made the conscious decision from the start not to rock or feed him to sleep, we rarely get to enjoy that wonderful feeling of having him fall asleep in our arms. It comes with a price, mind you, and all things considered we’d rather have our long peaceful evenings. Nevertheless, I cherish it when it happens.

My little cub is still sleeping. I peeled off his little dungarees and fetched his little lion for him (presently his favourite stuffed animal. It was a present from Lena). The books say to dress them in very little when they have a fever (which makes sense but is hard to do – my instinct is to bundle him up and get him all cosy when he is feeling poorly). So he nestled into me, his bare legs dangling across my legs (how did he get so big?) and fell asleep while he nursed and stroked the mane of his lion. He finally released and lay there all limp. I could have held him like that for hours.

Zapiski materi 23

2006-05-19T22:17:00.000+04:00

19 Maя

It’s Friday night. I’m enjoying a G&T, Russian style (pre-mixed in cans…that way when you get a craving a week before you pack up to leave, you don’t have to worry about wasting half the bottle!). Lev has finally gone down to sleep (lately he has decided he’d rather stay up like one of the big people, but unfortunately for him his mama and papa don’t agree). The week will only get increasingly busy as we pack up to leave on the 29^th so I thought I’d take advantage of that laid back Friday night feeling to write what may well be my last Zapiski Materi.

Today was the first bad day (in terms of weather) since the end of March so we spent most of the day trying to get cosy indoors. But our cupboards were bare so we eventually bundled up and braved the wind and rain and took off for what will probably be our last significant grocery shop. Our tummies were rumbling so we stopped in, on the way, for sushi. I’ve decided I don’t mind it (actually, it’s pretty good) which is a shame since we are leaving the one place where it seems to be reasonably priced! We ordered a bowl of rice for Lev and fed him with chopsticks – a surprising efficient way of getting food into a toddler’s mouth (and he loved them, which always helps).

Lev has slid into toddler-hood with ease. Each day he takes a few steps on his own (he is so proud of himself) and we are anxiously awaiting the day when he just goes for it. But one thing is clear – it will be on his timetable, not ours. He is growing up so fast and to watch him is a delight. We remark to each other daily how lucky we are. It is so much fun to watch him discover new things. These days he is most happy when he is figuring something out and discovering the results of his actions. For his birthday he got one of those toys where you put the appropriate shape through the appropriate hole. He hasn’t quite got the hang of it, but what is so much fun to watch is how he improvises. He finds other things that fit without too much trouble (like my mobile phone). Tonight he pulled the plug in his bath and spent some time trying to jam it back in – he was delighted with himself. How is it that grown adults can get such a rush sharing these moments?

I’m trying to analyse my feelings about leaving. I’m neither happy nor sad. I’ve never really been one to be homesick. Maybe if our time here was indefinite I would feel differently, but since that isn’t my experience I don’t know. There are definitely things I am going to miss. My friends – I’ve made some wonderful friends and it seems very strange that we will be parting soon. The sad thing is that, for many of them, travel is not an easy thing so they won’t be regularly popping through London. I’m going to miss our quiet dvor. Even though we are so centrally located, this is a haven of sorts (okay, aside from the needles we occasionally find in the stairwell and playground…). Our evenings together are long and chilled out. We don’t live hectic lives. I’ll miss that. I’m going to miss the pressing need to learn another language. I plan to enrol in a night class in the autumn to keep my Russian ticking over, but it won’t be the same. I'll miss going to see great music and dance in beautiful places for a fraction of the price that we have to pay in London. And we, especially Lev, will miss Lena (Lev's first nanny) - I wish we could take her with us! I could go on and on.

I have some regrets, though I try not to dwell on them. I wish I had taken better advantage of the fact that I get into the Hermitage for free (and it’s only about a 10-minute walk away). Why didn’t I go once a week for, say, an hour and explore a few rooms each time? And I wish I had become better acquainted with the elderly lady on the ground floor. Just recently I’ve started to knock on her door when I’m on the way to the store to ask her if I can get some groceries for her. She always strokes my face and thanks me. Why didn’t I make an effort to take Lev downstairs for a cup of tea every once and awhile – she always beams when she sees his face.

But there are also things that I’m glad I did. I’m glad I took two intensive lessons a week and started to get my head around this language. I’m glad I tried to engage in simple conversation with some women with children in our courtyard as they have become very close friends. Above all, I’m glad I put fear aside and I DID THIS!! I have to say I’m pretty proud of myself. My mum and I were doing something together last week and she said, ‘Sandra – you’re much braver than me’ and I was shocked – I’ve never thought I’ve come close to my mum’s bravery, efficiency and strength of character. But I guess I am brave. As far as character building, coming to live in Russia for awhile has been a big thing for me.

But there are some things I am really looking forward to. Speaking and knowing I will be understood. Hearing and knowing I will understand. Friends and family. Clean streets and better air quality. Good cheese. Really getting back into the thesis (okay, don’t fall off your chairs).

But my time of reflection is over. There is too much to do in this last week to think much more about it. I want to finish the two books I’m reading. I want to finish the vest I’m knitting. I’ve got to get rid of a bunch of our stuff. I’ve got to make a huge batch of chocolate chip cookies since my mum was kind enough to bring a big bag of chips. I want to have some people over. I want to get to the Hermitage one last time. I want to finish the textbook I’m working through with Tanya, my Russian tutor. And last but not least, I want to make one last stab at being really brave in Russia…trusting my Russian language skills enough to go to the hairdressers – ack!! Then I’ll have a new do to go with the heels I just bought – I just couldn’t leave the stiletto centre of the world without some.

WWBD?

2006-05-15T13:44:00.000+04:00

I read an interesting article by Edward Lucas, the Economist correspondent for Eastern Europe. It's basically a free-marketeer's attack on the Make-Povery-History types, and their thinking. A bit rhetorical and provocative, maybe, but interesting nonetheless.
He also had a sermon on the same theme that he was due to give at Canterbury Cathedral. Anyone who, like me, is underwhelmed by the crusading Messianism of Bono and others, might like Lucas's article and sermon, although it is (perhaps deliberately) a bit rhetorically extreme.

What Would Bono Do? (Or Say?)

Baptism

2006-05-15T12:15:00.000+04:00

The latest member of the Church. Future Patriarch Denis

Yesterday we had the privilege of attending the baptism of Denis, one of Leon's closest friends, and the son of Kolia and Vera, two people whose friendship, generosity and thoughtfullness has been unmatchable in our time living here.

For Sandra's parents from Protestant North America, it was a special treat -- not least the apres-baptism celebrations at the home of Denis's Godparents.

Denis was baptised in the cathedral of St Nicholas, one of the most beautiful in St Petersburg.

We learnt some interesting things about how this sacrament is performed in the Russian Orthodox church (Orthodox readers of the blog -- your explicatory comments and corrections will be welcome). All the children being baptised (there were about seven of them) got quite wet. The priest was sufficiently liberal with his splashing of the holy water. They also had a small bit of hair cut. (That alone would exclude Leon! Even at one year old, he still hardly has any hair to cut. An indication of being born to an Anglican father, perhaps?)

What does the priest do with his collection of hair? I'm curious.

The application of water, by the way, was done while the Godparents held the children. A nice touch, I thought. (I'm the Godparent of a Catholic child, and didn't have that privilege. Nor do Anglican Godparents get to do this.)

Then various bits of their bodies -- tiny feet and hands, knees, etc -- were blessed with, I presume, some holy oil.

Then the mothers were all invited to take the children up to the iconostasis to receive communion. Denis seemed to enjoy his first taste of wine.

The boys were also all carried behind the holy doors. The girls, alas, got to watch. (Indoctrination starts early, I suppose.)

Each of the children got a cross to wear at the end of it, after the priest had rattled off his mini-sermon, which included the phrase that they had been "forever cleansed" by the water. Entire sanctificationists, take note.

It was a far shorter service than we expected. No vocals from the crowd about renouncing evil, upholding the baptised, or anything. Very simple, very pleasant.

Congratulations Denis on joining the Church!

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Vera and Kolia don't go to church often. Vera explained that for women to attend services is difficult. They aren't allowed to attend when they are having a period; or wearing makeup; or without head-scarves, and long skirts beneath the knees; and so on. I asked her what happens if they do (attend while menstruating, wearing makeup, or not covering up offensive parts of the body). She said the priests ругаются -- a word meaning "curse or abuse" -- or, at best, take them aside afterwards and warn them not to do so again. The men get to attend in whatever attire they like.

Hmmm.

Anyway, it seems a far cry from the Russian Orthodox services I've attended abroad. But maybe (probably) I've just been ignorant.

It got me wondering how healthy the mooted reunification of the Russian Orthodox Church Abroad (Roca) with the native one would be for the former. Understandably, the Moscow Patriarchate is chuffed to bits at the possibility of extending its empire. Here, such a move is being greeted with much the same joy as Putin's reassertion of Russian power.

On the reunification of the churches... I'll believe it when it happens. Matt, Krista, Kim? What do you think?

Among the problems is the old chestnut about the Russian Church's behaviour during the Soviet period. The other day, Bishop Gabriel of Manhattan (of Roca) said that the Russian Church ought to ask forgiveness for its collusion with the KGB.

Understandably, given his own work as a KGB informer, Patriarch Aleksei doesn't seem too keen on that. His spokesman rejected that call, and, interestingly, claims that "Repenting is a personal act. Each person will answer to God for his sins." Sobornost' has its limits, it seems.

Do the ecumenically minded Roca churches subscribe to the narrow nationalism of the Russian Patriarchate? Its ambition to "redefine human rights to take account of the Russian context"? Its support for the wars in Chechnia? Do they dig the Russian Patriarchate being the biggest importer of cigarettes into Russia? Or its oil trading wing (up till recently, accounting for 10% of Russian exports)? I doubt it.

Judging from Aleksei's public performances recently, it might not be long before the Russian Church has a new leader. But it's a bit like waiting for one bad Pope to die, or Archbishop to retire. Or like waiting for Putin to retire. There's no guarantee that the next one won't be worse.

Celebrations

2006-05-12T20:47:00.000+04:00

We have just over two weeks left in Petersburg, which makes us very sad. It also means that Browler is nearing its retirement.

I thought I’d update with a few brief notes. The blog has been neglected recently. The Canadian parents are here, and when I’m at the computer, there are pressing things – like yet more reviews – to do.

First, our son is now one year old. С днем рождения, Левочка! Happy Birthday, Son!

I’ll let Sandra file a more lengthy description of how much fun we’ve had celebrating the birthday. He is a wonderful boy, and every day we are amazed at just how much joy he brings to our lives.

Last week we also celebrated the Day of Victory. This included an evening in which we joined thousands of others on the streets to rejoice at the victory over Fascism. The lowlight was a cheesy concert in Palace Square, where, amid some dreadful music and “poetry”, we got to hear about how great Russia is, how Russia saved the world, and how bad Fascism is. And how great Russia saved the world from Fascism. And a bit more about how great Russia is. Oh, and how it saved the world. From Fascism. Etc, etc. Then everyone looked for some Germans to beat up. (Okay, that’s a joke, but by the end of the evening, even I felt like finding a German and bashing him on the head with an icon dipped in smetana and wrapped in a Soviet flag.)

I hate that kind of nationalism. I hate it everywhere. I hate it in England, in France, in the US, in Canada, and in Russia. You name it. When it is mixed with Soviet flag-waving, crap music, and a thuggish crowd mentality – all present on the streets last week – it gets even worse.

By the way, a few things they didn’t mention on the day: the massacre at Katyn; the fact that the Soviet Union, like the US, only decided to fight Fascism after the Commonwealth and others had been doing so for a couple years; that Stalin and Hitler were, of course, allies, and the initially successful invasion of Russia was largely the fault of Stalin’s criminal stupidity; that many of the 26m Soviet dead were killed by Soviet bullets; that the “Day of Victory” of the USSR over Nazism triggered the brutal occupation by the USSR of much of Eastern Europe; and so on.

Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten the bravery and sacrifice of many Soviet soldiers, nor the fact that, whatever Spielberg et al believe about Normandy, the Eastern Front was the main theatre of the Second World War.

But while they’re sponsoring the celebration of the defeat of Fascism, perhaps the Russian government – not least St Petersburg’s own government – should do something about the racist murders, beatings, and slogans on their own territory. A couple weeks ago, neo-Nazi militia members staged their own training camp south of Moscow. Looks like Fascism ain’t quite dead yet. Not here, anyway.

Also last week: Putin gave his “State of the Union” address. Basically, two things came of it. First, that Russians need to have more babies, so that the population doesn’t keep falling by 700,000 people a year. To help, Putin promised lots of money to young mothers.

But not as much money as he’ll need to fund the new Cold (or hot – take your pick) War he seems intent on cultivating. I say “cultivating”, because Dick Cheney and others have already planted the seeds. Cheney made a series of aggressive comments about Russia last week, amid the wider statement that Russia needs to do more to be a democracy. D’oh. Thanks, Dick.

Pity he then flew to loyal allies Kazakhstan and Azerbaijan to heap praise on the heads of their dictators.

Browler is clearly getting too cynical in its pre-retirement days.

2006-05-12T20:44:00.000+04:00

Zapiski materi 22 - с днем рождения!!

2006-05-12T13:15:00.000+04:00

12 Maя

Our nest has been full of guests for about 6 weeks running so I haven’t been at the computer much. But today I must take some time to write another mother’s note, because yesterday my dear son turned ONE!! Happy birthday sweetheart! It was lovely to receive notes from friends and family – thanks so much for thinking of him on his special day.

So I guess Lev is officially a toddler. And he is definitely toddling these days, almost like a weeble – ‘weebles wobble but they don’t fall down’ (is that just a Canadian thing?). His balance is getting better every day and he is an incredibly sturdy little man – in that he is definitely a Brower. He walks easily when holding lightly onto our hands and he has managed about a step or two on his own. Any day now he will bolster his confidence and strike out on his own.

The other day I looked at him and realised he wasn’t a baby anymore. In the past it was hard for me to recognise how much he’d grown because I was with him every day. But now he just keeps looking bigger and bigger to me. I notice it especially when I am putting on his nappy and he does one of those big stretches – his legs seem so long (must be the Fach genes).

And with his increase in physical size also comes the development of his personality. He is increasingly asserting his independence (or at least trying to). He definitely does not like to be restrained. And he is starting to whinge a bit when he doesn’t get his own way. His crocodile tears are hilarious. I can’t remember what the issue was but the other morning he gave us the biggest pout I’ve ever seen. His eyebrows were all crinkled and his bottom lip was almost touching the floor. It was like he was testing us – would he need to accompany the pout with his tears?

Peek-a-boo (often initiated by him) is a favourite game right now. And he loves his books, though as teeth five and six are on their way in, he’s presently into biting them more than reading them. Above all, though, are buttons – not the clothing kind but the kind that deliver some reward for pushing them. He regularly finds the TV remote and turns on the television. He loves to push our doorbell. Grandma and Grandpa Fach gave him an interactive book with many sound buttons to push and it occupies him for probably a good hour each day. Another favourite is the Baby Mozart DVD that Grandma and Grandpa Brower brought. He is mesmerized by it and it is hilarious to hear him interacting with the puppets.

We had two birthday parties. My girlfriend gave me some good advice – one friend per year, otherwise they get too overwhelmed. Well, he has too many little friends here for just one, but we decided to have Lena, his babysitter, and Aarno and his parents over last Saturday. And yesterday, we had his Russian mates and their mums. Both times I made a caterpillar cake. I must admit, it was a pretty fulfilling thing to accomplish – I really felt maternal! Actually, the best part was that it brought back some great childhood memories. My mum always made me cool cakes for my birthday. And we always did fun things like make cookies on Valentine’s and St. Patrick’s Day. We always coloured Easter eggs and made special stuff for Christmas. I am really looking forward to reliving more of these memories as I do these things with my own kids.

Undoubtedly I am bias, but I have to say that virtually all the time it is still joy, joy, joy. There is no question that Lev is the greatest joy in our lives. I’ve never been a morning person, but now I have a good cure – each day when I open up the lounge door, Lev is standing at the end of his cot and without fail he greets me with a huge, toothy grin. I love him so much it hurts. Derek remarked the other day that if we knew they’d all be as great as him, we’d have ten!

Abstraction

2006-05-04T10:21:00.000+04:00

‘St Petersburg is the most abstract of cities,’ said the Underground Man.

Sure enough, after a week or so back in the northern capital, I’ve settled on what it is about this city that is so odd. And I think I finally understand what the Underground Man was on about.

It’s the straight lines. There are straight lines everywhere in St Petersburg. The city was conceived abstractly, planned abstractly, and executed abstractly, according to abstract principles. You can’t avoid the rules of geometry anywhere. According to legend, Peter the Great instructed his city planners and architects that no matter where the viewer was standing, a majestic panorama be visible.

They succeeded. As an ensemble, no other city matches Petersburg’s relentless architectural brilliance. With clever sharp turns in apparently straight roads, they opened up facades that would otherwise have been visible only on the slant.

There are triangles everywhere. The two famous needles (at the Admiralty and Peter and Paul Fortress) start from broad bases and disappear into thin points at the apex. Right angles, perfect half-circles, squares and obelisks jut, recline, and poke wherever you look. Even the cobblestones seem to be arranged according to some kind of higher Euclidean principle. Ivan Karamazov no doubt approved.

There are a few things that, eventually, make this all a bit disturbing.

First, compared with cities that, like Moscow, began as a village, then added a fortress (Kremlin), then spread ever outwards, Petersburg’s abstract origins, its enforced beauty, can be repressive. Paris’s city centre was also reconstructed according to geometrical rules – chiefly so that, after the street battles at the end of the Commune of 1870-71, the authorities could quickly suppress any future uprisings. But Paris also retains the quiet, meandering, medieval streets that make it so charming. No one would go for a Romantic weekend just to walk the pompous Champs Elysées.
Moscow, of course, immediately strikes the visitor with its massive, intimidating boulevards and prospects, its Stalin-era skyscrapers and towering monoliths. But alongside all of this monumentalism are small, fifteenth-century churches, monasteries, and other subversive streets, sneaking their way into the heart of the capital. In Amsterdam, the city on which Peter modelled his new capital, the water and the city come together in some kind of cosy compromise. The water in Amsterdam isn’t an enemy that has been conquered by classical architecture, as it has in Petersburg. It’s a friend that is welcome on the doorstep. In Venice, civilisation isn’t enforced, either. It’s organic.

Second, compared with the rampant chaos of Russian life, Petersburg’s abstractness feels all the more absurd and paradoxical. The angular facades are a triumph of architectural principles. But behind them, some dark Russian soul hides in the corner, axe in his hand, driven mad by the angles. Petersburg’s is a totalitarian beauty, which suppresses the Other. Is that why the underbelly of this city – its Dostoevskian underground – is, like its metro system, so deep and maniacal?

Third, with the onset of the White Nights, even the shadows take on sharper, more menacing angles. You seek them out, in order to escape the relentless sun. But you rarely find any solace in them. Midnight begins to feel like six o’clock in the evening, and, having just escaped the winter, you’re suddenly oppressed by ubiquitous yellow, chased by reflections, robbed of sleep.

What can you do? Head to the water. Listen to the sea lapping at the granite along the Neva, always threatening to overwhelm the city. Stand next to the Bronze Horseman as he peers aggressively into the distance, and remember just what kind of dictator decided to build his city in the middle of a northern river delta. Just why this city seems to have driven so many people insane. And just why, like a drug, something compels you to come back.

Palace Walk

2006-05-02T22:06:00.000+04:00

Summer!

2006-04-29T20:54:00.000+04:00

That's Moika, the canal (river, actually) outside our flat. And there is no ice on it!

We went to Moscow and we came back to summer.

That's how it seems anyway.

Fine, there are only a few blades of green grass to be found anywhere in the city; and the buds are just now emerging on the branches. But hello plus seventeen (17!)! Hello boats on the canals! Hello children playing till 10pm in the dvor! Hello 11pm twilight! I'm even told there are scantily-clad beautiful women everywhere walking the streets.

Alas, we've only another month of life here (for now). This time one month from now, we'll be trying to negotiate our way through Heathrow and trying to readjust to England. It might be hard. I like never having to hold a door open for anyone; shouting across restaurants at waiters; pushing people who are in your way on the metro; scowling at any weirdo who tries to smile at you; treating fools like fools; and so on.

Babushka and vnuk

Dedushka at the beach

Sunbathing

Papa and his son

Moskva-kva-kva!

2006-04-25T23:48:00.000+04:00

We're back from a week in Moscow, and home for our last five weeks of Russian life (for now, anyway). Moscow was wonderful. We were staying with Davide and Tanya, whom we initially knew through my parents, but who have now become fast friends of ours, too.

Coming back also ends the two-week visit of my parents. They had a great time, and we enjoyed showing them our home city, and sharing a kupe down to Moscow and back on the train (overnight both ways). Lyova greatly enjoyed having his grandparents around, as did we. We packed in so much, it is hard to believe it all happened. In the meantime, we also got three easter services in: ours in the Anglican church in Petersburg; the Orthodox (on TV), from Christ the Saviour in Moscow; and the Nazarene easter, at Tanya's church in Moscow. Khristos voskres!

Sandra had been to Moscow once before and had left rather underwhelmed, to say the least. I'd been a couple times before and my appreciation of the city had increased with each visit.

This time, we both thought it was excellent. I've set up a lobby at Browler HQ to press the powers-that-be to allow us a few years there at some point.

We did all the touristy things: Bol'shoi ballet; Red Square; the Circus (!); down to dacha-land in Podmoskov'e; a visit to Chekhov; Novodevichii monastery and cemetery; the state university; and so on.

We also did a lot of comparing of the two 'capitals' -- Petersburg and Moscow. It is true, Muscovites have a funny accent. (That's a comment that will enrage any Muscovite reading this. Sorry.) That 'ee' sound when it should be 'ye'... the hard, hard 'a' on the unstressed 'o' (in Petersburg, it sounds like an 'a' too, but you can sort of tell it is written as 'o').

Otherwise -- and here I risk offending the Peterburzhtsi -- Moscow is just, well, a bit more 'big city'. In our book, that's a good thing. It is, of course, more multicultural; also a good thing, in our book. And the architecture is a bit of a mess: medieval next to style moderne next to some Brezhnev-era monstrosity next to constructivist next to classical. I like that mess. Walk down Bol'shaia Nikitskaia (my favourite Moscow street), for example, and you get a sense of the Moscow mess. It reminds me of London's mess. But in Moscow, the mess is on a truly epic scale.

And no one can tell me there is anywhere in the world a more impressive, awe-inspiring stretch of real estate than Red Square.

Another thing. Like him or loathe him, corrupt Mayor Luzhkov gets things done. He also keeps the streets clean. The latter, plus the hills and the green spaces, makes it a nicer place to go for a run, too. And, because Moscow has become totally bourgeois, no-one in Moscow gave me any jip for going for a jog, either.

Among many highlights: Sandra and I went for a naked dip in some 'holy' Orthodox waters in Talezh, a town in Podmoskov'e. She in the women's section, I with two other men in the men's. It was ice cold water, but we both felt blessed (to have survived, anyway). The excessively decorated (and guarded) holy springs -- where, it is speculated, some not so clean money has helped the Church build the complex based on the springs -- were an interesting contrast to some of the appalling post-Soviet poverty and devastation less than a mile away.

Below are some of the holiday snaps.

2006-04-25T23:35:00.000+04:00

Moscow State University at night

Skinny-dipping in Talezh

2006-04-25T23:21:00.000+04:00

The plaque telling us that we're on some of the holy land of Rus' (an ethnic, historical and mythical notion of early Russia that is very dear to contemporary Russian Orthodoxy)

Chapel on the compound, close to the holy springs

The two guys (now dressed) who showed me how to plunge three times into the (freezing cold) holy water

The wood hut on the left is for women; on the right for men. The holy stream runs beneath both. The women are downstream of the men (which might tell you all you need to know about the view of women in the Church)

2006-04-25T23:14:00.000+04:00

Chekhov in Chekhov

The hut on the estate where the great man wrote 'The Seagull'

Chekhov's sledge (I think)

2006-04-25T23:12:00.000+04:00

The Moskva (Kremlin to the right, Christ the Saviour in the distance)

2006-04-25T22:23:00.000+04:00

Sandra at Patriarch's Ponds, minding she doesn't lose her head. 'At the hour of the hot spring sunset two citizens appeared at the Patriarch's Ponds....'

Resurrection Gate (north end of Red Square)

Chaikovskii in front of the Conservatoire named after him

Sandra in Red Square

The Historical Museum (north end of Red Square)

Some cool icons from Novodevichii

2006-04-25T22:07:00.000+04:00

This one is called 'Spotted demon laying stamps'. Matt -- any idea what this one is about?

I don't know what is happening to this man's testicles, but he was a heretic, so it serves him right. Or is he in an outhouse?

An icon of Plutarch (!)

Holy Mother and Son. They should have gone to Specsavers.

An icon of the philosopher Solon (!)

Three-handed Mary.

2006-04-25T21:56:00.000+04:00

Moskovskii gosudarstvenii universitet, aka МГУ (MGU), aka Moscow State University. The building is the tallest of the seven Stalinist skyscrapers that surround the city.

Novodevichii monastery

Novadevichii monastery

Novadevichii monastery

Two old guys in the diner

2006-04-15T10:54:00.000+04:00

A couple videos of Leon and Aarno in the Finnish dacha...

Putin and Lomonosov

2006-04-13T11:20:00.000+04:00

The UK parents are here and Browler has gone into hibernation. If there aren't touristy things to do, there is work to do.

I had meant to post some links to articles about Putin's blatant plagiarism, but alas, I'm about 10 days behind events. (For those who haven't read about it, Putin, it turns out, plagiarised long passages from an American book when he wrote a post-graduate dissertation. He defended it in 1997 -- ie three years before he came to power.) Here's one snippet from the Times.

Amazingly, this news of the president being a fraud has scarcely been remarked on here. There have been no TV programmes about it, of course. TV is very loyal to the bossman. And there have been all of about two mentions of it the press. One online; and one in Vlast'. To its credit, Vlast' did a big piece extracting passages from plagiarist and plagiarised and putting them side-by-side.

***

In other news, yesterday we bought a service of Lomonosov bone china. It is made at a factory here in Petersburg, is quintessentially Russian, and is exceptionally elegant and beautiful. Our service is winging its way to the UK as I write. One day, perhaps we'll have a house and the kind of life that allows us to use our china. It even includes a little tray-type number that we presume will, one day, host slices of gherkins and pickles.

The pattern is similar to the one you see in the picture below (ours is a table service, not a tea service, although we also bought a brilliant teapot in a totally different funky pattern). Thanks to Grandpa T, in Kansas City, for this wonderful gift.

Border Crossings

2006-04-05T19:36:00.000+04:00

The same snow falls on Finnish and northwest Russian lands. The same trees grow either side of the border. So why is the snow white in Finland and grey in Russia? Why do the trees look healthier on the Finnish side?

The contrast between Russia and Finland is a bit depressing. Why doesn’t Russia look a bit more like its neighbour? We were only four hours from Petersburg by train (including a good hour and a half of stuttering through the border checks), but, sadly, the countries feel like worlds apart. Entering Finland, you feel like you’re leaving behind Russian chaos, pollution, aggression, potholes, and grotesque neon advertising, and landing back in European order, ecological preservation, healthiness, and sternly observed Lutheran rules.

I don’t want to get too down on Russia. It isn’t fair, after all, to compare a wealthy, developed EU member-country of seven million residents (Finland) with a developing country where most of the population live beneath the poverty line (Russia). Petersburg, after all, has the same population as all of Finland.

But nor is Finland sucking up petro- and gas-dollars at the moment, like Russia is. And isn’t it obvious why it is a good thing, for example, to deal with litter and pollution adequately? What makes one country see its countryside as one big landfill site, and another as an ecological paradise to be defended?

I always find crossing borders a bit unsettling – especially when you go from poor to rich or vice versa: San Diego to Tijuana, say. It isn’t just the language problem or the intimidating border guards, either.

Sometimes it is hard to put your finger on just what is so subtly unnerving. Drive from Alberta into Montana, for example, and – especially if you’re Canadian – you feel like there is something amiss. Is it the sudden extra population density, evident even in Montana? Is it the sudden comparative regularity of advertising on the highway (“Ranchman’s Diner: Wear Your Big Pants!”)?

For Finns, crossing the border must be especially depressing. Much of the land north of Petersburg belonged to Finland at one time. Now, when they cross the border, their beloved Karelia has a distinctly Russian stamp on it.

Still, it is nice to be home. We’ve got less than two months left. Two sets of parents will visit. The weather, it is rumoured, will turn nice again. Above all, Easter is on its way. And one thing Russia does better than anyone is Easter.

Finnished

2006-04-05T19:19:00.000+04:00

We’re back from Finland, where we enjoyed four days of total relaxation next to a wonderful stretch of snow-covered water in the Finnish Lake District. Leon had a great time with Aarno, his older-by-three-weeks brother-in-mischief. We had a great time with Aarno’s parents, Tomas and Nikki.

Tomas speaks Finnish and both of them have lived in Finland, so we had their local expertise to guide us. But there was something so welcoming about the place that I’m eager to go back someday – probably in the summer. The cottage we were staying in was secluded next to a stunning lake (see the pictures), had a sauna, a sofa designed for reading, windows everywhere, and space. Peace.

I can also understand why the Finns (like the other Nordics, and the Russians) are so attached to their saunas. Every country house ought to have one.

They also do excellent mustard. I ate lots of it.

Leon and Aarno got along famously. They would chase one another across the house and back; steal and share toys; chat in their own language; and generally get up to all kinds of rascalism. I’m sure both boys are suffering withdrawal now that they’re in different parts of Petersburg, unable to share food and giggles.

I’m a bit bruised from some extreme-tobogganing with Tomas. And I only managed one run of my marathon schedule while I was there. For the most part, we were snowed in. But bum-bruising aside, we all feel refreshed. Following on from last summer’s Provencal villa, it is nice to add another cottage, in another area of the world, to add to our list of potential excellent holiday destinations.

Spring Break

2006-03-31T20:30:00.000+04:00

We're off for a few days. We need some countryside, some peace, and some R&R, and we're looking forward to getting away from Russia for a break. So tomorrow we're catching a four-hour train with our friends, Tomas, Nikki and Aarno, and popping over to Finland. The dacha is up in the Finish lake district. If the place is half as good as the pictures suggest, we're in for a treat.

See you in a few days!

The Adventure

2006-03-30T22:50:00.000+04:00

does this work?

***

Phew -- what a scare! For a few hours, Browler disappeared.

The conspiracy theories were swilling in the air. Had our NKVD man downstairs read the post about his dog, and decided to have us shut down? Was Volodia worried about his image appearing in my profile?

Would the disappearance of Browler be followed by a knock on the door at 2am?

There were only two things to do. Pack my bag, say my farewells, and prepare for the Siberian katorga...

... or clear my browser cache and try republishing the blog.

The long shadows of a dark Russian twilight fell on Petersburg, formerly known as Leningrad. A lone dog barked somewhere. From terror? From Hunger? Distant footsteps could be heard creeping across the courtyard outside. Was this the moment? Would it happen now?

Yes.

I looked at my watch and pushed away the now-empty bottle of Stolichnaia vodka. The smoke from my filterless Gitane -- a habit I'd picked up chasing Algerian terrorists across the cityscapes of France -- curled towards the window, and out into the northern air.

It was time and I was ready.

I cleared the cache on my Mac and republished my blog with the test message you see above.

Leon

2006-03-30T14:06:00.000+04:00

Another video. No, that's not a dress he's wearing: his trousers are undone.

Our Friendly Neighbours

2006-03-28T18:55:00.000+04:00

Our dvor, on the whole, has been good to us. Sandra quickly made friends with some of the other mothers there – as readers of her Notes will know. It is quiet and relatively friendly.

There are six flats on our staircase. We’re on the top floor, and opposite us is an empty flat. Beneath us, an old man and his big dog occupy one flat, and a twenty-something-old girl lives in the other. On the ground floor, an old woman lives across from someone whom we have never seen.

The old woman is very nice. I’m in her good books because I’ve replaced the light outside her door a couple times. She’s clearly lonely, and we chat to her. She has invited us in to witness the water that runs into her kitchen from the flat above – a situation that is, sadly, unlikely to get fixed anytime soon.

The old guy is an eccentric, to put it nicely. Sandra won his approval early on, after she took his advice to lock our pram downstairs, instead of hauling it up every time she came in and out. His (all too frequent) “advice” would strike a westerner more like a gruff order.

The girl opposite him is sometimes annoying. We’ve found needles a couple times in the public windowsill outside her flat – evidently one of her friends is a user of Russia’s extremely cheap heroine.

A couple days ago, the old guy saw me carrying up a six-litre bottle of the water we buy. He told me that bottled water was a “deceit”, and that he’d spoken with the “specialists” who know this. The Jews are involved in this "conspiracy", apparently. All we needed was a filter, he said. Petersburg water is loaded with heavy metals (among other nasties), so if this guy has been drinking it his whole life, it explains some of his madness.

Then he asked me (for about the fifteenth time), where we were from. When I told him, he announced that London is full of govno (shit), just like Russia is – “Jews everywhere”.

He didn’t stop there, either, but told me he’d discovered people doing drugs on the staircase. The girl opposite him had taken over the flat from her “upstanding” aunt, and now there were lowlifes on the staircase. Because we, however, were upstanding – and I had a “wonderful wife and child” – this elderly Travis Bickle said he would help defend us and “sort them out”. “My dog is a great guard dog.” (True: his dog – a big German Shepherd – is a bit scary.) Then he added: “I have a pistol! I was a military man, and a chekist!”

Chekisty were members of the secret police.

Great. We feel much more comfortable now. Frankly, by comparison with other places we’ve lived (eg Brixton), our dvor is a safe and quiet place. Besides, if we’re going to talk about cleaning up the govno, I’d prefer the old fella worried a bit more about the presents his dog has been leaving us all winter. Now that the snow is melting, they are appearing everywhere faster than you can find “pooper-scooper” in your Russian dictionary.

Vziatki

2006-03-27T20:27:00.000+04:00

For anyone interested in how exactly you go about paying a bribe in Russia, there's a piece over in The Exile newspaper (or the eXile, as they prefer) that tells you all about it.

One thing it doesn't explain, though, is why a lot of policemen (especially traffic police) have to take bribes. According to one bodyguard-cum-driver I know (a man who has paid a lot of bribes and knows a lot of policemen), the lower ranking police officers themselves have to pay bribes to their superiors; and onwards, ever upwards. Traffic policemen in Russia earn a couple of hundred dollars a month, and another thousand or two in bribes. Bribes are his salary.

It ain't just the police, either. I remember wondering why the dean of the faculty I was studying in here had a chauffeur and wore expensive tailored suits. It seemed strange, given that teachers are paid so little in Russia. A teacher friend explained how university enrollment works. There are two divisions to each faculty: a state-funded one, and a privately-funded one. The first takes students for free. The second takes students who pay the enrollment.

However, the state-funded section is more prestigious. So to get his son or daughter into the "free", state-funded section, a moneyed Russian will pay a bribe (thousands of dollars) to the dean. Multiply that by many hundreds of students, and it becomes clear why Mr X is driven to work in a Mercedes and keeps several mistresses in apartments scattered across the city.

By the way, Mr X also has to share the wealth with other senior figures in his department. Just a shame the teachers don't get much of this.

Anyway, is it too different from having your father donate a few hundred thousand to an Oxford college?

In Praise of the Hot Toddy

2006-03-25T20:32:00.000+03:00

It is Saturday night and we're all feeling sorry for ourselves. Leon has yet more new teeth coming, Sandra has a mild cold, and I've got a head cold and a muscle pull from yesteday's treadmill session.

The two adults are trying to rectify the situation by drinking hot toddies. I swear by them, and always use the secret recipe recounted to me my Derek Bamber, my first editor as a journalist. As an old whiskey-soaked Irishman, Bamber knew his hot toddies. I'll happily pass on the recipe to anyone who asks nicely and seems in genuine need... but a blog really isn't the place to publish such cherished information for all and sundry to read.

By the way, for those who have wondered about the name of the blog, I also owe that, in a way, to Bamber. Soon after I had begun working as a reporter at Petroleum Economist, about a decade ago, Derek Bamber became known in the office as "Derek the Elder", and I as "Derek the Younger". When press officers and others would ring asking for one of us by first name, they would be asked: "The elder or the younger?". We were also known as "Bamber" and "Brower", or sometimes as a collective "Bamber-and-Brower" (as in when Derek the Elder would announce at about 6.30pm: "Bamber-and-Brower shall retire to the One Tun for a swift half on their way home, should anyone wish to join them.") As is always the case in England, one nickname was not sufficient (I have at least five or six, depending on the company). At some point, Derek the Elder became "Growler". I became "Browler".

Zapiski materi 21

2006-03-23T18:35:00.000+03:00

23 Марта

Has it really been a month since my last Zapiska materi? Shocking. Finally, I have officially started to learn the genitive case, so now I can understand why I have been writing ‘materi’ all this time!

As Derek’s last post says, Spring is definitely on its way. The change in the amount of daylight is incredible – at least six minutes each day. It’s happening so fast – like an unstoppable train. I’ve never been so pleased to see ice melt. The pavement (sidewalk for the NA readers) has been a disaster all winter because the ice (often black ice) is never removed. Holding onto Lyova’s koliaska (pram) has prevented many nasty falls.

With the changing seasons I’ve also noted a few changes in myself. On Saturday I went to the Pochta yet again, and realised that I am an old hat at this. So good, in fact, that I was reprimanded for writing the return address in Russian. The teller told me that that would be a problem for international post and that I’d have to re-write it in English! The post office, for me, will forever be the Russian equivalent of the Tube in London. Whenever I am afraid of something new, Derek always says, ‘Remember the Tube?’ When I first moved to London I was terrified of the Tube, of getting lost in the big city, etc. And then it became as natural as the back of my hand.

Yesterday, as I sat around the kitchen table at Katya’s and Dima’s, I forgot the English word for that ball-shaped weapon that you pull the pin out of and throw and it blows up…grenade – I later remembered. Katya and Dima have been kind enough to let me work on my thesis in their study every Wednesday. I always eat lunch with them and we always have an interesting conversation. The topics of discussion have included childcare for our children, bird flu, serving in the army, and hunting. What’s more fascinating – for me, at least – is that I’m having these conversations in Russian! Katya speaks some English which helps us through the more difficult bits, but because Dima doesn’t speak any English, I am (happily) forced to govorit' po-russki. Those of you who know me well, know that when I get excited I talk with my hands. Apparently I do it in Russian, too (Dima thought it was hilarious), and I think it is a measure of how I have changed from the anxious woman barely able to say hello.

And today I made a major breakthrough. Every month, our landlord’s parents come to collect the kvitantsii (bills). And every month, when they don their tapochki (slippers) I say, ‘chaiu budete?’, which basically means, ‘would you like some tea?’. And every month, they politely say ‘net sposibo’ (‘no thank you’). The same thing happened today, but after we played with Lyova in the lounge for a few minutes, I persisted. To my amazement, Vladimir Ivanovich put his thumb and forefinger together and said, ‘chut'-chut' kofe’, which means ‘a little bit of coffee’. On the inside I was jumping up and down!! So we went into the kitchen while Nataliia Alekseevna stayed in the lounge playing with Lev, and we sat at the kitchen table (! – by previous posts you’ll know what it means when someone in Russia sits down with you at your kitchen table), drank coffee, ate yummy biscuits, and had a pleasant conversation…in Russian.

So, as Virginia Slims says…

Has Spring Really Started?

2006-03-22T23:00:00.000+03:00

Apparently it has. Started. Spring, that is. Can anyone verify this? We had a week of glorious (ie, +3 degrees Celcius) weather a while ago, but now it is chilly, chilly, chilly again.

We've been busy, and hence the blogiatus, but managed to get along to the Mariinskii to see some excellent ballet last night (three different ballets; the third being a brilliant performance of Shostakovich's ballet of Gogol's short story, "The Overcoat").

We've also been following the pitiful "Denim Revolution" in Belarus. (Wonder which clever-clever ex-branding wonk at the CIA thought up that one?) Alas, it seems that Lukashenka will be around for a few years.

Russian coverage has been rather different from what I've read in Western papers. People here in general think Lukashenka is a bit of a fool -- he's notoriously stupid -- and a nasty authoritarian. But some also look with envy at a country where the pensioners still get a decent pension (up to $250/month, as opposed to around $30/month here in Russia), inflation is low, the country hasn't been sold off to oligarchs, and so on.

No doubt for CNN viewers, it is unfathomable why anyone would vote for Lukashenko -- unless they have been coerced into doing so. Better the devil you know! People in Minsk only have to look at Ukraine to see that "freedom" doesn't necessarily mean an end to your country's problems.

Interestingly enough, Vlast', an excellent magazine here in Russia, this week published a survey of Russian political celebrities, asking them: "Who do you like better? Putin or Lukashenko? A lot of respondents said things like "I don't like either of the dictators". But more interesting was the number who praised Lukashenko for what he's done for his country. Not an opinion you're likely to read frequently in the West, but a revealing one. By the way, my friend and former Oxford tutor Mark Almond made some similar points in column in the Guardian last week. If you're interested, check it out. A better article, by Timothy Garton Ash, is also at the Guardian, here.

A couple other links, to two things I've been working on in the last few weeks. One is the Russian article on film I mentioned a while ago, which you can find over at Prospect. The other is an entry on Dostoevskii's The Devils, at the Literary Encyclopedia.

For those of you who couldn't care less about Russia and have never heard of Belarus, below are the pictures of our son you've been waiting for. He's now lived in St Petersburg longer than anywhere else.

Mama and son

Hello!

Answering the phone(s)

Sharing Denis's cot

The Three Amigos

Running the World (this post is not about George Dubya)

2006-03-17T14:23:00.000+03:00

The Strelka

It is +2 degrees, celcius, today, which feels a lot like summer. The snow is melting, and we're basking in bright sunshine for most of the day, now.

Trinity Bridge

Yesterday, I went for my first outdoor run in the city. It was great. Sandra's brother Ken -- of "KP" fame in the comments section -- and I have committed to run the Calgary marathon this summer, and training has begun. We have another 900 km or so of training runs to get in before the big day, on July 9th (the same day as the World Cup final).

The Academy of Sciences

What a city Petersburg will be to train in! The pictures are of a few of the sites that I ran past yesterday. I'll be pounding a lot of granite along the Neva in the remaining two months that we'll be here.

Lieutenant Schmidt Bridge

It is inspiring to run in such great surroundings. Last year, training for the London marathon, I had the Thames as a regular companion. This year, it is the canals, rivers, and palaces of Petersburg; a week or so of Moscow's smoky streets; and then a month of damp Mancunian verges to run along.

New Holland

Perhaps most inspiring of all, though, is what awaits after the marathon. No, not just masses of Alberta beef, Canadian junkfood, and cold beer, but several days of fly-fishing on the Oldman, Highwood, Livingstone, and Bow rivers, surely the greatest trout streams in the world. Ken and I will celebrate in style.

The Peter and Paul Fortress

From the Peter and Paul Fortress to the Oldman river. Now that's how to run the world.

The Oldman

Willy G

2006-03-15T11:19:00.000+03:00

We found out yesterday that we may have a two-bedroom flat for us in Goodenough for next year, should we want it.

We do, and our fingers are tightly crossed. For those of you who don't know Goodenough, it is the international post-graduate community we lived in for the past few years. It is located in central London, in beautiful Mecklenburgh square, 200 yards from the excellent Renoir cinema, surrounded by excellent restaurants, within walking distance of our beloved British Library and the offices of the magazine I work for, and, in general, it is a very good thing. Free daily newspapers, friendly porters, its own libraries, chapel, football team, and dancing classes for Sandra.

We're happy with the prospect of moving back to London in September. For the foreign (whatever that means) readers of this blog, we have another year in which it is your responsibility to visit the greatest city in the world.

We have unfinished business in London. Two PhDs to submit, friends to rejoin, and a young Londoner to raise. I also have the very specific unfinished business of leading a vigilante squad against the neighbourhood ruffians who frequently annoyed me in the past. I will return bearing a Russian wrath that knows no western liberal pussy-footing aroundness. Enough is enough. Just give me a cricket bat....

We don't know how long we'll be there. As addicts to the post-modern, peripatetic life, we'll take it as it comes, all the while idealising some settled community somewhere in the world where everything is perfect and wonderful, and people leave their doors unlocked while they play village cricket, go curling, walk the beach, etc.

First we have two and a half more months of Russian life to enjoy. Then one month in Manchester. Then two months in Calgary. By the time he is one and a half, Leon will have lived in three countries (and been to half a dozen). Are we forever corrupting his notion of stability? (I wonder if my sister and I would swap our transatlantic childhoods for the security of the same schools, same friends, same sunsets?) Home is where you spit out your pacifier, as they say.

If Leon's temperament is anything to go by so far, he's as content as a bug in a rug.

Maslenitsa!

2006-03-12T11:25:00.000+03:00

There's been a hiatus here at Browler, as we've a) celebrated Maslenitsa, b) begun Lent, c) had some friends around, d) met deadlines.

Maslenitsa is the Russian festival that precedes velikii post -- Great Lent. As applies to many Christianized festivals, especially in this area of the world, it has pagan origins in the celebration of spring. Of course, it is now associated also with the Orthodox equivalent of Shrove-tide (which we also celebrated, at our Anglican church), although, from talking with Nazarene friends, Maslenitsa is definitely not considered something that evangelical Protestants ought to be celebrating.

Your task during Maslenitsa, should you choose to accept it, is to eat 40 (yes, forty) bliny. They are supposed to represent the sun (which, after its hibernation, has made a glorious return to Petersburg). We did our best. Here's a video of us celebrating it with some good Russian friends, in their flat. Dennis is another of Leon's friends, and his parents are Vera and Kolya, who have been very generous to us. Vera and Sandra have become good friends. I won't translate everything, as you'll get the picture. The table is loaded with bliny -- some filled with meat, some unfilled, some filled with tvorog, which is a bit like cottage cheese. For the unfilled, there is caviar, condensed milk, jam, and sour cream, to be had in any combination.

Then we had the Matzas around. They're very good friends, with whom we have an enormous amount in common. Tomas is doing a PhD in anthropology at Stanford, but is a Slavist at heart (in spite of his Finnish heritage), and is here doing very interesting research in the advent of popular personal psychology in contemporary Russia. His wife, Nikki, has a PhD in biology. Most important of all, they have a beautiful boy, Aarno, who is one of Leon's fast friends here. Aarno is just a couple weeks older than Lev. Here's a picture of the two troublemakers.

The deadlines have mostly been my concern. I've been reviewing a few books for academic journals, and last week had a deadline for Prospect magazine for a piece on contemporary Russian cinema. They'll probably spike it, but if they decide to publish, I'll put up a link.

Speaking of films, we're still averaging about five a week. This week's: Spielberg's "Munich", which Sandra slept through but I thought excellent. We managed a mere twenty minutes of "Hostel" before switching it off. Don't waste your time -- I regret that 20 minutes enormously. We're halfway through "Capote", which -- so far -- is tremendous.

And then there are a host of Russian films. If you get the chance, see "East West", which is a beautiful film about Russian emigres who were asked to return to the USSR after the war, and then treated as spies when they got there. "The Return" and "Koktobel" are two films that I was discussing for Prospect, and they are both excellent and widely available in the West.

Ralphie

2006-03-04T20:00:00.000+03:00

As Albertan exiles, we at the Browlercontrolroom have wanted for some time to pay tribute to the province's very own Mr Nice Guy. Yep, that's right, y'all know who we mean: Mr throw-your-money-at-tramps himself, good ol' Ralphie boy.

But today's picture tribute was ocassioned by this morning's visit to Badmash, with its excellent post about the new health changes coming for Alberta. Thanks for reminding us about what a swell guy Ralphie is, Badmash.

As you'll see if you go there, Badmash also links to a fascinating article in BusinessWeek about the American evangelical megachurch phenomenon.

What's the world coming to? Canadian health under attack... churches aping the business world... etc., etc.

We're as startled as Ralph Klein, above.

2006-03-02T11:43:00.000+03:00

So we watched the controversial Russian film Chetyre, or "4". Some film. I'm not sure I recommend it to any of you. Put it this way, if you're interested in Russia, watch it. If you're not, don't -- if you do, you'll never want to come here.

For those who don't know anything about it, Chetyre is based on a script by Vladimir Sorokin, one of the most famous post-modern writers in contemporary Russia. (He's definitely worth reading, by the way -- though not before the watershed.) It starts in a bar in Moscow where three characters each tell rather long tales about themselves. The film then follows one of these characters to a funeral in the countryside.

The director, Il'ia Khrzhanovskii has been accused of "betraying" Russia because of the film's dark, pessimistic and unsparing depiction of the countryside, which, in popular Russian myth-making, is the source of all wisdom and beauty, and the resting place of eternal Mother Russia with her wooden churches and stone monasteries. This is definitely not the kind of Russia you see in Nikita Mikhalkov films (Burnt by the Sun, The Barber of Siberia, the State Counsellor, etc). No assumptions about the wisdom of the mythological Russian past, located somewhere alongside a broad, slow-moving river in the countryside. No charming noblemen wearing furs, eating caviar and drinking vodka while discussing the eternal questions.

If you're brave enough, go see it. Then I want to hear what you think.

Rough House

2006-03-01T21:30:00.000+03:00

Thought I'd try a little new technology. Let me know, everyone, if a bit more multimedia makes the place better or worse.

This is my son and I during our daily 6-7pm rough-house time. "18.00 hours, son. Time to be a man. At ease!"

Peach Blossom Green

2006-02-27T21:45:00.000+03:00

There are a number of things about the Russian way of life that we'll miss when we leave. And one of the most fundamental is tea-drinking.

Yes, the English do it a lot, too. So do the Chinese, the Indians, the Sri Lankans, many in the Arabic world, and on and on. A Bukharian friend of mine tells me that Bukharian Jews have mastered tea-drinking.

However, we're converts to Russian tea-drinking. And we'll miss it. Sitting at a kitchen table drinking tea (or vodka) with Russians feels like the most natural thing in the world. The wonders of Russian hospitality and conversation emerge (and converge).

Of course, milk with your tea is unheard of here. Lemon, jam, sugar -- you're strange if you don't take one of these, at least, in your tea. And tea-bags are considered decidedly nekul'turnye. The best tea in Russia tends to come from Ceylon (Sri Lanka), Georgia, and, of course, India and China.

Today I sat in a cafe and drank a pot of what was called "Gu bai khe" (which is a transliteration of the Russian гу бай хе, which was a transliteration of the Mandarin, I presume). When I googled what it looked like (a ball of dry green tea that turned into a flower with a pink stem after a few minutes in the water), I discovered that it was called Peach Blossom Green.

Anyone else heard of this? Tasted it? Can anyone shed any more light on this amazing tea? Has watching tea brew ever been this exciting?

By the way, the picture is of a family gathered around the samovar for a spot of tea one afternoon in 1905.

I'm off to boil the kettle.

Day out

2006-02-26T01:15:00.000+03:00

Lyova and I get warm in a favourite cafe after a full day in the cold.

Down below, under the pictures, you can read all about our big day out at the ice palace.

2006-02-26T01:13:00.000+03:00

2006-02-26T01:12:00.000+03:00

2006-02-26T01:11:00.000+03:00

Zapiski materi 20

2006-02-26T00:02:00.000+03:00

25 Февраля 2006

It is late Saturday afternoon and Lyova has just gone done for his final nap of the day. He is really getting into his books now, which is nice to see. He goes from one to the next opening and closing them. Let's hope he takes after tyotia Dee not only in his climbing ability but in his reading skills, too. He is constantly trying to stand, so needless to say papa and I are almost as worn out as he is by the end of each day. And I think another tooth must be on its way because he has been unusually clingy this past week (accompanied by a lot of drool). I read recently that children have about ten teeth by their first birthday. Egads... if that's the case we will be enduring a lot of sleepless nights in the next couple of months!

Two weeks ago today I went for a stroll in the Mikhailovskii Gardens. I saw three strange/unusual things that day and I got the idea of following the lead of Lev's godfather, Matt, and posting a series of 'threes' since, after all, God loves the Trinity. I'll make a start now, but because these are particular to my Russian experience, I won't be able to assign homework. Next time. Anyway, the three things I saw -- in order -- were:

1) A young Russian relieving himself outside a restaurant in one of those things where you dispose of burning cigarettes...it was broad daylight and I was slightly shocked by his indiscretion

2) An Orthodox nun -- at least that's what I think she was -- walking along the street with a big gold cross in one hand and a gold coffer in another

3) A group of people having a picnic in the gardens -- it was about -10!

Over the past two weeks I’ve had three really cool (one literally so) experiences. All involved going to see something for which I needed a ticket:

1) I had the privilege of being invited to Violetta’s (daughter of my friend, Masha) dance contest at the school across the street. What at treat – both to be invited and to see this incredible sight. All of the children danced with a partner and they ranged in age from about four to eleven. There were about six professional dancers who were invited to be the jury. The girls were dressed in cute dance outfits and the boys looked very dapper in their white shirts, black ties and trousers. And each pair had a number. They were incredible. They all performed four different dances: modern rock, cha cha, waltz and polka. I was very impressed and I had visions of Leon learning to dance at a young age. Diadia Kenny would be so pleased!

2) One of the choir members at church is leaving Piter next week. She is a friend of the Mariinksii and invited all of us to the premiere of Verdi’s Falstaff. I didn’t even know what we were going to see before we went. And I didn’t know our seats were some of the best in the house. And I didn’t know I’d get to see Valerii Gergiev conduct (and I mean really see him – my seat was just above the orchestra pit). It was fantastic. It was a very modern interpretation, very camp (I spent part of my Russian lesson last week trying to explain ‘camp’ to my teacher). It was certainly not your typical "Mariinka" fare, and I think many faithful Mariinskii-ites went away slightly shocked.

3) I suspect there aren’t a lot of places in the world where you can go see a palace made entirely of ice. Well, you can in Piter. There is an ice palace on Palace Square and it will be there until it melts, I suspect. My friend, Katya, and I were on our way to the Hermitage and realised when we got there it was closed on Mondays (should have remembered – same thing happened to Trev and me). Anyway, it was a beautiful day and the queue to the ice palace was very short (the day before – Sunday – there were probably 100 people waiting in the cold), so we thought we’d give it a go. Check out the pictures!

Films, films, films and hockey

2006-02-22T21:54:00.000+03:00

Evening life has taken place close to the TV in the last couple weeks. We got into a film-watching pattern, devouring at least one (cheap, pirate and therefore excellent) film a night.

Here are our reviews:

The best, by far: Brokeback Mountain, which was a truly amazing film, despite the Hollywood hype. It was very haunting and, of course, the fact that it was shot around Calgary helped make it visually stunning.

The worst: King Kong. Avoid this film. More of Peter Jackson's tedious CGI. The overblown, overlong, over-computerised LOTR trilogy was bad... but King Kong was easily its match. Even in the Russian dubbing, the dialogue was astonishingly weak. Seriously, don't bother.

Worth seeing: Syriana. Oil-Middle East-politics-CIA-Etc.

Not worth seeing: Unending Life. J-Lo can't act. Robert Redford and Morgan Freeman can, but they've simply been in one (or five) too many of these feel-good flicks.

Classic: Once Upon a Time in America. Not a new one, but a great one. We've been debating the various "dream theories" that attempt to explain the film ever since we saw it.

Okay: Closer. Saw the play in London, and this is much better. Not a great take on the romantic life, though.

Good: Secret Window. Stephen King. Sandra now doesn't want us to live alone in a house in a forest.

Poor: Cold Mountain. Too long. And if you haven't seen it, I'll save you from having to watch it: he dies.

The one I really want to see is called "4" (or chetyre), by the Russian director Il'ia Khrzhanovskii. It is very controversial (go have a look at the reviews on IMDB, for example) here in Russia.

However, it has to wait. For tonight is RUSSIA VERSUS CANADA!

What a shame it isn't the final. Let's hope the right team wins, eh?

Lyova update

2006-02-20T22:56:00.000+03:00

Leon's becoming a bit of a troublemaker, as you might be able to detect from the pictures above.

Now that he's mobile and can pull himself up to stand against anything, he thinks that he has a whole new world to explore.

I think he has his uncle Andy and aunty Dingy's interest in climbing, too. He loves to hang. He recently grabbed the bathroom sink while I was holding him. When I let go, he remained there, dangling from the sink like a monkey.

Visit

2006-02-20T22:25:00.000+03:00

Sunday afternoon: a bit of Torino 2006 going down on the TV as the three of us gradually get in the mood for a nap.

Knock, knock.

Who's there?

You're friendly Russian militsioner.

No, this isn't a joke. I opened the door to a policeman who came into the flat and asked to have our names and details. He claimed he was there to "get to know us", and left a card in case we had any "trouble".

**The first bit of context necessary for those who aren't familiar with the Russian cultural heritage is that the image of Russian policemen is not one of them wishing to "getting to know" random people, or of offering assistance to anyone.

**The second bit of context is that the old knock on the door of your Russian flat isn't exactly without its terrifying connotation. I began thinking of where I would hide my samizdat, what my last words to my wife and son would be before I was taken off to the Lubianka to be beaten into a confession of counter-revolutionary activity, etc., etc. Had I recently left some suspicious electrical equipment under any stones? Would my thumbnails be pulled out?

He clearly knew who we were before I told him. He also knew that we were from London. It was all a bit strange. We spoke to some friends who live in our dvor, and it turns out that he visited them, too. Did he want a bribe? Was he checking up on us? Or was he just a genuinely nice policeman wanting to meet people on his beat?

As an act of faith, I'm going for the last option, which has the added benefit of injecting a bit more warmth into my heart for Russia.

Davai!

2006-02-16T21:13:00.000+03:00

Sandra's off at the Mariisnkii to hear one of the world's greatest conducters, Valerii Gergiev, conduct a premiere of Verdi's Falstaff.

Meanwhile, I'm in front of the TV watching another masterpiece of Russian culture: the country's hockey team. With Nabokov in net, they even have literature on their side.

Tonight, they demolished Sweden 5-0. It was a great game. Russia looked very fast. And it was made all the better by watching Mats Sundin lose the plot several times. Five nice goals, too. And nothing matters more in this country than a sense of victimhood (Russia losing yesterday to Slovakia) being vanquished. Everyone here is excited about Aleksandr Ovechkin, who looks some player.

Anyway, after Russia's bad defeat to Slovakia yesterday, tonight's job against Sweden leaves my hope for a Russia-Canada final (with Canada winning, of course) a possibility. Davai Rossiia! Davai Kanada!

What an excellent feeling to be back in a country where they know their hockey. No ridiculous English commentators talking about the "sin bin", "defenders" and "attackers". (For the Canadian readers, that gives an indication of how annoying it is to listen to North American commentators describe football when I'm on that side of the pond.)

And the Olympics are doing wonders for my Russian hockey vocabulary. One thing I find strange, though: why do the commentators occassionally talk of the golkiper? Perhaps because vratar', the word for goalkeeper, is a football term. But why not a Russian version of "goalie", or goltender?

The penalty box is nicely rendered as ploshadka, the same word used for a (building) site, and a diminutive of "square". And a penalty for "roughing" translates literally as a penalty for "rudeness" (grubost'). It makes me think of the old Maurice "Rocket" Richard commercial. "Hey, Richard, two minutes for lookin' so good!"

Anyone else remember that?

***

PS. San just got back from the opera. She was there with someone who knows Gergiev. Apparently he gets his children (three and six years old) to call him "Maestro". Now there's an idea....

Zapiski materi 19

2006-02-10T11:08:00.000+03:00

10 Февраля 2006

Firstly, congratulations to my cousin, Mark, and his wife, Karen, on the birth of their son Rohan Mark, born 8 February. Bring on the sleepless nights…

Lev arose unusually early this morning. Maybe it was because he was eager to hear the Gorillaz again. Yesterday we listened to them over breakfast and he was gettin’ in the groove. It was our way of thinking of sister/godmother Dee…

Next I put in a Steely Dan CD I bought at the jazz club we went to last Saturday night. The lyrics, ‘the talk and the sex’, begin each chorus of the second track, ‘The Things I Miss the Most’. I found them rather amusing, thinking that although the singer is speaking post-lover he could well be musing about post-children!

Though, sitting there feeding my child I thought, ‘Hmmm…is this appropriate breakfast music or, for that matter, at anytime for a 9-month old?’ Maybe we should revert to ‘Hey Diddle-Diddle’. But that got me thinking, too. Have you ever stopped to consider the content of many nursery rhymes?

I’ve always found this one, shall we say, intriguing:

Goosey Goosey Gander where shall I wander,
Upstairs, downstairs and in my lady's chamber.
There I met an old man who wouldn't say his prayers,
I took him by the left leg and threw him down the stairs.

The real history isn’t much better than my imagination!

And I’ve always found this one particularly disturbing, for some reason:

Here am I, little jumping Joan.
When nobody’s with me, I’m all alone.

Maybe we’ll stick with the Gorillaz after all!

Zapiski materi 18

2006-02-06T21:42:00.000+03:00

I was browsing today's Calgary Herald to see read up on what Alberta might do with its health care (egad!!) and another headline caught my eye: "Potty training in infancy?"

When I was pregnant, I overheard a discussion on Radio 4's "Women's Hour" about parents who don't use nappies at all. I guess it's believable. After all, you don't see many children in the third world running around in Pampers (one of their arguments). But I couldn't quite see myself becoming that environmentally friendly.

The issue arose again not too long ago when I discovered that all of my Russian girlfriends already have training potties in their flats. To my surprise I learned a couple weeks ago that all of their babies have started to use them! Vera's son, Denis, only wears nappies when out for a stroll and at night (he is two months younger than Leon). I just couldn't fathom it. But apparently that is the norm here in Russia. Most children are completely potty trained by the age of one. Vera puts Denis on his gorshochek every hour and says "pss pss pss pss pss". I'm amazed and intrigued.

I must say that I am also amused by the reasons our respective cultures give for potty training so early. People in my culture want to be "in tune" with their children. Parents here do it because nappies are so expensive.

Zapiski materi 17

2006-02-05T20:34:00.000+03:00

2 Февраля 2006

The blog editor told me my blogs needed to be more frequent and shorter, so I am going to attempt to write one of my ‘mother’s notes’ once a week. Actually, that was my intention before I was so instructed. When we got back from England I sat down one evening and jotted down some things I’d like to try to accomplish every day and every week. My ‘every day’ list includes reading to Lyova. Our current favourite is ‘Happy Dog – Sad Dog’.

Perhaps the most exciting news of the week (well, for us…) is that our search for someone to look after Leon one day a week was successful. My desire is to try to get my head back into the thesis a bit. I met Lena in October. She is the daughter of Ol´ga and Aleksei, who are currently studying at NTC in Manchester. Lena is lovely and she nannies for another family, three or four days a week. I feel really comfortable with her and if this past Wednesday is anything to go on, Lyova is besotted.

That also means that the ‘F’ word is now being used. Yes, Lyova has had his first taste of formula. For this diehard breastfeeder, it was easier than I thought.

Each day with Lyova brings new delights, especially because at this age development is so rapid. He is pulling himself up to stand against the sofa (as my mother said, good thing God created us with such thick skulls). He is hearing ‘no’, ‘nyet’, and ‘nel´zia’ (not allowed!) a lot. And changing him is a nightmare as he just won’t stay on his back. He finds household appliances very amusing, be it the washing machine, my new hairdryer, the vacuum, or the blender. When the latter is on he usually starts singing. On that note, we sing together each day – kind of an ‘ahhh’ sound at different pitches. (Joseph Campbell would be so pleased.)

One highlight of the week was a stroll with Vera, Kolya and Denis last Saturday. We walked to Nikol´skii sobor (the cathedral in the picture above), where Anna Akhmatova’s funeral was held. There is a spot on the way there where you can stand and see nine bridges. It was very cold, but the ducks were still playing on the ice. Afterwards we warmed up at their flat over tea and pancakes. Vera lent me a pair of dog-hair socks to warm up my wet feet. Ask Mark Rainey how warm they are.

Yesterday was the anniversary (1960) of a sit-in in North Carolina. Four black students sat in a Woolworths’ café in protest of the fact that they could buy goods there but were not allowed to sit and eat in the café. The metaphor one pro-segregationist used for this ‘complicated hospitality’ was that the ‘Negroes’ were guests in the house, but certainly not invited to the table. It got me thinking about the debates over an open or closed table at the Eucharist…

Well, I just heard moi muzh walk in so better fetch the lasagne out of the oven!

[Ed: By the way, Sandra "borrowed" (in the excellent Russian sense) the picture, above, from an amazing website of pictures dedictated to Petersburg. I strongly urge you to click here to see more beautiful photos of our city.]

Why it is interesting to live in Russia, part 74103

2006-01-30T12:39:00.000+03:00

Let me take just the month of January in this strangely wonderful (or wonderfully strange) country.

Exhibit A.

Russia (the country also known as Gazprom) and Ukraine go to war over gas. Because it is addicted to Russian gas -- and most of this gas flows through Ukraine -- Europe panics. The west condemns Russia and supports its latest puppet state (err, I mean, "democracy") in Ukraine. Russia and Ukraine sign a deal. Russia and Ukraine say the deal is temporary. Ukrainians blame their government for losing the "gas war". Russians blame their government for losing the "gas war". Upshot: a shady company (RosUkrEnergo) that western journalists are too lazy to investigate is the big winner; Gazprom will probably get some access to Ukrainian pipelines; Ukraine continues to get gas at super-cheap subsidised prices which it can then flog to its EU "friends" at two, three and four times the price. Everyone wins, everyone loses. Europe is confused, retiring to a Brussells cafe to mutter platitudes about the unfathomable Russians.

Exhibit B.

A cold snap hits the "civilised" parts of Russia. (In the "uncivilised", ie, non-Moscow /non-Petersburg, parts of the country, it is always cold in winter). Dozens die in the streets. The lights go out in parts of both capital cities. When it gets below -30, some men even decide to put the flaps down on their hats. Stoically, the majority do not. We stay inside for a week.

Exhibit C.

A "hazing" takes place on New Year's. "Hazing" is the common practice in the Russian military (which is a conscription army) that involves officers beating privates for fun. Often they result in death, which helps explain why some 30 Russian soldiers a month are killed "out of combat". Sometimes the beatings are gentle affairs, where a soldier gets a few bruises, maybe a broken bone or two, and loses the cigarettes and money his mother in Krasnoyarsk sent him. This one was different. "How did you lose your limbs in the war, papa?" "Well, actually...."

Exhibit D.

When is a rock not a rock? When it has a device inside it that passes top secret information to British spies, that's when! So the FSB (aka KGB) found this rock in Moscow; it turned out that one Russian and four British spies were using it as a 21st-century "dead drop". No one using a palm pilot in Russia will ever be safe from the KGB again. What were the top secrets? Hmm. As it happens, the cunning Brits were stealing "state secrets", while at the same time arranging to fund civil society groups and other NGOs in Russia. Phew! The big secret is out! Westerners are trying to spread civil society even to Mother Russia! Is nowhere safe? Of course, Russia suddenly finding this spy ring in Moscow has nothing to do with the controversial bill currently going through parliament that will sharply control the activities of foreign NGOs, on the gronds that Western "spies" use them to undermine Russia.

Leon

2006-01-30T12:22:00.000+03:00

Here's a couple links that should take you to videos of Leon.

I uploaded them recently. However, with a Russian IP address, we're not allowed to view the page ourselves. So my apologies if you have difficulty downloading the images, or if there are "distracting" (ahem) sidebar adverts of the kind that are common with these free upload websites.

Video 1: Leon crawling.

Video 2: Leon singing.

The Christmas and New Year's Season

2006-01-27T22:37:00.000+03:00

Rachel and Karen (Lev's first babysitters in Russia) came over for a glass of mulled wine before leaving St Petersburg :

2006-01-27T22:35:00.000+03:00

Zakuski to give us energy to decorate our Christmas tree

2006-01-27T22:33:00.000+03:00

Treats from Lev's first Christmas sock

2006-01-27T22:32:00.000+03:00

Lev opens a Christmas gift from his babushka

2006-01-27T22:30:00.000+03:00

'Cool cardi, grandma - but I really like the tissue!'

2006-01-27T22:28:00.000+03:00

Christmas Eve - Juan toasts Lev and his new chair

2006-01-27T22:27:00.000+03:00

'Hmmm...I wonder what they've got stocked in their fridge?' (Christmas dinner at the Matzas)

2006-01-27T22:25:00.000+03:00

Who's having more fun?

2006-01-27T22:22:00.000+03:00

Running away from "Diadia Vania"!

2006-01-27T22:17:00.000+03:00

The ice queen guards the Hermitage

2006-01-27T22:15:00.000+03:00

Strolling in the Mikhailovskii Gardens at -15

2006-01-27T22:09:00.000+03:00

Winter Palace Square, New Year's Eve (San & Lev far left)

2006-01-27T22:05:00.000+03:00

St Peter's column, Palace Square

2006-01-27T21:57:00.000+03:00

New Year's Eve, Palace Square

2006-01-27T21:54:00.000+03:00

Bringing in the New Year with the Matzas

2006-01-27T19:52:00.000+03:00

Lyova enjoying some toast

Northern Season

2006-01-27T18:58:00.000+03:00

Soft stained ugly snow like wax,

Whose blacks and whites turn now solid,

Now liquid beneath one’s feet,

Essential in this city of Peter’s,

Designed for the wandering double’s eye,

Where day’s darkness and night’s light

Descend and ascend, and descend and

Ascend anew again,

As victorious Vosnesensky street,

Stretching from Isaac’s, back to Neva,

Never still river, whose granite banks,

Pinks, blacks, greens, greys,

Wait all winter, dying for

Resurrection. Then dead ice will melt,

Bridges arise again, ships stream

Through the summer steam, upstream

Into dirty Mother Russia,

Who waits again to freeze, to melt, to freeze

With ice, water, ice:

Her moist, icy cycle of life,

Under now blue, now grey, always northern,

Now hopeful, now hopeless skies.

Zapiski materi 16

2006-01-27T18:18:00.000+03:00

It is almost 11pm on our second last night in London. We’ve been subletting at Goodenough until now, and tonight we are in the Hilton – a lucky break through lastminute.com. Lyova has just gone to sleep – we were out with Juan and Bronwyn for a curry so it is way past his bedtime. I haven’t kept up my diary since before Juan and Bron were with us in Piter over Christmas, so this is long overdue. I'll begin with the present.

It has been a busy two weeks. We've had engagements every night and most days. And this week Derek has been working hard at the British Library and the office. The Browers put on Christmas for us in Manchester so I did not go without my pumpkin pie! The tree was overflowing, as usual, with gifts – both from Manchester and abroad. Lyova is now getting regular exercise in his jolly jumper, and bath time is even more enjoyable with his squeaky frogs – all thanks to grandparents Brower and Fach who showered him with many gifts.

One of my stocking stuffers was a ticket to Miss Saigon so on our second night back I was treated to a night out with the girls. And with grandparents eager to spend time with their grandson, Derek and I enjoyed a few evenings out with friends. We were also reacquainted with the inside of a cinema – to think we used to see at about one film a week!

…

On the 9^th we took the train to London. When we pulled into Euston station it really felt like we were coming home. What a city! How wonderful to be back. Goodenough was good enough, as always – a great location to base ourselves. On our second day there we had visions of being back in Petersburg: Goodenoug's ancient boiler broke and we were without heat and hot water. Luckily the problem only lasted a day or two.

A couple of visits with friends took me back to south London. Taking the bus reminded me of the good and bad of the city. Public transport is ridiculously expensive. But the multiculturalism of this great city hit me afresh. After being in a place where people have encountered few foreigners and you are hard pressed to hear a language other than Russian, the many faces and tongues of London are striking. It was wonderful to hear people speaking their native language boldly. Ironically, this characteristic of London meant that we were never too far from our new home – after returning to our room after breakfast this morning, Lyova and I met the woman cleaning our room. She was from Lithuania and spoke Russian. So we had a chat (and some practice).

…

We are now back home. They say that there is always one very cold week in January. And of course the cold front rolled in the day we arrived. We were greeted by –26! Derek and I were reminded of our Winnipeg days. Needless to say, we haven’t ventured out much. We are enjoying our quiet life again, and recuperating from the non-stop activity and the buzz of London Town.

We had such a wonderful Christmas here. It was low-key, since Orthodox Christmas isn’t until January. Juan and Bronwyn were the perfect houseguests. We finally got to the Hermitage – twice in one week! It was great to have Bron’s expertise on hand. For instance, I found out that the glue upon which gold leaf is laid comes from the blood of stallions from Russia! We also had some good food, including a Christmas feast at the Matzas (well, Juan kind of missed that one…).

Lyova has changed so much in the past few weeks. Somehow, despite a cold, a sore on his head, his first two teeth coming in, a Hep B shot, the frustration of being on the verge of crawling, and all the to-ing and fro-ing we’ve done, he has managed to remain the happy little chap we are so fond of.

…

We have been home almost a week. Now you can understand why my blog entries are decreasing – I never manage to get a post completed in one (or two, or three…) sitting(s). It has been quite a day. Lyova managed to pass on his cold to me. (But how do you stop your wonderful, wee boy from planting slobbery, infectious kisses on you [his version of a kiss is opening his mouth wide and planting it on your face, often on the chin…I know that at least Auntie Dee and Moira can attest to this!]?) So I’m not feeling great. Plus I realised that I’d left the freezer partly ajar last night when I took out some spinach for the soup. And something went awry with the wiring in our flat, which means that we have no lights in the kitchen or bathroom. And Lyova is still finding it hard to go down on his own since we got back.

The last one is particularly hard on me. I’m sure it’s a combination of things: he’s feeling ill and going through a number of developmental changes. We’ve never followed the feed-to-sleep or rock-to-sleep method but there is no doubt that he has needed more TLC in these days of feeling icky (he definitely takes after his mother here). And because he has been such a distracted day-feeder, I’ve resorted for some time now to feeding him when he’s a little bit on the tired side in hopes that he will be sure to get his 500ml of milk a day. I used to be able to set a clock to his feeding, but now the only thing I can guarantee is a good early morning and late evening feed. I am partly consoled by the number of times I’ve heard parents say that as soon as you get a routine firmly established, it changes.

Ha. I just finished writing that sentence and he woke up after only about thirty minutes of sleep. We used to put him down at seven and he would easily sleep for at least three hours, then feed and go straight down again. Now we can never tell what he will do. So, I sit here typing wondering what the best thing to do is. It breaks my heart to hear him cry. I’ve never been good at leaving him to cry for long. He has been the one who has generally made it easy for us. But these past few weeks have been difficult. Especially because now he can do more to indicate that he wants someone to pick him up. For ages now he has put his arms out to be picked up. And in early December he really got the knack of flipping onto his front whenever we put him on his back. So as soon as we lay him down, he turns over and starts rocking on his hands and knees and lifting up one hand to the mesh on the side of his cot, as if he knows he is in a prison. Going in to reassure him verbally usually doesn’t help because it just makes him more upset.

So you sit and wait and listen. Is he winding up or winding down? Winding down. Yes. No, he’s winding up. Wait…wait. Okay, winding down. Definitely down…no, up again. It’s not fun. You try to wait it out. But then you fear he might be distressed, and after all, he is still a bit ill. But are you now erring on the side of establishing bad habits? And then there’s the advice that if you don’t carry through with your initial intention (to leave him so he can self-soothe) you actually make the situation worse because you’ve made him cry all this time only to go in and do what you could have done 20 minutes ago. So do you keep waiting? But it feels so cruel. Especially when you do finally succumb and the poor wee man has snot dripping down his nose into his mouth.

He’s still crying (though it’s really more of a moan with an occasional shout). I’m only going to give it five more minutes.

A couple of times this week we have succumbed, and when no amount of reassuring has done the trick, we’ve brought him out into the lounge where he has done his best to convince us that he isn’t tired at all. No doubt his grandparents are smirking at this point and thinking, ‘just like his father’.

I’ve given in. And yes, there was snot running down his nose. He is now sitting on my lap happily watching me type. Ah…parenthood!

I’ll only have a few moments more here, and I want to make a list of all the things he can do now. My mother kindly wrote out all the ‘milestone’ events in his baby book that would happen while we are in Piter. I have searched the house in vain and can’t find it anywhere.

We know that by six weeks he was smiling; by seven to ten weeks he was staring at your face and moving his eyes to watch you; by eleven weeks he was staring at his hands; by twelve weeks he was lifting his head clear of the ground and rolling over; by four months he was sleeping through the night; by six months he was sitting with support; by six and a half months he was sitting alone; by seven months he was finger-feeding; by seven and a half months he was moving around and starting to crawl; and now he can stand holding on to something (with some help).

Somewhere between four and eight months (we either don’t know or disagree as to when) he started to do the following: grabbing and holding big things; dropping things on purpose; pulling hair (well, he pulled his papa’s chest hair almost from birth); picking up small things; laughing; babbling; copying noises; saying ‘mama’ and ‘papa’ and ‘baba’; holding up arms to be lifted; and crying when you leave the room (oh boy, do we know about that one…).

At the moment he’s standing in his papa’s arms with a wide see-I-told-you-I-wasn’t-tired-grin. I think he just picked his nose…

Home again

2006-01-27T13:21:00.000+03:00

Zima (Winter)

We have emerged from the worst of the Russian winter -- at least the worst so far (I suspect there will be another few short sharp shocks in store for us).

It has been some time since Sandra or I have experienced -30 degree weather. In fact, the last times: a trip to Siberia a couple years ago, and a trip to wintry Edmonton about a decade ago.

For our son, however, everything is new. And what a past few weeks it has been for him. He was a star on our visits to Manchester and London, sprouting teeth in time for his English babushka and dedushka, and making his first steps as a crawler.

In London, he handled his home city like an old pro, behaving beautifully in spite of one nasty fall off a bed (Papa's fault) and a rather whirlwind week in the Big Smoke. One highlight was meeting his new friend: Ravi and Johanna's new son Kirin.

For our part, we were very happy back in England, and London felt very much like home. What a city!

However, we were also glad to be back in Petersburg at the end of it all, knowing that this is where our life is now, for now.

London was balmy on the day we left; Petersburg was -21 when we arrived. That probably contributed to the nasty cold that Lev (then Sandra) picked up. He's better now.

And he's also mastered crawling. At first, he was stuck in reverse most of the time; we'd find him trapped under furniture, shouting to be released. He's now found first and second gears, which has introduced a whole new realm of exploration, as well as his first encounters with the words Nyet!/No! and Zharko!/Hot!

What Next?

Alas, now that we're back, we have to start thinking about what comes next. One thing is certain: we'll be leaving our flat on Moika at the end of May. Between now and then, I have a thesis to knock into shape; as much Russian to add as possible; and visits from two sets of parents and some friends. The adventure might be over before we know it.

In the meantime, I've joined a local gym, where -- because of the extortionate price -- the locals consist of novye russkie ("new Russians") mistresses with nothing else to do during the day besides improve their not unimpressive physiques, and businessmen's "drivers" (aka "bodyguards"). Something had to be done, however, to arrest my own atrophy. I'm toying with another marathon -- the White Nights St Petersburg marathon in the summer.

We've both got job applications underway, and these could take us back to London, to Moscow, to Oxford, to Canada, to Manchester or to somewhere else.

It is a strange time, this limbo -- at once exciting and intimidating.

Our growing Lyova could find himself in his third country of residence within 13 months! If this peripatetic lifestyle continues, he'll end up either as a circus performer, a missionary, a journalist, a diplomat, a tour guide, or a travelling salesman. Interestingly enough, most of the above have some precedence, somewhere, in the family.

Meanwhile...

Life here will go on. It is getting lighter, even if it remains dark in the mornings until relatively late. Soon, when the clocks change and the glorious Russian Easter approaches, Spring will bask in sunshine. Can't wait.

Russia will, no doubt, throw up another few surprises -- not least political ones. The caprices of Putin are sufficient to keep most people on their toes, and freelance journalists like me in business. Hurrah for Putin!

Oh No Canada!

Penultimately, a word of commiseration to fellow Canadians. A 51st state, eh? (Or should that be, "huh"?) So long, Kyoto. Let's hope the winter of Harper Conservatism, with its cabal of Mul-croney slimers and gung-ho (rhymes with "gun-pro") Bushian apostles, is neither too long, nor too severe. With any luck, the fact that it is a minority government will contain the worst excesses.

In this distant Russian outpost of Canada, we read the news of the election with dismay, not least when we discoverd that our "home" province, Alberta, has now gone 100% to the dark side. Will these two unreconstructed NDP types ever again be allowed through the channels at Calgary International? Or will the cowboy-hatted welcomers spy a pair of homo-sympathising, urbanite, Europhilic, French-loving, Bush-a-phobic veggie-burger, BBC-listening eco-morons, with Russian stamps in our passports... and divert us up to Inuvik? Or, worse, downtown Vancouver?

At least Sandra still has a passable Canadian accent.

Here's to a Russian-Canadian renaissance under the Russo-Canuck Michael Ignatieff, a personal hero of mine, cleft from the Trudeau mould. (Let's just hope the pesky Ukrainians don't assassinate him first.)

Lastly...

Congratulations to babushka Brower, who this week got a new job. Well done, Mum!

2005-12-21T12:57:00.000+03:00

2005-12-21T12:54:00.000+03:00

2005-12-21T12:45:00.000+03:00

2005-12-21T12:39:00.000+03:00

Lyova's friend, Aarno, came by for a visit yesterday, and the boys swapped stories on the sofa over a cup of tea.

Zapiski materi 15

2005-12-03T21:47:00.000+03:00

27 Ноября

The fur industry is thriving. To be honest, it is both strange and wonderful to be so far away from PC-ness. The sneg is here and it is turning kholodno (cold). And the Russians are coping with it in the way they always have – they are donning serious coats.

It soon became very clear that my navy blue M&S number was not going to cut it. I did bring along my mother’s shuba (fur). She’ll have to defend herself. Anyway, the Russians save these for ‘winter’. By that they mean the dead cold of January and February. We are now in ‘late autumn’ or ‘early winter’.

So my choices were to freeze, don the fur (like using the highest gear on your bike when climbing Tourmalet before you need it), or buy a novoe pal´to (new coat). There are certainly synthetic coats on the market here. But, for some reason, I found myself keen to participate in the fur aspect of Russian culture.

The ethical question aside, it is just so strange to be able to buy something with real fur on it. (Well, I suppose that’s not entirely true. I already own a fur coat – the one I bought for a tenner at a Value Village in Winnipeg while at university there. Incidentally, I don’t think Derek or I are in for any cold surprises here – s/he who has experienced Portage and Main has nothing to fear in Piter.) What is perhaps more strange is to see fur on virtually everyone – one does feel slightly out of place if not participating.

Don’t get me wrong – I’m not trying to rationalize anything here. I am intrigued, though, at how one’s sensitivities to political correctness diminish when in Rome. Incidentally, I overheard Trevor and Derek talking on Skype about the fur issue. The inconsistency in shunning fur but accepting leather had just recently struck Trev. Maybe it’s some latent Disney anthropomorphism…cosy fur triggers images of Thumper or Bambi, but leather doesn’t remind us of their hide.

In any case, I now have both – a long, leather coat sporting a fox collar (see latest posted pictures). Buying the coat gave me a great opportunity to practise my Russian. After buying it, I came home; decided it was too big; went back to see if they had another size; went to another shop and explained my situation to see if they had the right size; returned to the first shop to return the first coat; found another that I liked but which was more expensive; negotiated a discount; and arranged to have the sleeves shortened. All in Russian – well, broken Russian, anyway.

Of course, I was smart enough to ensure that the fur is removable. So you won’t have the opportunity to be offended unless you come visit. And even then you’ll probably be more concerned about the odd looks you keep getting whilst walking down the street in your synthetic attire.

2005-12-01T18:02:00.000+03:00

Snow and midday 'sunshine'

2005-12-01T17:59:00.000+03:00

Lyova playing, Lyova drooling

2005-12-01T17:55:00.000+03:00

San shows off her dead fox

Zapiski materi 14

2005-11-28T09:04:00.000+03:00

(Started on) 11 Ноября

Today Lyova is six months old.

For some time now I have wanted to write a bit about how he is developing but the days seem to pass me by. Today seems an appropriate day to set aside some time for the task. I apologise in advance for the length of it.

Time has become precious in these last six months. I already know, as I write this, that I will not have the luxury of finishing it in one sitting. Lev will wake up in about an hour and my attention will have to turn to him and puréed pears. So the peace and quiet I have at the moment is to be cherished. Some luxuries – like unlimited time to myself – I will never have again (well, maybe when he and his future siblings leave for university). I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss such pleasures, but it is also true that there is a particular luxurious quality to limited time – even an hour – when you are truly aware of how precious it is.

This hour, itself, is a measure of Lev’s development. So is the fact that I am writing this account. Lev’s development and the return of my sanity have gone hand in hand.

…

I didn’t get too far. The end of our full day has already come. And looking at my watch, Lyova will be up in a very short time for his final feed of the day, so I will have to finish this tomorrow (or the next day…).

…

It is hard to know where to begin. These six months have been the longest and shortest of my life. Lev is not the only one who has developed. I, too, have gone through some dramatic changes. But the comment regarding regained sanity was not made entirely with tongue in cheek.

I can now understand why sleep deprivation is used as a tool of torture. I was in a perpetual zombie-like state for weeks. I’m surprised I have so many distinct memories from those early days. We ran on shock-induced adrenalin for the first two weeks. Despite the exhaustion, we went from task to task in a frenzied sort of way – like two undergrads high on those little caffeine pills. I remember an email my friend sent with the advice to take a deep breath every once in awhile. I laughed when I read it, but one day it came vividly to mind when – still in my knickers – I was simultaneously washing a bottle, trying to jam some food in my mouth and, in between bites, calling out to my crying son that mama would be with him in a second. In that moment I noticed how rapid my breathing was and realised that I had been in a sort of ‘post-run, cool down’ phase for days.

At some point, I hope to write at length about those early days. I have never experienced such upheaval in my life. I don’t for a moment think our experience was unique. Actually, what intrigues me is how such a common phenomenon can catch two people so completely off guard.

Frankly, I stand in awe at those people who somehow managed to keep a journal of their child’s early life from the first week onwards. Getting showered every day was challenge enough. But I have enough vivid memories to see that ‘we’ve come a long way, baby!’

In terms of what an infant does, things haven’t changed that much. It’s still all about eating, playing, sleeping and filling nappies. (Well, okay, in the early days there wasn’t really any play – for any of us!). But it all seems a lot less frantic now. Plus, everyone is getting more sleep and we are all now smiling (Derek, bless him, had to smile for the whole family in those early days).

The greatest thing is that the wee one who eats, plays, sleeps and fills his nappies, is now most definitely a recognisable person. That is to say he has a personality. No wonder parents ask, ‘is he smiling yet?’. Smiling is a big thing. Not just because it makes you melt, but because you finally have some interaction with the lump of flesh you have been keeping alive for six or so weeks. Smiling, babbling, cooing, sighing – no baby is the same. There is definitely a uniqueness to their respective expressions and sounds (although a number of people who knew Derek as an infant say that Lev’s husky voice is just like his dad’s was).

I love that I can look into his eyes and know he is smiling even if he is sucking hard on his dummy. I love his squeals of delight. Perhaps most of all I love his sighs. I melt, of course, when he looks my way and a huge grin spreads across his face. But I am totally taken off guard when he suddenly looks me hard in the eye, with a maturity way beyond his days – he has done that about three times now. What is he thinking?

He isn’t quite sitting up on his own without support, but you can see his body struggling to balance itself – fantastic. And he is developing a decent six-pack. He desperately wants to do things he can’t, and sitting up is one of those things. He will lie on his play mat or sheepskin and start doing crunches, straining and lifting his head a good two inches off the ground. Then it bangs against the floor, poor lad.

He is well beyond grasping things. I am amazed by his ever-increasing dexterity. He can pick up his dummy and pass it from hand to hand and guide it into his mouth (well, sometimes he gets the wrong end, but…). Everything goes into his mouth. Size is not an issue. Yesterday he tried to eat the wash bin.

Papa bought him a ‘car’ – one of those things on wheels that you can sit your child in. The dashboard has lots of things to twirl and spin. And if he hits the right button we are graced with a series of tunes. If he successfully moves the gearshift, the tunes keep playing, and playing, and playing… Increasingly, he is quite pleased with himself. I watched in fascination, one day, at the precision with which he used a sole finger to flick one of the little wheels back and forth.

Eating and sleeping, and their relationship, is also a big thing for parents. Much money has been spent (not just by us…) on books to help sort out all the issues. And there are a million of them (books and issues). Name any ‘issue’ and I can guarantee that there is a huge controversy surrounding it. To dummy or not to dummy, to ‘Ferberize’ or not to ‘Ferberize’, etc. In England, the troops seem to line up either on the ‘schedule’ side, with Gina Ford as the most extreme guru, versus the hippyesque ‘feed on demand/co-sleep’ side. A few days before Lev was born, I stumbled on a happy medium (though I didn’t know it was such until much later, when, in desperation, we were hunting the isles of Borders for anything that would explain what the hell had just happened in our lives) – the ‘Baby Whisperer’. We thought it was up our alley. We weren’t keen on total chaos, but a schedule that said to have your toast and tea no later than 8:15 seemed a little unrealistic.

So here we are, a lot of ‘shh/pats’, ‘pick up/put downs’ later. I spoke with a good friend a couple of days ago – her son is now about six weeks old. He wasn’t going to sleep without being fed or rocked. As I was trying to lend an ear and offer some advice, the memories suddenly came flooding back. I remember dreading the six to ten slot. We only had one bedroom in London, so our lounge/dining room/kitchen also became Lev’s bedroom. I remember spending easily up to two hours trying to get Lev to settle for the night – pick up, reassure, put down, pick up, reassure, put down, pick up, reassure, put down, pick up, reassure, put down, pick up, reassure, put down, pick up, reassure, put down, pick up, reassure, put down, pick up, reassure, put down, pick up, reassure, put down…you get the picture. After a whole day with the little man, I was desperate for Derek to come home and take over. I would try to have something to eat ready before the settling routine. Then we would eat in relative silence so as not to wake the babe.

Something, somewhere, paid off. Lev is always awake when we put him down to sleep now. And, for the most part, he goes to sleep without any problem. Since September he has slept through the night. (I only dare boast about this because as of a week or so ago, he has started to wake up again – sometimes frequently. They say this happens….)

…

Well, here I am some two weeks later. A lot can take place in two weeks. I guess it accounts for about a twelfth of Lev’s little life, so I suppose that shouldn’t be surprising. He is now sitting up without support and can stay that way for a good length of time. And he isn’t waking up in the middle of the night anymore (whew! – though no doubt teething is just around the corner). In fact, for two nights in a row he hasn’t required the late night feed so once he is down at seven o’clock that is it for the night.

And – sorry, I just have to mention it – there has been a big change on the nappy front. Is there a polite way to talk about this? He’s moving (no pun intended) out of the infant stage. That non-offending smell (which kind of resembles yoghurt that’s just gone off) has been replaced by something much more foul. The only consolation is that the new texture is much easier to clean up. Poor wee man – the first two days were a bit of a scary adventure for him. He would get a frantic look in his eye, start going red in the face and begin hyperventilating. At first I thought there was something seriously wrong with him – ‘He can’t breathe!’ – but then I realised he was just discovering something new that was happening not to him but in him. He pretty much just gets on with it now – a bit of red-faced straining but nothing too serious. Let me just say that I hope he has escaped the Fach ‘BM obsession’.

Of course this is all related to the fact that he is now eating solids. What fun! My maternal instincts rage as I cook up fruits and vegetables, purée them, put them in ice cube trays to freeze, and fill little dated bags with all these goodies. So far – knock on wood – he’s a good little eater and has eaten everything that I’ve offered him. It is so interesting to watch the expression on his face every time I give him a new food to try. As an adult, you forget how much of this world is unexplored territory for our little ones.

I wonder how much he will have grown by the time we leave Piter. This week I bought him his first zimnii kostium (‘winter suit’ – they don’t call them snowsuits here). The suit I brought from England will simply not do anymore. When I showed it to my friends they said that here that is called a letnii kostium (summer suit). Anyway, he will be toasty warm now. Presently, he swims a bit in it, but my Russian girlfriends assure me that it is important to buy one on the big side so we don’t have to buy another one in a few months. Watch for a picture or two.

There is no doubt that in many ways life is more challenging now. But it is also a lot of fun. Lyova makes things pretty easy for us in terms of his care. He is a delight and every day we are blessed by his presence. Six (and a half) months later, we can’t imagine life without him!

Parcels, Parcels

2005-11-25T15:08:00.000+03:00

The parcel was from Lyova's godfather, Matt. Spasibo bol'shoe, Matt! But good news for the other senders - two more notices in the pigeon-hole today...

The Arrival

2005-11-18T15:18:00.000+03:00

Today is the day of arrivals.

The sneg is here and I think that this time it will stay. It is absolutely beautiful outside (though I haven't yet ventured out). It looks a wee bit chilly! I think Derek took some pictures so watch this space.

And a parcel has arrived!!! From whom we don't yet know. There was a notice in our pigeon-hole today. So perhaps after Derek's private urok (I've already had mine), we will venture out for a day of adventures - pushing the kolyaska in the snow, and - this time - trying to figure out how to receive a parcel. Again, watch this space.

Zapiski materi 13

2005-11-17T12:50:00.000+03:00

17 Ноября

Where has the time gone? On the 11^th Lev hit his six-month milestone and I started a long mother’s note reflecting on both his little life and our life since he entered it. Needless to say I’m still working on it. Hopefully I’ll have time this weekend to finish it so I can finally post it.

But I wanted to write a quick post in the meantime. Yesterday my friend, Katya, came over to teach me how to make Korean sushi. She speaks some English, but we try to speak Russian as much as possible. Over lunch she told Derek and me about a good Korean restaurant in town and said we should go sometime with her and her husband, Dima. Our favourite family restaurant, growing up, was a Korean restaurant in Edmonton – BulGoGi. Fantastic (take note Matt, Krista, Greg and Sarah…).

The night before last, I went to a café (a chain here called ‘Coffee House’ – see pic) to work on some homework. Hilarious experience. I wanted a regular café latte. The devushka showed me the many coffees on the menu, thinking I might want to try one with flavouring. I thought I had said I just wanted a normal one, but when my order came I spotted some red syrup in the bottom. Unlike my father, I don’t like anyone fooling with my coffee. So I wasn’t too thrilled with the coconut-like flavouring. But, like my father, I have a serious sweet tooth so I was able to pretend I was having dessert. The devushka came back and asked if I liked it and I gave a kind of ‘so-so’ hand motion/facial expression. Another devushka came by some time later to ask if she could take away the empty glass. I asked her for another (it’s buy one get one free…) but tried to explain that I wanted the next one to be normal'noe, bez likera. ‘Normal'noe’ isn’t the best word to use (at the time I didn’t know ‘klassicheskoe’, the more appropriate word). But bez definitely means ‘without’. And she repeated, ‘bez likera’, so it appeared that she had understood my wishes and I was pleased with my efforts. A few minutes later, a very pink café latte was brought to my table, with more liqueur than the first one…. I came out of there on a sugar-amaretto-caffeine buzz. Needless to say, the prepositional case I was trying to master was all a bit fuzzy.

Yesterday I practised my conversational Russian by relaying the story to my girlfriends in our dvor. They must have understood, as they laughed heartily (and not in the way they do when they are teasing me about my Russian!).

Translating Russia

2005-11-08T21:01:00.000+03:00

I would be lying if I said I spend all my days doing what I am supposed to be doing. That is, finishing my thesis. Bit by bit I am gathering momentum with the thesis again. But it is hard going.

Part of the reason it is hard going is that everything else is simply so interesting to me. I love/hate/deplore/admire this country (delete or select as appropriate). People have always asked me why I am interested in Russia. My answer is below.

(For those who read the blog for news of Leon, and do not care for politics, and so on, just skip my bit and head downstairs to Sandra's notes).

One thing that regularly occurs to me here is how Russia defies many of the Western clichés about her.

Here is an example that has troubled me lately.

One current cliché: Russia does not have a free press. Yes, the Power here has done its damnedest to weaken opposition and to concentrate power within the walls of the Kremlin. And TV news is weak in terms of objective reporting of domestic political events that could hurt the Power. For example, the best reports I read about the recent violence in Nalchik came from outside of Russia (but not, I should add, from any mainstream Western news organisation). And the Kremlin dictates coverage of domestic events in weekly meetings with the heads of the Russian networks.

However, there are a few other points. First, the TV news coverage of non-Russian affairs is good. Not as good as the BBC, but as good -- if not as broad -- as CBC or CNN, I would say.

Second, in newspapers like Kommersant (the one I read most regularly), Vedomosti, and elsewhere, genuine opposition exists. So does a tone that promotes genuine, serious civil society issues. These papers are scarcely read outside of Moscow and Petersburg. But they are still here.

Last week, one article in Kommersant that covered Putin's recent trip to the Netherlands contained some of the most excoriating criticism of Putin's record on human rights that I have read anywhere -- including in the Western press. The journalist did it in a very Russian way, too, letting the subtleties of juxtaposition and an underlying tone of healthy skepticism govern his piece. The article covered Putin's controversial words about Western Europeans wishing to be more Muslim than Mohammed, as well as his Bush-ian words about the war against terrorists. The journalist concluded by saying that he had seen a man outside the press conference with a placard that read 'Putin: the Genius Counter-terrorist'. He asked him what his placard meant. The placard wielder replied: 'It is simply a joke'.

Ironically, given my own status, the plight of foreign students in Russia has also been the occasion for other expressions of Russian civil society. The facts are brutal. Numerous foreign students have been murdered in racially-motivated attacks in Russia in the past few years. Most of the time, they have been attacked by skinheads and Fascists -- the same morons who destroy Jewish cemeteries in the big cities and who marched on Moscow this week (more of that in a minute).

Racism is a problem in Russia, no doubt. Yet the response of ordinary Russians and the civil authorities has been, for the most part, commendable. True, politicians here engage in the same kind of vitriol and demagoguery that one finds among politicians of the Right in the West. And of course this all helps to foster an environment in which skinheads beat African, Latin American and other students to death.

However, there was a march in St Petersburg this week in protest against this racism. Members of the Duma (parliament) have spoken in support of foreigners in Russia. And a new section of the police force is being created specifically to help foreigners.

And, of course, Russians watch the news, appalled by the race riots in France.

Nonetheless, what makes this country interesting, still, is that in spite of these seeds of civil society (and sometimes the early blossoms of it in the press), everything remains on the knife edge. For example, Russia is afloat on petro-dollars right now. But few Russians really believe it will last. That is why all large prices continue to be spoken of in dollars or euros. Payment is done in roubles, because that is the law. But every Russian over the age of eight has lived through a massive devaluation of the currency and consequent financial collapse, so to quote in dollars makes sense.

Furthermore, that financial collapse destroyed much of the nascent middle class and its civil society in the late 1990s, so another collapse would be disastrous.

When you think back to the food shortages during perestroika, the social changes during glasnost', the collapse (and humiliation) of the country (and the dissolution of its empire), an attempted coup, the instantaneous attempt to transform collectivized society into a freemarket, the bombing of parliament by the president, the creation of some of the world's richest men almost overnight, the collapse of the rouble, the public alcoholism of the head of state, and a handful of some of the worst terrorist acts committed, one can say that Russians have endured a lot in the last 25 years.

Oh, and did I mention three brutal wars?

It is difficult ever to forget that this is a country fighting a war within its borders, a few thousand kilometres to the south. The police and military presence in Russian cities is, by UK standards, astonishing. At a guess I would say that on my 30-minute walk to the university, I pass at least 10 policeman and probably twice as many soldiers.

You see veterans lacking limbs frequently. And, of course, you live under the ever-present threat of another brutal terrorist act. The Dubrovka theatre seige and the Beslan tragedy struck Russia in two arenas of which the country's citizens are rightly most proud: the cultural and the educational spheres. No wonder darkness hangs over this country's politics.

Some commentators are now comparing Putin's Russia with Weimar Germany. Putin, of course, is no Hitler. But it is easy to understand how, in the right circumstances, an impressive individual -- and Putin is an exceptionally impressive individual -- can command a cult-like following. (At a guess, I would say that even in Texas, it would be difficult to find posters of George W. in the state's biggest and most respectable bookshop. In St Petersburg's Dom knigi, I ask you simply: how big would you like your Putin poster? And would you like a Putin hand-towel, or key-ring, too? They're available on the street outside.)

But the most glaring comparison with Weimar Germany is now on the streets. Youth organisations -- a mainstay of Soviet society -- are back. In one corner, groups like Nashi (Ours), a pro-Putin, pro-Kremlin organisation of happy go-lucky youths who -- between camping trips, pop concerts and car-washing fundraisers -- seem to spend their time beating up communists, intimidating vocal opponents of the Power and ensuring a good 'street presence' for the Kremlin. (A street presence will be vital if an Orange Revolution ever visits Russia.)

In the other corners of this triangle are the skinheads (Fascists) and the Communists. Brownshirts, blackshirts, anyone? I just hope I'm not in the wrong Munich-themed Moscow beer hall at the wrong time.

The funny thing is, the most recent occasion for aggro between these groups was during the 'National Unity' holiday, last Friday, when the Fascists marched on Moscow bearing slogans referring to 'Russia for the Russians', 'Kill the Enemy', 'Immigrants Out', and other pleasantries.

All of this is good news for the Orthodox Church, whose hands are behind this holiday in the first place. The day ostensibly commemorates the expulsion of the Poles from Russia in 1612, and the triumph of Orthodoxy over Catholicism. Polls of Russians showed that no-one really had any idea about the events of 1612, and that most people objected to the holiday replacing the Day of Revolution (which, incidentally, people still celebrated last night). And most historians said the choice of date for National Unity day was totally devoid of significance.

So, the remembrance of the Bolshevik Revolution has been replaced by a Pole- and Catholic-bashing holiday, which no-one except the Fascists and the Orthodox (or the Orthodox Fascist/Fascist Orthodox) cares about. Sounds a lot like a metaphor for post-Communist Russia.

***

By the way, I was recently talking to a Russian friend and ran my theory by her, about how Nashi has been created by the Kremlin to ensure a popular, Ukrainian-style revolution doesn't take place. Her words: 'Derek, if it comes to that, they won't need youth groups. There will be tanks on the streets.'

Why am I interested in Russia? Because Russia is interesting.

Zapiski materi 12

2005-11-07T20:13:00.000+03:00

7 Ноября

Emotional highs and lows are exhausting, but, no doubt, character building. As I was pureeing apples and pears this morning for little Lev I thought: ‘Yes, I can do it all. I can be a good mum, I can finish the PhD (sigh...), I can manage here’, and so on.

Then, the rain poured. Lev refused the pumpkin I offered him. And I looked at my watch and saw I had only 45 minutes to get my mum’s birthday card written (simultaneously trying to keep Lev happy bouncing him on my knee) and get us to the city’s central post office, where Derek was going to meet us. My courage began to wane.

But, we did it – somehow. And, even more miraculously, I managed to post the parcel. Derek found the right desk for me and then disappeared with Lev – the only way to make progress is to dive in at the deep end, he says (though he was a sweetie for coming to the pochta with us). I was anxious, you see, not just because this was another new experience, but because I couldn’t quite believe the advice to show up with my goods unwrapped. Sure enough, it is true.

I found my place in the queue (not always easy in Russia) and eventually blurted out my best attempt at ‘I want to post a package to Canada’. The clerk said something gruffly and handed me some complicated forms to fill in. Thankfully there was an example form taped to the wall (of course I saw this after I had filled in mine). I got back in the queue, if you can call it that.

Russian queues deserve a journal entry of their own. People – usually the old women – frequently cut in. This queue-jumping is great when it is your privilege, but terribly irritating when someone else takes advantage! Anyway, amazingly, the clerk accepted my forms without further ado. And then I watched, amazed, as she wrapped my goods meticulously in about 30 seconds. I think I won some brownie points by handing her the correct change when she gave me my bill. Russians are obsessed with payment being on the money, so to speak.

We celebrated my major feat at the Idiot cafe...how appropriate: I was definitely the village idiot in the pochta queue. What we take for granted in our home countries!!

Zapiski materi 11

2005-11-04T21:49:00.000+03:00

4 Ноября

My father has his own sort of blog by way of a message he sends out to his family every week: ‘Tuesday from Dad’. Occasionally it gets some banter going between the siblings. I hope my eldest brother won’t mind me citing him here. A recent conversation turned to the subject of sensing the presence of God in one’s life and he said, ‘When I looked things over I could see that I really felt God’s presence most in the joyful terror of playing football, playing and listening to music, reading great novels, memorable meals with other people, friendship...that’s where God has unveiled himself to me.’

I think I can relate. This morning we were listening to John Tavener’s The Protecting Veil. It’s difficult to articulate, but every once in awhile I experience something close to perfection, if not perfection itself. For a moment, everything fits. Perhaps things fit much of the time but these moments are unique in that I, too, catch myself in them…fully. They are magical, in a sense, but also very ordinary. Like this morning. It was a holiday here in Piter, so Derek didn’t have class. We had a lazy morning – especially Papa…Lev and I let him sleep in a bit. Meanwhile I made up some carrot and pumpkin purees for my sweet son (who is going to get a sweet tooth like his Mama and Dedushka [grandpa] Fach unless we start introducing some veg…). There I was, shaking my head in disbelief as I tried to squeeze some of my milk into the bowl of minced carrot so there would be enough liquid to puree it. What had become of me?!

Later on, when we were all awake, we were chilling out in the lounge. The Protecting Veil was playing. Derek was doing some translation work, Lev was playing in his little car, and I was drinking a cup of Earl Grey, trying to express some milk. It was just past noon, but the sun was not high in the sky (nor will it ever be, I suspect, until it is almost time for us to leave). For some strange reason, it felt a bit like Christmas Day – long after the wrapping paper is cleared away and everyone is chilling out after the big turkey meal. I was thinking to myself, as I pumped away, how my body – indeed, my life – was presently entirely devoted to the wee man looking intently at and spinning the little wheel on his dashboard. Occasionally he would hit the button to cue ‘Chim-Chimeree’ which simultaneously ruined and added to the glory of Tavener. He is opening and closing his mouth in a very new and specific way now…sometimes chewing and sometimes saying ‘mama’. I felt so blessed in that moment. A mother, who would do anything to protect her flesh and blood, at the same time being reminded of the protecting veil enshrouding herself.

Zapiski materi 10

2005-11-01T09:33:00.000+03:00

28 Октабря

Well, it was my birthday on the 26th. I am 35 years old. It has been a great birthday week. We went to the ballet on Monday, had a great meal out with friends on Tuesday (Lev cooperated by sleeping soundly the whole time), had other friends over for a memorable zakuski session on the actual day, and had my new friends from our courtyard over for birthday cake yesterday. They came laden with their wee babes and gifts for me. They stayed for over two hours which must mean that they were comfortable here. When they left Vera said how pleased she was to have an English friend. And, as you can imagine, I am delighted. Can’t get much better than that. Oh, yes it can. It was the first snowfall of the season on my birthday and that was pretty cool (not only literally) because the day I was born was the first snowfall in Saskatoon that year.

Speaking of saskatoons…quite a long time ago I saw some juice in our local Sainsbury’s in London. It was ‘raspberry and aronia’ juice. The picture showed berries that looked exactly like saskatoons, so I bought some to try it out. Sure enough, it tasted like saskatoons, too. I went on the web and discovered that another name for ‘saskatoon berry’ is ‘aronia’. It was bizarre to find saskatoons in the middle of London. Not so bizarre to discover them here, however, since Russia and Canada share similar terrain. I bought a bag of frozen berries on my first shop in our local supermarket here but hadn’t paid close attention to the contents. When I opened them up the other day I was delighted to discover that the main ingredient was ‘aronia’ berries.

Do Svidaniia, Trevor

2005-10-31T18:23:00.000+03:00

Trevor has gone. Coincidentally, so has most of the snow. A mess remains -- both in our flat and on the salty, sandy streets.

Trevor won't be back, at least not for a while; but the snow should return soon enough.

Anyway, we took Trev out to Pavlovsk yesterday afternoon. Pavlovsk is one of the Tsarist palaces that lie in dacha-land south of St Petersburg. Peter the Great's wife, Catherine (Ekaterina), gave him Pavlovsk as a gift. Some gift. I can't imagine how much wrapping paper was involved.

Pavlovsk is also the setting for much of The Idiot. Anyway, it is an elegant palace surrounded by a large park full of birch, fir, lakes, rivers and various beautiful architectural follies and statues scattered through the woods.

We went out by train with hundreds of others (going out to walk in the parks is a great passtime among the Russians), and bought pine nuts from an old woman to tide us over on the way back. The fresh Russian air was wonderful. And now that the city is a big melting mess (for the time being) it was nice to get out into the snow again. We will certainly have to source a sled for little Lyova before the winter is out.

Incidentally, he has now figured out how to say 'Mama'.

2005-10-31T18:18:00.000+03:00

This hat fit him a couple weeks ago...

2005-10-31T18:17:00.000+03:00

Time for Tea

2005-10-31T18:14:00.000+03:00

Three men and a carriage

2005-10-31T18:12:00.000+03:00

Papa i syn

2005-10-31T18:11:00.000+03:00

Peasant woman in Pavlovsk

2005-10-31T18:10:00.000+03:00

More Pavlovsk

2005-10-31T18:08:00.000+03:00

Sasha in Pavlovsk

2005-10-31T18:06:00.000+03:00

More Pavlovsk

2005-10-31T18:04:00.000+03:00

Mama i syn