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moscow: reluctant vistor's guide

Although the U.S. Soccer team pre-planned a patriotic boycott by not qualifying for the international games, some futbal friends of mine who see themselves as children of the world, or at least the World Cup, will head to Moscow this June. They could search dependable travel sites, but instead they asked me for tips. It's been eight years since I called Moscow home, but while there I didn't see much change, for example the country has had the same president for eighteen years. This 250-year-old city's riches run as wide as the river on which it sits, here are few of my favorite things about the city.

Moscow’s drama will unfold as soon as you step off the plane, which means unless you arrive at 4 am, will be in a super slow mo two-hour, mind-numbing drive in airport-to-city traffic. Try to take the metro, which costs a dollar to go everywhere really fast. Marvel that when you look at the metro map, you are seeing maybe half of what was built, the rest is secret. I've gotten lost on the metro (and lots of other places in Moscow) because when we were there, there was a tax on English signage. Hopefully they've improved this for the games and made it less user-abusive.

When you visit Red Square, lean forward and have the person taking your photo squat down so they block out all the other people on the square for the photo.

After the photo in front of St. Basil's visit GUM, the only department store they had in Soviet times, which at the time took anything but rubles. The ground-level grocery store is filled with beautifully designed little packaged things that will be fun to sample later or give as gifts. Eat on the 4th floor at Stolovaya 57, a Soviet-style cafeteria.

This is a country with 99.9% literacy and a deeply rich literary heritage. Russian soccer fans will be able to discuss Tolstoy and Tergenev. Bring a paperback of Chekhov's short stories to carry around with you. Read one while sitting outside his darling apartment near Patriarch Ponds. Also read A Gentleman in Moscow and then have a drink at the Hotel Metropol. N’astrovia!

Russians are crunchy on the the outside, creamy Alioshka milk-chocolate inside. However, the nesting doll aspects of their personalities translates to a long, somewhat complicated journey to the soft center. While figuring this out, have fun buying a selection of wrapped Russian candy, the iconic designs on the wrappers are tiny cultural lessons on architecture, folk tales and fine art. 

Guys, if you are a six at home, you are a ten in Moscow. (It's not so much the candy as the vodka and cigarettes.) Women under 25, if you are a ten at home, in Moscow, unless you've been walking in six inch heels on ice since you were fifteen, have three cosmetologists in your coterie of "most recents" and have Slavic genes, you are a five. 

The sign looks like it says Crapdog, but it actually says Stardog. Eat a hotdog on the street and splurge later on Cafe Pushkin.

Cafe Pushkin serves the best, most velvety borsht ever, and the rest of the food is almost as dreamy. Unless your favorite team wins, this might be the best part of your trip. Guys, wear a jacket.

Visit Izmailova, the huge outdoor market. Stroll along the wooden Christmas-market-style kiosks to buy nesting dolls, painted boxes, fur hats, amber jewelry and a million other things you never knew you needed. I still regret not buying more Gzhel pottery and a taxidermied hedgehog. Follow the smoke and scent of bbq'd meat to the open-air shishleek stands. The kabobs, both pork and chicken, served sizzling with an onion salad and fresh bread taste amazing. You are supposed to eat this with the cheapest plastic fork you've ever used, and it will break. They also serve beer, vodka and tea.

If you open a bottle of vodka, it’s bad luck to not finish it. This is why they come in so many sizes and why the men look the way they do. The brand Russian Standard is recommended, Beluga is even better. Avoid over-doing and order mors, a fresh cranberry-like fruit juice. (Russians never mix alcohol with fruit juice, and you can’t out drink them so just let them win this one.) In spite of how much the Russians drink they frown upon obvious drunkenness. You'll see a drink sold on the street that looks like beer called kvass. This slightly alcoholic fermented drink is made of dark bread. It tastes like it sounds, but maybe you'll like it. 

Besides drinking on the streets, what Russia does best: music, theater, wars. If World War II (in Russia The Great Patriotic War pretty much currently defines the country) interests you, historical museums on this topic will fill up your extra time between games--the outdoor Borodino is a good place to start. The Bolshoi doesn’t normally perform during the summer. It’s not, as Anna Karinina would have called it, “the season” but I’m sure they will have lots of performances of every kind everywhere anyway. Even the street musicians in the metros and on the Old Arbat can be heart-breakingly good.

Do take a stroll down the pedestrian-only Old Arbat, one of Moscow's oldest streets. Like 1400's old. Souvenir shops and artists selling mostly questionable artwork line Pushkin's cobblestone street. Still, you'll find something you have to buy. Maybe you'll see Steven Tyler join a busker covering "Don't Want to Miss a Thing." It really happened.

Stroll around Patriarch Ponds (there is only one, but the name is plural) and you'll see Margarita Bistro, named after Bulgokov's banned Master and Margarita. Try to read it, I couldn't. The cafe serves classic Russian fare in a charming setting with live folk music by darling musicians every night. 

Wander around, drink tea, enjoy the perfect blue skies, which I'm sure they will have since they control the weather there. This whole World Cup things strikes me as another opportunity for national funding to be put into private hands, but enjoying the games and the city at its best may be the best revenge. 

three months in

Camille came for Christmas and we got to do some of the things we'd already found that we loved in Oman: Kargeens restaurant (the lamb!), our favorite beach, the schwarma from Hawas down the street, black cardamom tea, taking a boat out to the Dimaniyat islands nature preserve and the Anantara. And we got to do many firsts together: a visit to the town of Nizwa, first time to visit the Grand Mosque, and the first time to the fish market. I probably laughed the hardest when Camille's boyfriend bought a dishdashah and local-style hat at the souk and then everyone started speaking Arabic to him! "I'm from California!" he would say, and then everyone would laugh, and they would continue speaking Arabic to him. California has the largest Arab population of any state in the U.S. so I guess being from California doesn't preclude speaking Arabic. We took the drive up to the Anantara Hotel (this time just for lunch and a swim) but Peter and I had considerable PTSD after our car had broken down the last time we went. We kept reliving the trauma: "this is where all the dashboard lit up," "there is where we parked when the engine started smoking" "this is where all those guys came out to help"--hopefully this second trip (that occurred without incident--yay!) helped us recover. Otherwise it's been sun-filled, swim-filled, somewhat shisha-filled days as we get use to Oman and 2018. 

and so this is christmas

"It just doesn't feel like Christmas," we keep saying. After nine winters in Eastern Europe and Christmas trips to Tahoe, Vienna and Chamonix, these bright sunny skies and palm trees are disorienting. We bought a fake Christmas tree and snowflake-printed wrapping paper at the grocery store. On Christmas eve Camille's jet lag attacked so it was just Stefan, Peter and me for a Christmas dinner of chicken tika. Where's the snow, the dark days, the coats, scarves, boots, mittens, the heater blasting in the car? Friends in Kyiv are sharing photos of so much crazy snow! Friends in the California are ice skating on the alpine lakes near Tahoe! But you know what? We are sitting in the lap of health, in the heart of the most beautiful time of the year in Oman, in a cloud of frankincense. This time of year makes me weepy, the kids are so big, time goes so fast, it's all--the color of the water, the camel milk ice cream at the grocery store, Stefan driving us slowly into the driveway--it's all so precious. Yeah, it doesn't feel like Christmas and let me have a million more just like this.

how not to travel with a pet

Arrived in Amsterdam on Sunday to discover that I couldn't continue on to Oman because I needed permission from the Ministry of Agriculture and Fisheries to "import" Bea. The expeditor at the Embassy said the process of getting permission could take up to the three weeks.

Bea anxiously, well maybe not, awaits her fate in an Amsterdam hotel room. 

So I spent the next 24 hours panicking about where to go for three weeks. Should I fly to Kyiv? Take a train to some cheap town in Netherlands? Do cheap towns in Netherlands exist? My hotel, where I'd planned to stay only one night, had only one extra night available. I looked into renting an Airbnb, but the only one I could find at first that allowed pets was a studio in what I suspected was the red light district.

CLO in Muscat assured me that the process would probably not take three weeks, but hopefully only around three working days.I changed my plane ticket to Thursday and hoped for the best. I asked small hotels in my neighborhood if they accepted pets.  All said "It goes against the rules," which for me means, "So?" but for the Dutch seemed to be a polite, but firm no. I started sending messages to Airbnb hosts asking if I could rent with a dog starting tomorrow.

Happily, within 24 hours Bea had been granted permission to enter Oman. The dog, two fifty-pound suitcases and I found a sunny room in a pet-accepting apartment. Things were turning around! I went to the Rijksmusuem, an art supply store, and walked the dog around my new favorite city, Amsterdam.

Once we arrived in Muscat, we handed over all our paperwork to the Ministry and after waiting about an hour, a crabby guy demanded to see the USDA stamp on the health certificate. I have the health certificate signed by the veterinarian, but no USDA stamp. (Remind me to make one.) Crabby guy makes me sign a paper swearing that I'll get a USDA-stamped certificate back to the Ministry within two weeks. I have no idea of how to pull that off. But I've heard the jails here are nice.

While waiting for the Ministry's approval in Amsterdam, Bea's vet-signed health certificate aged to more than a week old, therefore the USDA will no longer stamp it. Peter and I float various scenarios: We beg the vet for an updated health certificate to send to the USDA, Peter's sister picks it up and mails it to the USDA, then after it's stamped, mails it to us via FedEx/UPS/DHL for some ruinous fee. Or: Peter takes the dog to Kyiv, gets a certificate from the vet there and enters Oman from Ukraine. Or: I fly back to California, revisit the vet and get the USDA stamp--I'm sure this option is super cheap. 

Day two and we are at the vet in Oman already--Bea developed a hot spot and required medication. While there, we told the vet our story. She rolls her eyes and tells us I won't go to jail, in fact the MInistry won't really do anything. She signs a new health certificate and tells us to take it to the Ministry and explain that this is all we need.

At the Ministry (or the sub-Ministry or whatever it is they have at the airport) a less crabby guy than the first listened to Peter explain the situation. Then I explained the situation. Then Peter explained the situation some more. Weary of our story, he found the paper I'd signed promising the USDA stamp in two weeks and signed his name with an Arabesque flourish above "approved."

Half way around the world, one week and one signature later, Bea is legal. Welcome home to Oman.

road trip to starting a new life

Bea and I pulled out of the driveway from Tahoe in the Mini, the start of our road trip to San Diego.

First stop: Auburn to see my mom before I flew. We met her at Ikeda's, a fruit stand turned grocery store/hamburger stand. I had just sat down in the outside seating area when a car pulled into a parking space right in front of me. Just as the car rolled to a stop, instead a final push on the brake, the driver hit the gas.  The car lunged over the cement parking block and through the metal fence just a couple feet in front of me. Table and chairs flew against me. I looked at mom, like, "Is she going to stop or drive over me though the building?" 

The car stopped, but not before pushing me and the pile of chairs and tables all the way to the building. Thank goodness mom, on the far side of the table was well-protected and had Bea's leash. If I'd had Bea at my feet, she would have been crushed by upended tables and chairs. I stood up and started crying. I have a bruise that extends down one calf, a sore leg, and a worse hip--if this had happened to my 94-year old mother the injury would have been much worse. But I could walk, so I knew nothing broken and hey, everybody's still alive!

Shaken up, I continued to Watsonville in the Santa Cruz area where Bea got to chase eight chickens around my friend's yard. Gina and Augusto made a gorgeous Puruvian-style salmon dinner and I got to see the new kitchen and interior paint colors of Gina's pink house. She's a teacher and gets up early for work; I left when she did and took highway one to Monterey. 

In Monterey I stopped at a Petco groomer and paid $50 for Bea to get a flea bath I didn't ask for and a haircut not as good as the mom-cut I'd given her. I'm traveling with two suitcases that weigh 50 pounds each and one of the reasons is because I now own an professional-level electric clipper. From now on, I'm cutting her fur myself and saving the money. 

While Bea was being bathed, I got to wander Carmel, buy what I thought was a somewhat silly purchase: an irresistibly soft, sheep-skin-looking cardigan. It was a windless 80 degrees in Carmel that day, the sand at the beach was actually hot. Buying a sweater too hot to wear to take to the Middle East seemed crazy, but that's just a testimony to the hot-chocolate marshmallow irresistibility of this sweater. 

Onward to Amuk's so I could see her life in her little house in Ventura. We walked along the beach and watched the sunset, then the next day had a gorgeous roasted squash green salad while admiring the the old mission across the street. I loaded up the car with my 50-pound suitcases, careful not to bash them against my owie leg, and Bea and I headed off for the last portion of the trip.

I found Camille's house because she was outside jumping up and down at the sight of her (our) car. While there I rearranged Camille's room, ate a chimichanga and salmon tacos and met all six of her roommates. 

Early Saturday I said an early good bye to Camille, the San Diego coastline, friends and family and my life in California and the U.S.  I was scheduled to fly out of Amsterdam to Oman the next day, but I've been derailed in Amsterdam, which is another saga for a different day. But everyone is alive, so who cares? The trees have gold leaves and it's cold in Amsterdam. I've been living in my furry sweater. 

european peacock butterfly wings, to be exact

In third grade my parents bought me, at the Disneyland Tiki Hut gift shop, a wooden flute. I asked my teacher if I could play in front of the class. Walking to the front of the classroom, I realized I had no idea how to actually play the flute. I blew a few sad notes and then died and went back to my desk.

Ten minutes before sixty or so of my best friends--Peter invited EVERYONE--were supposed to show up for the opening of twenty portraits I had painted, we were still waiting for the printer to deliver two of the panels and all of the cards that actually explained the show. I thought, I've had this terrible feeling before. Oh yeah, I don't even know how to play the flute!

Months earlier, I had asked the director of the American cultural center if I could have a show of my paintings. I sent her my portfolio in January and she said yes to a show based on the March theme of Women's Rights Are Human Rights. I made a schedule for completing the work for the March 30 opening--I really didn't want to be working on the paintings as we were hanging the, ten minutes before the doors opened. I planned to do 16 to 20 pieces, two and sometimes three works each week, totally doable.

Right around that time I saw a video of a young person saying they'd never read the U.N. Declaration of Universal Human Rights. I thought, wow, I haven't either.

Sitting at my desk, starting to work on the portraits, I asked Peter and his sister Ludmilla--how about if we display the Declaration of Human Rights, then read the stories of the women whose lives exemplify each of those rights? It's only three times more work than just doing portraits! We agreed, as did the gallery director, that that sounded like a big project, but really interesting.

Friends on Facebook helped by telling me women they admired; researching the lives of those women for the short bios that accompany each portrait was one of the most interesting aspects of pulling the show together. I balanced the show with some favorite heros, and some less well known. The paintings depict women from different parts of the world, ranging in ages 6 to 92.

For the back wall, I designed two floor-to-ceiling banners of the Universal Declarations of Human Rights--in English and Ukrainian. The biographical label next to each portrait is numbered to correspond with the human right each woman exemplifies. Lesya Ukrainka's portrait features butterfly wings made of her poetry. Weeks ahead of time, I gave the printer the files for a giant version of the wings to flutter next to the panel telling the history of Eleanor Roosevelt drafting the rights the U.N. adopted in 1948. I gave the printer the file for postcards to announce the show. The food was supplied by the gallery, but we had to buy the wine--Peter and I spent days trying to figure out how much.

The opening was supposed to start at 6:30. At 6:15, a nervously sweating mess, I resigned myself to the show opening without the printer delivering the panels. We had wine, who needs panels?

The Russian and Ukrainian languages adopted the French word for art opening: vernissage; the word comes from the artist allowing guests in to see the art during the final touches, the varnishing. At 6:20, the printer delivered the panels and cards. The gallery director, in her haste to attach hangers onto the back of a panel, stapled it to the floor. Even though I had finished all the paintings and graphics with time to spare, the event was certainly, because of the local printer, very much a vernissage. 

Using a screw driver, we pried the panel from the floor and attached it to the wall. We asked our first guest if it was hanging straight or not. Then, champagne was passed, the room filled up and art work was taken in. I took a million photos of my friends with wings. The Public Affairs Section is going to include a mention of the show in the cable to Washington about Women's History month events. The Ambassador visited the show and wrote me a lovely note complimenting me on the art work and the concept. 

I don't know how long it takes to learn to play flute, but given the opportunity, and eight weeks and ten minutes, we can grow wings.

 

More details about the artwork at dinabernardin.com. 

stockholm syndrome-- that's a bad thing how?

I keep posting photos on Facebook and Insta and they aren't a big enough brush for the running of melted snow, the colors of the buildings, Elsa Bledsow, Pippi, Moomins, caradamom bread, Cicil Brunner-scented hand lotion, the friendly way "hey" sounds as a greeting, the wall paper in our bedroom, Carl Larsson's line quality, Milla getting a job offer in Carmel Valley, candles burning in silver candlesticks at the bakery, clogs, the Seattle-like setting and black licorice Swedish fish. 

Because everything is so new and wonderful, every day feels like three days, thank god; I wish I could stay a year so I could live a whole lifetime here. Still to come: Marimekko, the flea market and a restaurant with meatballs. 

kyivlife: around the living room around the year

 

plein air where there is plenty of it

For me, one of the highlights of being in Tahoe, a place pretty stacked with highlights, is painting for a week in a plein air class with Phyllis Schaffer. I've taken the class three years in a row from Phyllis, a Sierra-based oil painter whose work manages to expresses the incredible-ness of the area. She's not only an amazing painter--I mean, really amazing-- she's also a talented teacher. Which I think is a rare combo. This year I felt really off. I couldn't get into the groove and did only one painting I was happy with, which I lost by driving away with the painting on the roof of the car. Advice from my 93-year-old mother: set things on the HOOD of car.

Hopefully someone is enjoying my quarter-finished painting of Sand Harbor.

This is what Phyllis can whip out while she's dispensing advice about painting and life.

"When you are having a problem in some area, stop fighting with it and just ignore it for a while."

So, my paintings were crap, but the days spent at 10K feet, brush in hand, admiring the landscape, learning from a fabulous teacher, were not. The wildflowers were late, so Mt. Rose looked like this late into the summer.

More crappy work! That's my motto.

In spite of not painting anything I was happy with (that I got to keep) I will do the class again next summer, and forever, if I'm allowed. And you should too. The older I get, the more everyone sounds like Yoda, but week with Phyllis is a week with a painting-fu master. The class is through Sierra Nevada College, and is open to painting students at all levels. Phyllis has a solo exhibition at the Stremmel Gallery in Reno, November 3 to December 3. Don't miss it if you are in the area.

Imagine seeing something like this in real life. More of her work is here.

kyiv on your bid list?

If you are thinking of a post in Kyiv, here are a few questions to ask yourself as you consider bidding on the nicest war-torn country you'd ever want to visit.

Do you like wearing suede and then fur, seeing more lilacs in the world in the botanical garden and then swimming in the sea? Kyiv has four seasons, but is a zone 2, so no matter where you are coming from you won't get the State Department clothing allowance. White Christmas, lily-of-the valley sold on the corners, barbeque chicken shishlik and the smell of apples in the air--you can celebrate all the seasons here.

Do you like breathing? Unless you're sitting in slow traffic behind a diesel bus, the air is clean. Kyiv is a green city with lots of parks and trees, and the city is surrounded by forests.

Do you like to save money without even trying? Fancy dinner at a French restaurant will run you $20 or less. You can see world-class ballet from the second row in an jewel-box of an opera house for $15. World-heritage-site museums cost 80 cents to visit.

Ancient monastery complex, worth seeing for less than a dollar.

Do you like being able to easily afford massages, a housekeeper, someone to walk the dog and cabernet sauvingon? And still have money to fly non-stop to Greece or Prague for a little get-away? Duh.

Do you like to be noticed? If you work at the Embassy, be prepared to be busy. Washington is watching this high-profile post. Vishvankas were featured in Vogue; Ukraine is trending.

Will you cry when you are all dressed up to go somewhere and can't get a taxi? Do you hate driving in aggressive traffic? Then get use to staying home.

Kyiv at its worst: winter gloom and potholes.

Cozy up in a cafe, all this for about four bucks.

Do you want a house with a yard in the suburbs by the Embassy or a city-chic apartment downtown? If you want to walk to get a coffee, visit a museum or shop, choose downtown. The suburbs consist of pockets of homes with yards hidden behind boulevards of storage units and tire stores. We chose an apartment, so of course we were assigned a house. Regardless of where you choose, a woodsy park will be nearby for strolling or running, and the furniture will be familiar.

I do like our apricot tree though.

Have you read Bloodlands? If you are thinking of coming to this part of the world, Time Magazine's 2011 Book of the Year, will put the current war and Ukraine's history in perspective.

Do you want a choice of three good schools, two with the IB? Here, everyone seems happy with their choice. We are the only people I know of whose kid changed schools, but it was probably him not you.

Do you love fast downloads? The internet speeds right along for Skype or streaming and will run you about $5 a month. This is the only post (hopefully the first of many?) where we walked into the house and the internet was up and running.

It's a country full of nice people still learning about customer service, but aren't we all? Movies are not always released in the original language, but if you hunt,  you can find a theater where the latest releases are shown in English.  No H&M, but there is a Zara. Long winters, but beautiful springs. Signage reminding you that you can take an exit to visit the site of a Jewish massacre, or towns in a war zone, but a beautiful, historically-rich city and country with lots to do that seem very far away from those realities.