It Might Have Been Something I Ate

Photo of the place where we are staying

 First let me describe what I ate yesterday, and then I'll describe my nightmare.  It's 3:30 am and I can't sleep.

It may not be fair to blame the food.  We had breakfast at a nearby restaurant and were certainly hungry by the time it opened at 9:00.  (We tried to get in at 8:55 and were turned away.)  There was no menu; we were offered the standard breakfast -- fit for the downhill skiers who will populate this place in a month.

We started off with a nice plate of buttered oatmeal, followed by blini pancakes with swirls of sour cream and plum jam. Then we had yogurt and buttered bread with cheese.  I brought the yogurt back to the refrigerator in our hotel room, and skipped the bread and cheese. I had the lamentable thought that Russiian restaurants are following the bad American practice of serving too much food.

We weren't ready for lunch until 3:00 pm.  As I puzzled through the menu selections getting the Big Idea but missing the subtleties of preparation, Slava ordered for us. It was a four-course meal. Russian tradition is to have dinner in the middle of the day, to be followed by a light supper.  The meal we had in this out-of-the-way place was one of the best in my life.

The first course might have been called a salad, but the arrangement on the plate made me think of taking up still life painting. It was gorgeous and delicious.

Dinner, by definition in Russia, requires a soup. Ours was garden vegetable, and truly from fresh garden vegetables.  The broth was also vegetarian, so very light.

For the main course I had forel, which I think is steelhead trout, but nothing I can find on Internet tells me for sure. Anyway, this delicately poached fish was topped with champagne sauce and red caviar.

Dessert was not necessary, but Slava was in the mood for it, so he ordered apple strudel for us. Now I don't have many points of comparison to variants on apple strudel because I've never been impressed by it.  The Germans and the Austrians are proud of theirs, but I'd like to send them to this little place in Bashkiria to learn how to do it right. First off, don't prepare it in advance; make it fresh for each customer. Puff pastry is crisp and delicate when it first comes from the oven. When it's layered with cooked apples it becomes soggy in minutes. Serve the strudel before that happens.

Actually I took most of my strudel home because I couldn't finish it then. And predictably, just now when I sampled it, the puff pastry was not the same. But I could appreciate the apple filling better.  Ah...

Our last meal of the day was in the hotel at 8:00 pm. Everyone was served a cabbage salad (calling it cole slaw doesn't do it justice). Then we had some sort of fish, which was a little bit dry, and an intimidating mound of buckwheat kasha.  I do like kasha, but I had planned on eating light. With hot tea we were served fresh yeast rolls with gooseberry filling.

I'm going to go back to bed now and try to sleep. I think I'll describe my nightmare tomorrow, and you can decide for yourself if it was caused by something I ate.

What Happens in Magnitogorsk...

What happens in Magnitogorsk... stays in Magnitogorsk. 

I had hoped to write at least a drive-by account of this city, which was modeled to be like Gary, Indiana or Pittsburgh, PA, during Stalin's first Five Year Plan.   During Soviet times and modern times the city was and is the largest producer of iron and steel in Russia. 

When we landed in our small plane I was reminded of the airport in Altoona, PA, which I visited only a few weeks ago.  The  " magnet mountain city" of Magnitogorsk has a population of about 410,000, but I don't think many people visit it or leave. 

One reason not to visit or even live here is pollution.   By one ranking it is in the top 25 of the world in terms of pollution -- lead, sulfur dioxide, heavy metals, etc.  In 1992 a local newspaper reported (if you believe Wikipedia) that only 28 percent of babies were born healthy to healthy mothers. 

Ironically a short drive away is a area renown for ecological purity -- and that was our destination.  The town of Abzakovo is a resort area popular in the Urals for downhill skiing.   In September the weather is pleasant, and Slava selected this place as the location for a major conference and the celebration of the formation 25 years ago of his Science and Engineering Center for Large Systems and Machines. This celebration is the reason I came to Russia at this time. 

The conference starts tomorrow. Today we spent some time exploring the area. Abzakovo is located in the semi-independent republic of Bashkortostan.  Ethnics Russians are only 36 percent of the population, and the Bashkirs and Tatars which make up a solid majority are Sunni Muslim. Out of a population of 4 million, 1.4 million speak Bashkir, which is a second language here. 

Once upon a time Bashkir was written in Arabic, and in the 20th century the people experimented with the Roman alphabet. Now it's written in Cyrillic. Fortunately Russian is found everywhere. 

A Sign of the Times

A sign of the times, pronounced "Coffee House"

Russian is an easy language, some of the time.  The words that come from English may have a different look in Cyrillic, but phonetically they’re the same.  TYP is pronounced “tour.”  And if you know that, you might guess that UHTEPHET is “internet.“  It’s not too hard to figure out that OKEAH is “ocean.” 

 A new word, one that I don’t think existed two years ago, is XOYM.  If you know that XAYZ is a house, then you may be ready to guess that XOYM is home.  There’s a perfectly good word for “home” in Russian, but it does have multiple meanings, and “xoym” must be special.

I don’t remember seeing signs two years ago for СМАРТФОНЫ or “smart phones.”  They’re carried by every airline passenger who travels БИЗНЕС-КЛАСС.

The terms cited above have retained their original meaning, but sometimes that is not the case.  There is a well-known group of punk feminists who were sentenced recently to two years in a harsh labor camp.  The group has an English name, but according to a savvy Russian friend of mine, the Russian mass media have not dared to translate the name into Russian.  The group is disliked enough as it is.

Multi-lingual people can find Russian words with familiar roots, such as the French-derived ЭТАЖ, pronounced «etazh,” meaning the floor of a building.  Conversely, the French word “bistro” comes from the Russian word for fast, БЫСТРО, pronounced the same in French and Russian and English.  And some of the letters that are not Roman are Greek.  There are, however, some really unusual ones in Cyrillic. One of my favorites is Я, a backwards R, which happens to be a vowel called "ya."

If you’re ready for a big word that is made up of just two small ones, use your language skills to puzzle out ЖЕЛЕЗНОДОРОЖНЫЙ.  The first three syllables refer to “iron.”  The last three are for “road.”  An “iron road” is a railroad, right? Right!

Actually, I’m playing for some sympathy here.  Once again I’m plowing through my textbook, “Russian – Stage Two.”  I’ve been stalled at Stage Two for a long time.  As pathetic as that sounds, I have to admit that I’m even worse at tennis.  Every time I sign up for lessons, I’m in the beginner class.

A person could go through life without ever having to play tennis.  Most people can go through life without needing to speak Russian. But your life doesn’t always turn out the way you think it will!

Tea for Two

When I first came to Russia years ago I was intimidated by the social requirement of inviting people for tea.  What to serve?  How to serve it?

In the U.S. you can invite someone over for a cup of coffee and simply serve a cup of coffee.  When you invite someone for tea in Russia you prepare a mini-meal with several dishes.

The tea table pictured here is adequate but not special.  The teapot has delicate loose tea rather than the powdered grunge found in tea bags.  There’s a nice bowl of fresh fruit on the table.  The tea service is our finest.  Unfortunately, there’s no varenye on the table, and the sweets are store bought.

Varenye translates into “jam,” but varenye is supposed to be home-made from berries grown at your own dacha.  It is served in tiny bowls and eaten with a spoon.  Varenye has no added pectin, and I swear that in winter it has the taste of summer. 

Accompanying tea can be a wide assortment of things – open face sandwiches, small pizzas, homemade torte, cookies.  Once I learned that using your imagination is fine, I experimented with serving cinnamon toast, strips of French toast, and whatever suited my fancy.

I had tea twice today.  In the morning a Russian friend came over for the table you see above.  In the afternoon I was served a hearty tea table after I gave a lecture at a local agricultural college where a friend of Slava's is vice rector.  I had hoped to talk about something I know, however the assembled group wanted me to inform them about how agriculture classes are taught in the United States. I spoke for an hour and said nothing.  The unfortunate translator didn't have much to work with.

When I got back to our flat it took me less than five minutes to open the door.  I had a bouquet of white roses from the agricultural college to grace the dining table, and a container of fresh honey from the school to offer Slava with his evening tea.

When I’m back in the U.S. I think I’ll try making varenye from grocery-store berries.  I wonder if it will have the taste of summer.

Promenade Under the Poplars

Sviatoslav Anatolyevich, a.k.a. Slava, taking a stroll

Discerning readers of this blog will note that I’ve written posts for six straight days without ever indicating what I’ve been doing.  The answer is “not much.”  That’s about to change.

What has been on my mind is survival.  Get up in the morning, try to stay awake, eventually go back to bed.  I’ve managed to prepare meals and work on a few household projects.  More adventurously I’ve gone out with Slava to do some shopping and also stroll down the beautiful promenade that runs down the median of Lenina, which happens to be the main street.
 

Tomorrow I’m having a friend over for tea at 10:00 am.  At 2:00 pm I’m being picked up and taken to a local college to speak about American Studies, whatever they think that is.  Now, quite often a lecturer faces the worry of listeners going to sleep.  My worry is that since 2:00 pm has been my nap time, I may fall asleep while I’m talking.

When I get back to our flat I may have another problem – and that is getting in.  We have a big steel door with five locks. No burglar can get in, and I’m not sure that I can, either. 

Slava has patiently demonstrated the procedure for unlocking the door numerous times, reminding me of what I once knew.   I only have to use keys with two of the locks.  The little key with the flat side goes in the bottom lock, and I have to remember “right is loose, left is tight.”  While holding that key all the way to the right, I must lunge against the door and insert a bar that pulls back a lock mechanism when I release my shoulder.  I’ve practiced a few times in front of Slava and am confident enough to try it on my own tomorrow.  Wish me luck!

Little White Pills

I’m not used to taking drugs, but every evening since we arrived here Slava has been giving me a little white pill.  We usually go to bed around midnight, which is 10:00 in the morning Eastern Standard Time.  We’re supposed to stay in bed eight hours if we can, which means getting up around 6:00 pm EST.  Those little Russian pills seem to help.  I wonder what’s in them?

I’ve never taken sleeping pills before, so I can’t compare experiences.  I do know that I’ve had some strange dreams…

Take this one:  I’m singing in a new choir, and I’m puzzled by the sheet music. Instead of seeing notes on a music clef, I see puffy clouds.  Now, normally I sing alto, but I couldn’t figure out where in each cloud was my note.  The sensible thing to do, I thought, was to sing soprano – that would be at the top of each cloud.  Unfortunately, altos have a hard time reaching soprano notes.  I did fairly well throughout the piece as we rehearsed it over and over, but on the biggest stretch I was often flat.  Each time we went through the piece I tried my best.  Sometimes I made it.  Sometimes not.

Another night I was applying for admission to a Catholic girls’ high school.  There were tests to take, paperwork to fill out, interviews to go through.  I really wanted to advance my education, so I was diligent at each step.  I woke up before I found out whether or not I’d be admitted.  Nevertheless I had some comfort in being aware that Barak Obama was having just as much difficulty getting into the Catholic boys’ school.

Go ahead and psychoanalyze me.  I’ll give you a head start.  During the day I struggle with comprehension in what I hear and what I read in Russian.  Some of it makes sense to me, and some of it doesn’t.  I use a leap of imagination to tie together parts of what I comprehend.  Unfortunately I’m often wrong on even what I thought I understood.  Maybe those little white pills aren’t helping me as much as I thought.

Too Much of a Good Thing

Help me out here.  I know nothing about modern art, and I need to spend more time in the Hirschhorn Museum and the East Wing of the National Gallery of Art.  But right now I have to help Slava decide what to do with several dozen large pieces of modern art that he has stacked behind doors, along walls, and in some cases, actually hung near traditional pieces.

The work is all done by one artist -- not the person who did the previously described "Reflection That Isn't." Some years ago, during a year of hard times for almost everyone here, Slava met this other artist and felt sorry for him.  It’s difficult under the best of circumstances to make a living as a painter.  Slava told this man he’d support him for one year.  It was to be a business arrangement, not a hand out.  Slava would be his patron and would take possession of the work he produced.  It turned out that this guy could churn out paintings really fast, and at the end of the year he gave Slava his volume of work.  That was in 2007.  Nothing has been done with it since.

Slava is a scientist, not an art curator.  He knows nothing about selling art.  Personally I’d be glad to have any of the work have a good home, so I’ll try to describe some of the major pieces that are here:

1. Pictured above is a triptych of a fish.  You can see that it would brighten any room.
2. There’s a pair of large paintings, each 4 ft by 5 ft, that depict a noble-man and a noble-lady in primary colors of yellow, green, and blue, with slashes of pink.
3. A 3 ft by 4 ft painting has three women, one green, one blue, one white, with large breasts.
4. A square painting 3 ft by 3ft shows a fat prisoner playing a violin.
5. One done in black and white, 3 ft by3 ft, is pornographic enough for a bachelor pad where no woman would ever visit.
6. There’s a small series I’d describe as the slums of Rio de Janeiro, although it’s mostly done in shades of red.
7. My lack of imagination sees nothing in another piece other than a nightmare, slathered lavishly with squeezes from tubes of paint instead of normal brushwork.  It is, however, in a gorgeous gold frame.
8. The most successful work, in my opinion, is a series with sailboats impressionistically reflected in water.  They’re done in primary colors and would look great on white walls, above white furniture. 

Slava brought some of this artist’s work to the U.S., figuring that when he had time he’d visit some galleries and see if he could sell these pieces.  Since 2007 he hasn’t yet had time, so the work is stashed in our basement.  Some day we may have a wine and cheese party and an exhibition.  Let me know if you would like to be on the guest list.