Day 1: Today on the train from Finland to Russia, my husband and I are caught by customs smuggling chicken, sausage, booze and one lone tomato across the border. Fortunately, the inspector turns a frozen cheek and mutters “глупые американцы” or “stupid Americans” as she walks away.
Day 2: Our taxi driver asks in broken English if I believe Michael Jackson is still alive. I laugh. He glares at me through the rear view mirror and violently slams the brakes at the next red light.
Day 3: After being dropped off in the parking lot, it takes us twenty minutes to find the entrance to IKEA. We get lucky and find a discarded map. It's written only in Russian. We wander around for another ten minutes before entering into the store midway through the kid’s section.
Day 4: The
first heavy snowfall blankets the city. Our coats, hats and gloves are in a
moving truck somewhere. We get our first colds of the season
instantaneously.Day 5: We need to pay the Russian government to get our goods through customs. No credit cards or personal checks are accepted. The Russian bank rejects our attempt at a money transfer. We are instructed to pay in cash. We take out the equivalent of eight thousand dollars in rubles and return to pay the fee. The Russian customs official smirks and informs us that they do not accept cash from American citizens. We walk back to the hotel dejected and with a backpack full of loot.
Day 6: Numerous family members and colleagues comment about hearing a repetitive clicking sound on telephone calls with us. Some suspect the KGB may be listening. Conversations become shorter and less frequent.
Day 7: On our apartment walk-through we notice that all of the drains and toilets emit a smell similar to that of a rotten skunk carcass and the shower knob groans like an old man when twisted. The landlady explains this is standard for Russian plumbing.
Day 8: Our furniture and goods are delivered to the new apartment. Fortunately, all is accounted for and nothing is broken; unfortunately, I walk in on a man assembling my bed who is not wearing any pants.
Day 9: We become acquainted with the special features of our new living quarters: ridiculously slow dial-up internet, continually flickering lights due to power surges, the two minutes it takes for the television to come on, and the radiant heating system controlled by the government.
Day 10: Braving the elements with a purse full of change, I attempt to procure groceries. I learn the hard way that ruble coins don’t go as far as euros. The cashier shakes her head with hands on her hips as I slowly count out 560 in 5 and 10 ruble coins in exchange for O.J., milk, bread and eggs.
Day 11: After unpacking we carry the empty boxes and paper down the four flights of concrete steps from our apartment, out the door, around the corner and down the street to the dumpster. For some reason today the dumpster is missing.
Day 12: To unwind after a long day I set out to take a bath in our new claw foot bathtub. I start the water and go to find towels. Upon returning I find the tub filled with a disturbing liquid the color and opacity of chocolate milk. My husband instructs me to add some bubbles and it’ll be just fine.
Day 13: A pigeon flies into the apartment.
Day 14: My husband travels three and half hours back to Finland to go grocery shopping finding it easier and more fruitful than navigating the metro and underground shops here in the city. He comes back with four bags of Doritos and more contraband chicken.
Day 15: This morning following my shower, I walk to the window in a towel to see how hard it’s snowing. To my surprise what appears to be an entire middle school of children is standing across the street in front of St. Isaac’s Cathedral peering back at me. I wave. A few wave back. Must be tourists, I think to myself. Way too friendly.
Life in big city Russia is not for the faint of heart.
So many questions;-) Hopefully I catch up with you in a bar someday and I get to ask them all. Godspeed Kim.
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