Tuesday was the third time I have moved since arriving in Moscow almost a year ago. I am now living in a very Euro-style apartment. A large entryway, completely separate bedrooms, the toilet is not in its own room, and the kitchen has a proper dining table -- not to mention, a whole lot of counter space (comparatively). So, what does this mean? I'm spoiled. Currently, I'm living in this ginormous flat alone, until the school gets another native over here. No one is quite clear on when that will be.
The adventure of looking for a place in Moscow was not too exciting. Basically, you (or in my case, my company) hire an agent and tell them what price you are willing to pay and where you want the apartment to be located. You then set up meetings to see each apartment and you have to make the decision right then, in front of your future landlord. This situation is understandable. Its not a renters market. Even with the crisis, there is an incredibly high demand for flats in Moscow. So, needless to say, there is a huge likely-hood that when you make your split second decision, you will have overlooked something.
My oversight wasn't too huge. The place is nice, it's in a fairly decent part of Moscow. I have option of going grocery shopping at small shops or a huge "hypermarket" - like a super wal-mart. Since I have been in Moscow, my love of baking has emerged. I like to make banana bread, or cookies, or brownies and bring them into work. And there is one essential tool needed for baking. An oven. When I looked at the apartment, there was a strange looking device in the place of the oven, but I didn't think twice about it being an oven. It sits where the oven should, under the range, so it must be an oven. (To my disappointment this is a faulty syllogism.)
You can imagine my surprise when I opened the device and found out what it was ... a dishwasher?! What do I need a dishwasher for? And it's so tiny. Fortunately, the apartment came equipped with something I hadn't seen previously, a giant microwave with grill AND convection settings. Basically, the micro-oven will function as my oven. I'm learning, but it feels a bit like an easy bake oven. Like a toy.
Friday, September 25, 2009
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Moving is an adventure
Ah, moving ... trying to pack up everything you have and take it in the one trip in a taxi that the school provides. Granted, this is much better than the alternative via the metro. Moving via metro is a slow and grueling process that I have been fortune enough to avoid -- getting my luggage to the airport and back was enough of a pain, I can't imagine making similar trips throughout an entire day.
So, really, should I be complaining?
No.
But am I going to anyway?
A little.
Because I moved on a Tuesday, everyone was working, so I refused assistance from the couple people that offered. I thought, maybe, just maybe, the taxi driver would help out, like the one who helped me out when I first arrived in Moscow. But I thought wrong. First of all, he was late. Secondly, he must have been paid by the hour because he tried going through the center of Moscow instead of taking one of the lovely ring roads that Moscow has which avoid the necessity to deal with central traffic. Finally, after arriving at the apartment three hours after leaving my old apartment (it takes 40 minutes via metro and an hour via other routes), the gentleman got my stuff out of his car, asked if that was all, and told me he had to go - leaving me, with my stuff, in front of the apartment building. I had sense enough to ring the landlord, get the door open and start putting my things near the lift, but really, I guess its just another example of not understanding service. My company has a contract, so my little complaint isn't going to change anything. Why should the taxi driver make sure I get all my things inside so they aren't stolen? In the end, all turned out fine. Kate, the landlord's daughter, helped me get my things up to the 7th floor.
So, really, should I be complaining?
No.
But am I going to anyway?
A little.
Because I moved on a Tuesday, everyone was working, so I refused assistance from the couple people that offered. I thought, maybe, just maybe, the taxi driver would help out, like the one who helped me out when I first arrived in Moscow. But I thought wrong. First of all, he was late. Secondly, he must have been paid by the hour because he tried going through the center of Moscow instead of taking one of the lovely ring roads that Moscow has which avoid the necessity to deal with central traffic. Finally, after arriving at the apartment three hours after leaving my old apartment (it takes 40 minutes via metro and an hour via other routes), the gentleman got my stuff out of his car, asked if that was all, and told me he had to go - leaving me, with my stuff, in front of the apartment building. I had sense enough to ring the landlord, get the door open and start putting my things near the lift, but really, I guess its just another example of not understanding service. My company has a contract, so my little complaint isn't going to change anything. Why should the taxi driver make sure I get all my things inside so they aren't stolen? In the end, all turned out fine. Kate, the landlord's daughter, helped me get my things up to the 7th floor.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Going to the doctor
In the United States going to the doctor seemed like a fairly routine thing. I set up the appointment, and then went to the doctor and told them the problem. Basically, going to the doctor works the same here ... but with a slight tweak.
In the U.S., even if we don't always think so, doctors and clinics are focused on preventative care. Even when you go in for a shot, the nurse takes your temperature, weight, height, blood pressure and pulse. It's comforting to know that they have your blood pressure from every time you have been to the doctor since childhood.
In Moscow things are different. Maybe it's because I'm a foreigner, but I have never been asked for my medical history. The first time I visited a clinic, I didn't have to fill out a form that asked me about my allergies or my family history of heart disease. I simply filled out a form with my contact information and signed a release form. Additionally, there was no nurse that greeted me and put me in an exam room to wait for the doctor. Immediately when my name was called, I was shown into the doctor's office (literally) and the doctor greeted me. This actually is a nice change. No waiting in the exam room for what feels like forever, just to have the doctor ask you the same questions the nurse just asked. When I went in for a cold in May, the doctor took my blood pressure and temperature, but only after talking to me for a few minutes about what was wrong. Not so bad you might say. I could get used to that.
And really it isn't bad, just different. I go to English speaking clinics because I trust them more. I am better able to interact and communicate with my doctor. The down side of this is that I pay more and some doctors charge per minute, so the more he can get you to talk, the more money he makes (not the best system for the patient). Yet, overall, despite the cost, or maybe because of it, my experience has been more than OK on the medical side of visiting the doctor's office.
While I have not been treated in Russian public hospital, I have visited one, and they aren't as bad as those opponents of social medicine might make you think. In fact, in many ways they are similar to American private hospitals. Granted they seem a bit cramped because three patients are put in each room unless you pay extra, and not everyone gets a television unless they pay extra, but overall the place was pretty decent. And who needs a television anyway :)
After my brief study of doctors and hospitals in Moscow, I have decided that while no one is ever excited to go to the doctor, it is not exactly something to be feared. when visiting or living in Moscow.
In the U.S., even if we don't always think so, doctors and clinics are focused on preventative care. Even when you go in for a shot, the nurse takes your temperature, weight, height, blood pressure and pulse. It's comforting to know that they have your blood pressure from every time you have been to the doctor since childhood.
In Moscow things are different. Maybe it's because I'm a foreigner, but I have never been asked for my medical history. The first time I visited a clinic, I didn't have to fill out a form that asked me about my allergies or my family history of heart disease. I simply filled out a form with my contact information and signed a release form. Additionally, there was no nurse that greeted me and put me in an exam room to wait for the doctor. Immediately when my name was called, I was shown into the doctor's office (literally) and the doctor greeted me. This actually is a nice change. No waiting in the exam room for what feels like forever, just to have the doctor ask you the same questions the nurse just asked. When I went in for a cold in May, the doctor took my blood pressure and temperature, but only after talking to me for a few minutes about what was wrong. Not so bad you might say. I could get used to that.
And really it isn't bad, just different. I go to English speaking clinics because I trust them more. I am better able to interact and communicate with my doctor. The down side of this is that I pay more and some doctors charge per minute, so the more he can get you to talk, the more money he makes (not the best system for the patient). Yet, overall, despite the cost, or maybe because of it, my experience has been more than OK on the medical side of visiting the doctor's office.
While I have not been treated in Russian public hospital, I have visited one, and they aren't as bad as those opponents of social medicine might make you think. In fact, in many ways they are similar to American private hospitals. Granted they seem a bit cramped because three patients are put in each room unless you pay extra, and not everyone gets a television unless they pay extra, but overall the place was pretty decent. And who needs a television anyway :)
After my brief study of doctors and hospitals in Moscow, I have decided that while no one is ever excited to go to the doctor, it is not exactly something to be feared. when visiting or living in Moscow.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
art4.ru
When it comes to Russian art many people don't know much more than Social Realism. You know, the idealized images of Russian peasants - strong and healthy men and women working together to harvest wheat. But Russia has a rich history of art that predates Social Realism, continued unofficially during Social Realism, and continues into the contemporary. Art4.ru is a museum that captures the essence of Russian art from the 1950s to the present.
The museum catalog and the museum itself are atypical of what many understand as a museum. The story goes that one day Igor Markin, a radio engineer, untrained in art, just decided to buy a piece of art. On a whim, it seems. Something caught his fancy, and he bought it. This first purchase spurred an interest in collecting Russian art that continues to this day and has inspired others to follow suite. Along with the fact that not all Russian art is Social Realist, the museum reminds us that not all museums are austere, serious places meant mainly for the trained academic eye.
Markin's collection and the way it is displayed remind the "trained academic eye" of the origins of museums. First and foremost, the museum serves as a tool for the collector. A place to organize, share, and display his collection. Then the museum serves as a tool for educating the public. Thank goodness for such a tool and thank goodness for the tradition that has made that tool educational. Markin's museum, the name of which can be interpreted as something like "Art for you" or "Art for Russians (everyday Russians)" reminds us of the humble beginnings and the concept of museum.
Ok, so that's the theory and the academic side of me admiring the fresh new take on "museum." Now, down to business. Does the theory and writing about Markin's museum hold up? Is it really an educational tool as well as a space for storing art? Roughly, I would argue, Yes, and a resounding, Yes!
At first glance, this museum feels a bit odd for what I have come to expect from a proper "museum" - It's atmosphere is more like a cafe or someone's home than a roomy, academically curated museum. Only open on Fridays and located in a back alley in the center of Moscow, I wasn't quite sure what to expect, but word of mouth told me it was "great!" I walked into the museum and paid my 200 rubles with a 1000 ruble bill. Rather than scolding me, the woman behind the desk smiled and pulled out her purse to find change. Right away, I knew I was in for something different. I gathered my change and began to make my way into one of the galleries. It was a kaleidescope of sound and images and seemed to be beckoning me.
At first, I was overwhelmed by images and sounds. The art was hung close together, but not overcrowded. Even so, after 15-20 minutes in the first gallery, I was exhausted. My emotions had gone from one extreme to the other and back. I laughed, was confused, disgusted, amused, and shocked. Luckily, I found a safe haven at a table and chairs covered in art magazines and catalogs. I sat down and began to read what this museum was all about. That's when I discovered it was one man's collection and the first private art museum in Moscow in a long time. Again, I felt I had been graciously invited to view someone's home, someone's soul.
While I was gathering strength in the first gallery, I noticed, the playful mood of the museum as a whole. The room I was in felt like a cafe, the next room had green carpet that looked like grass, and as I wandered the museum and noted the varying musical themes as well as the playfulness of a bathroom become art and a closet as an art installation, I began to appreciate the fresh voice this museum has brought to the world of art museums.
Markin's collection is varied and fascinating. It's self-referential, interactive, and educated but not stuffy. It is a wonderful ode to Russian art of the last 60 years. Unlike much else, it seems able to capture the "enigmatic soul" of Russia that foreigners love to discuss. And, though it may be boasting, the museum itself is a work of art. It challenges the viewer to question assumptions about what a museum is and should be. And it is an experience that I will revisit.
The museum catalog and the museum itself are atypical of what many understand as a museum. The story goes that one day Igor Markin, a radio engineer, untrained in art, just decided to buy a piece of art. On a whim, it seems. Something caught his fancy, and he bought it. This first purchase spurred an interest in collecting Russian art that continues to this day and has inspired others to follow suite. Along with the fact that not all Russian art is Social Realist, the museum reminds us that not all museums are austere, serious places meant mainly for the trained academic eye.
Markin's collection and the way it is displayed remind the "trained academic eye" of the origins of museums. First and foremost, the museum serves as a tool for the collector. A place to organize, share, and display his collection. Then the museum serves as a tool for educating the public. Thank goodness for such a tool and thank goodness for the tradition that has made that tool educational. Markin's museum, the name of which can be interpreted as something like "Art for you" or "Art for Russians (everyday Russians)" reminds us of the humble beginnings and the concept of museum.
Ok, so that's the theory and the academic side of me admiring the fresh new take on "museum." Now, down to business. Does the theory and writing about Markin's museum hold up? Is it really an educational tool as well as a space for storing art? Roughly, I would argue, Yes, and a resounding, Yes!
At first glance, this museum feels a bit odd for what I have come to expect from a proper "museum" - It's atmosphere is more like a cafe or someone's home than a roomy, academically curated museum. Only open on Fridays and located in a back alley in the center of Moscow, I wasn't quite sure what to expect, but word of mouth told me it was "great!" I walked into the museum and paid my 200 rubles with a 1000 ruble bill. Rather than scolding me, the woman behind the desk smiled and pulled out her purse to find change. Right away, I knew I was in for something different. I gathered my change and began to make my way into one of the galleries. It was a kaleidescope of sound and images and seemed to be beckoning me.
At first, I was overwhelmed by images and sounds. The art was hung close together, but not overcrowded. Even so, after 15-20 minutes in the first gallery, I was exhausted. My emotions had gone from one extreme to the other and back. I laughed, was confused, disgusted, amused, and shocked. Luckily, I found a safe haven at a table and chairs covered in art magazines and catalogs. I sat down and began to read what this museum was all about. That's when I discovered it was one man's collection and the first private art museum in Moscow in a long time. Again, I felt I had been graciously invited to view someone's home, someone's soul.
While I was gathering strength in the first gallery, I noticed, the playful mood of the museum as a whole. The room I was in felt like a cafe, the next room had green carpet that looked like grass, and as I wandered the museum and noted the varying musical themes as well as the playfulness of a bathroom become art and a closet as an art installation, I began to appreciate the fresh voice this museum has brought to the world of art museums.
Markin's collection is varied and fascinating. It's self-referential, interactive, and educated but not stuffy. It is a wonderful ode to Russian art of the last 60 years. Unlike much else, it seems able to capture the "enigmatic soul" of Russia that foreigners love to discuss. And, though it may be boasting, the museum itself is a work of art. It challenges the viewer to question assumptions about what a museum is and should be. And it is an experience that I will revisit.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Welcome back to Moscow
I had a plan. When the plane landed, I would pick up my luggage, take the train from the airport to the metro and then take the metro home. It seemed flawless and very inexpensive. Needless to say, things did not go according to plan.
As planned, when the plane landed, I walked to baggage claim, picked up my luggage, painlessly passed through customs, and began making my way past the taxi drivers, trying to avoid eye contact, through the airport to the platform for the train.
Unfortunately, because I was so happy to be back in Moscow after a 9 hour flight and 24 hour delay, I couldn't stop smiling. This was my fatal mistake. Smiling. Taxi drivers are relentless. They descend on the unsuspecting and do not take you seriously if you say no with a smile on your face. The only way I got rid of the first taxi driver too accost me was by countering his 2,500 rubles with 100 rubles. He shook his head in disgust and left.
I thought I was home free as I continued to walk as briskly as possible through the airport, but a second taxi driver, this one younger and less threatening, decided to walk with me. "Taxi?" I told him, in Russian, no, it's not necessary, but again, the smile on my face convinced him I wasn't serious. Then I made the fatal mistake, "How much?" 1,900 rubles ... I couldn't think of the Russian for too much, so I gestured and said, "It's not necessary, I'm taking the train." But he persisted and walked with me all the way to the train terminal.
As soon as we arrived, the train began pulling away from the platform. A thinker, this taxi driver checked his watch and told me what time it was. Noon. Then he proceeded to look at the train schedule and told me ... "By taxi it will take only 30 minutes, but if you take the train you will not leave the airport for an hour. Then you will have to spend another 45 minutes on the train and then 20 minutes on the metro." He definitely held all the aces, but I wasn't going to give in that easily. "Ok, 500 rubles," I said. He looked at me and told me, "I can't." 500 rubles would only pay for parking. 1,300 rubles. I tried to talk him down more, but he made a good point and was in the ideal negotiating position. I did not want to wait an extra hour to get home and he knew it ... so I gave in. "Ok."
1,300 rubles and 30 minutes later I was at my apartment, still happy to be in Moscow and glad I did not have to lug my 80 pounds of luggage through the metro.
As planned, when the plane landed, I walked to baggage claim, picked up my luggage, painlessly passed through customs, and began making my way past the taxi drivers, trying to avoid eye contact, through the airport to the platform for the train.
Unfortunately, because I was so happy to be back in Moscow after a 9 hour flight and 24 hour delay, I couldn't stop smiling. This was my fatal mistake. Smiling. Taxi drivers are relentless. They descend on the unsuspecting and do not take you seriously if you say no with a smile on your face. The only way I got rid of the first taxi driver too accost me was by countering his 2,500 rubles with 100 rubles. He shook his head in disgust and left.
I thought I was home free as I continued to walk as briskly as possible through the airport, but a second taxi driver, this one younger and less threatening, decided to walk with me. "Taxi?" I told him, in Russian, no, it's not necessary, but again, the smile on my face convinced him I wasn't serious. Then I made the fatal mistake, "How much?" 1,900 rubles ... I couldn't think of the Russian for too much, so I gestured and said, "It's not necessary, I'm taking the train." But he persisted and walked with me all the way to the train terminal.
As soon as we arrived, the train began pulling away from the platform. A thinker, this taxi driver checked his watch and told me what time it was. Noon. Then he proceeded to look at the train schedule and told me ... "By taxi it will take only 30 minutes, but if you take the train you will not leave the airport for an hour. Then you will have to spend another 45 minutes on the train and then 20 minutes on the metro." He definitely held all the aces, but I wasn't going to give in that easily. "Ok, 500 rubles," I said. He looked at me and told me, "I can't." 500 rubles would only pay for parking. 1,300 rubles. I tried to talk him down more, but he made a good point and was in the ideal negotiating position. I did not want to wait an extra hour to get home and he knew it ... so I gave in. "Ok."
1,300 rubles and 30 minutes later I was at my apartment, still happy to be in Moscow and glad I did not have to lug my 80 pounds of luggage through the metro.
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