Manushka Moya (my manushka) - An Introduction to Russian Canine Lifestyle
I remember on the flight over, somewhere between Amsterdam and Copenhagen, I began to wonder what the dogs in Russia would be like. This may seem like a mundane detail to most, but during my travels in Europe, I was taken aback at how well behaved the dogs were, often laying calmly, relaxed at their masters’ feet on the patio of a cafe, patiently sitting on their hind-quarters taking in the view of passers-bye as their homo-sapien companions leisurely chatted with acquantances on the street. I was used to American canines – loud, vivacious, sometimes annoying – similar to a five year-old on aderole, only with more hair. When I saw how the dogs of Amsterdam carried themselves, I was convinced their owners simple got them high before taking them out, but my experience in Berlin, where dogs quietly ride the subway with their masters, proved to me that European dogs are just generally better behaved. Somewhere around 30,000 meters, I started to wonder if Russian dogs would bear any similarity to their European cousins.
I was very surprised to learn that the Russian government goes to great lengths to take care of its canine citizens. They are indeed CITIZENS. Upon recieving the mandatory vacinations, Russian dogs are actually issued a passport and registered with the state! (I have yet to find the State Ministry for Animals’ Rights and Control on any of my maps, but I’m still looking). I was happy to learn that the Russian government cares for its four-legged citizens, although given the status its upright nationals, I was a little appauled (Tatiana Nikolaevna recieves 100 rubles a month from the state. They call this a ‘pension’ although I still don’t understand how anyone could survive on such an allowance – 100 rubles equals about $3.33. She can barely pay for groceries, but at least her dog has a passport!). It wasn’t until I wandered the streets of Moscow that I realized why such measures are taken to register dogs; wild muts are omnipresent. On the streets, in the open-air markets, outside the metro stops, inside the stations themselves (where the collected body heat of muscovites provides the pups with a respite from the frigide concrete and stone of the Moscow streets)! Apparently the idea of spaying and neutering dogs has yet to become vogue in Russia. As a result, the wild dogs of Moscow seem to all come from the same family; they’re all some combination on German Shepherd and Dovermann, only they come in all shapes and sizes. Their coats are all coarse (no doubt form malnutritian) and have a brown to black/grey color scheme. I still haven’t decided if this is a result of their geneology or Moscow’s horrible pollution (I’ve been told it is 50 times worse than what the World Health Organization recommends).
The packs of wild dogs are peaceful for the most part; I have yet to see anyone attacked or accosted by them, although vacinations against hydrophobia are required for all visitors to Russia. For the most part, the muts occupy squares and metro entrances in groups of 2-4 and generally nap, conserving their energy, on their sides. I’ve passed many wondering if they’re dead or alive; the masses of pedestrians always rushing to and fro don’t seem to bother them. The only thing that rouses them is the unexpected chime of metal on the cement, which stirs their instincts of self preservation and causes them to jump to their four feet and scramble away. More often than not, they meander around the square until a few square feet of space presents itself, and they plop down for another nap.
I often pity the homeless canines, but it’s comforting to know that not all four-legged Muscovites are as unfortunate. Tatiana Nikolaevna’s dog, Manon, has hitherto served as my primary cultural informant on the life and personality of Russian dogs. Manon, 14 (human) years-old, was named after a prostitute of French Opera. (Tatiana Nikolaevna assures me that the Manon of the stage wasn’t a mere ‘prostitute’ but a ‘lady of the higher classes’ – a cortisan of society’s wealthiest and most cultured. This was, by the way, one of Tatiana Nikolaevna’s more interesting lectures on Russian vocabulary; for some reason, we never covered the various levels and coresponding social statuses of prostitues in any of my three years of Russian language instruction). Manon has definitely acquired the aires of her namesake; her strut would surely turn heads on the streets of Moscow. That is, if she were ever allowed outside. Manon is a house dog, but not in the American sense. She is fully domesticated, to the point of being house-trained (a skill I always thought too complicated for dogs to acquire).
As a result of her in-house WC and generally dismissive manner, I’ve come to see Manon as a rare hybrid of dog and cat. She is, without a doubt, the mistress of the house, enjoying full and unquestioned reign. Also catlike is her ability to make one feel completely stupid and worthless, often walking off in the middle of a conversation because it fails to keep her interest. Nonetheless, her doglike nature always shines through. She is always sure to announce the comings and goings of all inhabitants and visitors to our apartment with her shrill bark (after a few choruses of this, Manon’s favorite tune, Tatiana Nikolaevna assures her that we can all hear her, we’re all paying attention to her and she can quiet down. This rarely works, and Tatiana Nikolaevna is forced to use a more forceful tone of voice, “Man! Quiet! Iti’s enough! Quiet! Man! Why all the time ‘GAF GAF GAF’!?? STOP!” It is of interest to note that dogs don’t bark in Russian, they gaf.). I’m still not sure if Manon’s coarse greeting is really a cry for attention or a result of her bad eye-sight (she is, after all, pushing 100 in dog years), but either way, it’s comforting. When she finally does quiet down after I get home, she always expects a hearty scratch or two behind the ear. I like to think of it as a sort of entrance fee that she charges all guests; I always pay willingly.
Dinnertime is the height of her cat/dog hybrid self. Without fail, she always sits herself down right next to my stool and makes puppy-dog eyes at me, hoping I’ll share some of my evening meal with her. She isn’t too forceful in the beginning, mostly because Tatiana Nikolaevna is still in the kitchen, promising Manushka her dinner after I’ve been served. After seving Manon’s meal of dried dog food, Tatiana always wishes me Bon Appetit and retires to her room so as to “not bother me while I’m eating.” Manon follows her mother to the threshhold of the kitchen and watches long enough to make sure Tatiana is gone before returning to me at the table and kicking herself into full-on begging mode. This includes, but is not limited to, whimpering, restlessness (manifested in her inability to decide whether it’s better to wait for my generosity on all fours or by sitting on her hind legs), and constantly pitter-pattering her front legs on the lynoleum, demanding I feed her despite the fact that her dry food has gone untouched. I am always amazed at how such an architypical canine pasttime as begging for food is manipulated by her cat-nature into a feeling of entitlement on her part. A guest in her house, I always feel as though I’m doing something wrong by not feeding her; as though it were assumed that, like her petting fee for entry, I’m required to share my dinner with her. Her eyes always tell me, “It IS the polite thing to do!”
Usually her wish is granted, sometimes out of guilt, sometimes because Tatiana Nikolaevna specifically gives me permission, but more often than not, because I need help finishing my meal (sometimes because I’m served too much, sometimes because of the night’s menu. Manon, to her credit, was instrument in my ability to finish the fish jello).
A combination of Manon’s attitude and the behavior of dogs on the street has lead me to conclude that Russian dogs are in fact very similar to those in the Western Hemisphere. Whether it be Manon’s run of the house or the unavoidable master dragged behind his best friend on a walk around the block; the similarities generally succeed in making me feel more at home.
Den' Pobedy (Victory Day)!! Or how I stopped worrying and learned to love Russian business practices
This post is a continuation of my adventures in Russian Electronic Hell (see earlier posts)
I’ve enjoyed my first two and a half weeks in Moscow; the city offers new and interesting attractions to the traveler everyday. Nonetheless, I have as yet been unable to fully enjoy myself because in the back of my mind, I can’t stop thinking about my adventure at Gorbushka’s and how I was swindled like a clueless tourist. At first I hoped that the problem was simple due to a faulty charger or battery, but after buying replacements for both (about 900 rubles all together), it became clear that I bought a worthless phone.
I consulted Tatiana Nikolaevna (my hostess) about my cellular problems. She told me to simply take the phone back, that they’d have to give me my money back. I explained that the small electronics stand, no bigger that 15 square feet, would most definitely call me a liar and refuse to give my money back.
"But, of course you have a receiptt and the box it came in, right" she asked matter-of-factly.
Weeeeell, I thought, in a word – "nyet. They didn’t give me anything, just took my money and gave me the phone.“ I recognized the expression on her face upon hearing this news; it was the same one I’d seen hundreds of times in my life, the one that seems to say 'You’ve got to be kidding! Were you born yesterday?’
"Nu, Mish, chevozh ty!!?? Mish, what’s wrong with you? You never walk away without a reciept, especially for something like a cell phone!“ I only ever heard her use that tone of voice with Manon (the dog) and when she was talking about Gorbushev ("That crook!“). "Well,“ she said, a little bit more collected "You can use my phone until you figure out what to do; I never use it anyway. Of course, it’s not the newest model. I actually found it under the bed one day; I’m not really sure where it came from but it works just fine. “ I was touched; no one had every given me a cell phone out of pity before! "As for your phone, maybe you can find somewhere to sell it.“
Sell it, eh? The though had occured to me before. The problem was, I had not idea how to sell a phone that wouldn’t even turn on, but Tatiana Nikolaevna’s scolding invigorated me; I would sell that phone, if for no other reason than so she wouldn’t think I was a total idiot.
I told Lindsey about my plans to return to Electronic Hell and sell the phone.
"I don’t know, man...I don’t think you can fool a Russian. They’re pretty sharp,“ was her response; I sensed she left out the end of that last phrase, " They’re pretty sharp; sharper than you, that is“). That was it, I decided; I was now on a mission to win back my honor in the eyes of my friends and family.
A night alone gave me time to think over my strategy. I also watched The Eleven Friends of Ocean (Ocean’s Eleven, po-russkii), which put me in the masterminding-mood for a grand heist. I figured if I could get the phone to work for at least a couple hours, I could probably get someone to buy it; the only hang-up being the phone’s one problem - it was in-chargable. Although, when I replaced the battery, the phone did work a few hours that night, and I was sure to get a reciept for the battery. Maybe if I could get the friendly neighborhood electronics store (ION) to replace my battery again, I could get the damned hunk of junk working long enough to cell it.
I consulted my reciept, and to my elation, in Russian that even I could understand was clearly written that the store provides a garuntee of 100% customer satisfaction (I didn’t even know Russian had the words for that kind of a promise!).
Excellent! The next day, I would put my plan in action...
I woke up with a mission and only one goal in mind – to get the cruel, satanic joke of a phone out of my life. On my way to the Metro, I stopped into ION and feined the look of a confused foreigner with the store clerk and explained, "I don’t know what wrong. One day it work, the next morning _______!“ (insert emphatic exhailation noise that sounds like a fart), "You maybe can re-put a new battery on her....er,him? Da? Da?“
I knew that mobilnik – cell phone - is a masculine noun in Russian and in general was perfectly capable of expressing what was wrong with the phone. I was just trying to work the hopeless foreigner angle, hoping that if I made his ears bleed enough, he would just replace the battery and send me on my way. That is exactly what he did, after, of course, providing the all-powerful stamp of authentification to my reciept.
Phase one of mission "Give Russia a Taste of Its Own Medicine“ complete; now, back to hell! Off to Gorbushka’s I went.
I entered and immediately began looking for one of the many hanging flags that advertise the 'stores’ that buy, sell and trade. The first merchant I talked to called over his friend to appraise my phone. This second fellow turned the phone on and asked how much I wanted for the phone, and I told him 2,000 rubles (a couple hundred less than I payed for it, not realizing that this was only a difference of $4-5). He looked at me as though I were a squirrel that could talk, scoffed and offered 800 for it. I was expecting to haggle a little bit, but being my first bargaining experience in Russian, I was a little timid (I, by the way, was trying my hardest to loose the stupid foreigner persona. At this point, I was doing my best impression of an experienced businessman – a consumer who knew what he wanted). I suggested 1,500 rubles. He turned the phone off, handed it back to me and mumbled something that I couldn’t completely understand. I assumed it was something to the extent that I was crazy to ask so much for a used, not completely new phone. I took my phone and unphased, continued to look for another kiosk.
At the next store, I asked for 1,000, trying to be a little more realistic. The merchant answered with and offer of 500. I told him "nyet, spacibo“ and continued my search.
The next kiosk was no bigger than a closet and was by no means overflowing with merchandise or customers. I thought this a good combination and asked if they bought phones. The proprietor must have heard my English accent, or else he assumed that I didn’t speak the russkii (since I must have missed the blatently obvious sign advertising that they buy and sell phones) because he answered in a thick accent, "Yes, yes, dude. What you have?“
I presented my phone and to my surprise, he didn’t call over a friend to appraise it; he actually CALLED his friend to get an over-the-phone appraisal. He describe the phone and its condition to his collegue and confirmed the partner’s expert appraisal, "1,000? Da, ladno.“ After fishing around for a pen and paper, he wrote his offer (I was delighted that I wasn’t asked to make the first offer for once). To my surprise, it was 100 rubles less than his partner recommended (that is, 900 rubles). I brought this to his attention even though it was only a difference of about $2. I assumed that frugality was a defining trait of a seasoned businessman. He re-wrote the offer for the amount his collaborator had recommended and we agreed. I walked away with 2,000 rubles in my pocket and commensed to start phase three of mission "Give Russia a Taste of Its Own Medicine“.
I found the store where Lindsey and Adam bought their phones, knowing after countless T.V. ads that 'at Evroset’ prices were lower’, assured that I already knew two satisfied customers and at the very least, they would give me a reciept. I bought a blue Siemens A70, complete with charger and battery.
Feeling accomplished, I left the Electronic Hell (hopefully) for the last time and called Lindsey immediately to inform her of my success. She was congratulatory, as was Tatiana Nikolaevna. A little slice of American Mike felt bad for screwing over an owner of a small business, but then I just thought, 'When in Rome, right?’ Either way, I knew he would make a profit off my victory; a little detail like complete inability to function surely wasn’t going to keep him from selling it to another unfortunate soul.
Cell Phone Update....
The damn charger doesn't work! We'll i'm at least hoping it's the charger, because if i bought a bunk cell phone, there will be hell to pay (i'm not sure to whom, though. The nice guy at Gorbushka's failed to give me a reciept or any proof of purchase; surprise, surprise). Russians sure are some sneeky fuckers.
In other news, my introduction to Russian cuisine grows stranger and stranger...Last night, Tatiana Nikolaevna served me a side dish that she assured me was an absolute delicacy - the best way to describe it in English would be fish jello. Not in his wildest dreams could Bill Cosby had thought up such a strange and exotic jello creation. The taste was fine, deliciously fishy, but in all honesty, the texture left something to be desired. Tatiana N. assured me that there were even more tasty incarnations of the gelatine - the best of which was made from 'baranskii yazyk' (sheep tongue!).
My Trip to Russian Electronic Hell
Like in most large cities, there are certain accoutrements that are essential to inhabitants of Moscow. They include but are not limited to: fashionable shoes, ass-hugging jeans, umbrellas and of course a cell phone. Cell phones are omnipresent in Moscow; you can buy them practically at any 'perekhod' (underground crosswalk) and countless kiosks and shops around town. Knowing that I would eventually have to buy one, I asked my babushka where a good place to buy one would be. She didn't think about it more than three seconds before she said "Go to Gorbushka; they have the cheapest ones." The name pleased me as it is reminiscent of a little Premiere Gorbuchev. The fact that Gorbushka's owners managed to turn such a monolithic figure of Russian history into a plaything on the tongues of Muscovites relieved me; there are many places in Moscow that are intimidating for a foreigner like me, and I imagined Gorbushka wouldn't be one of those.
I thought wrong.
Lindsey, Adam and I exited the metro station and began following the crowds of people who also appeared to be on their way to the electronic Mecca of Moscow. The closer we got to our destination, the more I began to doubt my original concept of what Gorbushka would be (in my mind, I imagined a matreshka - nesting egg - with likeness upon likeness of Gorbuchev, each one smaller than the last, but all animatedly talking on cell phones, reading emails on new, flat computers or chipperly writing in schedules on pdas, etc.). We reached the entranced, passed through the requisite metal detectors and I nearly wet my pants. Gorbushka occupied the area of a city block from what I could tell and was crossed-hatched for as far as I could see by alleys whose widths were encroached upon by display windows filled with vacuum cleaners, cell phones, hair driers, DVD players, telephones, mp3 players, cameras, and countless stores filled with pirated cds and DVDs, available to buy for about six dollar a piece. And that was just the first floor. I was too scared venture to the second.
We were so overwhelmed, we didn't know where to start. Lindsey had already navigated the labyrinth and bought a phone, so she guided Adam and I through the confusion. I quickly found a phone that wasn't too expensive (about $70) and was stylish enough to satisfy my discerning tastes. Adam did the same (although his wasn't nearly as stylish as mine, albeit more expensive).
In Russia (and I imagine most of the world outside of the US), in addition to buying a phone, one must also buy a SIM-card. It's basically like buying/signing a contract with Sprint or Verizon, but much easier. You put the SIM-card in the phone; your number is already assign to it, and all you have to do is put money on it (there are no 'plans', you prepay everything). Here's the catch: to buy a SIM-card that has a Moscow number on it, you must prove that you in fact do live and are registered in Moscow. To prove this, you must present a passport that shows you are registered in Moscow; the registration process, like most things in Russia, is littered with needless bureaucracy. My passport has been at some government organ for nearly a week now, so in lieu of the real thing, I've been carrying a copy of my passport and visa around with me, along with my 'spravka' (a document that basically says that I do indeed have a passport, but it's just with the authorities for the moment being registered).
Lindsey was able to buy her SIM-card just by presenting her spravka, so Adam and I assumed we would be able to do the same. I was the first to approach one of the thousands of booths at Gorbushka that sold SIM-cards and successfully chose the appropriate one for my purposes. The young man behind the counter asked to see my passport and I presented my copies and spravka, explaining to him where my real passport was. He flatly refused to sell me a card because my passport wasn't Russian. Although I was disappointed, I knew this was not an actually law and sought out another kiosk where I was also declined. By the third counter, I was more than a little miffed but had been emblazon enough from my first two squabbles to try my hand at arguing more in Russian. I actually surprised myself with my ability to argue with the young lady behind the counter but ultimately didn't walk away with a card.
After the fourth failed attempt, my good humor was exhausted and I asked Adam to give it a try. He had no copies of anything and only carried his spravka and driver's license (which, written in English, was incomprehensible to the merchants). Disappointed, I proposed just returning after we got our passports back, but Lindsey would hear nothing of it; she had bought a card a few days earlier without a passport and without a problem and was sure we could find someone who wouldn't care about the regulations (it IS Russia, after all).
"C'mon, dude; we just gotta find someone who just doesn't give a shit," she encouraged me.
I was on the verge of my first breakdown in Russia, but I trusted Lindsey's advice and we set out for the outskirts of the complex, where merchants not fortunate enough to be located on the Electropolis's main drag were no doubt willing to sell anything, regulations or not. Navigating the outlying shops thoroughly confused us, and to our surprise, Gorbushka turned out to be more the size of a square kilometer! Not wantin to get anymore lost in the complex than we already were, I allowed myself one last chance to buy a card and the next shop that appeared empty and in need of business. I told myself that if this last shop didn't work, I would leave empty-handed and use my unspent money to buy a bottle of vodka with which to commiserate with my fellow passportless companions.
An empty shop presented itself whose worker was a young man, about my age, who appeared bored out of his mind. I approached him and began my well-rehearsed dialogue:
"Do you sell SIM-cards?" I asked, even though they were clearly visible in the shop window.
"Well, yes. Which kind would you like?"
"MTS, please" (MTS is a cell phone company)
"Would you like Super-Jeans or Hot-Jeans?" (for some reason MTS named their cards after the fashionable American pants)
"You don't have just plain Jeans?"
"No, only Super-Jeans or Hot-Jeans"
"Well, I'll take Hot-Jeans." I was in a sexy kinda mood.
"Ok, and do you have passport?"
"Well, the thing is, my passport is still at the Registratsia, but I DO live in Moscow," I explained and showed him all my copies and spravka, even my Russian Student ID to prove that I was studying here. He examined them with some hesitation, but to my relief, he didn't call over a supervisor to double check and began filling out the paperwork. Because of certain differences between Russian and American passports, there was a lot of information we simply made up (including my address in Moscow, which I have yet to memorize). Seeing me take out the 100 ruble note that the card cost, Adam came into the shop to be next in line and also successfully acquired his SIM-card.
I was ecstatic. The contrast from my destitute disposition to my new found elation at having a fully functional cell phone nearly caused me to click my heals right there in Gorbushka. The three of us successfully navigated our way out of Electronic Hell and continued to program yachters' numbers into our phones over a few bottles of Russian champagne. It was surely an occasion to celebrate.
