From Russia with Love - The Last Gasp

Dos Vidanya! 

It was our last day in Russia & everything was going smoothly. Our son who works in Moscow accompanied us to the Moscow airport, helping us with our two large suitcases on the metro and then the airport shuttle at the train station. With time to spare we went to the Air France check-in counter where we validated our tickets and checked our two bags. We said our goodbyes after two action-packed weeks and headed to the Russian Passport Control. After such an easy send off we could never have imagined what we were in for.

Behind the glass booth our controller was a heavyset young woman with a wide, dour face & sad, heavily made-up blue eyes. I thought of Miss Piggy with short brown curly hair. Her fingers flipped through our passports expertly, first one, then the other, as she checked that we were the same faces as the ones on the passports. This much satisfied her, but suddenly her eyes narrowed, as they caught something amiss. She grinned to herself, but returned to being serious as she beckoned her superior. 

A very young man wearing no uniform blazer, only a long-sleeved sky blue dress shirt, plain dark tie, and olive-drab trousers joined her inside the booth. His ID badge & lordly attitude were on full display. His bright blue button eyes darted from us, to the passports, & the controller. When he saw what she had caught, he grinned knowingly. Between them passed several quiet verbal exchanges, which vacillated between commiserating grins to furrowed brows. We were suddenly on our guard, but because of their obvious ambivalence, we couldn’t know the gravity of our situation. We were told to wait in a big empty space with no chairs for about half an hour.

When he returned again he explained in broken English that we had violated the terms of our visa, which was one day over the limit stated in our passports. To wit, the visa stated that we should have left Russia by May 22nd, & here we were on May 23rd still in Russia without a visa. It was all our fault that we had not noticed this discrepancy before we retrieved the passports. Even though the visas should have taken into account our plane ticket dates and hotel accommodations which we were required to furnish with our application, it was our fault for not having checked the accuracy of the dates. Since it was all our fault, we would have to stay however long it would take to “get a new visa” from the Russian “consul,” his term, and pay a fine. At that point, to our loud protests that we needed to catch our plane to Paris, he assured us that we could not board our plane, and that  surely we would not be leaving “today.” 

Our conversation with this young official was rather long and difficult.   As he spoke in halting English (& we helped him along), he explained that we had incurred a fine of 2000 rubles each for violating the terms of the visa, i.e. 4000 rubles for both. He said that to help us out he would personally ask a young man at Air France to assist us in obtaining a new visa from the Russian consul which was, in fact, located right inside the airport. Otherwise, if the man at Air France declined to help us we were on our own. The French connection made us suspicious. Why or how would an employee of Air France help us to get a Russian visa? We could only let our imaginations run wild. At best we imagined getting stuck in an expensive hotel at the airport for days on end. At worst, like the Tom Hanks movie when, as a citizen of an unnamed slavic country which no longer exists, he gets stuck in airport limbo. Imagine that: A couple of senior citizens wandering in the no-mans-land of the Moscow airport without bags. Tom Hanks at least had his bags.

After waiting for another half an hour in the room with no chairs, he returned to tell us we could go back to the other side, a similar voluminus, long, waiting area where there were chairs against the wall, next to the passport offices. He explained once more, & we understood everything better the second time, that he had contacted the man at Air France on our behalf & that after a wait, which he didn’t specify how long, this person would go to the consul and plead our case. At which time, we would perhaps obtain a new visa (for today!) and we could be on our way. He also told us that we were in luck because our flight had been delayed until 10:00 p.m. and that we probably had plenty of time to work out our visa problem and board our plane. 

All the while that we were in conversation with this young man we had the impression that we were dealing with a Russian version of Harlequin. He wasn’t exactly handsome, but he was cute with sleek, short, dark brown hair. His playful countenance was small featured, with a button nose & a healthy, pink complexion. Of medium height he moved his well-proportioned, slim body in gingerly manner.  A smile and a frown played around his smallish mouth. Like Harlequin he would swing between cockiness and sympathy. Sometimes he showed helplessness at his inability to express himself in English, or to remedy our desperate situation. We judged him as entirely disingenuous, but as having certain power over our immediate fates. True to archetype, “Harlequin” pounced on his chance to do mischief.

We waited patiently in our chairs and read our books. About 30 minutes later, he appeared again with another young officer who carried a clip board with several papers. “Harlequin” asked  us redundant questions, such as, where were you born (only me, not JJ*) & our stateside address. Then they left and returned in another half hour, saying to enter their offices where we would sign papers for the “receipt” which was really an invoice for the double fine, with instructions on how to pay them….all in cyrillic Russian. For all we knew we could have been signing our lives away into some gulag in Siberia. It looked to be a very complicated & officious. As “Harlequin” explained, we could pay the fine from anywhere, from any bank to the address on a strip of paper (in Cyrillic!) within 30 days & the Russian Federation would absolve us from violating our visa. But, remember this isn’t all. We still had to get the 1-day visa. 

The irony is that if we didn’t get the 1-day visa, if we had to stay into the next day, our situation would only exacerbate. Everything would be to do over. With this “receipt” dated for May 23 only, we were encouraged to hurry as fast as we could to a mysterious telephone which was a direct line to the “consul.” But first! We must go to the Air France check-in counter to get this Man-Who-Knew-About-Our-Case to help us. We were off & running with JJ’s brief case, my heavy, overstuffed sling purse, and the “Giraffe,” a piece of carry-on luggage identifiable because of said pattern, which is packed for  emergency layovers. 

At he Air France check-in counter, all employees were female and they all were Russian native speakers. Their French & English were iffy. Mostly, they could only manage to speak of things that related to passengers boarding planes, and not passengers with visa problems. There was no “Man-Who-Knew-About-Our-Case” there to help us, only a sullen female employee who resentfully instructed us as to where to find the mysterious telephone. Something about right next to the glass doors of the VIP Services down Terminal F Concourse. On the way we just kept repeating, “VIP?,” and people kept pointing the way accompanied by Russian instructions. 

We entered the grandiose VIP glass doors, and told a nice English-speaking lady that we were looking for a consul telephone. She redirected us just outside to the mysterious telephone which was attached at eye-level on a foot-wide strip of wall next to a kiosk, just next to the VIP doors. Actually it was an old style black telephone which cradled the double-eared listening & speaking attachment. But this was just for show.  She instructed us to punch “the black button (because there was also a blue one) which would light up its red rim. Then we were to speak into some speaker holes on the box itself. We should wait for someone to answer through the same speaker holes. She cautioned that we might have to wait for 10 minutes, so not to give up and leave. And yes, the person would speak English. Evidently this woman gave these instructions frequently.  We had some luck as a male voice answered in about 2 minutes. I explained our predicament and the man seemed to understand perfectly. In excellent English he said:  “Just wait exactly where you are and I will come to you.” This was all becoming something out of “The Twilight Zone.”

In the meantime two jolly, talkative Italians walked up needing to find the mysterious phone because they also had visa problems. Their male traveling companion was stuck in “Arrival” because his visa said that he was a “female.” His friends were acting on his behalf. They punched the black button which activated the red light, but no one answered, so they waited with us only guessing what would happen next. As it turned out, the male voice belonged to a pleasant, but mildly exasperated young man who appeared from nowhere, dressed in a rumpled casual short sleeved shirt and khaki slacks, not a uniform. He was obviously nonplussed at having to deal with our problems, but it was his job, so he had to do it. He told the Italians that their visa would be changed free of charge because it was the fault of the Russian embassy. He told us that we had to withdraw 1500 rubles for each visa, or 3000 for both.  Then we would pay the Russian bank with an invoice that he would prepare. We could draw the rubles from any credit card at the ATM next to the Russian bank (Sverb Bank), which we did. He then gave both parties instructions to wait for him at the ATM. Then he disappeared. He returned about 20 minutes later with our invoice. We were instructed to pay 3000 rubles in cash to the designated cashier for such transactions. The Italians got their new visa, said “Ciao,” and were on their way. No luck was with us now, as the line was long, and the “consul” waited for his receipt from the teller that his invoice was paid. He handed over our passports with our “new” 1-Day visas. Halleluyah!

Well, not quite. Contrary to what “Harlequin” had said, our flight had taken off at 5:16 p.m. and we had missed it. Our tickets not being refundable, we had to buy new one-way tickets back to Paris. At a cost of 503 Euros or $700 a piece we felt like a couple of plucked chickens. We had no choice, & certainly no time, to argue with the Air France sales agent, who said she couldn’t help it. We knew by now that the next plane was taking off at 7:45 p.m., the last one for the day, & that it was already 7:15. It took the time it took to buy the tickets and recheck in. Miraculously, our 2 pieces of baggage were still in the hold, only waiting to be retagged. As we hastened toward the now dreadful Passport Control,  I spied “Harlequin,” & glowered at him fearlessly. He merely smiled and responded, “From Russia with love!”  

Epilogue

I have tried to relate these events as we experienced them without so much tedium and detail. It became more & more obvious as we went through the whole rigamarole that our ordeal is a regular occurrence. Obtaining a Russian visa is nothing more than an expensive racket ($360 plus 2 trips to Houston from Dallas because our passports could not be mailed to us!), combine that with ill-will & political retaliation played out against the ordinary US citizen. We know that when the controllers saw the discrepancy of one day on our passport visas, they could have very well have allowed us to pass through. As JJ later pointed out, the visa stated 15 days, which was not reflected in the dates, & which he didn’t think at the time to point out to the controllers. Would it have made any difference? Or, might it not have made things worse? These two controllers were delighted with a chance to extort some money and give a couple of old Americans some grief. Most of the recommendations on how to go about the visa extention were bogus. In the end we jumped through the hoops by ourselves, and luckily did not have to stay an extra day.  JJ believes that this sort of thing is set up from beginning from the Houston visa office to the end with being highjacked for expensive air fares. For unless Air France refunds the costs of our original tickets, we are going to assume that they, too, are involved. The last Air France employee with whom we dealt, who was the nicest and most understanding, was obviously scandalized when she saw that we had to purchase full-price one-way tickets. We won’t let it go, & we’ll let you know how things turn out.

So, to summarize...we had to pay 3000 rubles ($100) up front to the “consul” for a one-day visa. We still are supposed to pay 4000 rubles ($130) in the next 30 days to the Passport Control, or we’ll be blacklisted for future visas. We had to pay $1400 for 1-Way flights back to Paris.

*JJ was born in Dalat, Viet Nam. Just what would the passport people have done with that information?

Couldn't resist showing you the real Harlequin.

From Russia with Love II: St. Petersburg

The Hermitage

JJ is standing in the immense plaza in front of the Hermitage

Yesterday was our big day for the must-dos. Fresh as daisies after a restful sleep and a warm shower, JJ & I embarked on our day’s projects. We took the #3 bus just like city regulars, paying the ambulant conductor whose job was to catch passengers & collect the fare. She or he was remarkably agile, & we noticed that no one ever rode for free. We also noticed that young riders willingly gave up their seats to older riders, but the older riders told them to get up if they failed to do so.  Our plan was to visit the Hermitage, completed under the reign of Peter I the Great in 1724 and furnished by Catherine II (1762 -1792) also the Great, which has become Russia’s answer to the “Louvre”. 

Seen from the exterior The Hermitage imposes by its color and size. Famous for its dominant bluish-green, all windows & portals are decorated with wedding cake white curlicues. Placed in the center a large, ochre-colored flower symbol contrasts dramatically with the white and green. The Hermitage is a tourist destination not only for foreigners, but also for proud Russians. The ticket booths were raking in the money. We learned later that foreign tourists pay a special “tax,” making our tickets come to about $15, whereas Russians pay $10. 

This will give a better idea of the green, white & ochre. Also, there were always costumed young people walking around for tourists to photograph.

JJ wanted to go to the 3rd floor where the late 19th-Early 20th Century painters were located, which was fine with me. The trek up was a long one due to the sheer vastness, the staircases which are not all sequential, and no elevators have been installed. Dour docents abounded to direct us in bad English or French on our climb to the top. We tried our best to follow the white figures on green signs, but they were confusing and routed us through almost every section. I noticed that most sections  did not have resting benches, & frankly I was worried. Happily, for the impressionists, management thought to put a 6-seater red velvet bench in each hall. I’ll give my time and devotion to the visit, but there must be some resting benches for courage-gathering. JJ critiqued this section as having too many paintings in each hall, with no sense of display, or interesting notes alongside, as is customary. 

We spent two and a half hours in this section, and about half an hour tripping through the pre-French revolutionary artists. The trouble with this period is that these nobles tend to look the same. I ponder these portraits, vainly in search of distinguishing characteristics & I often wonder if posing was the main occupation of the day. Actually, the attire does change from portrait to portrait.  Added to this the sunlight glared, forcing us to move from side to side in order to see something.  Actually, the white marble busts offer the best likenesses. Example: You’ll never mistake Voltaire, smiling ironically, toothless, skinny, with an atrocious underbite. 

The toilet facilities located in the basement mercifully have been modernized since Catherine the Great. There are plenty of stalls & several cleaners to keep them fresh & flushing. If you wonder why I mention this it’s because we were about to discover just how primitive things can get. We left the Hermitage having the good feeling that we got our money’s worth. I don’t know if I want to come back, but then to be honest, I don’t know if I want to go back to the Louvre either. These are enormous palaces which in themselves are something one should experience once if possible, & enjoy the art as one is desirous & able. 

Once extricated from Peter’s and Catherine’s palatial enclave, JJ & I felt like doing something mundane. We stepped right into a beautiful treed and flower bedded park at the exit, so we bought a grilled hotdog and cold drink at one of the several stands for a quite reasonable price. (Oh happy day!) Our vendor, true to the rampant distrust previously discussed, put the ‘dogs & buns on the grill & then demanded pay, while we waited for her to finish & deliver! As paying customers we were allowed to sit in the open air at a table. (Again I say: Oh happy day!) 

From Russia with Love III: St. Petersburg

The Peterhof Expedition

She never knew what she was in for. Note the speed boats back left.

THE PETERHOF is another whipped cream monster palace located some distance from the Hermitage. Visitors usually reach it by boat, although we learned very late that there was also a bus. None of the tourist info nor the hotel concierge ever indicated this possibility. It was only by boat, and touted as the “must-must do” in St. Petersburg because of the fabulous fountains. 

JJ was simply ecstatic about our afternoon excursion. I can only guess that such grandeur awakens in him visions of  the glory days of Versailles. After all, don’t we all realize that Catherine II the Great brought French language and culture to the Russian court? Didn’t such French influence endure until the 1917 revolution? Since then, not even the proletariat masses have ever mustered the nerve to destroy these vestiges of la noblesse russe!  St. Petersburg maintains its historic district which covers several acres, & draws plenty of income from it. It is by far the tourist mecca of Russia, & not Moscow. Face it! That’s really what draws tourists everywhere in Europe, whether foreign or in-state: old stones & their (hi)stories.

JJ had been instructed to catch the Peterhof Express on the quay just in front of the Hermitage docked on the Neva River. Hawkers with megaphones were always advertising canal tours on smaller crafts, but also the above mentioned express, a much bigger craft. JJ dutifully purchased 2 tickets @ 500 rubles, but noticed right away that he’d only purchased one-way! When he asked to purchase round trip, he was informed that it was not possible, & that return tickets @ 300 rubles could be purchased at ticket booth #5 at the Peterhof quay prior to return. (Aha! Stuck!) I’ll tell you later about how this played out…

Take it seriously when Russians use the word "express." The boat ride was so wildly fast and fun that riders had to stay inside, protected all around by plexiglass. Upon arrival we had to walk a couple of kilometers on the quay toward a station of several ticket booths. To one side we could see a wooden cafe with a terrace of tables. We never thought twice that this might be the only oasis with toilets! JJ the good European took no exception to the double allee** before us, several kilometers long, again leading to what we could see: those devine fountains beckoning in the distance. “Good grief!” I thought. “Is this it?” Behind the magnificent fountains rose up another gigantic, gilded palace with tourettes and “onions.” I know, I know. How ungrateful I must be. But, honestly all I saw was the grand promenade for arriving at the fountains.

(I remind the reader that we’d already walked about 10 kilometers in the morning for the Hermitage expedition!) 

Do you get an idea of the distances?

To get into the park we had to purchase expensive tickets @ 900 rubles for 2, which would not allow us to go inside the palace. That would require another equally expensive ticket which JJ declined. (I never cried over this, as it would require infinitely more walking and stair-climbing.) Hence, we treaded forward, gazed upon the extravagant fountains, & I took photos. Once satiated we then continued in another direction where we discovered architecturally designed gardens in bloom with colorful tulips… and more fountains. 

Fountains....

And more fountains

And more fountains

I kept hoping to find a restroom, but passing only gardens & fountains. Each time we inquired, the park employees pointed to a sign with arrows that read “TOITOI,” or some such. Never forget that all signs were in Cyrillic alphabet, & no translations in English. Onward we walked & walked. At the end, after several more kilometers we found another café-terrace. What did it offer as a toi-toi? Two port-a-lets! A third was padlocked. This is what was available to hundreds of Peterhof visitors roaming inside the park.  As I said before: Stuck! No trees, no bushes, & lots of people walking around. It was the port-a-let or nothing. (Throw-up time!) Needless to say, we surely felt no obligation to pay for a drink.












I kept hoping to find a restroom, but passing only gardens & fountains. Each time we inquired, the park employees pointed to a sign with arrows that read “TOITOI,” or some such. Never forget that all signs were in Cyrillic alphabet, & no translations in English. Onward we walked & walked. At the end, after several more kilometers we found another café-terrace. What did it offer as a toi-toi? Two port-a-lets! A third was padlocked. This is what was available to hundreds of Peterhof visitors roaming inside the park.  As I said before: Stuck! No trees, no bushes, & lots of people walking around. It was the port-a-let or nothing. (Throw-up time!) Needless to say, we surely felt no obligation to pay for a drink.

Notice the padlock on the ToiToi behind JJ.

(I apologize, but this tale isn’t over.)


The trek back to the ticket booths was painfully long.  Nevertheless,  with a few stops on the sparsely supplied benches we finally made it. Booth #5 was conveniently closed. The only other two booths which were opened charged 500 rubles each (this would make 400 rubles more!) because, as they explained, they were a different speedboat company. JJ & I were feeling pretty fleeced by this time. But, as life would have it, we struck up a conversation with a French couple who was also waiting for the next boat back. We learned from them that foreign tourists always paid more for most tickets. The old trick of highjacking tourists for the return fare was de rigeur.** In this phenomenon even the Russian tourists got no special treatment, as you shall see. But, at this point the French couple merely shrugged and said we should accept a different system. JJ & I were not accepting, only fuming. 

Our return tickets specified 5:30 p.m. We four trudged forward to join the queue on the quay. As we waited civilly about 50 Japanese tourists, who were not in line and just arrived, were allowed to board the boat. At 150 capacity, the patient 5:30 bunch, about 50, were not allowed to board. We must wait another hour until the next boat at 630! At that point the French couple began to "smoke." Armed with righteous indignation Madame la française, who spoke fluent Russian, went to complain to the boat company employees. There was a big beefy guy wearing a leather jacket with “Security”*** on it, who was already fending off irate protestors. The Russians, especially  the women, kept up the insults and jeers. It was very exciting. Imagine! Almost participating in a proletarian riot. I was hoping that “Mr. Security” was going to be pushed into the Neva along with his prissy female gangplank-guard. Madame la française reported her as saying, “Well, if you don’t like it, retrieve your money and go take the bus.” What bus? Who knew about that? Did we really believe the boat company would return our rubles? By this time the travel costs added up to 2000 rubles.**** 

When the next  speedboat arrived, the now impatient 6:30-bunch crushed around the gate,  closing the gaps for sidling cheaters. I’m sure that Mr. Security & Miss Gangplank Guard go through this scene everyday. They must be totally inured & are merely playing a part. They have been instructed to privilege big tour groups at the expense of independent riders. Moreover, the speedboat companies have worked out a way to share ill-gotten return ticket profits. As my personal program of revenge, all I can do is advise you: 

1. Avoid the Peterhof, unless you love walking & paying a lot for the privilege. 
2. Look it up in National Geographic, or obtain a coffee table picture book and you’ll come out better

I hope you were able to keep up with the tally of rubles, as I tried to explain. All in all, the Peterhof expedition cost about $100. It’s one of those times that the money spent will remind us of a painful experience. And yet, if everything had been perfect I would have nary a tale to tell, now would I?

*Double-wide walkway with a canal separator--to aliment the fountains, of course 

** in rigorous practice

*** We thought it was curious that his title was in English!”

**** 30 roubles = $1

Post 18: An Interesting Discussion

Dear  #1,

I just got your text saying to check my minutes on the I-Phone. I don't know how to do this. Also, since I'm emailing you, I don't need to use the phone. My one text message this a.m. was VERY SHORT. Since I have my computer & WiFi, why do I need to use the computer feature on the I-Phone? 

On a more interesting note....

The night train was very luxurious. At least our pitiful little feet got a rest so that we were able to walk to the hotel which really wasn't so far, & it was on the station side so we didn't even have to cross the street! 

We are thankful to you-2 for footing the bill for this Ibis accommodation in St. Petersburg.  We know it doesn't come cheap! JJ is reeling at the cost of the hotel. Actually we are both reeling at the cost of everything. These poor Russians don't know what reasonable prices are. These rooms with 1 double bed  + 4 breakfasts costs $200+ per night! A Hampton Inn double (2 queen-sized beds) + breakfast is about $75. 

We are taking in everything with our senses. Metro - A+; Night Train - A+; Art Museum - A+; National Treasures and Parks - A+; Politeness/Helpfulness - B; Streets & sidewalks - D - (disrepair and smoking butt trash);  Air Quality - F (public smoking); General Building Repair - C -; driving and traffic - C - too many fasties and bullies; Multi-lingualism - C- ;  General personal appearance of populace - D+; Services - C; Utilities - C; Prices - F. 

Am I hard? Probably. We sense that Russians are very smart and seem driven toward a clear purpose. The street rhythm goes at a fast pace. The huge flaw in their national character is too much tolerance of their mediocre leaders and oligarchs who rob them blind and do not give quality infrastructure in return. The Russian mediocrity of the "2nd world" is probably due to a certain isolation & hence ignorance of anything superior, or at least reaching the quality of life in most of the Euro-Zone. Such an apathy for better leaders & government surely must install itself over eons of time in historical proportions. Do the Russians think life is pretty good now by comparison to what they knew "before?" 

The faces of the populace and general interaction suggests a profound distrust of fellowman, maybe with good reason. A smile from the Russian on the street is hard to come by. JJ pointed out that we had been cheated twice when we went for breakfast at McDonalds. I said I doubted that the staff members really meant to cheat us. But Natalia said that indeed they meant to cheat us, & that this kind of petty theft is commonplace. I said, "But, what could they possibly want with a muffin or a croissant? She said, "They can sell them to someone, or take them home to consume!" Does that say something about the price of everyday commodities? Is this shades of Jean Valjean...only post Russian communism? 

The trust thing enters into every little transaction from no hot water in a 2 star Moscow hotel, to holding a credit card at a hotel when the reservation was made by another person who already gave a credit card name & number. Does the unsmiling Russian see a potential swindler or trickster in every face he/she encounters? Because I'm old and rather silly I have fun forcing a humorous  grimace or smile here & there. There is some fun inside most Russians, but it must be teased out. 

All this being said, I sense that Mother Russia is a force to be contended with yet. When & if she wakes up, watch out! We western nations have no way to go but down & we're falling fast; She has no way to go but up. I always think progeny will give a pretty good idea of the soul of a nation. Those kids on our plane (coming back from Disney Land in Paris with their parents) were lively, but so well-behaved. Western kids? Well, frankly I don't think they're very promising from the public behavior I've observed. The adults in our western societies act like kids, are soft, and amoral. Yes, Russia could use a bit more serious practice of Christianity, that is, far & beyond her shallow superstitions, and based on the profoundest of our theological heritage. However, as of now Mother Russia's virtue lies in the fact that she isn't spoiled rotten as is Ma West.

We'll let you know what we're about.

Love,

Mama

Yes,

Trust is a real problem in this country and oligarchs are filling their pockets with little retribution to the people. Moscow has come a long way from the Soviet days, but you still, as a tourist, experience the unhappy surprises of what it is to travel here on leisure. It’s not great and it’s very expensive for what you get. I agree that the prices for hotels are excessively high. Marina commented that yesterday’s meal at Luce cost about just as much as two nights at the IBIS hotel+breakfast in St. Petersburg, just to give you an idea. But, then you come on a blue moon here so we can assume the costs for a while. It is unlikely that these kind of prices will go down because the entire economy is distorted by the artificial prosperity emanating from oil and gas exports. In addition, there is a low supply of budget hotels, so that even those charge super high prices, for what you actually get. As Marina rightly pointed out, should Russia encounter a sudden and lengthy drop in global oil prices, then the national economy will go down the drain and there could be serious citizen uprising against the corrupt political system currently in place.

Trust is a problem indeed. Even when we did the booking for the IBIS hotel on-line, we noticed that it was ‘too easy’. Anyone could do this for their friends and get away with a stolen credit card. Still, the hotel just needed to send us a confirmation query but not place you and Papa hostage. Marina pointed out that she did not receive any emails or text messages from the IBIS hotel. Had it not been for your emails to me, you might have been stuck in a bind.

Russians generally don’t smile. It’s not in their mentality to do so. Only those who leave the country for a certain amount of time get rid of this local habit. They mean well, but they also recognize that the country still has much to achieve to reach comparable standards with the west.

Pilfering and under-the-counter black market for foodstuff and other items is commonplace in Russia. Wages are extremely low. As Marina rightly pointed out, trust is very low and people seem to appreciate the short term at the expense of honesty or reliability. You get into a job, squeeze the maximum without getting caught and go on looking for a similar job. It is very difficult for employers to check applicant employment history. Many companies come and go. Forging documents and diplomas is commonplace.

Hygiene, particularly dental is poor. Most Russians still don’t earn enough to sort out these problems. Wealth is still distributed quite unfairly (5% extremely rich, 10% middle class, 85% subsistence level-- living between bread, potatoes and home cultivated produce). Sadly, most of the 85%, particularly males, tend to go for the Vodka bottle to forget some of their frustrations rather than behaving courageously and proactively. Alcoholism in Russia, particularly in the regions, where good jobs are hard to come by, is endemic. Life expectancy among the Russian population in Russia, outside Moscow and St. Petersburg is around 55 years. Women, who are also working more than men, and are less prone to the bottle, tend to live longer (around 65-70 years on average).

Meanwhile, the fat oligarchs are more interested in funneling money abroad and placing their ill-earned funds into lofty real estate e.g. Courchevel, Monaco, Nice, Cannes, Switzerland, etc. They buy very expensive cars and live in gated communities away from the decaying rest of the population. They send their children to private schools in Switzerland and arye not interested in improving the local scene. This was the problem that brought around the Russian revolution back in 1917. It appears that populations never learn.

You may ask why Putin is re-elected and the opposition is so weak? Well, Russians seek stability, even if their freedoms are placed in check. Marina, will, when you get back, relate to you how difficult these times were in the 1990’s and the rouble crisis which brought the country asunder under a drunk president (Yeltsin). Most people lost all of their hard earned savings during that time and criminality was rampant.

It’s only now that Russians are beginning to feel that stability is a good thing, even if that means that they have to tolerate a corrupt and often times ineffective political regime.  The Russians, who travel abroad, tend to come back with ideas on how to improve their lot here and try to invest into the economy , but these are middle class people, who have been able to break through the glass ceiling of being the remaining 85% of the proletarian population.

Many honest Russians deplore that their educational and medical system is crumbling and that the ultra-rich are not paying their dues as they should. They also deplore the absence of justice and punishment for white collar criminals and their ability to get away and hide in England somewhere on grounds of political and unjust repression.

The former mayor of Moscow, Lushkov, and his wife robbed the city blind. They are living a lofty existence in England in one of London’s most posh districts, even though it has become clear that they had their hands in countless money-laundering and embezzlement schemes. It’s definitely not reassuring for the ordinary population when the top crooks get away.

You understand that I am here to earn my keep and develop my business honestly, but that I have to fight hard to get paid by Clients. Tomorrow, for example, I have an important meeting to convince the Client to sign-off the act of acceptance and close the deal. I hesitate to want to work with them in the future as they are rather shady intermediaries.

The Italian deal seems to be happening, so that is a sort of good news. Tomorrow, I will pay for the cruise on the Volga.

I hope that you and Papa enjoy your trip to St. Petersburg, cover up as it may get chilly. Take a few mini-cruises along the canals, Peterhof, visit the Hermitage, walk along Nevskiy Prospect into Dostoevskiy’s steps. Enjoy strolling at a comfortable pace.

Be careful to take regular breaks to avoid blisters and take the time to observe the local scene and relax. You should have hot water at the Ibis.

Looking forward to hearing from you soon.

With best regards,

# 1

Post 17: From Russia with Love - Part I

Actually, the room was quite nice, having two large sun-filled windows with offering plenty of fresh air. The decor was memorable in a good way. Note the mirror reflection of the unique, exposed red brick wall.  We were always glad to come back from our 10 kilometer walk and plop on the big bed.

Some like it hot!

Here it is Saturday afternoon. JJ & I are none too eager to stomp the streets, as we have these last 4 days. Sure we are out of shape, as we never have to do such things in Texas where life is soft and luxurious, & we are absolutely dependent on our air-conditioned cars. Moscow is only for hardy ones who are surely expected to walk kilometers and kilometers. The most beautiful metro in the world (a reputation which it certainly deserves!) serves those in a hurry, possessing just enough youthfulness to confront the arduous connections. The ambling streetcars serve those who are less stressed, most likely older Muscovites, who prefer to enjoy the passing view. Our #1, whom we are visiting, has adapted to the rhythm of hardworking urbanites, & has little patience for us aging humans, especially from parts of the world where ease & comfort are staples of life. “You’re really out of shape!” he opines. 

Our middle age and flabbiness has caught up with us, & we find ourselves indulging in a restful afternoon in the hotel instead of pounding the cobblestones and pavements in disrepair. JJ & I had to get out this morning and scrounge around to find a place to have something resembling a breakfast. Good old McDonalds over a mile away, is located ubiquitously just off the main drag of about 10 lanes, where one must cross to the other side at the underpass of a metro station. Yes, if you’re hungry, you’ll walk a mile or two for some breakfast!

Our son contracted for our accommodation at this strange hotel at the top of a 5-story building with no elevator, only 81 steps. Beyond  a nondescript door at the very top, a tiny cove to one side serves as the reception where one "official" employee, a university or conservatory student, struggles with French or English. There are 10 modest rooms served by a row of communal toilets and shower stalls behind a door labeled “Bathroom Pods.” Both the rooms  and bathroom facilities are quite correct:  clean, roomy, & surprisingly attractive. There are all the usual amenities, even a white terrycloth bathrobe. However, there is nary a telephone nor a bar of soap; I suppose the management thinks everyone owns a cell phone these days & carries around a bar of soap.* The king-size bed is of typical eastern European comfort & construction: a thin mattress on top of a sheet of solid plywood, no springs and no give. It’s the furthest thing you can imagine to anything we sleep on in the West--even an air mattress! You’ve just gotta be ready to accept it, unless you want to pay $1000 per night for western comfort, which we certainly are not. 


We’re tough, but we were shocked to discover that the hotel had no hot water. We immediately signaled it to  management who didn’t seem overly concerned. We were informed that the city had cut off the boilers for prophylactic reasons (hygiene?). Well, the explanation was creative, but, still a big, unlikely lie. Thinking they were convincing us,  they added that there probably wouldn’t be any hot water for another two weeks because it was a cyclic water treatment. They were helpless to the city powers that be. So sad....! Yeah, and we’d be long-gone by then & troublesome no more. 

Chances are a few "Westies" might have accepted this inconvenience, but most would have moved to a more expensive hotel.  We know a lie like this when we hear it, so, we were feisty, we complained, and wouldn't go away.  In the 70‘s some French people still treated hot water as a luxury. People purchased & installed these little pieces of (dangerous!) junk to heat water as it ran from  faucets & spigots. This cheapest of solutions had the drawback of a short life. When it was close to its demise, it took forever for the pilot to light the gas burner which exploded mightily in ones face. It was one of the most dangerous things I ever experienced. We figured the owner was more likely saving rubles because most of his patrons are long-suffering Russians who would tolerate cold water. In fact, #1 informed us that it isn’t unusual for Russians to cut off water heaters the moment spring arrives in an effort to recover on the high costs of winter heating. Makes sense. 

But this is a “hotel” that charges $100 per night & no breakfast included!  JJ & I actually suffered the cold water to clean our rank bodies, & continued to bellyache loudly. We just had to win the issue with these people who took us for idiots. Suddenly, hot water miraculously appeared.  At this news we quickly prioritized having a proper shower and washing our hair. Even JJ’s dome and plentiful Caesarean wreath needs a good washing from time to time. His unsightly 5-day beard also disappeared. Ahh! The luxury of hot water. You have no idea how much you’ll miss it until you don’t have any.


*#1 loaned us a cell phone for our stay.  & experience has taught us to always have a bar of soap and toilet paper in the suitcase.

The Hotel Lobby

The last of 81 stairs. Note the ladder by the hotel door. There's a plan to add 10 more rooms in the "attic." Oh, and also a small elevator.

Childrearing: When East Meets West

I've been on hiatus with a knee replacement, a much bigger project than I anticipated. In the interim my reading audience has most probably been entertained reading the reviews of a book written by an American living in France called "Bringing Up Bèbè," or somesuch. Always beats me how these individuals find the most banal subjects, write  a lot of palaver, stir up opinions, & sell enough copies to get rich.  

I've been asked to comment on not only this book, but the one that came out by Tiger Mom. Sure enough I know enough about both French and Oriental cultures to comment, but to what end? As I pointed out in one of my posts, "Going Native," our strategy was always to go with the flow in whatever country we found ourselves. Sometimes, as you've perhaps noted, our stays were very brief, but it behooved us to "go native" because things would just work out better. 

Chinese Tiger Mom more or less represents the way that mainstream (Asian) society rears its offsprings. The focus is on achievement, competition, and psychological toughness in societies where the top spots are so few for the teeming hoards.  This produces a society which is regimented, stratified, hardworking, productive. Paradoxically, these societies manifest cut-throat agressivity and humility. (More on this in later posts.) Most families are reasonable in ambitions for their children, but they at least want social conformity for the preservation of social face, a suitable formal education, & an occupation with wages to live honorably. Just this much exerts an enormous pressure on Asian parents to produce good children.

Once I left the fishbowl called France to live in Singapore I discovered that l'éducation française is not so different from most European countries. I would even say that childrearing in most of the British Commonwealth is about the same, if not more exacting. I offer as example the Tanglin Club, dating back from the English colonial days of Malaya, which had rules for children that expats of most other nationalities found harsh. There were certain rooms where children were never allowed, and certain times that kid-friendly places (pool?) were strictly off-limits. The saying went, "If you join the Tanglin Club be prepared to tether your kids to the gargoyles at the club entrance." I did not find old style European education, or old style American upbringing for that matter, in contradiction with the Asian style of my amahs: healthy routines, chores, consequences, rewards, respect for all elders, good table and social manners, self-direction, playing with other children/siblings with kindness and fairness. (Did I forget something?) Oh yes, children are granted favors and rewards by parents and caretakers. They may not demand anything. Note: Preschoolers are given no choices; school age children are given limited choices. 

I'll keep it short for the American style. By the late 70's American childrearing had already departed from the above old world scenarios. In France I had already heard the phrase L'Enfant Roi (the child king) many times & in many venues. Americans in Singapore had the reputation for out-of-control, spoiled brats which leaked out from their servants and the few non-American expats who rubbed with them socially.* 

The Darcy philosophy of éducation was most likely formed in Singapore when our family was very young. Recall that when we arrived #1 was 6 years old and I had my 5th boy a few months after we arrived. For the next 7 years we functioned in an Asian world of four distinct ethnics (Chinese, Malay, Indian, Eurasian) in a small city state which invited expatriates to come, live lavishly, and contribute to the booming economy. We functioned with one foot in the French community (& to a lesser degree many other expat groups) and the other foot with the natives. We chose to think independently, taking the best from each culture and to reject what we didn't like.  We allowed our amahs a lot of autonomy with discipline. They usually didn't smack them because the explosive "Pah!" was enough to keep them in line. The result was that the boys survived handily; hence they were so easy to manage that we could take them everywhere and do everything we wanted.

A bit more on this....During this period we employed two superb amahs, one Chinese and one Malay. Without any degrees in Early Childhood they were extremely savvy about training small children. We could only guess that, although Chinese and Malay are two distinct cultures, there was some similar heritage which resulted in a similar view of childrearing. After the Chinese amah left there was a short period of instability with a succession of inferior amahs. Both parents & small boys were in equal disarray. The equilibrium of our lives was only reinstated when the super Malay came aboard. I guess you could say that these women were "Hazels" of a sort.**  We were made aware of some criticism of our "strong amah" policy. 

As products of the Far West, we were never able to espouse the grueling competitiveness and self-effacing nature of oriental childrearing. Kids in tow is one thing, while the "kowtowed" child seemed stifled. We always loved the kookiness, the chaos, the blossoming of the individual child. We rejected certain forms of control & conformity which are embedded in the British/European style, but we liked its emphasis on sound routines, respect for adults, & manners.  Within this framework we hoped each of our boys would accomplish academically, enjoy sports of choice, & develop his unique talents. I think we accomplished this, as only two of the seven did the same professional school, law; however, they have chosen different paths of practice. The other 5 are in 5 completely different professions. We didn't have to worry very much about sibling rivalry because each boy was busy fulfilling his own destiny.

Be advised that this exposé is cursory & that many points could be an essay subject on its own. What I said about Americans is probably a reputation which unfortunately has been made by the "bad apples." I know of many more excellent American parents than derelict ones, who have produced offsprings of envious quality.  Be reminded, also, that I am referring back to the 70's. I'll leave it to the reader to assess the childrearing situation of the present day.

*I heard more than once the pronouncement, "They don't rear their children!" ---in English, French, & Singapore English which was spoken in condemnation. At that time expat families had a reputation to protect. In our case we were particularly vulnerable because we had so many boys who could have been holy terrors. 


**"Hazel" was a maid who ruled the household. It was a popular a one-frame cartoon that ran in the 50's & 60's before it became a short-lived sitcom.

Note: You'll recall a few years later, the Singapore government actually imposed several strokes of the cane for an unruly American teen who had been found guilty of committing an act of vandalism. Some Americans were quite vocal in opposition to the punishment. Singapore penal system did not back down.

Carbon & Pinocchio

Singapore to France 1983

It was early fall. I had flown back to the South of France with our six boys where we would be staying in a rented villa until we knew our fate. Jean-Jacques was left behind to close down his trading business, and make the move. It was a tall order & one of the saddest, as it concluded the most exciting period of our young married life. He would be alone. Children’s voices, servants calling and clanging, rippling of piano and song, the quiet flow of friends and colleagues were but deafening sounds of silence. In his solitude he had only one companion: Carbon, the Singapore terrier. 

As an artist friend described her, “She is so beautiful in motion with her glistening black coat, and her bright pink tongue, the perfect dash of color.” Her tail resembled a lady’s open fan, with a long, fine,  bouncing fringe. Our delicate, medium-sized, very feminine dog always came running to make a low bow in welcome to honored guests. She bowed to her masters & frolicked with her “brothers.”    Our Malay amahs, who could not touch her for religious reasons, conversed lovingly with her. We believed that Carbon was multi-lingual, understanding not only French and English, but Malay, Chinese, and Tamil. She had a strong mezzo bark which we rarely heard. Sometimes she would bark “yes.” But, she would bark steadily at the gate when she believed the house was being approached by a dangerous intruder. She rarely barked at friends; she sensed that they were acceptable and made a a deep kowtow. As the non-human star of our household, beautiful, well-mannered, intelligent, & intuitive, she was, nonetheless, a mutt.  Probably the greatest compliment ever paid to Carbon was, “The only thing wrong with Carbon is that she’s a dog.”* 

It’s sure that Man and his Dog became inseparable after the family left Singapore. She went with him everywhere, on foot, in the car, & always unleashed, for she had no idea what a leash was. J.J. always spoke to his Carbone** in French & she obeyed perfectly. With Murty gone, she could resume attending mass. Fortunately, a French Jesuit priest & a family acquaintance from Indo-China, had lifted the dog ban...but only if she stayed quietly at the door. She was affectionately called “Carbone la Catholique.” Her saintly behavior had surely earned her a trip to the Occident where she would rejoin her pack in a brave new world. 

The day came when the house was closed down and the two travelers took a taxi to Changi International Airport. Like usual, she was unleashed and trotted close by her master’s side. Carbon was placed in a pet-carrier in the underbelly of the plane with other pets. Would they keep the pet cabin warm & comfortable as for humans? Could she endure for over 18 hours in transit?  On schedule, J.J. & Carbon were picked up at Orly by his cousin Josette who was grumpy about fetching un chien (dog) at a separate hangar. In response to her grouse, a nice surprise: pet retrieval at Orly was remarkably streamlined, plus there was no quarantine for Singapore dogs. Carbon survived the trip & seemed none the worse for her ordeal.  She jumped with joy to be back with her master; their were little yips and pained croons of "how could you?"  J.J. & Carbon stayed 3 days at his aunt's and uncle’s home in Houilles* for some much needed rest & re-adaptation to time zone and clime. Carbon managed once again to endear herself. No longer un chien, she became Mademoiselle Carbone to the members of this sprawling French family.

But, J.J. and Carbon still had a long journey before them.They needed to join the rest of the family in the Midi. For this they took trains. Beginning at la station d’ Houilles, Carbon-unleashed took the commuter train like a pro. There were some glares, but no comments. At Gare St. Lazare, they had to take le métro. This was probably the most daunting, up and down stairs, escalators, and tunnels among the hoards. Yet, she did it in style and earned many smiles, and only a few glares. Then, they took the night train at Gare de Lyon. This was the biggest test of all. Would she pass? Into the compartment passengers bags were tucked away, the couchettes were down & prepared with sheets, pillows, and blankets. Could Carbon stay with J.J.? Or, must she go to a separate car for animals?

If Carbon were allowed to stay in the compartment with the other sleepers this would defy all the norms and rules for animals on board the night train. At home she merely selected one of her boys to sleep with on the foot of the bed. When the boys were away she simply moved to the foot of J.J.’s big bed. It was natural for her to settle in at the foot of his couchette. She was very quiet. Only her bright brown eyes shined in the dim light, as she studied the other passengers. Likewise when the comptroller came by to check the tickets, she stayed still, watching. He spied her soon enough & announced, “You know, dogs are not supposed to stay in passenger cars. Your dog must leave.” But then, unexpectedly, he said, “But, if the other passengers have no problem with this dog remaining in the compartment, then I guess we can make an exception.” There was an older lady who said, “Mais oui!*** This doggie is perfectly behaved.” And the only other passenger, a soldier, agreed, “It should stay! It's très gentille.”**** J.J. still believes it was at that moment that Carbone,  like Pinocchio, became a real person.

*This grudging compliment was uttered by my mother who is not a “dog” person.

**Carbone:  feminine version in French of Carbon.

*** Mais, oui!: But, yes!

****gentil: very gentle/nice


Note: This historiette is dedicated to J.J., and our 7 sons who loved Carbon like a daughter & a sister.