tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11027535010883684722024-03-18T03:34:22.184-04:00Mission To MoscowA Canadian English teacher in Moscow, Russia.Nate Drescherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05616820586588551280noreply@blogger.comBlogger163125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1102753501088368472.post-61642700979973619092013-09-18T14:25:00.000-04:002013-11-20T06:16:31.909-05:00Mission Home<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
After a couple of years away, the sequel to <i>Mission To Moscow</i> is just beginning. Visit <a href="http://marriedtoarussian.blogspot.ca/">Married To A Russian</a> to learn how life is back in Canada with a Russian wife!<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WKeX_X7ItTg/Ujnv8NhcWxI/AAAAAAAAC5o/E4sTHPMI5xk/s1600/999461_10151586264395988_651675181_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-WKeX_X7ItTg/Ujnv8NhcWxI/AAAAAAAAC5o/E4sTHPMI5xk/s320/999461_10151586264395988_651675181_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--49sw4Ufd78/UkR_xORZShI/AAAAAAAADBk/uVBcCojeaR8/s1600/coollogo_com-197913438.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="89" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--49sw4Ufd78/UkR_xORZShI/AAAAAAAADBk/uVBcCojeaR8/s320/coollogo_com-197913438.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
Nate Drescherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05616820586588551280noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1102753501088368472.post-56116676613834964212011-09-19T14:53:00.002-04:002011-09-19T15:19:54.759-04:00A ReplyAfter closing down this blog earlier this year, it came to my attention that my post "50 Facts About Russians" was discussed on a Moscow radio show, and afterwards I received hundreds of emails and many comments. <div><br /></div><div>Half of the emails were positive responses and half were negative, and a few were quite hostile. I decided that, despite shutting down the blog, I owe it to readers to reply to their comments.</div><div><br /></div><div>First, thank you everybody for your emails and comments. I published the choicest ones on the page and deleted the more obscene and ignorant ones. Most were good but I just did not have the space to publish all of them, or the time to reply. However, know that your messages were read.</div><div><br /></div><div>Second, these "50 Facts" were written with humour and sarcasm. Many people understood this, but many did not. For those who didn't understand this, well, please don't send me emails.</div><div><br /></div><div>Third, during my time in Russia I fell in love with the country. Now that I'm back in Canada all I can do is dream of returning to Russia. There is a "feel" and a deep spirituality in Russia that feels more human than in the West, more personable, and I miss it. However, there are downsides, such as the disintegrating roads, the corruption, and the horrible, horrible customer service that I can personally do without. It is my hope that Russians will get these things under control without sacrificing their culture and history.</div><div><br /></div><div>Fourth, to reply to some specific comments, the crowds on the Moscow metro ARE insane, and I got hit repeatedly every single day. I was pushed and jostled and squeezed, had my toes crushed and my ribs elbowed...every day. The person who said this isn't true has obviously never been on the red line at 4 in the afternoon on a Wednesday.</div><div><br /></div><div>The customer service in Russia IS horrible. There are some decent establishments, but 90% of the shops, restaurants, kiosks and everything else are cold and impersonal, and it seems the customer is an inconvenience to the clerk/server. </div><div><br /></div><div>Not all Russians are alcoholics. After reviewing my "50 Facts" I realize that this post came off sounding this way. Many of my students didn't drink at all, and a couple of my Russian friends also didn't go near alcohol. In fact, there's a movement in Russia calling on Russians to "put down the bottle!". The Russian government has been taking steps to curb the sales of alcohol, and people are aware of the social problems associated with drinking. However, those Russians who do drink, can REALLY drink! </div><div><br /></div><div>When Russians DO drink, they tend to do so in the kitchen with many friends, and have lively philosophical debates about life. At least, in my experience, the experience of my Western friends, and from what my Russian friends, students and wife have told me.</div><div><br /></div><div>I would personally rather walk down the streets of Moscow, around Fili or Kurskaya, Kitai Gorod or even Yaroslavski Voksal, at 3 am then any street in any American city at the same time. </div><div><br /></div><div>Russia IS incredibly beautiful in the winter. It's almost a real-life fairy-tale, with the white snow and trees and Orthodox churches, people fashionably dressed in warm furs and the smell of delicious food on the still winter air. </div><div><br /></div><div>Feminism began in ENGLAND, not Russia (as one commenter tried to inform me). It spread to America very quickly after that. Nothing like political feminism ever really appeared in Russia until very recently.</div><div><br /></div><div>Being a reporter during the Chechnya conflict was a lot more dangerous than during the Vietnam conflict. More than 22 journalists were killed or went missing in Chechnya, while only 8 were ever killed in Vietnam. After the conflict many Russian journalists who had criticized the Russian government wound up dead or missing.</div><div><br /></div><div>Fifth, I could write a similar list of somewhat funny Canadian stereotypes, but I don't need to. Plenty of people have done so already (Read "Why I Hate Canadians" by Will Ferguson). However, I encourage any Russian person who has lived in Canada for longer than 1 year to submit a similar list, and I will gladly post it on this blog. You can email me at : ate_the_pain@live.ca</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Nate Drescherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05616820586588551280noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1102753501088368472.post-31679888454006637162011-04-03T09:47:00.010-04:002011-04-03T11:51:38.404-04:00My First Time, and My Last<div style="text-align: left;">I've been lucky in my travels so far, having been to such places as South Korea, Japan, Thailand, Austria, Russia, Sweden and England. But before I had set out to tramp through distant lands, I also had the opportunity to explore my own backyard. I've been up and down the eastern seaboard of the United States as well as Washinton and Oregon states, and I can say with some authority that South Carolina is the friendliest place in North America.</div><div><br /></div><div>I've also been able, by sheer good fortune, to travel from coast to coast in my own country, Canada.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>In 2002, one year before I first set out to South Korea, I took it upon myself to make my way from my college town of Hamilton, Ontario to the Pacific Ocean. My fourth year was coming to an end and my girlfriend of two years had broken up with me. She claimed that our lives were heading in different directions, but really I knew it was because I was doing copious amounts of drugs by that point. I took stock of my life, not knowing what to do after college, having no money and a sudden largess of personal freedom. I decided to head to Banff, Alberta.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>Banff is a National Park nestled in the Rocky Mountains. There are a couple of resort towns and the Trans-Canada Highway (Highway 1!) that make up this otherwise unspoiled rugged landscape, and the town of Banff is where I was heading. Searching online, I found a job as a fine-dining waiter at Johnston Canyon Resort and applied. Within a few days I had the job. It only paid $8 an hour, and a chunk of that pay was taken off for accomodations and food, but I didn't care. It wasn't about the money for me.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-T36WWtEBicA/TZiWa7JbL1I/AAAAAAAACfc/fvrSmtqgm94/s400/banff-pic.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 279px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591384326678458194" /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Banff National Park, Alberta, Canada</i></div><div><br /></div><div>In May of 2002 I landed in Calgary and caught a greyhound to Banff, a few hours to the west. It was the first time I had really travelled, and even though it was within the borders of my own country, for me it was an exhilarating and exotic adventure. The Rocky Mountains towered above me on either side of the road as the bus wound its way along the Trans-Canada and deposited me at the Banff bus depot. I was the only person getting off at this stop, and as the bus pulled out I stood on the platform with my single suitcase and took in the awesome beauty of Canada's untouched wild west. From that moment on, my travelling fate was sealed.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>I met in girl in Banff; a blonde co-worker who did roomkeeping at Johnston Canyon Resort, and we fooleded around from time to time but unless it was night and she was feeling frisky we ignored each other. There were about 20 staff there, and on weekends we would all car-pool into town and hit up the local pubs, of which there are three or four. On one occasion the girls declared a "girls night" and so the guys retaliated with a "guys night". I was against this line of thought, arguing in favour of hanging out with girls rather than having a sausage fest, but I was alone. We guys went to a basement pub and proceeded to drink away our measly earnings. After a few hours I managed to convince my male coworkers, now drunk, to crash the girls night. Our female colleagues were drinking in a much fancier bar across the street.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>We grabbed our pitchers of beer and set out across the street. Unfortunately the bouncer at the bar across the street saw me with my pitcher trying to get in and yelled "Hey! You can't bring that in here!" I don't know why, but I turned and bolted. Like a dog, the bouncer ran after me. I ran and ran across a parking lot, laughing like an idiot the whole time while beer from my pitcher sloshed across my chest. Finally, out of breath and laughing, I stopped. Then I felt a heavy hand on my shoulder. It was the bouncer. "Give me that!" He ordered, trying to get the pitcher from me. "Fuck you! Go get your own!" I defied. He seemed confused and said "You're banned from [***] Bar. And he walked back to his position at the front door. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>That was fine with me. I saw the kitchen door to the bar was open and went in that way, emerging from behind the bar in the busy establishment. Nobody seemed to notice me, even the bartender had his back to me, so I casually walked over to the long table where all my co-workers, girls and guys, now sat. I still had my pitcher. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>It was that night that I met the young woman who would later become the catalyst for my travels to Asia and Europe, first to Asia because we both wanted adventure and later to Europe because she broke my heart. Another blonde, from Cape Breton, Nova Scotia, she was funny and pretty and personable and smart and very, very drunk. She had just arrived to work at Johnston Canyon and we got to know each other over the next few days, specifically because we worked together as servers in the restaurant. On many nights it was just the two of us, wearing white shirts and black pants, serving customers sitting at tables in candlelight, with views of the night time mountains all around while the same damned CD of Ella Fitzgerald played, night after night. Needless to say it was romantic in the extreme, and it wasn't very long before we were fucking.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>We hooked up fast. X (because she's my ex), and her girlfriends she shared a room with, bought 1987 Honda Civic from a man with no hands who they nicknamed "Stumpy" for $600. This car had a great body for being over 20 years old, the result of using sand on the roads in the winter and not salt. There was no radio in the dashboard, only a big black hole. It was a manual transmission, and X was the only one among her friends who could drive manual. She began to teach me on those mountain roads in our time off. We also used the backseat of that car for other things...</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>Needless to say that I was hopelessly in love with X. We would spend every waking moment together, mostly making love but also driving around and talking and drinking wine by campfires in the mountain nights.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>I had signed a contract with Johnston Canyon Resort to stay on until the tourist season ended in October, but by August working there was grinding on me. Management had a tip pool policy, which is great, except that the owners of the resort were included in the tip pool. All the hard-earned tips that the low-paid staff made was also pooled to the owners and their children! One of the owner's sons was a University professor in Calgary. He would stop in every weekend and collect his little envelope of tip money that the staff had earned. This was extremely unfair and everyone was bitching about it, but X and I bitched the loudest because, as the only two servers in the fine-dining restaurant, we were pulling in the most tips (people would order $200 meals, and Americans, who made up the bulk of our guests, are wonderful tippers).</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>I admit that I attempted to forment a mutiny at Johnston Canyon Resort, but some so-called friends had different loyalties, and one day, while sitting in my room between a split shift, the owner's son came up and said "Come outside. We need to talk." Those are words people never want to hear. I followed him outside, with the big pines and towering mountains enjoying the August sun. He turned on me. "You have 2o minutes to get your things and get the fuck off my property. You're lucky I don't beat you!" </div><div>I stammered back. "What? Why? You have to tell me why you're firing me!"</div><div>"I don't have to tell you shit! Get off my property!" He shouted.</div><div>Then, before I could recover with any type of clever comeback, he stormed off. I did as he said and a friend drove me into town with my suitcase.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>I deposited myself at a restaurant and ordered coffee and tried to figure out what to do next. I had left a note with a friend before I left, slipping it into her hand, that read "Tell X I've been fired and will be at [*****] Restaurant (I forget the name)". I waited and waited. Finally, after two hours of sitting at the restaurant, X walked through the door. "Hi." I said. "Hi." she replied. "I got fired too!"</div><div><br /></div><div>All she had with her was her suitcase and the Honda Civic we had bought for six-hundred bucks. As it turns out, it was all we needed.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>We decided that it was time to head home. We didn't have very much money; just enough for gas and food to get us from the Rocky Mountains to her home in Cape Breton. We set out on the Trans-Canada heading east. We made sure to pick up a little batter-powered radio for the journey, and set it on the dashboard with it's antenna fully extended to pick up what stations it could (mostly CBC).</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>As the mountains receded in the rear-view mirror, we took in the landscape of Albert. East of Calgary the land is mostly desert, part of the great desert that stretches through America from Texas and Mexico. Most of the land in Alberta has been irrigated for agriculture but the odd cactus and desert brush gives away the secret. The Trans-Canada took us across this great desert to the prairies of Saskatchewan, where fields of wheat in high-bloom swayed in the wind. It's a unique phenomenon but some people actually get sea-sick on the prairies. We were lucky as neither of us get seasick.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KcyvUmWGXEM/TZiV3hF4HKI/AAAAAAAACfM/0xQQTvJPcVM/s400/image01.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 323px; height: 337px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591383718388833442" /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>The Canadian prairies</i></div><div><br /></div><div>Saskatchewan and Manitoba are part of the great plains of North America, and the Trans-Canada took us all the way through towns with names like Medicine Hat, Swift Current and Brandon. As dusk set on the first day we made our way through Saskatchewan's capital, Regina, a small tree-lined city that pokes up from the otherwise unchanging prairie. We found a side-road in some trees east of Regina and parked the car for the night. We didn't have any money, so we were forced to sleep in the car. It was late-August and the temperatures were still warm, but the mosquitoes in the prairies tormented us all night with the windows down. We rolled up the windows and wrapped ourselves like sausages in what clothing and small blankets we could find (X had been smart enough to snag a couple of small blankets from Johnston Canyon). </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>Mosquitoes continued to buzz around us all night. Even with the windows up and the vents closed, they found their way in. As I was sleeping I would hear the high-pitched buzzing get closer and closer to my ear, until it was a deafening treble and then, just as suddenly, it would stop. That's when I knew I was being feasted upon. Every couple of hours I would wake up and go on a mad mosquito-killing rampage in the car.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>It was a fitful and uncomfortable first night in the Bad Boy (as we named the car), but we woke up with the sunrise and set out on the road again. Saskatchewan fell away behind us and Manitoba opened up in front of us. The Trans-Canada through the prairies is a big 3-lane highway and flat as a board, so you can see it stretch over the horizon in either direction. Neat fields of wheat and barley stretched out for eternity to our left and right (a local saying is that in the prairies you can watch your dog run away for two days). We roared through Manitoba in the Bad Boy, doing in excess of 130 km/hour, until, when evening set in, we reached Winnipeg. The "Paris of the Prairies" is a large city with a bustling population that pops suddenly out of the sparsely populated prairies like the Emerald City. We splurged and took the exit into the city, just to check out one of Canada's famous landmarks, and sat down in a swanky bar for a beer. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>We went over our maps and realized that, at the current rate, we would make Ottawa the following night, so I found a telephone and placed a collect call to my mother. My sister answered. "Hi!" I declared. "It's Paint!" </div><div>"Hi!" she answered, chipper as ever. </div><div>"I'm in Winnipeg!" I informed her.</div><div>"That's random." she replied.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>We made arrangements to crash for a couple of nights at my family's place in Ottawa, and then set out in the Bad Boy again. It was late, maybe after 1 am, when we crossed the border into Ontario, and we pulled the car over in a parking lot behind a warehouse in some northern-Ontario hick town (the kind where the general store and hockey rink are the two biggest buildings in town). Some kids with mullets and baseball caps in a pickup truck followed us around for a bit, but we shook them and parked. Again, on our second night in the car, the mosquitoes tormented us to no end and at dawn, having barely slept, we set out.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UL3Pz2uiF8Y/TZiVeJFbFbI/AAAAAAAACfE/J-JMoOAgxZo/s400/TransCanadaRegina-PilotButte.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591383282447750578" /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>A portion of the Trans-Canada Highway, Highway 1</i></div><div><br /></div><div>Northern Ontario is part of the Canadian Shield, a solid-rock formation filled with nickel and other raw materials, covered in massive forests that stretch to the Arctic (part of the great Taiga that wraps around the northern hemisphere of the world) and the Trans-Canada was blasted through it. As a result the wide-open highway of the prairies turns, quite literally at the Manitoba-Ontario border, into a winding single-lane highway that snakes through tunnels and between cliff-faces. The Trans-Canada was built during World War Two to bring troops and supplies to the Pacific theatre and, more importantly, to Alaska. It has been modernized in most places but it seems Northern Ontario has been left out of the budget.</div><div><br /></div><div><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-vsSumTM2yxk/TZiVD9k2NaI/AAAAAAAACe8/vj6w0MD99q4/s400/97837420_e1d51301d9.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591382832681727394" /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>The Trans-Canada in Northern Ontario</i></div><div><br /></div><div>As we wound our way through forest and over rivers and past lakes, I made an error in calculation. I saw that the highway splits at Thunder Bay, with one part heading south through Sudbury and Sault-St-Marie and on to Ottawa, while another, seemingly shorter route, curved up just south of Hudson's Bay and then stuck down directly to Ottawa. What I didn't notice was that on the page for the northern route, the scale of the map changed. My bad. We took the "shortcut" north, and ended up driving through desolate, poverty-stricken First Nation's reserves and slept in some tiny town with a name that completely escapes me. The good thing was that this far north, only a few hundred kilometers from the perma-frost line, the mosquitoes didn't bother us. </div><div><br /></div><div>It took us two days to cross the prairies, and it took another two days to cross northern Ontario, but on the night of our fourth day since we had left Banff, we arrived at my mother's place in Ottawa. We were dirty and tired (although we had managed to shower at a truck stop), and we slept like the dead that night. We spent a few more days resting up, and eating, in Ottawa before getting back into the Bad Boy and making for Nova Scotia.</div><div><br /></div><div>Ottawa is on the Ontario-Quebec border, so immediately upon leaving we were in "la belle province" on the big divided highway to Montreal (Autoroute 20). Montreal is a crazy city to drive in, as the 20 is almost always under construction (in Canada we say we have two seasons: winter and construction) and French-Canadian drivers are notoriously reckless. After Montreal we drove along the 20 for a few more hours and then came to historic Quebec City, where we crossed the St. Laurence and ended up in a suburb, Levis, which was actually quite nice. After Quebec City there isn't much civilization until Moncton, but the geography of eastern Quebec is stunningly beautiful.</div><div><br /></div><div>With the St. Laurence to our left and very small and narrow farm plots to our right (Quebec follows the civic code of law, whereby fathers divy up their property to their sons, and over 400 years, as subsequent generations were given property, those plots have become very, very narrow but very long). </div><div><br /></div><div>We reached the Gaspe Peninsula in the early evening and turned south at Riviere-de-Loups, into New Brunswick. We were in the Maritimes! </div><div><br /></div><div>Here we made another mistake in calculation, and chose to go through a provincial park rather than stay on the main highway to Fredericton. The park went on and on and on, travelling on a single-lane road surrounded by a dark forest as the sun set in our rear view mirror. The gas gauge crept lower and lower. For some reason, on our little dashboard radio, Bon Jovi's "Living on a Prayer" started to play, a fitting soundtrack to our dilemna. We both couldn't help but roar with laughter. As the needle hovered over the "E" on the gauge, we finally emerged from that damned park and a gas station was the first thing we saw.</div><div><br /></div><div>After filling up with our last $30, we made our way on to Moncton and St. John and finally crossed the border into Nova Scotia. A gigantic Atlantic fog bank rolled in as we passed through Truro, rendering visibility to almost nothing, but we continued to drive. It was late now, but we were only 3 hours from Cape Breton so we pushed on, and around 3 in the morning we pulled in to X's home, a beautiful old house set on 100 acres of seaside property. We had travelled from Ottawa to Cape Breton in about 15 hours!</div><div><br /></div><div>It had taken us 5 days to cross Canada, from the Rockies to the Atlantic, with little food and no money for hotels, but somehow we had pulled it off. We stayed in Nova Scotia for about a month and then drove back to Ottawa and found work, apartment, etc...</div><div><br /></div><div>The next year we set out to South Korea, and after a few years there we landed back in Ontario, but then, this time in a much newer car and loaded with a lot more money, we drove from southern Ontario to Victoria, British Columbia in a little over 4 days (staying in hotels and eating at restaurants...it wasn't nearly as fun). Two years later she left me for another guy and I began to make plans for more travel, which brought me to Russia.</div><div><br /></div><div>That one summer, in 2002, was my first taste of travel, and, like a drug, all it takes is one to get hooked. Now, as I attempt to settle in Halifax, I greet the end of my youthful travelling days with a mix of sadness and relief. It's not easy living such a life, and while I look back upon my adventures with fondness, I am glad that I can begin to live a much more settled life. I'm sure that I'll have more travel, but from here on in I'm looking for the all-inclusive resort variety. I've had my time living out of a suitcase, and as I reach my mid-30s I feel the need to plant roots somewhere.</div><div><br /></div><div>That is why, as I'm no longer in Moscow and I'm working on getting settled here in Halifax, I've decided to end Mission to Moscow with this story of how it all began. I hope everyone has enjoyed the blog I started three years ago. I appreciate all the emails and comments and online friends I've made, and everyone who followed along, through good times and bad, fun stories and boring. </div><div><br /></div><div>The good news is that my writing is not all finished. I'd like to announce that I've successfully signed a book deal (with only 1% royalties) and my book, a semi-fictional account of my life, will be on sale in 2013. Look for <i>Moscow Cowboy</i> by N. A. Drescher in Canada in two years, if you remember, or online at Amazon.</div><div><br /></div><div>With that, I end Mission to Moscow. As they say in Russian, paka!</div>Nate Drescherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05616820586588551280noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1102753501088368472.post-58315875935794880552011-03-31T17:54:00.008-04:002011-03-31T19:22:37.027-04:00Meanwhile, Back At The Ranch...For those of you who enjoy my stories of playing with currency, lapdances by drunk Russian strippers, treks through Thai jungles for mushrooms, redneck rampages and run-ins with corrupt police, you won't like this next entry.<div><br /></div><div>My home and native land, Canada, is in the midst of a political crisis that runs much deeper than current media can display. The effect of this crisis is the fifth federal election in ten years, but the symptoms are seemingly terminal.</div><div><br /></div><div>This political situation in Canada has come about because of widening polarization among the people in Canada, and this current election is turning out to be one of the ugliest in Canadian history. The election campaign is only in its fifth day, yet I have witnessed arguments break out at work and even while waiting in line at a Tim Horton's coffee shop! Even our hockey games have become politicized (candidates are declaring which hockey teams they support)!</div><div><br /></div><div>Canada is a very regional country, encompassing vastly different outlooks on life. The maritimes and Newfoundland are predominantly social democrat in outlook, while Ontario is mainly centrist liberal. Manitoba and Saskatchewan tend to lean towards left-of-center while Alberta and British Columbia are hardcore conservative bastions. Quebec remains a primarily nationalist province with strong left-wing tendencies. Federal elections tend to be decided along these lines.</div><div><br /></div><div>To understand it more, we need to look at how a British-style parliament works. Basically, the group of MPs (Members of Parliament) that enjoy the support of the House (the House of Commons) form the government, with the leader of that group chosen as Prime-Minister. In this case most groups of MPs are assembled into political parties, although there is nothing in the constitution that mentions political parties. </div><div><br /></div><div><i>* It should be noted that Canada's constitution is not a clean one-page document like in America, but rather a large collection of legislation, treaties, orders-in-council, declarations by past monarchs and Supreme Court decisions all stuffed into the large Parliamentary Library...the sum total of all this is Canada's constitution</i>.</div><div><br /></div><div>Currently in Parliament there are 304 seats up for grabs and, under the parliamentary system, the "group", or party, that wins the most seats in an election forms the government (there is a seat for every 100,000 voters). </div><div><br /></div><div>The problem is that there are also five political parties: the Conservative Party, the Liberal Party, the New Democratic Party (social-democrats), the Bloc Quebecois (Quebec nationalists) and the Green Party (environmentalists). The Conservatives and Liberals are by far the biggest parties, and the two historic parties of Canada.</div><div><br /></div><div>For 75 years of the 20th Century, on and off, the Liberal Party governed Canada, and produced such political heroes as Mackenzie King, Pierre Trudeau and Jean Chretien. Like it or not, the Liberals have styled themselves "Canada's natural party". The Conservatives, on the other hand, have enjoyed temporary greatness followed by stunning defeats. Brian Mulroney lead the old Progressive Conservative Party from a sweep of Parliament in 1984 to a shattering implosion in 1993, and after that the Conservatives were hard-pressed to gain even 4 seats in Parliament. </div><div><br /></div><div>In far-right leaning Alberta a party rose up to challenge the Liberals and even the Conservatives, who they thought were too left-leaning. The Reform Party began as a protest party but managed to gain quite a few seats in Parliament to offer significant political power. Our current Prime-Minister, Stephen Harper, was a member of the Reform Party in its birthing heyday. </div><div><br /></div><div>The Reform Party attempted to run candidates across the country in 1996, but its stance on gay rights, abortion, privatized medicare and young offender justice terrified the rest of Canada (which is much more left-leaning) and Reform was utterly swept in the elections and Jean Chretien's Liberals won the biggest majority they have ever enjoyed (Jean Chretien even quipped "Thanks, Reform!"). The Reform Party fell apart, but not completely.</div><div><br /></div><div>Under the careful guidance of an elite circle of hardcore conservatives, including Stockwell Day and Stephen Harper, the party renamed itself and changed its image, and appeared again in the 2000 elections as the Canadian Alliance Party. It did a little bit better in those elections but the fact of the matter was that the right-wing votes were split between the old Progressive Conservative party and the Canadian Alliance party, thus handing the Liberals a third-straight majority in Parliament. </div><div><br /></div><div>The Progressive Conservative party was in dire straights, not winning any more than 4 or 5 seats since the days of Brian Mulroney. Membership was down and the party was going bankrupt. Luckily for them, the Canadian Alliance Party was looking for one more image change to give itself more legitimacy in otherwise Liberal Canada. Stephen Harper, who had helped birth the Reform Party and morphed it into the Alliance Party, stepped in and, in a historic deal, merged the Canadian Alliance with the Progressive Conservatives, renaming it the "Conservative" Party. </div><div><br /></div><div>Around this time, in 2002, Jean Chretien's 10-year reign as the most popular Prime-Minister in Canada was coming to an end. The "little scrapper from Shawinigan" (a reference to his hometown in Quebec and his fiesty, combative political style and, ultimately, to his habit of grabbing hippy protesters by the throat and/or punching them in the face) was nearing 70 years in age, and his right-hand man, Finance Minister Paul Martin (who had made Time magazine's "Man of the Year" in 1999 for engineering Canada's economy so that it became the first G8 country to balance its books and declare a fiscal surplus) made a play for the top spot. In a Liberal convention Paul Martin attempted to get himself nominated leader of the Liberal Party and oust his mentor and friend (and boss). Martin managed to get 52% of the Liberal delegates' votes, enough to topple Jean Chretien but also enough to drive a deep rift in the ranks of the Liberal Party. </div><div><br /></div><div>In 2004 Canada went to the polls, and Paul Martin and his Liberals won a minority government; that is, they were the party that held the most seats but the other three opposition parties combined held more seats. The Liberals would be forced to compromise on every issue in order to gain the support of the opposition. The largest of the opposition parties was none other than Stephen Harper's Conservatives.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div>In Canada, when a governing party loses the confidence of the House the government falls and a new election is declared. All fiscal issues put forward by the governing party are considered confidence issues, so the annual budget must pass the House of Commons or the party is considered to not have the confidence of the House and a new election is called. </div><div><br /></div><div>In 2006 this is precisely what happened. After 2 years of ineptitude and a paralyzed Parliament Stephen Harper and his Conservatives (still called "Tories", the old British name for conservatives) got the socialist NDP and separatist Bloc Quebecois on board and defeated the budget. Paul Martin and his broken Liberal Party fell and the country went to the polls.</div><div><br /></div><div>Stephen Harper won the election, but, like Paul Martin, only with a minority government. Unlike Paul Martin who could have counted on the support of two other left-leaning parties in Parliament, the Conservatives were now facing an opposition united by ideology, the Liberals, NDP and Bloc. For the next two years they found themselves making compromise after compromise on every issue in order to stay in power. In 2008 the Liberals and NDP joined together and threatened to form a coalition, which would have made them combined the largest group of MPs to enjoy the confidence of the House and power would have shifted back to the Liberals. The country went to the polls again.</div><div><br /></div><div>The 2008 election returned Parliament back to almost exactly the same state: Stephen Harper's Conservatives hanging on to a minority government while the Liberals, NDP and Bloc Quebecois opposed them from across the aisle. </div><div><br /></div><div>From 2008 until now, 2011, the Conservatives hung on to power not because of increased support from the electorate (Tory support has never risen much beyond 38%) but because of dissatisfaction from the voters with the Liberals. After the Paul Martin affair the Liberals chose as their leader Stephan Dion, a life-long Quebecois bureaucrat who could barely speak English and whose mere presence on television annoyed the hell out of the average Canadian. The Liberals ditched Stephan and, in a quick convention, chose Micheal Ignatieff to lead them. </div><div><br /></div><div>Micheal Ignatieff is the son of Russian immigrants who fled to Canada following the 1917 Revolution in Russia. He has been a professor of politics and economic theory at Oxford and Cambridge and more recently at Harvard University. He returned to Canada in 2007 to teach at University of Toronto when he was approached by the Liberal Party to potentially lead them. He has written 14 non-fiction books and was a personal friend of US Senator Ted Kennedy. </div><div><br /></div><div>Unfortunately for Ignatieff, the Liberal Party he took over was a shambles after Paul Martin and two consecutive electoral defeats, and "Iggy", as the press calls him, has had to work hard to not only get Canadians to know him and take him seriously, but also to unify the party and turn it back into the "mean red machine" it once was. Harper and the Conservatives have wasted no time attacking him as being unpatriotic for living outside of the country for so long (as a distinguished academic who has taught at the world's greatest schools and given lectures at the UN). In fact, the Conservatives have been using age-old Canadian self-confidence issues to potray Ignatieff as an evil American-lover, while Ignatieff has publicly said "Yes, I do love America, and I love Canada, and I love the unique relationship our two countries share." </div><div><br /></div><div>It was Micheal Ignatieff who, in 2008, attempted to form a coalition with the NDP to topple the minority Conservatives, and the Conservative response has been an attack campaign calling a coalition an "undermining" of democracy and "reckless". However, what Conservative supporters are not looking at is the fact that coalitions are perfectly legal means of government in a parliament, so long as they enjoy the support of the House of Commons. If a coalition between parties produces a majority that, then, is the confidence of the House. </div><div><br /></div><div>Another thing that the Conservatives have kept quiet is the fact that in the bad old days of the Reform Party Stephen Harper wrote a paper explaining why coalition governments are needed and how the Reform Party should go about leading one to take on Jean Chretien's Liberals. In a 1998 interview with TV Ontario Harper said he endorses coalitions as being the most democratic means of governance in Canada. In 2004 he attempted to form a coalition with the NDP and Bloc Quebecois to topple Paul Martin's minority Liberal government. Now, when the Liberals are doing just the same to him, Stephen Harper is suddenly attacking coalition government as "undemocratic".</div><div><br /></div><div>The fact of the matter is that minority government is, by definition, undemocratic. The Conservatives enjoyed the support of 38% of the people in the last parliament, while the Liberals and NDP combined had the support of over 52%, making a coalition between the two the actual voice of the majority of voters. Thus, a coalition government is the most democratic form of government possible in Canada.</div><div><br /></div><div>The most recent election came about after a stunning confidence vote in Parliament. The Conservatives were found to be in contempt of Parliament by the House for refusing to give financial details over plans to purchase 130 F-35 Stealth fighters from the USA. The allegation is that there was no competition and that General Electric, who produces the aircraft, padded Conservative Party coffers to get the contract with no questions asked. The deal will cost the Canadian taxpayers over $30 billion over the next 10 years. This finding of contempt of parliament triggered a non-confidence vote and last Friday Stephen Harper and his Conservatives were toppled by a united opposition. The election was on. The fifth in 10 years. </div><div><br /></div><div>Oh yes, finally, being politicians, I'm sure they've all had lap dances from Russian strippers.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Nate Drescherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05616820586588551280noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1102753501088368472.post-37772964014160749332011-03-19T10:26:00.017-04:002011-03-19T14:10:10.652-04:00Nova Scotia vs British Columbia: The Eastern Trump Card<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Why did I choose to settle in Nova Scotia and not British Columbia? This is a difficult question to answer and I'm still not sure of the reason myself.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div>Both have stunning beauty aplenty, although I give British Columbia an extra point for the Rocky Mountains. British Columbia also has a better job-market and better salaries. British Columbia has better weather (along the coast, at least). British Columbia has more people (4 million compared to Nova Scotia's 900,000), thus more of a tax base, thus better government services and infrastructure. British Columbia, a younger province by 3oo years, has nicer architecture and cleaner cities.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>So why the hell didn't I head out west like I originally planned?</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>Because British Columbia isn't Nova Scotia.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>Nova Scotia has an abundance of culture going for it, and the people are absolutely amazing. Walk the streets of beautiful Victoria and good luck looking anyone in the eye. In Halifax, people strike up conversations with complete strangers while waiting at the crosswalk. How can you beat such friendliness?</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>Here are some more Nova Scotian peculiarities:</div><div><br /></div><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ZB8SJFV9_bM/TYTATFlopHI/AAAAAAAACa8/aXrgw6Js88M/s400/2510613383_3c0cd9a79d.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 214px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5585800871996335218" /><div style="text-align: center;">The Nova Scotia license plate reads "Canada's ocean playground"...PLAYGROUND!!!! All BC has going for it is "Super. Natural." Point to Nova Scotia!</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-n4YLDwMgnlc/TYTBOs7JNZI/AAAAAAAACbU/Pyzd9d5JS9Q/s400/melmurby_wreck.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 296px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5585801896167814546" /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Nova Scotia has REAL beaches. Sandy, sunny beaches (in the summer at least) with seagulls and beach cottages surround the province on all four sides. In fact, although Nova Scotia is only 900 square kilometres, it has 7000 km of beaches! British Columbia, on the other hand, has only 2,300 km of beaches, and 90% of those are rocky and covered in seaweed. Plus the water of the North East Pacific is too cold to swim in at any time of the year. Another point for Nova Scotia!</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-zJf6kXNtUTo/TYTCy48xYxI/AAAAAAAACbk/ivu00W-3ius/s400/Cabot_Trail%25283%2529.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5585803617382785810" /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Cape Breton Island beats both Vancouver Island and the Queen Charlottes hands down. The rolling hills, the small Gaelic population in quaint little towns, the vibrant culture and the stunning coastline beats out the redneck-infested western islands where the brush is so thick you can't stray off the roads.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RgknBPZ3ySw/TYTFF5M30wI/AAAAAAAACb8/HbyShmTWsVA/s400/A_safe_haven_cover.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 277px; height: 400px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5585806142891086594" /><div style="text-align: center;">Nova Scotia was the end of the line for the Underground Railroad, and by 1865 over 8,000 runaway slaves from the southern states had settled around the province, bringing a vibrant and musical cultural heritage with them. Today their descendants are an integral part of Maritime society. BC doesn't have that. They didn't even exist at the time!</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><iframe title="YouTube video player" width="425" height="349" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/mcJd-4cVMZk" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen=""></iframe></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Nova Scotia is home to songs, ballads, odes, shanties, books and poems about love for this land. Farewell to Nova Scotia is about a soldier leaving home for the battlefields of France in 1914. British Columbia has Brian Adams and Nelly Furtado. 'Nuff said.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-EDSM4MiPAYE/TYTHqKp024I/AAAAAAAACcU/5FJgOJ58q4g/s400/tallships.jpeg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 308px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5585808965074475906" /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Nova Scotia hosts the annual Tall Ships festival, showcasing old galleons, frigates, cutters and yachts from all over North America and Europe. They even have mock sea battles in Halifax harbour, firing cannons at each other while tourists eat lunch on patios! BC hosts container ships, trawlers and oil tankers.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-BtgAptAvXTQ/TYTJIKUFuRI/AAAAAAAACck/8QfxLtgyRFE/s400/lobster.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 265px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5585810579891009810" /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Atlantic lobster. Can't find that in the Pacific!</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Nog55MeaH5Q/TYTO0FSH5XI/AAAAAAAACcs/Hdky73Xdc8Y/s400/Lunenburg2.jpg" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5585816832012969330" /><div style="text-align: center;">Lunenburg, Peggy's Cove, the Annapolis Valley, the Bay of Fundy...these historic towns and regions date back to the earliest colonization of North America and for the most part have been preserved in their original state. Lunenburg (pictured above) is a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Most towns in BC didn't exist before 1890.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><iframe title="YouTube video player" width="425" height="349" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/SDVifI56xB4" frameborder="0"></iframe></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">The Royal Nova Scotia Tattoo, an international festival of pipe and drum drill bands from around the world, happens every year in Halifax. British Columbia hosts the annual "Save The Whales" festival. Which one is more exciting?</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><iframe title="YouTube video player" width="560" height="349" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/Ke70quYt8Kc" frameborder="0"></iframe></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">For those who can't get enough of pipe and drum marching bands, Halifax wins hands-down!</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><iframe title="YouTube video player" width="450" height="349" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/b7aDudgcC2I" frameborder="0"></iframe></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Cape Breton's Gaelic culture. More people speak Gaelic in Cape Breton than in Scotland, and it is home to the world's only Gaelic University. BC has nothing on that!</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><iframe title="YouTube video player" width="425" height="349" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/_G_oA6nYVJ4" frameborder="0"></iframe></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">What's Nova Scotia without the intense cultural inheritance of Cape Breton? While many of the fiddles and step dances and ceilidhs (kitchen parties) are put on for the tourists in the summer, these things are still part and parcel of many Cape Bretoners lives. British Columbia can only boast of draft dodgers and pot smokers. And even Nova Scotia has a fair share of those...</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">I'll let this video from Nova Scotia Tourism say it all...</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><iframe title="YouTube video player" width="425" height="349" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/NTbJhNuCLR8" frameborder="0"></iframe></div>Nate Drescherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05616820586588551280noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1102753501088368472.post-52827353692914407682011-03-12T13:30:00.004-05:002011-03-12T13:48:17.802-05:00The Fallacy of North AmericaIt seems like ages since I left Russia but I'm really only coming to the end of my third week back in Canada. In 3 short weeks I've got a car, a job, a bank account and begun looking for a place to live (34 and staying with my mother may be alright in Russia but is so not cool in Canada). <div><br /></div><div>Despite all this hectic activity, I haven't had time to really adjust to life in the Maritimes. I still feel stuck somewhere between here and there, and the reverse culture shock is unsettling. I've gone through periods of "I love it here!" to "I want to go back to Russia!" I definitely miss some things about Russia, namely, the chaotic freedom, the architectural aesthetics (of Moscow, at least), the beauty of the people (mainly the women) and the feeling of doing something wonderful with my life. </div><div><br /></div><div>Here in Halifax I feel only the crunch of time and finance. I have a full-time job and it pays better than my English Teacher's salary but it doesn't offer the kind of financial freedom that living rent-free did in Moscow. My schedule is also heavily regulated by work, and I can't be late or negotiate or enjoy long breaks throughout the day. </div><div><br /></div><div>One thing that really bugs me about life back home is the complete ignorance of the Canadian people to life outside their own little bubble. I can't relate at all with anybody, and when they begin in-depth conversations about what was on TV last night or how much interest they're paying on their mortgage or their car financing, I switch off. How could I ever possibly explain to them the wonders of Moscow, the history of St. Petersburg, the vastness of the steppes, the feeling of standing on Mamaev Kurgan? How could they even care about the wonders of the Moscow Metro or the absolutely mesmerizing femininity of Russian women or the chaos of gypsy taxis? The fact is, they can't. </div><div><br /></div><div>I found Russians to be much more engaging in conversation, and much more intelligent about the world around them, then Canadians. Russians were always polite and interested in different places, whereas Canadians have that irritating North American smugness. I also find Canadians incredibly dishonest and feel like everyone is out to rip me off. In Russia, I KNEW everyone was out to rip me off but those I counted as friends I could trust 100%. </div><div><br /></div><div>In many ways Russia is superior to Canada. Canada's infrastructure is stable, the air is clean, the society well-organized, democracy and the rule of law is healthy and the economy is sound, but the culture really sucks. The exact opposite is true for Russia.</div><div><br /></div><div>This is mainly the effect of reverse culture-shock, and with time and patience I'll become numb to the glaring hypocrasies I see around me, and eventually I'll become another ignorant dumb-ass Canadian. I do love living in Nova Scotia, however, and ultimately this province is superior in many ways to snooty British Columbia (and the beaches here are better). For me, however, there is no difference right now between people from the Maritimes and people from the west coast, or people from Florida or Wisconsin for that matter. That North American attitude is really grinding on me, and I miss the deep cultural wonder and beauty of Russia and Europe.</div>Nate Drescherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05616820586588551280noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1102753501088368472.post-16672583081966488262011-03-05T21:26:00.004-05:002012-07-21T04:59:42.911-04:0050 Facts About Russians<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<i>*Disclaimer - some of the people reading this are humourless douchebags. While nothing on this planet can change the fact that these idiots continue to post comments here after reading (barely) and not understanding this post, I can at least offer a warning that THESE ARE NOT REAL FACTS!!! Morons. Now, enjoy!</i> <br />
<br />
1: Russians distrust anything cheap.<br />
<div>
2: The English word "bargain" can not be adequately translated into Russian.</div>
<div>
3: Although Russians distrust anything with a cheap price, they are fine with freebies.</div>
<div>
4: A Russian who reaches high levels of power feels it his his/her duty to put down those who don't.</div>
<div>
5: In Russia you need to call the lazy waitresses over by aggressively yelling "Girl!"</div>
<div>
6: One needs skills in hitting people with your elbows on the Moscow Metro.</div>
<div>
7: In Russia you can drink beer on a park bench without getting arrested.</div>
<div>
8: Russians gather in the kitchen and stay up very late, talking about "life".</div>
<div>
9: Russians usually avoid talking about work.</div>
<div>
10: During any reception in Russia people are immediately separated by gender.</div>
<div>
11: There are a lot of police in Russia, most of whom do nothing.</div>
<div>
12: Russians never throw anything away. Ever.</div>
<div>
13: However, if Russians throw out half of their things, nobody notices.</div>
<div>
14: A Russian stranger is likely to call you with familiarity, like "man" or "woman".</div>
<div>
15: Russians don't usually say "please" or "thank you".</div>
<div>
16: The Russian proverb "Arrogance - the second happiness" cannot be adequately translated into English.</div>
<div>
17: Russians drink a lot of vodka. It's not a myth.</div>
<div>
18: You don't have to fear for your life when walking the streets in Moscow alone at night.</div>
<div>
19: Russian men are convinced that feminism has led to the collapse of the West, and Russia's historical mission: resist.</div>
<div>
20: A myth within a myth: Russians believe that Americans believe that bears walk the streets in Moscow, but this myth of a myth is a purely Russian invention. Americans actually believe all the bears in Russia are dead.</div>
<div>
21: Russians simply do not understand it when a foreigner from the west applies for permanent residence in Russia.</div>
<div>
22: Dentists are very surprised when people show up for a "routine" check-up. So are doctors.</div>
<div>
23: Russians drink tea with a centimetre of sugar on the bottom of the cup.</div>
<div>
24: All Russians, from young to old, abuse emoticons.</div>
<div>
25: The number of brackets in an email or sms infers the importance of a message. For instance - Birthday party tonight ) means a birthday party, but Birthday party tonight )))))) means a fantastic blow-out extravaganza.</div>
<div>
26: Moscow has the best subway system in the world.</div>
<div>
27: Despite having the best subway system in the world, there are millions of Muscovites who refuse to ever take it, and spend half their lives stuck in traffic.</div>
<div>
28: A Russian will use the slightest reason to bring everyone gifts of chocolate. "It's your birthday in four and a half months? Wow! Chocolate for the entire office!"</div>
<div>
29: Anyone who speaks a language other than Russian is automatically suspect.</div>
<div>
30: On New Year's, don't surprised if you are invited out at 11:30 pm, drink champagne and cognac until 6 am, eat herring under a fur coat and olivia salad in a kitchen, and then party in a flat for three more days.</div>
<div>
31: The only alcohol-free zones in Russia are McDonalds.</div>
<div>
32: Smiling for no reason makes Russians angry.</div>
<div>
33: Borscht, cabbage rolls and pirogies are actually Ukrainian.</div>
<div>
34: Russians don't send their elderly to nursing homes or make their children leave after 18; instead they all live together in the same 1-bedroom flat.</div>
<div>
35: Despite the small roads and the frustrating traffic jams, Russians still buy giant SUVs.</div>
<div>
36: Sushi is more popular in Russia than in Japan.</div>
<div>
37: In fact, Japan is more popular in Russia than in Japan.</div>
<div>
38: Russians are extremely friendly if they've known you for more than ten minutes. If you've known a Russian for at least a week, you will be invited to meet their family.</div>
<div>
39: Russians are also extremely emotional and passionate, and although they don't show emotion in public, they cry and laugh and shout and play more than Italians.</div>
<div>
40: Russians care more about the philosophical side of living than the material, and have a folk song for every situation.</div>
<div>
41: Most Russians are very superstitious, and new-age superstitions are en vogue.</div>
<div>
42: Russians are passionate lovers, and will quarrel like bitter enemies and make out like porn stars in public.</div>
<div>
43: Russians love to criticsize their own country, but will be offended if a foreigner does.</div>
<div>
44: If a cashier manages to not break anything while scanning your items, they have provided good customer service.</div>
<div>
45: Russians love McDonald's, KFC, Subway and Burger King more than Americans.</div>
<div>
46: Russians spoil their kids rotten, and then magically expect them to behave responsibly at the age of 18.</div>
<div>
47: Although Russians eat more fast food than people in the west, Russians are still healthier.</div>
<div>
48: Russians cannot do anything that requires putting a car in reverse. It can take the average Russian driver ten minutes to parallel park (I've seen it countless times).</div>
<div>
49: Winters in Russia are actually quite beautiful, and Russians are fantastic winter drivers.</div>
<div>
50: Russians are actually freer than westerners; there are less laws and social constraints, and yet the crime rate is lower than in the US or UK.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<iframe frameborder="0" height="349" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/WZvWSzTXf-4" title="YouTube video player" width="425"></iframe></div>
</div>Nate Drescherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05616820586588551280noreply@blogger.com108tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1102753501088368472.post-64432572850031258432011-03-03T19:54:00.002-05:002011-03-03T19:56:44.519-05:00Ask A Man With A Russian Accent Trying To Convince You To Go To An Ecstasy Party<i>From The Onion</i><div><i><a href="http://www.theonion.com/articles/ask-a-man-with-a-russian-accent-trying-to-convince,19354/">http://www.theonion.com/articles/ask-a-man-with-a-russian-accent-trying-to-convince,19354/</a></i></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; "><b><p style="zoom: 1; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 22px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/18px helvetica, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18px; ">Dear Man With A Russian Accent Trying To Convince You To Go To An Ecstasy Party,</p><p style="zoom: 1; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 22px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/18px helvetica, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18px; ">My next-door neighbor has something of an in-house menagerie. Between his three dogs and several tropical birds, things can get pretty noisy. I very much believe in "live and let live," but sometimes late at night and early in the morning, the squawking and barking can just get to be too much. What is a firm but neighborly way to let him know that his pets are causing me distress?</p><p style="zoom: 1; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 22px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/18px helvetica, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18px; "><i>—Going Wild In Washington</i></p><p style="zoom: 1; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 22px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/18px helvetica, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18px; ">Dear Going Wild,</p><p style="zoom: 1; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 22px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/18px helvetica, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18px; ">Look, what is problem? You meet me, you meet Sergei, we are all friends now. Wait, hang on…please! Another drink for my new friend! Anyway, like I say, is one hour maximum drive only. I take you in my car, no problem. Is BMW five-series. We take pills on way, you feel very, very good when we arrive. Like on fire, but nice. You know? Vanya is also my friend, he is very good DJ. He is spinning best house music and we will dance all night. Best music, best pills, best girls, best champagne, everything the best. We go now, okay?</p><p style="zoom: 1; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 22px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/18px helvetica, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18px; ">Dear Man With A Russian Accent Trying To Convince You To Go To An Ecstasy Party,</p><p style="zoom: 1; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 22px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/18px helvetica, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18px; ">A very good friend of mine recently lost his job and is now struggling to make his mortgage payments. I'm by no means wealthy, but I'm certainly comfortable enough to lend my friend the money he needs until he gets back on his feet. The problem is, he's very proud of his self-sufficiency. How can I offer him a loan without hurting his feelings and jeopardizing our friendship?</p><p style="zoom: 1; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 22px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/18px helvetica, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18px; "><i>—Just Trying To Help</i></p><p style="zoom: 1; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 22px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/18px helvetica, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18px; ">Dear Just Trying,</p><p style="zoom: 1; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 22px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/18px helvetica, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18px; ">Over there—is your girlfriend? Very pretty. She will come too. We will all feel very nice and dance. The pills, they will not cost you nothing. Is my brother's place, everything for free. Is heated pool, is bar in basement, is, ahh…is home theater, is craziest sound system—everything you want. But we go now. Is late and I tell Yuri—Yuri, he is my brother—I tell Yuri I am coming there half hour ago. Get girlfriend now. We go.</p><p style="zoom: 1; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 22px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/18px helvetica, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18px; ">Dear Man With A Russian Accent Trying To Convince You To Go To An Ecstasy Party,</p><p style="zoom: 1; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 22px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/18px helvetica, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18px; ">My wife and I like to have cookouts every couple of months during which we have friends and family members over for steaks. However, every time my brother-in-law attends, he dominates the grill, insisting that he alone knows how to properly cook the meat. What is the best way to let him know that I think he's being obnoxious without causing too much friction between myself and my wife's family?</p><p style="zoom: 1; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 22px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/18px helvetica, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18px; "><i>—Gearing Up To Grill</i></p><p style="zoom: 1; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 22px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/18px helvetica, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18px; ">Dear Gearing Up,</p><p style="zoom: 1; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 22px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/18px helvetica, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18px; ">You know what is your problem? Is too much thinking. You will never do nothing you're whole life, just think. What is to think about? Take pill, dance. Simple. You think you know everything, but you don't know nothing. I have Breitling watch like this because I am thinking all day? No. Because I am doing. You would not believe me if I tell you things I have seen.†Crazy, crazy things. But maybe, you think, you are better than me. Are you thinking you are better than me, my friend? That would not be—hold on, is my mobile. Da? Nyet…nyet…nyet…da…nyet…nyet…da, dosvedanya. Is Yuri. You see, my friend? You are making us late. Sergei, you go now. I stay for little while longer and talk to new friend.</p><p style="zoom: 1; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 22px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/18px helvetica, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18px; ">Dear Man With A Russian Accent Trying To Convince You To Go To An Ecstasy Party,</p><p style="zoom: 1; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 22px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/18px helvetica, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18px; ">I've never considered myself a very religious person, but I certainly don't begrudge others their beliefs. My sister, however, married a very devout man and has taken up his faith; she now seems determined to also convert myself and my two daughters. How can I let her know that her proselytizing is unwelcome without my kids losing their aunt?</p><p style="zoom: 1; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 22px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/18px helvetica, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18px; "><i>—Preaching To The Choir</i></p><p style="zoom: 1; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 22px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/18px helvetica, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18px; ">Dear Preaching,</p><p style="zoom: 1; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 22px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/18px helvetica, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18px; ">You know, If you were not such my good friend, maybe I am getting angry now.</p><p style="zoom: 1; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 22px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/18px helvetica, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18px; ">Dear Man With A Russian Accent Trying To Convince You To Go To An Ecstasy Party,</p><p style="zoom: 1; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 22px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/18px helvetica, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18px; ">With tax season fast approaching, I am for the first time thinking about hiring an accountant. I have traditionally prepared my own taxes, but after seeing in the past year a significant increase in my personal income due to switching from a salaried to freelance position, do you think it is worth the money to hire a professional?</p><p style="zoom: 1; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 22px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/18px helvetica, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18px; "><i>—Taxed In Tucson</i></p><p style="zoom: 1; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 22px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/18px helvetica, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18px; ">Dear Taxed,</p><p style="zoom: 1; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 22px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/18px helvetica, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18px; ">You do not understand me, my friend! Please, do not go! Sit! Sit! Here, let me buy you drink. Relax, and we talk. Look, I only want for you to have good time, so why you resist? You hurt my feelings…here, drink. Good! Here is mine, too. Yes, very good. Now, why not you come for little while, and if you don't like, you just leave, no problem? I take you back myself. Please, go talk to girlfriend. I wait for you here.</p><p style="zoom: 1; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 22px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/18px helvetica, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18px; ">Confidential To Fed Up In Phoenix,</p><p style="zoom: 1; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 22px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 12px/18px helvetica, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18px; ">Ah, yes! Now you see! You will not regret, my friend. It will be night of your life, is my promise. Whoa! You almost fall over, my friend! Ha, ha, ha! Is no problem. We get you pills, you be okay. We go now.</p></b></span></div>Nate Drescherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05616820586588551280noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1102753501088368472.post-35373062872551156672011-02-27T13:09:00.011-05:002011-02-27T16:05:25.800-05:00Nova Scotia<div><iframe title="YouTube video player" width="425" height="349" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/NTbJhNuCLR8" frameborder="0"></iframe></div><div><br /></div><div><iframe title="YouTube video player" width="425" height="349" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/z3MHZ2LJuic" frameborder="0"></iframe></div><div><br /></div><div><iframe title="YouTube video player" width="425" height="349" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/jyN60goXcrQ" frameborder="0"></iframe></div><div><br /></div><div><iframe title="YouTube video player" width="425" height="349" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/sbhn8qVRiu4" frameborder="0"></iframe></div><div><br /></div><div><iframe title="YouTube video player" width="425" height="349" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/DfnGdvbO2G4" frameborder="0"></iframe></div><div><br /></div><div><iframe title="YouTube video player" width="425" height="349" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/H2Q_5lIVYV8" frameborder="0"></iframe></div><div><br /></div><div><iframe title="YouTube video player" width="425" height="349" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/b7aDudgcC2I" frameborder="0"></iframe></div><div><br /></div><br /><iframe title="YouTube video player" width="425" height="349" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/Rfw99vrBaBA" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen=""></iframe><div><br /></div><div><iframe title="YouTube video player" width="425" height="349" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/dl-CfQvz21Y" frameborder="0"></iframe></div>Nate Drescherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05616820586588551280noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1102753501088368472.post-81836192555403270602011-02-22T15:39:00.007-05:002011-02-22T15:55:05.462-05:00A Breath of Fresh AirI've been in Halifax for just over 1 week, and in that time have decided to stay here, begun looking for a job, scored 3 interviews, acquired a car (a nice 2000 Volvo) and started looking at apartments (mostly on the Dartmouth side). I've also managed to not spend all my money I brought from Russia! <div><br /></div><div>Not bad for one week! The job market in Halifax is actually very, very healthy. There are literally thousands of jobs and, when coupled with the very affordable housing prices, it makes living here seem like a no-brainer. The area is scenically beautiful; different than British Columbia, with it's soaring mountains and placid Pacific coastlines, but beautiful in it's own rugged, unspoiled north-Atlantic way. It's the people here that put Nova Scotia miles above British Columbia.</div><div><br /></div><div>Friendliness is everywhere. People stop on the street and say "Hello". They make eye contact here and smile. They do it all with a laid-back, confident style. The people are extremely helpful. Just yesterday I was driving the new car with a temporary license in the window (waiting for new plates to be made) and a cop pulled me over. It was my first pull-over in 2 years! Anyways the cop, a young guy, approached the car behind the driver window (and I kept both hands on the wheel so he could see them) and then said "Sorry."! </div><div>He continued. "I didn't see your temp [temporary plate]. If I could have your license and registration and insurance, I'll just run a quick check and then you'll be on your way."</div><div><br /></div><div>After a few minutes on the computer in his car, he came back and handed me a license, and then apologized profusely for pulling me over! I felt bad and said "Hey no problem."</div><div><br /></div><div>In comparison, people in British Columbia, especially in Victoria, are stuck-up and snotty. Many don't bother leaving their province ("We live in the best place on earth. Why go anywhere else?"). Compared to Russia, Nova Scotia is absolutely refreshing. After all this time it's surprising that I hadn't put more thought into settling here.</div><div><br /></div><div>Then there is, of course, the wonderful Maritime culture. I'm not talking about the grating, better-than-thou Celtic culture of Cape Breton, but the deep-routed historic culture of New England and the Maritimes. </div><div><br /></div><div>In one week I've firmly established a beach -head, as it were, here in Halifax, and from here on out it's all easy sailing.</div>Nate Drescherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05616820586588551280noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1102753501088368472.post-8474432561507782302011-02-16T12:59:00.007-05:002011-02-16T13:15:26.110-05:00The Year Was 1778<img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5574352380023806018" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-uJMOjlanDLM/TVwT9JgsGEI/AAAAAAAACWc/4aqNRmeOMjQ/s400/P1040460.jpg" /><br /><div>My dreams aren't really worthy of any Freudian psycho-babble analysis. Usually they involve beer, the occasional fuzzy slipper and a cheeseburger or two. Which is why it was so strange to have a more meaningful, realistic dream like the one I had two days ago.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>In this dream I had left Russia, kissing Katya farewell in the doorway of her flat in Schyolkova and climbing into a taxi at 2:30 in the morning. Then I was on a flight to Halifax, Nova Scotia. 12 hours later I was in Canada's maritimes with my mother and we were (typical for my dreams) drinking Alexander Keith's India Pale Ale and eating bacon cheeseburgers. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Then I was sitting on a warm sofa (again, with a beer in my hand) in front of a gas fireplace watching Criminal Minds in HD on a large flat screen television in my mother's living room, while outside the nearby ocean boiled in a sudden windstorm that had blown in from the Atlantic. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>After that my dream switched to driving across the impressively-large MacDonald bridge that spans the Halifax harbour between Halifax and Dartmouth. The naval yards were to my left and to my right were the tall glass buildings of Scotiabank and the Halifax Casino, lit up in the night and giving the city a feeling of grandeur. From the bridge we ended up on the highway all the way to the town of Enfield.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>When I awoke, it all had seemed so vivid, and so real. The part about leaving Katya behind in Russia while I found employment and prepared for her to arrive in Canada was particularly painful. But when I looked around, I wasn't in Katya's bed with my wife warm and sleeping beside me. I was in my mother's spare room. I was in Halifax!</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>It wasn't a dream, although it still seems like it isn't real. Unlike the last time I came back for 5 weeks, in September, this time it is a permanent move. I was originally planning on heading to Victoria and starting work as an At-Sea-Observer, a job I didn't particularly want but was a means to an end. Due to family reasons, and the fact that I've always loved Halifax and Nova Scotia in particular, I decided to stay.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>So my Mission to Moscow is actually over. It doesn't seem like it. I still expect to wake up back in Russia at any moment, but here I am in Canada. I feel at ease now, knowing I made the right decision in choosing Halifax. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>This blog won't be finished yet, however. New adventures await me and it will be interesting to switch the focus from my perspective on living in Russia to Katya's perspective on living in Canada. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Here I am. My new and, hopefully, permanent home. Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada!</div>Nate Drescherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05616820586588551280noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1102753501088368472.post-55264833341416831192011-02-11T05:59:00.010-05:002011-02-11T07:42:23.812-05:00Hot Russian Women<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-x7bMs9XGDl8/TVUuk7kZLHI/AAAAAAAACWU/_HPj5eY2WFc/s1600/moscow-girls.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 250px; height: 273px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-x7bMs9XGDl8/TVUuk7kZLHI/AAAAAAAACWU/_HPj5eY2WFc/s400/moscow-girls.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572411325941361778" border="0" /></a><br />Sometimes I get a lot of emails about this blog; most times I don't. Here's a sampling of the emails I have received:<br /><br />"I'm going to Moscow next month on a business trip. Can you recommend any ways to meet Russian girls?"<br /><br />"...you're a pussy. Why don't you have more pictures of Russian chics [sic] on your blog?"<br /><br />"...if I were you, I would'nt have got married and would have been spending the last year banging Russian babes...."<br /><br />"I take great offence at the portrayal of womyn on your blog. As a womyn myself, I believe that you represent the majority of men who are dull-witted, pig-headed chauvinists and the propoganda on your blog is nothing more than blablablabla...."<br /><br />(I wonder how entries like "A Brief History of Mytischi" makes me chauvinist...the fact of the matter is that most of the emails I receive are concerning one specific entry, about a time I drank vodka with two Russian strippers. The fact that this femi-nazi is concentrating on this particular entry shows a certain amount of interest on her part, as it is this sexualized entry that she focuses on and not the more mundane life I've lived in Moscow, which makes up 99% of this blog.)<br /><br />"At first I thought you were just another uninformed American, but after reading your blog I realized that you are an uninformed Canadian. You spew out garbage and misinformation as fact and you obviously know nothing about Russia. Your display of women is particularly disgusting."<br /><br />(This was from a Mr. J. Malandjer, obviously a fanatical academic, and I would invite Mr. Malandjer to not only come to Russia and see for himself what I've been writing about, but to also act like a better-than-thou douchebag to my face.)<br /><br />It is true: Russian women are generally stunning. Most of the fashion magazine models in the world are Russian, and most of the girls in Moscow could be fashion magazine models. They are filled with a mysteriously powerful femininity, charming flirtatiousness and have great fashion sense (at least in Moscow).<br /><br />With so much interest, both positive and negative, concerning my blog and Russian women, I've decided to finally post what I've been seeing for the past couple of years, mainly, seriously hot, sexy, beautiful women (take that feminists and academics! Welcome to a man's blog!).<br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-gAeioHUPnWw/TVUuLWXXW7I/AAAAAAAACWM/rW7A9FzKtuk/s1600/P1030327.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-gAeioHUPnWw/TVUuLWXXW7I/AAAAAAAACWM/rW7A9FzKtuk/s400/P1030327.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572410886457875378" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-I5r4rwtMOlc/TVUuLMlmkyI/AAAAAAAACWE/4uFrbSZ-p1Y/s1600/P1030286.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-I5r4rwtMOlc/TVUuLMlmkyI/AAAAAAAACWE/4uFrbSZ-p1Y/s400/P1030286.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572410883833238306" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6WQs26zMwow/TVUuBic5_9I/AAAAAAAACV8/QG92aSdvjr0/s1600/P1030326.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6WQs26zMwow/TVUuBic5_9I/AAAAAAAACV8/QG92aSdvjr0/s400/P1030326.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572410717903650770" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Bx1oOtI1hHA/TVUuBuDR1AI/AAAAAAAACV0/mZTnkrLoBKo/s1600/P1030325.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Bx1oOtI1hHA/TVUuBuDR1AI/AAAAAAAACV0/mZTnkrLoBKo/s400/P1030325.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572410721017385986" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-hK9d1-sNz-U/TVUuBcjrXGI/AAAAAAAACVs/zjsS9R4jR5M/s1600/P1030318.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-hK9d1-sNz-U/TVUuBcjrXGI/AAAAAAAACVs/zjsS9R4jR5M/s400/P1030318.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572410716321438818" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lALrhC5Ul88/TVUuBXGMfCI/AAAAAAAACVk/wjFqtFU1vVs/s1600/P1030296.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lALrhC5Ul88/TVUuBXGMfCI/AAAAAAAACVk/wjFqtFU1vVs/s400/P1030296.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572410714855603234" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1h6gPLTDwZ0/TVUuBbb5SKI/AAAAAAAACVc/LTMpZrqLBCw/s1600/P1030258.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1h6gPLTDwZ0/TVUuBbb5SKI/AAAAAAAACVc/LTMpZrqLBCw/s400/P1030258.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572410716020361378" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4TFfF5VTK0I/TVUtfUyavVI/AAAAAAAACVU/rolkLq3CJuk/s1600/P1020800.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4TFfF5VTK0I/TVUtfUyavVI/AAAAAAAACVU/rolkLq3CJuk/s400/P1020800.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572410130120228178" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Op0G00fZhGc/TVUtfMgZn7I/AAAAAAAACVM/W140_SLlij4/s1600/P1020788.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Op0G00fZhGc/TVUtfMgZn7I/AAAAAAAACVM/W140_SLlij4/s400/P1020788.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572410127897173938" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LGA9qSNJ0Rc/TVUteyKbimI/AAAAAAAACVE/UC1DKBR2UxM/s1600/P1020777.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LGA9qSNJ0Rc/TVUteyKbimI/AAAAAAAACVE/UC1DKBR2UxM/s400/P1020777.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572410120825703010" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-prw0ZW76BIU/TVUtetuHa8I/AAAAAAAACU8/s_1ZeLl4SUo/s1600/P1010131.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-prw0ZW76BIU/TVUtetuHa8I/AAAAAAAACU8/s_1ZeLl4SUo/s400/P1010131.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572410119633202114" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ewjkLVrTjTo/TVUtehYH4-I/AAAAAAAACU0/gcTNX8upC7M/s1600/28460_440510662393_624857393_6270292_2103804_n.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ewjkLVrTjTo/TVUtehYH4-I/AAAAAAAACU0/gcTNX8upC7M/s400/28460_440510662393_624857393_6270292_2103804_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572410116319732706" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-flDMdGl-Nbo/TVUtG0OCK5I/AAAAAAAACUs/oKrSeWzZ_24/s1600/58414_141132712594794_100000941984964_182217_1147439_n.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-flDMdGl-Nbo/TVUtG0OCK5I/AAAAAAAACUs/oKrSeWzZ_24/s400/58414_141132712594794_100000941984964_182217_1147439_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572409709060828050" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vJqKPynex8g/TVUtGY-Ex6I/AAAAAAAACUk/gVb-tBZNquA/s1600/27191_10150145678465553_769395552_11450898_5123554_n.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vJqKPynex8g/TVUtGY-Ex6I/AAAAAAAACUk/gVb-tBZNquA/s400/27191_10150145678465553_769395552_11450898_5123554_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572409701746132898" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IhrgqvN5K3Q/TVUtGM-dH1I/AAAAAAAACUc/_1IBkeup1LE/s1600/2008-2009%2B%252814%2529.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IhrgqvN5K3Q/TVUtGM-dH1I/AAAAAAAACUc/_1IBkeup1LE/s400/2008-2009%2B%252814%2529.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572409698526502738" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-iyHtVUb_uqo/TVUtGBjMFuI/AAAAAAAACUU/m85p0IYsjXk/s1600/moscow-girls.jpg"><br /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_9kvtVqVNjU/TVUtF5myolI/AAAAAAAACUM/d_k8ggCnOdU/s1600/527999954_1ca074392c.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 317px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_9kvtVqVNjU/TVUtF5myolI/AAAAAAAACUM/d_k8ggCnOdU/s400/527999954_1ca074392c.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572409693326975570" border="0" /></a>Nate Drescherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05616820586588551280noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1102753501088368472.post-45155294133026396342011-01-31T02:54:00.007-05:002011-01-31T04:22:15.836-05:00Redneck RampageNot every fun thing has to happen overseas. Think back to your childhood: you were perfectly content getting into all sorts of mischief at home (at least, I was). So with nothing happening at all in my life in Moscow (all the good times have come to an end, and I feel that I have worn out my welcome in Russia), I think back to my life in South Korea, and beyond then to my life in Canada.<br /><br />One incident in particular stands out as the best weekend I've ever spent.<br /><br />A national public holiday in Canada is Queen Victoria Day. It is officially on May 24 every year but always falls on the weekend closest to the 24th. A case of beer, with 24 bottles, in Canada is called a two-four, and Victoria Day is likewise called May Two-Four. No coincidence there.<br /><br />In 2001 I was living in the industrial factory city of Hamilton, Ontario where I was attending school. I lived off-campus in a bungalow with five other guys, but three of my friends practically lived there too. My oldest and best friend (until he married and disappeared a few years ago, and cut out all his friends from his life quoting that we weren't in his "circle of trust"), Doggawar, was attending film school in Toronto, about a one-hour drive from Hamilton. He spent nearly every weekend at my place.<br /><br />Doggawar was always a real brat, with an incredibly quick sense of humour and a horseshoe shoved far up his ass to boot. He was a big guy with a big beard and leather jacket. As an example of his wit, one time we were cooking steaks on the barbecue and another friend of ours walked up to the grill, found the biggest, juiciest steak there was and spat on it. "That one's mine" he pronounced, to which Doggawar, without hesitating, also spat on it. "Have it." He replied.<br /><br />Another friend, who I met in Hamilton, was Nailbomb (he liked the death-metal group of the same name). Nailbomb, with is his long black hair and thin, pointed face, was a punk/death metal/fuck-the-man kinda guy (and also the best driver I've ever met) who took great delight from mischief and building things. One time Nailbomb and I went to the woods around Hamilton and, using bungee cords from his Jeep Cherokee, built an actual working trebuchet and proceeded to hurl giant boulders down an escarpment. Good times.<br /><br />Then there was the fourth member of our little group: Mojo. It is difficult to describe Mojo. To this day I haven't figured out if he was truly slightly retarded or if it was an all an act. Whichever it was, Mojo operated on the premise that the least amount of brain power necessary to get through life is the best amount of brain power to use. Unlike me, the slightly preppy, athletic guy, and Doggawar, the big beard and biker-style guy, and Nailbomb, the punk rocker bad-ass guy, there was Mojo, who wore incredibly big bell bottoms and trendy snowboarder sweaters and liked to ride BMX bikes. Mojo, with his shoulder-length curly hair, once made a pair of bell bottoms out of duct tape and then wore them to the club, where he was immediately harassed by a group of black guys. When he started to try and talk in Eubonics with them, it was all over.<br /><br />The May Two-Four weekend of the year 2001 was to be a special long weekend. The four of us (originally three but we agreed to let Mojo come along provided he fetched us beer, cooked us food, etc...hence the name "Mojo") planned a trip to Owen Sound, on the stunningly beautiful Bruce Peninsula between Lake Huron and Georgian Bay. Owen Sound is mine and Doggawar's hometown, and in the summer offers beaches, girls, alcohol and sunshine. Unfortunately we were the wrong group of people to partake in such pleasures. It seems as if though every time the four of us, unlikely comrades all, got together the gods that be were incredibly annoyed.<br /><br />Nailbomb, the superb driver that he was, drove us the 2 hours to Owen Sound. By "good driver" I don't mean he was a law-abiding driver. Rather, he would plug into his car and then proceed to act like a fighter pilot in a dogfight, swerving at high speeds between traffic, dodging every obstacle that got in his way (he once drove home from my house completely in reverse, using back roads...it was a 20 minute drive). I never once felt in danger with Nailbomb's driving, because he was always in complete control.<br /><br />We were nearing Owen Sound, blazing along country roads ringed by quiet farms, blaring hard rock and smoking cigarettes and making fun of Mojo when all of a sudden a cop shot out of nowhere and, with lights blaring, pulled us over. 100 miles back Nailbomb had passed an elderly driver...on the gravel shoulder, and some other drivers had called the police. It took nearly an hour for the cop to catch up to us. Because the officer couldn't fine Nailbomb for an incident where he didn't actually witness it, but had pulled us over nevertheless, he had to find some other reason to issue a fine. After running Nailbomb's license through the computer in his car, the officer issued a different ticket. Nailbomb was driving without glasses, and the terms of his license said that he was supposed to be wearing glasses when behind the wheel.<br /><br />Nailbomb's three comrades immediately broke into laughter. The famous, hard-edged, fuck-the-man punk-rocker Nailbomb had to wear glasses! The cop took his license and made Doggawar drive instead, and issued Nailbomb with a fine. We went on our way, and even Mojo joined in making fun of Nailbomb, who was visibly embarassed.<br /><br />After another hour we finally arrived in Owen Sound and went to Doggawar's girlfriend's house (she left him soon after this weekend). Her parents had a huge, two storey home on 10 acres of forested land. The house was beautiful and the vast forest of maples and birch were in full bloom in the late May sun. While Doggawar went inside to greet his lady, Mojo, Nailbomb and I immediately popped the trunk of the car and cracked open the two-four of Molson Canadian we had brought from Hamilton. After our long drive we decided a nice beer was due us, then we would unpack our bags and settle in.<br /><br />One hour later Doggawar found us deep in the woods, throwing pinecones at each other's heads, surrounded by empty beer bottles and completely drunk. "What the hell?" He cried out in deep annoyance. "You drank ALL the beer?!!?" We looked around in shock. "Noooo!" we protested. "There's lots left! We couldn't have...." But of course, the three of us had drank an entire case of beer in an hour. Doggawar was pissed. "Damnit! Come on. We're going into town. You owe me a case of beer." He turned and stormed back to the house, and we stumbled after him.<br /><br />As we stumbled and laughed behind our visibly angry friend, Nailbomb pulled out a mickey of Jagermeister. "One for the road!" He decreed, and we immediately began chugging back the sickly-sweet alcohol. In the few minutes it took us to reach the car, we had polished off the Jagermeister, as well.<br /><br />We all jumbled into the car and with deep annoyance Doggawar screeched out of the driveway and we headed into town. At The Beer Store (one of my favourite Ontario retain chains) Nailbomb and I bought two more cases of beer, and Doggawar ran into his brother in the parking lot. They started talking and catching up so Nailbomb and I staggered over to the nearby river, where, without warning, I threw up. It was so sudden and so violent that my vomit projected over the river bank and into the water, followed by a sudden uproar of quacking and honking. A mallard duck, covered in vomit, flew angrily into the air. Quite a shot, if I do say so myself. Nailbomb was laughing so hard he had to sit down.<br /><br />We rejoined Doggawar and Mojo at the car and as Doggawar chatted with his brother I sat cross-legged on the pavement, the world spinning around and my stomach feeling like heaving again. I began muttering incomprehensibly, trying to say that I needed to sober up but instead mumbling "I need conditioning. I need conditioning." (I barely remember any of this). Nailbomb, the helpful friend that he was, took his lit cigarette and extinguished it on my forehead. "Aaaah." I sighed with relief. "That's what I call conditioning!".<br /><br />A few hours later we were back at Doggawar's girlfriend's house (along the way I instructed Doggawar "don't make any turns, don't stop, just drive straight"). As Mojo, Nailbomb and I were sobering up at this point, we cracked one of the new cases of beer and immediately resolved to get Doggawar drunk. Everytime Doggawar took a drink from his beer one of us would immediately give a new toast. "To the weekend!" "To us!" "To booze!" etc etc. After three beers in ten minutes Doggawar was crying out for mercy. "For god's sake!" Within half an hour he was as drunk as us and once again we were a team. This time, with a new great idea.<br /><br />Grabbing shovels and pick-axes we made our way into the forest and proceeded to build a bunker. It took us two hours and another case of beer but finally we had something reminiscent of the Mannerheim Line protecting Doggawar's girlfriend from the invading Red Army. For the roof we employed her father's chainsaw and some trees. Needless to say that, upon seeing us emerge from the woods with shovels and chainsaws, drunk and covered in dirt, she was immediately suspicious. "What the hell were you guys doing?"<br />"Nothing. Building a bunker."<br />"What???!!!??"<br /><br />She immediately banned us from using any wood to make a fire, a rather weak attempt to control us, the uncontrollable. So we used her father's jerry can of gasoline instead. She banned us from using the chainsaw, so we grabbed her brother's pellet guns and starting shooting each other instead. With a gas fire blazing (and we cooked bacon wrapped around sticks in it...quite delicious, if I remember) and guns shooting and bottles being emptied quickly, she had had enough. "Get the hell off my property, you..you...savages!" she cried. What a downer.<br /><br />We took a taxi to Doggawar's mother's house instead.<br /><br />It was a good move, because after a day of recovery (and a lot of his father's pot, bless his soul), we set out into the woods around Doggawar's house with pellet guns and beer and whiskey, and proceeded to have a little, painful war. It was Nailbomb and I versus Doggawar and Mojo. We stalked each other through the woods for some time until we came across Doggawar laying in some bushes with his air rifle pointing down the path we were about to stumble across. Nailbomb and I sat down behind a small ridge and strategized. Because I had a quick-repeater Daisy bb gun, I would run out, blazing away and draw Doggawar's fire while Nailbomb, with his single-shot powerful crack-open gun, would draw a bead and shoot the foe.<br /><br />I ran out, firing from the hip and dodging between trees. Doggawar opened up on me, splinters of tree bark blasting away around me from his barely-missed shots. Nailbomb, unseen, standing and taking careful aim with his rifle, let off a shot with a terrific CRACK and Doggawar screamed in pain. Nailbomb got him right in the ass. I dove down behind a log and lay there panting for breath for a few moments, before the three of us set out to hunt down Mojo.<br /><br />We found him submerged in a crevace, only his head and rifle showing. He actually took us by surprise and laid down a barrage of bb fire that kept us pinned. Unfortunately he had nothing protecting his flank so I made my way around to his left. We had a rule "No shooting each other in the head" and Mojo thought he was being clever by only exposing his head. But all is fair in love and war right? Especially when you're drunk. I took aim and nailed him the skull, blasting his baseball cap completely off. Game over.<br /><br />That night Doggawar's neighbour, a girl a few years younger than us, had a party. There were a hundred people there, listening to pop music and drinking Mike's Hard Lemonade, laughing and dancing and being, well, normal. Nailbomb pulled his car into Doggawar's backyard and started blaring Sepultura. We built a fire out of wooden skids soaked in gasoline. The four of us began hooting and hollering in drunken extacy. Soon, some of the people from the other party started drifting across the lawn to our inferno. They were eating grilled vegetables, so we offered charred meat on a stick. They were drinking vodka coolers, so broke out rounds of tequila from the bottle. They were playing cards, so we offered them pellet guns. Needless to say that soon her ENTIRE PARTY had relocated to Doggawar's yard. There were nearly a hundred people running around the fire, shooting guns, eating meat, yelling and acting like barbarians. Doggawar's neighbour, poor girl, sat in her yard with one or two friends and stared in anger at our Roman conflagration.<br /><br />The firing from the pellet guns became so intense over the course of the night that as people crossed the yards (No Man's Land, they soon called it), they would yell "Don't shoot! It's me, Dave...we met ten minutes ago. Remember? Hey! Wait! Ow!" Of course, Dave would then take his turn shooting other silhouettes in the firelight as they ran the gauntlet. At one point a little brunette girl with a tight shirt (I remember that much) started up a chainsaw and cut some wood for the fire, before another girl shot her in the ass. I myself was hit at least twenty times. Nobody was safe from the flying barrage of pellets and bbs, whether running for their lives across the yard or sitting around the fire roasting bacon on a stick.<br /><br />The next morning I woke up under Doggawar's back patio with a brown-haird girl draped over me. I had no idea where I was for a few minutes, but twenty or thirty painful welts all over my body (including one pellet imbedded in my back that had to be dug out by tweezers) quickly reminded me. I had no idea who the girl was but one of her hands was down my pants on my backside. I pushed her off me and she groaned in her sleep and curled up in a ball on the mud, and I scrambled out from under the patio. The yard looked like the battlefield of Gettysburg.<br /><br />People lay in all manner of positions, while a cloud of white smoke hissed into the sky from the firepit. Rifles and shoes and bottles littered the grass all the way into the tree line that surrounded the yard. A few brave souls stumbled about in hung-over pain, looking for personal effects. I couldn't see Doggawar or Nailbomb, but I found Mojo draped over the side of the roof of Doggawar's bungalow. "Hey!" I shouted. "Wake up, Mojo!" He raised his head in pain. "Huh?"<br />"Go find the others." I ordered. He scrambled down, monkey-like, from the roof and began poking bodies with his toes. I was determined to get out of there. The long weekend was coming to a close and Doggawar's parents were due back any moment that day.<br /><br />After a few hours of clearing up (actually, Mojo did almost all the cleaning while the three of us sat in the kitchen and nursed our hangovers and dug pellets out of each other's skin) we packed up the car and headed, much more slowly and listening, I believe, to Rod Steward on low volume, to Hamilton and back to regular college life.Nate Drescherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05616820586588551280noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1102753501088368472.post-48279895908587240112011-01-31T02:36:00.003-05:002011-01-31T02:51:35.082-05:00No Time For FunLife in Moscow these past 4 months has been incredibly boring. My time-consuming, energy-draining schedule persists. Wake up early in the morning, get on the bus to Moscow (1 hour), take the metro (30 minutes), walk to my first class (30 minutes), after that walk back to the metro (30 minutes), take the metro to my next class (30 minutes), get on a marshroutka bus (20 minutes), after that class get back on the bus and back on the metro, walk again (20 minutes), and after that take the metro to the train station and take a train home (1 hour), then another marshroutka (30 minutes).<br /><br />By the time I walk in the door it's around 11:30 at night. My wife, who has to wake up around 6 am to get to her job in Moscow, is usually asleep by the time I get home. I have just enough time to slam back a cup of tea and then crawl into bed to do the same thing the next day. Day after day after day. The worst part is that I'm making as much as I made with Language Link last year, but working 40 hours per week and travelling almost as much, instead of the 28 hours I worked before. Add to that the fact that Language Link provided an apartment, and all my classes were in one central location, and I'm actually getting burned with my current schedule.<br /><br />Because of this schedule, I have not had time to meet up with any friends or make any new ones, or visit any museums or interesting places, or party, or go clubbing, or anything like that. So I have no new stories about life in Moscow to share.<br /><br />A year ago I was in love with Russia and with Moscow. I was captivated by the overall sexiness of this great country, and the deep and rich history and the incredibly funny people and the <span style="font-style: italic;">laissez-fair</span>e attitude of living here. Now I've turned completely against Moscow and Russia. As Katya told me: "Now you see what life is REALLY like here." I miss the rose glasses I was wearing a year ago.<br /><br />So with no time to enjoy myself, and no interesting stories to write about, and a growing annoyance for everything Russian, I will be heading back to my home soon. It's too bad, because it used to be so great here. Oh Russia 2009/2010, I miss you!Nate Drescherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05616820586588551280noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1102753501088368472.post-74666870650786977962011-01-25T02:48:00.008-05:002011-01-25T04:28:59.034-05:00Stupid People<span style="font-style: italic;">Please excuse the red and yellow fonts in this text. Blogspot is being stupid and won't let me change them, no matter how many times I attempt to edit this post.</span><br /><br />Deep in the human brain four stages of our evolution can be identified, like the rings on a tree. Near the brain stem, making up a lump of brain mass, is the somatic brain, which is the oldest and most primal of our 4 brains and offers stunning testimony to the behaviours of some of the simpler creatures on our planet. This brain does nothing but control the ability to eat, breathe, reproduce, etc.<br /><br />Around the somatic brain a different brain grew, over the course of millions of years! This is the reptilian brain and is almost identical to the brain the dinosaurs had, evidence of which can be found in modern day crocodiles and other left-overs of earth's distant past. This brain is responsible for territoriality, aggression, visual response and other more primal behaviours.<br /><br />At some point between the last days of the dinosaurs and the rise of the mammals, the limbic brain evolved, which we humans share with all the other mammals on the planet (it should be noted that all the other mammals also have the before-mentioned two brains), and is what gives us emotions, particularly towards the creation and care of young. The limbic brain is so well-fused with the reptilian brain that researchers aren't sure if the two are indeed separate brains, although modern-day reptiles and birds have only the smaller brain.<br /><br />Finally, separating us from all other species on the planet (whales and dolphins aside, which have an extra brain on top of the four humans have), is the neocortex. This brain is responsible for all the remarkable achievements humans have performed over the past 8,000 years. The neocortex gives us speech, logic, art, intelligence and the ability to deal in abstractions. The neocortex is truly an awe-inspiring brain.<br /><br />Unfortunately for we humans, the other three brains, particularly the reptilian brain, continues to hold much sway over the way we think and behave. The feeling of revenge for a slight or a threat is a great example of the power the reptilian brain holds over our neocortex, which should, if given full control of our heads, come up with a much better response then "I'm gonna kill you, muthaf**ker!"<br /><br />Scientists and psychologists, who have been studying the brain and its workings for a long time (Egyptian and Greek doctors in antiquity had detailed descriptions of the human brain, unfortunately, many of those documents were lost when the Great Library of Alexandria, the storehouse of classical knowledge, was destroyed by religious zealots), have been keen to keep an emotional distance from their studies, which is a good thing when conducting any scientific expirement. Unfortunately they have left certain theories up to philosophers. Today, some of those theories are considered politically incorrect although there is a great deal of evidence to support them. Nobody wants to offend the (so-called) sensibilities of those who might fall into a certain categorization. Nobody wants to be called "stupid".<br /><br />Thank goodness for the internet, however, because now I can present to you my own theory on stupidity, although unfortunately it won't stand the test of intense peer review. I am well-aware of the scientific method; the development of a hypotheses, the application of expirement to see if the facts fit the hypotheses, the anylisation of the results, and the disciplined need to shelve any theories where the observed evidence doesn't support the hypotheses. Science is not the exclusive realm of a few elite, but the natural inquisitiveness of all humans to understand the world, and the cosmos, around them. When a baby first learns that gravity can make her fall down, and she begins questioning how, she is conducting science. When a happy couple stare at the stars in a telescope together, romantic indeed, they are in fact observing the nature of the universe and are conducting science. And when I'm on the Moscow metro and observing the people pushing and jostling and falling down, and developing a hypotheses as to the workings of stupidity, I am conducting science.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(255, 255, 51);">The Hypotheses</span><br /><br />Originally I wanted to show that there are people who are innately stupid, and then there are every one else. First I had to come up with a working definition of "stupid", which, for the purposes of this expirement, means "slow to understand, lacking intelligence, permanently confused and prone to repeatedly making incorrect decisions".<br /><br />My test was to see if people were indeed organically, biologically stupid, and for this I needed a control group of those I considered intelligent. I would then apply the same observations of my control group to the rest of the people I was observing (neither the control group nor the test subjects were aware that they were under observation). For my control group I chose a mix of people from different cultural backgrounds; one American male, one British female, one Korean male, two Russian males and two Russian females (as the test subjects would be Russians in Moscow, it was important to gather lots of information about Russians from my control group).<br /><br />After two months of study of the control group*, I found that they all had the ability to think clearly even under different stresses, and when alcohol was added to the equation the level of clear, intelligent thinking diminished at different rates for different individuals (but that, of course, is a different study that is well documented). The American male was, for example, able to keep a clear head when using Moscow's notoriously over-crowded public transit system, and thought ahead of seating arrangements and other details. The Brit was able to maintain a calm and clear and objective demeanour even when imbued with alcohol. The Russian control subjects showed themselves to be no different in behaviour than Americans or Brits, either when sober or when alcohol was introduced.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">*Of course, I didn't know I was actually performing a control expirement on my friends until AFTER I decided to test a hypotheses about the infinitely stupid.</span><br /><br />After looking at the information I had about my control group and then applying their behaviours to those of the general public in Moscow, I quickly found that my original hypotheses, that there are the naturally stupid and then normal, thinking people, was grossly simplistic. I had to shelve the theory and develop a new one. Basically, I believed there were varying levels of stupidity that could be categorized, but I wasn't sure what they were. After nearly a year of studying both intelligent people and idiots, in Moscow, London and Ottawa, I have come up with a theory to categorize stupid people.<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 255, 255);font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">Category 1: The Involuntarily Stupid</span></span><br /><br />These people make up a large mass of the human population, and usually come from countries where access to education and/or intelligent upbringing is denied them. They are not biologically stupid, as if given the opportunity to shine C1 (Category 1) stupid people would be quite succesful. Instead, culture, institutions and official carelessness has forced these people into a certain level of stupidity, and many have no idea that it is so.<br /><br />Example behaviours of C1 stupid people include extended use of the reptilian brain (perhaps because the neocortex was not stimulated properly during development), resulting in aggressive behaviour. The intimidating and uncouth behaviour of many central-asian immigrants to Moscow and the many young Russian males in the city can be attributed to C1 stupidity. With different options in their lives, these people could be quite different. Thus, C1 stupidity is created by society, and is not a natural stupidity.<br /><br /><span style=";font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(255, 255, 51);">Category 2 Stupidity: The Voluntarily Stupid</span><br /></span><br />At first I didn't even consider that people could choose to be stupid, but the evidence was overwhelming and I had to include C2 stupidity in this theory. Voluntary stupidity applies to those people who, for some reason or another, choose stupid behaviours even when all the tools to overcome stupidity are available to them. C2 stupid people are overwhelmingly found in advanced democratic states such as England, America, Canada, Western Europe and Australia. They can also be found in advanced cities like Moscow. Where educational programming, prestigious institutions, public internet access and a culture that emphasises knowledge is readily and easily available, some people just choose to be morons.<br /><br />An example of C2 stupidity from my observations can be found with people who have no mathematical ability, or knowledge of history or geography, and usually claim "I'm good at the arts but not at math". Math, like all knowledge, is not a natural ability but is learned. If someone is good at one thing they can be equally as good at another with discipline and effort. A more extreme example of C2 stupidity is when people readily believe, without questioning the evidence or using their natural logical capabilities, the tall claims of politicians (such as when the Bush administration duped half the American public into the WMD threat posed by Iraq). These people refused to even question the claims themselves, and eagerly chose to be stupid.<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">Category 3 Stupidity: The Inately Stupid (or Biological Stupidity)</span></span><br /><br />Not everyone, I observed, is forced by society or willingly chooses to be stupid. Many people are just biologically incapable of intelligent thought and behaviour. In large urban centres all over the world the phenomenon of C3 Stupidity is easily observed. For my own observations I was in Moscow, and was able to study C3 Stupid People up close and personal on the public transport system.<br /><br />C3 behaviour includes walking into another person, or scrambling like a frightened animal to get a seat without regard to personal dignity or the others around (usually with wide eyes and flailing limbs). The best example of Biological Stupidity can be found in any person who is hit by a train. For an intelligent person, it would take a supreme effort to be hit and killed by an extremely powerful and heavy machine that rides on tracks which covers only three feet of space, and makes a lot of noise and light hundreds of yards before reaching the victim. For someone who is naturally an idiot, it tends to be rather easy. Simply review the Darwin Awards for other examples of C3 stupidity.<br /><br />It is apparent in C3 stupid people that most of the brain functions are not working (evidenced by the way mammals stay out of the path of oncoming trains, although birds and insects are regularly killed by large vehicles). With effort, sometimes supreme, a C3 stupid person can fire a few neurons in the limbic or neocortex brains, but for most of their day they walk through life in a sort of unthinking daze, reacting (sometimes) to the various stresses and stimuli they are subjected to. It would be interesting to study if C3 stupidity is biologically passed on.<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">C4 Stupidity: The Divinely Stupid</span><br /></span><br />Unlike the C2 stupid who choose to follow the authority of their leaders, C4 stupid people have no choice. For some reason, these people are biologically unable to question appeals from so-called "higher" authorities. There is a great mass of humanity that are divinely stupid, and although they show intelligent functions in other areas of their lives (thus not relegating them to C3 stupidity), the appeal of authority immediately cows them.<br /><br />Examples of divinely stupid people include religious fanatics who come from intelligent, logical societies or upbringings (such as many of the evangelical Christians in America). Many Catholics, particularly in latin-European countries such as Italy, France and Spain, are C4 stupid. This level of biological stupidity doesn't only apply to religon, however. People who follow politicians blindly (without making the conscious effort to do so), are C4 stupid. The key here is that a C4 stupid person will always, for all their lives, maintain this behaviour yet show intelligence in other aspects of their lives.<br /><br />Divine stupidity is also common among the followers of New Age religions, conspiracy theories, UFO-oligists, people who recycle old ghost stories and Loch Ness sightings (purported as "evidence"...many C4 idiots like to mask their biological stupidity with appeals to science) and, in extreme cases, cult followers (Jonestown may have been a mass removal of C3 and C4 morons from the gene pool).<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 51);font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">Poli-Stupidity</span></span><br /><br />There are some special cases that display traits of 2 or more of the categories of stupidity. A person who is both forced by society to be stupid, but when put in an environment where opportunities are easy to come by for improvement, finds they are unable to learn (or chooses), is poli-stupid.<br /><br />An fantastic example of poli-stupidity can be found in Republic Senator Joe McCarthy during the 1950s, who displayed traits from all four categories of stupidity. The jury is still out on George W. Bush, as only history will decide if he was actually intelligent and conducting a policy of extreme stupidity for personal gain (which would make him quite smart), or if he was truly stupid. Chances are he knew what he was doing, and was exploiting the varying levels of stupidity in the electorate to pursue personal goals. He wouldn't be the first leader to exploit human stupidity.<br /><br />There it is, my theory of stupidity. Naturally it may be completely wrong, but I do have lots of observed evidence to support it. More than likely some categories will need altering, and others added, but I'll leave that in the hands of science.<br /><br />Error Bar: +/- 1.5Nate Drescherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05616820586588551280noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1102753501088368472.post-73665726208367784042011-01-19T03:43:00.010-05:002011-01-19T05:08:35.489-05:00Halifax or Victoria?Victoria, British Columbia or Halifax, Nova Scotia; that is the question. As Katya and I prepare to file her permanent resident visa application to Canada, one question plagues me: where will we live?<br /><br />The choice of location is only one small box on the visa application, but it is a very important box. As the sponsor, I must show that I can support my wife for three years, which means that I must show I have a job and a place to live. If we write "Halifax" on the application, and I then change locations to Victoria before the application has been completed, we must start the whole process anew.<br /><br />The decision is entirely up to me, as Katya reminds me every time I think aloud about it. "I don't know these cities, you do." she says. There's a great deal of responsibility on my shoulders in this matter, as I am determined to find one permanent place where we can settle down and never move from again. I am tired of travel and I have been living out of a suitcase for over two years now. I miss having a place that is mine, things that are mine, a stable and steady income and my own car.<br /><br />The choice of city must meet several criteria that I have thought long and hard about. These are as follows:<br /><br />1) Job market must be healthy enough to provide meaningful work.<br />2) Housing prices must be in line with salaries.<br />3) The city must be comfortable, clean and aesthetically pleasing.<br />4) The city must have the necessary culture and energy to allow both of us to be happy.<br />5) Facilities, infrastructure, commerce, government, services and safety must be high (although that will be easy to find in any city in Canada when compared to Russia).<br />6) The city must be near the ocean and have pleasant scenic views.<br /><br />Basically, where can Katya, a new immigrant to Canada, and myself live a happy and comfortable life? I was originally thinking of Guelph, Ontario (my original hometown) but have since dropped that from the list of contenders, and it is now down to either Victoria or Halifax. I keep Katya's perceptions in mind as much as I can when making this decision, as I know what it is like to live in a foreign land and I want her to be as happy and comfortable as possible. So here is my comparison of Victoria and Halifax.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">Halifax, Nova Scotia</span></span><br /><br />Halifax is a beautiful and historic city. As one of the older cities in North America, it boasts a rich historical tradition that is on display everywhere. It served as the main British naval port in North America during the American Revolution, and its massive fortress, The Citadel, dominates every point of the city.<br /><br />As one of North America's biggest natural deep-water ports, Halifax sees a lot of international shipping and trade every year and the provincial government has been wise over the past decade and has attracted a booming IT and communications sector to the city and thus, the job market is very healthy. A search for "jobs Halifax" brings up page after page of help wanted advertisements, satisfying my first criteria for a city. Score one for Halifax.<br /><br />Another point in favour of moving to Halifax are the incredibly affordable housing prices. 2-bedroom apartments rent for around $750 a month, and a small starter home in one of the sattelite suburbs can be bought for under $100,000. "Mini-homes" in Nova Scotia, homes that are not trailers but not full-sized houses (2 or 3 bedrooms, kitchen, living room, patio on the side...actually they can be quite nice), can be purchased for under $50,000, including a small plot of land! Halifax scores big on the housing front.<br /><br />When it comes to my third criterion, the comfort, cleanliness and aesthetics of a city, Halifax doesn't hold up as well. There are beautiful parts of the city, particular near the touristy harbourfront and along the roads that lead to Citadel Hill, but other parts of the city can be downright trashy (especially near the shipping docks and the large naval base). The winters in Halifax are famous for dumping six feet of snow in one night, and during the late summer the hurricanes that batter Florida and the Caribean every year smash into Halifax and die out over Nova Scotia. All told I think Halifax doesn't get a point in this department.<br /><br />Halifax does have culture and energy in abundance, however. A strong Celtic tradition that has been succesfully promoted by the descendants of the first Scottish settlers is every where. During the touristy summer season, fiddles and bagpipes create a cacaphony of noise throughout the city, and then there is the immensely popular annual Halifax International Tattoo..a big military drum and pipe festival that showcases marching bands from around the world. I'm not so sure how Katya will take the constant sound of bagpipes. Being from Russia, she has never heard one before in her life, let alone 100 blaring in unison. Nevertheless, Halifax meets the criteria in this department.<br /><br />Halifax is a fairly safe city, depending on where you go. Like all cities there is a fair amount of crime and some parts of the city are best avoided all together. Traffic can get bad in Halifax, especially over the two bridges that span the inner harbour during rush hour. Nova Scotians are, by and large, the friendliest and wittiest people in Canada but in their governance of Halifax's infrastructure it sometimes seems they can't get their act together (it might help Katya feel more at home). Halifax meets some of this criteria but not all.<br /><br />Finally, my mother lives in Halifax and would be able to help out with our initial relocation, but this is a double-edged sword as anyone who knows my mother can attest to.<br /><br />Of the six criteria I applied, Halifax meets 3.5 of them. It would be a nice and comfortable place to transition to life in Canada, but not necessarily the place to live, raise a family, retire, and die.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TTatHPzRH4I/AAAAAAAACQY/RiytFMjUs1U/s1600/hali1.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 263px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TTatHPzRH4I/AAAAAAAACQY/RiytFMjUs1U/s400/hali1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5563824729675079554" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TTatG7BGMyI/AAAAAAAACQQ/DuNdUpSgi84/s1600/hali2.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TTatG7BGMyI/AAAAAAAACQQ/DuNdUpSgi84/s400/hali2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5563824724095939362" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TTatB8oApOI/AAAAAAAACQI/0MUqXClBlTs/s1600/hali3.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TTatB8oApOI/AAAAAAAACQI/0MUqXClBlTs/s400/hali3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5563824638628242658" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TTatBsdSTlI/AAAAAAAACQA/JA-kqE4Ed2I/s1600/hali4.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 364px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TTatBsdSTlI/AAAAAAAACQA/JA-kqE4Ed2I/s400/hali4.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5563824634288295506" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TTatBdYY2oI/AAAAAAAACP4/53P7jS_9LYw/s1600/hali5.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TTatBdYY2oI/AAAAAAAACP4/53P7jS_9LYw/s400/hali5.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5563824630241221250" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TTatBToyX5I/AAAAAAAACPw/hC97MEi-92k/s1600/hali6.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 268px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TTatBToyX5I/AAAAAAAACPw/hC97MEi-92k/s400/hali6.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5563824627625648018" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TTatBIbFx9I/AAAAAAAACPo/Tfin87bOIdg/s1600/hali7.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 234px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TTatBIbFx9I/AAAAAAAACPo/Tfin87bOIdg/s400/hali7.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5563824624615409618" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 255, 255);">Victoria, British Columbia</span></span><br /><br />Nestled in on the extreme south end of Vancouver Island, Victoria is a young, vibrant and modern city. Stunning panorama views of both the Rocky Mountains and the Pacific Ocean create a dreamy quality to this deceptively peaceful city. Victoria is actually a bustling hub of traffic, commerce, construction and yuppy do-gooders.<br /><br />The job market in Victoria is not as good as Halifax. A search for "jobs Victoria" brings up lots of openings in part-time service roles (waiters, hotel staff, etc) but not many jobs in anything meaningful or well-paying. The company I worked for in Victoria before I came to Russia has been advertising as they prepare for the new fishing season, so there is a chance that I could find well-paying work there. Barring that, a lack of a Masters degree in Marine Biology or Public Policy Planning pretty much relegates the average joe like myself to waiting tables in Victoria, which scores negatively in my search for the perfect city to live.<br /><br />Also scoring against Victoria are the incredibly insane housing prices. A small 1-bedroom apartment in Victoria rents for around $900 a month! Of course, outside of the city, in communities such as Sooke and Duncan, prices are more reasonable but I must always think of Katya, who will be unable to get around easily while I am at work. Therefore public transportation is a key and neither Sooke nor Duncan offer easy transport to Victoria. Forget buying a house in Victoria, the average price of a starter home is near the half-million-dollar mark! Victoria fails miserably in my second criterion for a good city to live.<br /><br />When it comes to comfort, cleanliness and aesthetics, however, there is nowhere better on this planet than Victoria. This city is a beautiful testament to man's ability to blend modern life with nature. Although the city is young, modern buildings are designed with an eye to classical Victorian beauty, and the streets are well-planned. The inner-harbour is a peaceful and relaxing place to watch the sunset over the mountains and into the Pacific. Pods of orca whales glide around off the beaches, seals and otters playfully splash water at passerby's on the docks and eagles glide overhead. Because Victoria is situated in a sub-tropical environment, palm trees and tropical flowers bloom all year round (average winter temperature in Victoria: +8)...yes, Canada does indeed have palm trees!<br /><br />Talking about weather, Victoria can sometimes seem a paradise for someone like me (who abhors both heat and cold...I'm a room-temperature kind of guy). Temperatures in the summer rarely peak +28 and never drop below zero in the winter, and most of the rain skips past Victoria to fall on her unfortunate and much larger cousin, Vancouver. When it comes to the third and fourth criteria, Victoria scores incredibly high.<br /><br />The culture in Victoria is not nearly as loud (and some would say irritating) as Halifax, but there is a vibrant energy that is easy to feel the moment you enter it. Incomes are higher in Victoria, and a large population of well-to-do yuppies inhabit the scenic outskirts. Retirees are also found in abundance, as old farts flock from Canada's much colder eastern climates for the warm shores of the west coast. Unfortunately, this has also brought in waves of drug-addicts and homeless vagabonds, who find it easier to survive February in Victoria than in freezing Toronto. Crime in the downtown core and in areas such as Esquimault (another naval base) can be high, particular with smash-and-grabs and the occasional mugging at night, although Victoria has so far been spared the rash of gang-related shootings that has plagued Vancouver. Nevertheless, there is a warm, comfortable and cozy culture in Victoria and thus it scores high.<br /><br />In total, Victoria meets 4 of my 6 criteria, just barely outperforming Halifax. Of course, in the end this means nothing if I can't find a job and a place to live. The choices seem very unfair: be homeless in a paradise city or have a good job in a more trashy city.<br /><br />As I countdown to my return to Canada (which is soon, so we can get the visa process moving along...plus I've pretty much worn out my welcome in Russia), the decision of where to live looms larger and larger in my thoughts. Some nights it's all I can think about. Ultimately I know Victoria would be perfect, but I want security, a good salary and good housing, too, things that Victoria doesn't offer in abundance. I hope Katya hasn't placed her trust in a fool...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TTaswGJjxFI/AAAAAAAACPg/SDDuHX__a3Y/s1600/vic1.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TTaswGJjxFI/AAAAAAAACPg/SDDuHX__a3Y/s400/vic1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5563824331947230290" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TTasv9YOxCI/AAAAAAAACPY/wEp0AqTFgOc/s1600/vic2.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 333px; height: 266px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TTasv9YOxCI/AAAAAAAACPY/wEp0AqTFgOc/s400/vic2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5563824329592849442" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TTasox5fJCI/AAAAAAAACPQ/3cuZiFWFMt4/s1600/vic3.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TTasox5fJCI/AAAAAAAACPQ/3cuZiFWFMt4/s400/vic3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5563824206252024866" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TTasoJKKrqI/AAAAAAAACPI/wMMTxNl6EZs/s1600/vic4.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TTasoJKKrqI/AAAAAAAACPI/wMMTxNl6EZs/s400/vic4.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5563824195316133538" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TTasnlse3CI/AAAAAAAACPA/SK_2_nwRpEQ/s1600/vic5.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TTasnlse3CI/AAAAAAAACPA/SK_2_nwRpEQ/s400/vic5.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5563824185796385826" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TTasnrVlXtI/AAAAAAAACO4/mfVnEFNUFqA/s1600/vic6.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 334px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TTasnrVlXtI/AAAAAAAACO4/mfVnEFNUFqA/s400/vic6.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5563824187310956242" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TTasnQh1-YI/AAAAAAAACOw/XPOTy1xIFKo/s1600/vic7.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TTasnQh1-YI/AAAAAAAACOw/XPOTy1xIFKo/s400/vic7.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5563824180114618754" border="0" /></a>Nate Drescherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05616820586588551280noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1102753501088368472.post-2962594218868489282011-01-11T03:54:00.004-05:002011-01-11T04:26:53.976-05:00Plug In, Fill Up, Turn OffAlthough Christmas was kind of crappy this year (actually non-existent), and New Year was just another day with the added exception that I was sick with a head cold, I immensely enjoyed the 10 days off, doing nothing. Katya and I watched a lot of Amazing Race and Hell's Kitchen (I have turned her into a reality-TV junky. Best of all, she watches them in English). I visited a Russian banya for the first time, and resolved to never do that again.<br /><br />Going back to work in Monday was exceptionally painful, and it immediately put me into a foul mood. As I resumed my normal schedule, I thought about the end of the day and the 2 hours of travel just to get home. It is a routine I call "Plug in, fill up, switch off". Basically it involves finding a seat and plugging in to my ipod, then, once that is accomplished, filling my stomach with a schwarma or whatever food I found, and when I have completed that task I go to sleep until I reach my stop.<br /><br />The problem with finding food to eat is that there is so much crap in Moscow and, even worse, shitty customer service. I can even put up with bad food if the service was exceptionally good, but I can't tolerate bad food AND bad service. It seems to me that Russians just don't understand how a free market works. I do, and I continue to crusade against bad businesses by not giving them a kopeck of my money, and by remaining a loyal, paying customer to those businesses who make the grade.<br /><br />To keep organized, I've compiled a little list of businesses that pass or fail. This is by no means comprehensive (duh).<br /><br />Burger King: FAIL<br /><br />I have only visited the Burger King location at Metropolis shopping center at Voykovskaya, and on both occasions I went there I left not only disappointed but filled with anger (a the wrong emotion to instill in one's customers). The people at the serving counter were so completely rude, even demanding exact change like some babushka at a produkty. I watched as the staff clawed over each other to be the first to grab fries or burgers that had come up as if they were on the metro at rush hour, instead of working together as a team. My fries were soggy and my whopper had been sitting under a heat lamp for hours, and both times I went the cashiers treated me with such contempt that I resolved to never eat at any Burger King in the world again.<br /><br />Every Produkty in the Moscow Oblast: FAIL<br /><br />These stores make absolutely no sense to me. Go to one counter for your bread, pay. Go to the counter next to that for your milk and cheese. pay. Go the counter across from that one for your meat and pay. Go to another counter for a beer and pay. Why? Why not one counter?!? This isn't rocket science!!!<br /><br />It has been explained to me that this is because several owners operate the different counters, and being Russian they don't trust each other with division of the profits if there was only one cash. As a consumer that isn't my problem. It's theirs. Adding to the difficulty in picking up a few items for the house is the incredibly bitchy and rude customer service that is encountered at every produkty in this country. Exact change is always demanded, and I've even been refused service for not having 20 kopecks. I resolved to never spend a rouble at any produkty again.<br /><br />Hesburger: PASS<br /><br />This fast-food burger chain from Finland has become my favourite fast-food joint in Moscow. They are dotted all over the city but I find the quality and service is fairly consistent. The customer service is outstanding, especially for Moscow, showing that Hesburger is committed to training their managers and supervisors correctly (unlike Burger King). The food is also fantastic, and I love their menu. The Mega Burger and the Hess Burger are two of the best fast-food burgers I've ever tried. The restaurants are kept in good, clean order and, best of all, the prices are cheap and fantastic! I continue to be a loyal Hesburger customer!<br /><br />Moscow Oblast DPS (Traffic Police): PASS<br /><br />Despite rampant corruption, racism, incompetence and thuggery, the DPS earns a pass mark from me for several reasons. First, they have been cracking down on unlicensed drivers throughout the oblast over the past month, resulting in nearly 6,000 arrests and 12,000 fines and making Moscow drivers a little bit more afraid of the law (which is a good thing in this lawless land). The DPS has always fought very hard against drinking and driving, and most drivers in the region don't dare get wasted first and then go cruising around Moscow. Finally, and I saw this one with my own eyes, two little girls wearing backpacks and obviously coming home from school exited a bus and tried to cross the street at a crosswalk, where who I assumed was their mother was waiting. Traffic, however, wouldn't allow either the girls or the mother to cross, as the drivers were ignoring the lights and simply driving through (including my bus driver).<br /><br />One of the girls was crying, but just then a DPS car turned on his lights and pulled up to the two girls. One cop got out of his car and walked into the middle of traffic and brought everything to a halt, while the other cop took the girls by their hands and calmly walked them across to their mother. Then both cops got back into their car and drove off into the sunset, a display of humanity and generosity I have never seen in a police force, not even in Canada. Kudos to the DPS (for now).<br /><br />That's my list of compliments and complaints for today. I'm sure I'll think of more on the elektrishka tonight when I plug in, fill up and turn off.Nate Drescherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05616820586588551280noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1102753501088368472.post-47375517213064706202011-01-11T03:38:00.003-05:002011-01-11T03:52:07.139-05:00Best of 2010Here is my annual list of the things that will remind me of 2010, if any body cares.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 255, 255);">Movie: Cool Runnings</span><br /><br />I spent a large part of January and February watching this film with my classes, fitting in nicely with my Vancouver Olympics-themed lessons (which were happening at the time).<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 255, 255);">TV Show: Peep Show</span><br /><br />This hilarious British show was introduced to me by Quagmire and Ms. Australia, and I brought it back to Canada in September where it was an instant hit with those I showed it to. My favourite episode remains the one where he eats the dog...<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 255, 255);">Musical Artist: Sloan</span><br /><br />Riding on the marshroutka nearly every day in 2010, and for some strange reason the same song by Sloan would be shuffled into play on my ipod. Now, every time I hear any song by Sloan, I'm reminded of a Russian marshroutka.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 255, 255);">Book: The Master & Margarita (by M. Bulgakov)</span><br /><br />Definitely hands-down the best book I read in 2010. I gobbled it up while I was deathly ill in July and loved not only the satire and the bashing of the communist elite in Russia, but also the way the author switches back and forth from Pontas Pilot's dealings with Christ before the cruxifiction to the comedic devil and his trio running amuck in Moscow.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; color: rgb(153, 255, 255);">Song: Say Hello (by Deep Dish)</span><br /><br />This song will always remind of me three things: Moscow nightclubs, Moscow girls and the Moscow Metro, and I don't know why, but as I listened to each song I had nominated to represent the song of 2010 for me, this song stood out above all the others of conjuring up the most memories and images of that year.<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/7jXgFWzdeDI?fs=1&hl=ru_RU&color1=0x2b405b&color2=0x6b8ab6"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/7jXgFWzdeDI?fs=1&hl=ru_RU&color1=0x2b405b&color2=0x6b8ab6" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>Nate Drescherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05616820586588551280noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1102753501088368472.post-70880231059241036012010-12-28T02:59:00.011-05:002010-12-28T04:22:48.756-05:00Canned Christmas<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TRmqkujtG6I/AAAAAAAACNQ/V6g7GJKpiLM/s1600/165612_475730850987_699475987_6294660_5612715_n.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TRmqkujtG6I/AAAAAAAACNQ/V6g7GJKpiLM/s400/165612_475730850987_699475987_6294660_5612715_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5555659163288017826" border="0" /></a><br />Christmas, as we understand it in the west, isn't celebrated in Russia on December 25. They reserve that for New Years, thanks in large part to the Russian Orthodox Church and the Communist regime Russians lived under for three-quarters of a century.<br /><br />The Orthodox Church never changed from the Julian calendar to the Gregorian calendar, meaning that they remained about 13 days ahead of Europe (who changed to the modern Gregorian calendar a few centuries ago). So while, technically, Christmas is celebrated on December 25 in Russia, it is in actual fact January 7.<br /><br />The Communists, on the other hand, in their war on religion, set out to destroy the Russian Orthodox Church (which was a HUGE part of Russia's national make-up) and in addition to demolishing historic churches and arresting clergy, they also banished Christmas. They recognized that the people needed something to celebrate, so they moved Russia to the Gregorian calendar and made New Years the big celebration in Russia. As a result, after three generations of forced celebration on December 31st, New Years is today the big holiday in Russia.<br /><br />New Years has all the trappings of Christmas, including "New Years" trees, "New Years" gifts and cards, Grandfather Frost who brings gifts to children on "New Years Eve" and everything else one would expect on Christmas, with the added tradition of drinking until one nearly dies.<br /><br />Because I am from the west and December 25 is still the biggest day of the year in my mind (and soul), I decided to celebrate Christmas as best as I could. Katya and I travelled to the historic town of Suzdal, about 280 km south-west of Moscow.<br /><br />We both took Friday (Christmas Eve) off work and boarded a train bound for Lake Baikal, in Siberia, for the three-hour journey. There were only second-class seats left but we felt like splurging so we forked over 500 RUB each and found our car. Two army men were sitting in our compartment (2nd class on Russian trains consists of a private compartment with 4 bunks for 4 people).<br /><br />At first Katya and ignored the two soldiers, who had a dignified air about them, and we chatted away in English. On Russian trains one cannot use the toilet until the train has left city limits, so after thirty minutes, when the train had departed from Moscow and the jungle of apartment blocks and rusting factories had changed to snow-covered birch and pine forests, Katya left the compartment to find the little girls room. I sat in silence with the two soldiers.<br /><br />Suddenly, one of the soldiers, a young man with a soft face and two silver stars on his shoulder boards, turned to me and in perfect English asked "Where are you from?" I was surprised and answered "Canada. And you?" He looked at me in a strange way for a moment and then began to laugh. "Russia, of course!" he answered. "I'm Anton, and this is Sergey" He motioned to the incredibly large young man sitting across from him with piercing blue eyes. Sergey must have been at least six-foot-four and was bulging with muscle, even in his baggy camouflaged army uniform.<br /><br />By the time Katya returned to our compartment the three of us were swapping jokes and laughing and acting like old friends. Katya looked a little confused but sat down anyways (she later admitted she thought she had entered the wrong compartment). Anton was a lieutenant and he was taking Sergey, a private who had just finished boot camp, to his first posting in Siberia. They had a 3-day journey and then once Lt. Anton had safely delivered his young charge, he had a 3-day journey back to Moscow. Anton was a true slavophile, who told me numerous time that he "loves Russia" and held his hand on his heart every time.<br /><br />When I asked about the black panther patch on their uniforms, he told me that they were internal military security forces. "In Stalin's time we were called NKVD" he informed me, and then pulled out a bottle of vodka and a sausauge and some bread, and we all began to drink. "I like Canada" Anton explained to me. "I thought you were American at first, and didn't want to talk to you." As he drank more vodka, he began to repeat "I love my country. I like Canada. I don't like America."<br /><br />When the train reached the city of Vladimir, mine and Katya's point of debarkation, we gathered our things and said our goodbyes. "Wait!" Anton exclaimed, and he pulled out of his duffle bag a big box of Russian army rations. "Merry Christmas!" he said and thrust the box at me. "Umm" I stammered, not sure what to do. He was drunk and would probably miss them later, and I also had no room to carry 2kg of canned food around with me. His gift was thoughtful and he was genuinely being kind, however. "Thanks!" I replied. "Merry Christmas to you! And S Novom Godom (Happy New Year)!"<br /><br />Anton smiled proudly. "Nobody will believe that I was drinking with a Canadian!" he declared.<br />"Nobody will believe I was drinking with NKVD!" I replied, and we both laughed. Then the kind and drunk security lieutenant gave me a big Russian bear hug, and Katya and I left the train.<br /><br />With our own bags and a bulky 2kg box of powdered and canned army rations under my arm, we struggled through the snow of Vladimir until we found the bus station. There is no train station in Suzdal itself. so we had to take the train to Vladimir (another historic city and once the capital of Russia in the 15th Century) and then a 1-hour bus ride to Suzdal.<br /><br />Suzdal is a Russian showpiece. The town is a UNESCO World Heritage Site, so it is completely devoid of factories and highrises and highways. All the houses are little and ornately decorated in rich carvings and colours, in the traditional Russian way. More brilliantly still, there are nearly 150 bright Orthodox churches in the town and surrounding country side, so hundreds of multi-coloured, multi-shaped steeples poke up into the air from Suzdal's skyline. The roads were small and tree-lined and with a rich blanket of thick white snow, the town had a fairy-tale quality to it. Best of all, the rude and aggressive crowds of assholes that is Moscow were far behind us. The entire town was silent.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TRmqZHQAu1I/AAAAAAAACNI/VH8a2_O_qYw/s1600/167276_475729785987_699475987_6294611_7154163_n.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TRmqZHQAu1I/AAAAAAAACNI/VH8a2_O_qYw/s400/167276_475729785987_699475987_6294611_7154163_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5555658963757874002" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TRmqYvg8CBI/AAAAAAAACMw/I-Nh5VKIFRY/s1600/163957_475729965987_699475987_6294620_3332120_n.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TRmqYvg8CBI/AAAAAAAACMw/I-Nh5VKIFRY/s400/163957_475729965987_699475987_6294620_3332120_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5555658957386418194" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TRmqZDtNMPI/AAAAAAAACNA/z59uC-2bW_8/s1600/165647_475729985987_699475987_6294621_7141878_n.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TRmqZDtNMPI/AAAAAAAACNA/z59uC-2bW_8/s400/165647_475729985987_699475987_6294621_7141878_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5555658962806583538" border="0" /></a><br />Katya and I spent two nights in Suzdal, exploring the churches and museums. On Christmas morning I awoke to find a small, luggage-sized Christmas tree with one sock under it. Katya, knowing Christmas is my favourite time of year (she calls me Clark Griswald), had packed a little tree and begun knitting me socks, but didn't have time to finish the second one. Across the small street from us was a huge convent surrounded by a big white wall. This convent is where the Tsars sent unwanted wives.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TRmqktky8xI/AAAAAAAACNY/XQXzdX0E3I0/s1600/63638_475728930987_699475987_6294574_4279119_n.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TRmqktky8xI/AAAAAAAACNY/XQXzdX0E3I0/s400/63638_475728930987_699475987_6294574_4279119_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5555659163024159506" border="0" /></a><br /><br />We spent Christmas Day walking through the town, and visited the Suzdal Kremlin and the Museum of Wooden Architecture (a big, open-spaced museum where wooden buildings have been reconstructed and period-actors roam about).<br /><br />One problem with Suzdal is that it is pretentiously over-priced. The service is no better than in Moscow, nor is the quality of the food at restaurants, yet the prices were 20% higher. One restaurant was decent, however. Sokol, on the main street, has a nice little bar tucked into a corner of the second floor and they serve food from the restaurant upstairs. The barman is friendly and courteous, although the prices still suck.<br /><br />Our hotel was wooden and the room was made of big wood logs, in the Russian tradition. We were the only guests in the hotel and the staff even went home at night, so on Christmas night, after a day walking through the town, we got drunk at the bar and sat in the lounge listening to music and playing chess, eating kalbasa and cheese on crackers.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TRmqYvez9vI/AAAAAAAACMo/Tfq-DsJgTso/s1600/163808_475726875987_699475987_6294553_6048035_n.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TRmqYvez9vI/AAAAAAAACMo/Tfq-DsJgTso/s400/163808_475726875987_699475987_6294553_6048035_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5555658957377500914" border="0" /></a><br />On Boxing Day, December 26, we took the bus back to Vladimir and caught an elektrishka back to Moscow. I was hoping for another train, with it's comfortable bunks and drunk soldiers, but there were none that day, so we were stuck with a Moscow commuter train, complete with asshole babushkas and panhandlers who crowded and annoyed us for 3 1/2 hours.<br /><br />On the elektrishka my stomach began to growl. We hadn't had time to eat that day, and we had just barely made the train so didn't have time to pick up food. With no prospect of sustenance for five or six hours (after arriving in Moscow we had to take another elektrishka to Shyelkova, and then a bus to Katya's home), and beginning to feel positively famished, I did the only thing I could think of. I opened the box of army rations the friendly NKVD officer had given me.<br /><br />Inside were cans of preserved meat, packs of preserve jams, vacuum-sealed high-energy crackers, packets of vitamins, powdered juice and tea, and four little burners to cook food with. There was also a can of buckwheat porridge, which I immediately resolved to NEVER open.<br /><br />One of the cans had a picture of a cow on it, so I picked that one out of the box and opened some sealed crackers. There was a little thumb-sized metal blad with a tiny notch in the handle which I assumed (correctly...I think) was a can-opener and so, surrounded by idiots and assholes on an uncomfortable wooden elektrishka seat, I began to saw away at the can of preserved beef.<br /><br />I was surprisingly succesful, as I slowly but surely pried the lid off the can. A putrid sweet odour from the can spread throughout the elektrishka car, and people began looking over at us (especially the fat old woman sitting next to me) as I hacked and sawed. Fatty, oily juice sloshed over the sides of the can onto the floor and seat. Finally I opened the can and peeled back the tin lid.<br /><br />Inside were big, disgusting chunks of brown and grey beef, with a thick layer of waxy white fat on the top. Katya looked at me in a strange way, knowing how picky I am about food. I was starving (and a little hung-over) and I had just gone through so much to open the can, so I was committed at that point to eating it. I grabbed a cracker and jammed it into the disgusting cesspool of meat and fat and oil I held in my hand, and scooped up a big, dripping piece of what I assumed was beef. And I ate it.<br /><br />I ate the whole can of it, in fact. It was absolutely putrid. It ranks high on my list as one of the most disgusting things I've ever eaten, next to steamed silkworm larvae (Korea) and baked bat (Thailand). It was filling, however, and after I had eaten the can, fat and all, I threw it in a plastic bag and resolved to never eat that stuff again. Later that night my stomach revolted and I spent spent several hours running to the toilet, which begs the question "How do soldiers eat this and perform their duties"?<br /><br />On Monday I returned to work, and so ended my second Christmas in Russia.Nate Drescherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05616820586588551280noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1102753501088368472.post-61303436765725374162010-12-21T03:28:00.011-05:002010-12-21T04:51:17.303-05:002010 In Photos2010 was a very interesting year for me. The moment it started, in the early minutes of January 1st, I was greeted by a cacaphony of noisy fireworks, and the year progressed in much the same manner. Below is my 2010 captured in photographs, from the cold snows of wintery Moscow to the epic history of Volgograd to the brilliant colours of an Ontario autumn.<br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TRBuW98hhXI/AAAAAAAACL8/N3R3Rp_F1OU/s1600/1.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TRBuW98hhXI/AAAAAAAACL8/N3R3Rp_F1OU/s400/1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553059681412416882" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 0); font-weight: bold;">Industrial-sized fireworks being lit in Shyolkova. <span style="font-style: italic;">January 1st 2010</span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TRBuWz07BlI/AAAAAAAACL0/egNjcnib1Bk/s1600/2.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TRBuWz07BlI/AAAAAAAACL0/egNjcnib1Bk/s400/2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553059678696179282" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 0); font-weight: bold;">Quagmire, Mr. Irish and Mr. Irish's friend. <span style="font-style: italic;">January 1st 2010</span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TRBuWt-9xBI/AAAAAAAACLs/asmAFEkz2w8/s1600/3.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TRBuWt-9xBI/AAAAAAAACLs/asmAFEkz2w8/s400/3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553059677127689234" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 0); font-weight: bold;">During the New Year holidays Quagmire and I did a drinking tour of Moscow, and despite getting extremely drunk (and spending all our money) we saw some interesting sights.<span style="font-style: italic;"> January 2010.</span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TRBuN4uT8YI/AAAAAAAACLk/h-wp5bvVwq8/s1600/4.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 299px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TRBuN4uT8YI/AAAAAAAACLk/h-wp5bvVwq8/s400/4.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553059525391806850" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 0); font-weight: bold;">Park Pabyedi (Victory Park). <span style="font-style: italic;">February 2010</span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TRBuN-n1Z0I/AAAAAAAACLc/V_3Al9pThxA/s1600/5.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TRBuN-n1Z0I/AAAAAAAACLc/V_3Al9pThxA/s400/5.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553059526975252290" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 0); font-weight: bold;">In the metro going to the Moscow Ballet Company. <span style="font-style: italic;">February 2010</span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TRBuNh35-jI/AAAAAAAACLU/GD1La0u-mKg/s1600/6.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TRBuNh35-jI/AAAAAAAACLU/GD1La0u-mKg/s400/6.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553059519258032690" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 0); font-weight: bold;">Winter Wonderland! Shyolkova, <span style="font-style: italic;">February 2010</span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TRBuNTJDYSI/AAAAAAAACLM/qUBiz581YZA/s1600/7.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TRBuNTJDYSI/AAAAAAAACLM/qUBiz581YZA/s400/7.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553059515303420194" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 0); font-weight: bold;">Watching the Olympic gold-medal hockey game between Canada and the US. Katya made these mittens herself. <span style="font-style: italic;">February 2010.</span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TRBuNP2eOxI/AAAAAAAACLE/yGZ5MPZLfYg/s1600/8.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TRBuNP2eOxI/AAAAAAAACLE/yGZ5MPZLfYg/s400/8.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553059514420181778" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 0); font-weight: bold;">Quagmire and Ms. Australia. Their uneasy relationship is easy to see. <span style="font-style: italic;">March 2010</span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TRBwbz-LEKI/AAAAAAAACMM/L5OJtg2nbeI/s1600/223.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TRBwbz-LEKI/AAAAAAAACMM/L5OJtg2nbeI/s400/223.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553061963657580706" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 0); font-weight: bold;">Surrounded by beautiful women at one of our house parties.<span style="font-style: italic;"> April 2010</span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TRBuAgvVVyI/AAAAAAAACK8/R54KHO7yN5s/s1600/9.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TRBuAgvVVyI/AAAAAAAACK8/R54KHO7yN5s/s400/9.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553059295615342370" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 0); font-weight: bold;">Dutchie, Katya and Q in Volgograd.<span style="font-style: italic;"> May 2010</span></span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TRBuAR-3fII/AAAAAAAACK0/MkoIe28OmPE/s1600/10.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TRBuAR-3fII/AAAAAAAACK0/MkoIe28OmPE/s400/10.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553059291653962882" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 0); font-weight: bold;">The mighty Volga River.<span style="font-style: italic;"> May 2010</span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TRBt_y2c-dI/AAAAAAAACKs/bwA3bSvt36E/s1600/11.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TRBt_y2c-dI/AAAAAAAACKs/bwA3bSvt36E/s400/11.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553059283297171922" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 0); font-weight: bold;">The Rodina Matr statue on the top of Mamaev Kurgan. Volgograd,<span style="font-style: italic;"> May 2010</span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TRBt_6zd9GI/AAAAAAAACKk/F4DAIvUVnRc/s1600/12.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TRBt_6zd9GI/AAAAAAAACKk/F4DAIvUVnRc/s400/12.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553059285432136802" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 0); font-weight: bold;">The flour mill memorial to the fighting at Stalingrad. Volgograd,<span style="font-style: italic;"> May 2010</span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TRBt2Wd6JiI/AAAAAAAACKU/joNTMICoXcg/s1600/14.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TRBt2Wd6JiI/AAAAAAAACKU/joNTMICoXcg/s400/14.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553059121059210786" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 0); font-weight: bold;">Sexy girls and interesting fashions. Volgograd,<span style="font-style: italic;"> 2010</span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TRBt_vrYPwI/AAAAAAAACKc/gWFHv7qXH-M/s1600/13.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TRBt_vrYPwI/AAAAAAAACKc/gWFHv7qXH-M/s400/13.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553059282445418242" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 0); font-weight: bold;">On the train from Volgograd to Moscow. <span style="font-style: italic;">May 2010</span>.</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TRBtn1UxaFI/AAAAAAAACKE/kqfyb-owC2A/s1600/16.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 265px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TRBtn1UxaFI/AAAAAAAACKE/kqfyb-owC2A/s400/16.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553058871644350546" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 0); font-weight: bold;">Victory Day celebrations in Moscow. <span style="font-style: italic;">May 9, 2010</span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TRBwb-SSKYI/AAAAAAAACMU/oQ8-PrMHW58/s1600/224.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TRBwb-SSKYI/AAAAAAAACMU/oQ8-PrMHW58/s400/224.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553061966426286466" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 0); font-weight: bold;">A Russian wedding: Sasha and Galya wed. <span style="font-style: italic;">June 2010.</span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TRBwbsuPOnI/AAAAAAAACME/oMgIKx8fY8s/s1600/222.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TRBwbsuPOnI/AAAAAAAACME/oMgIKx8fY8s/s400/222.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553061961711696498" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 0); font-weight: bold;">My "handlers", Olga and Vlada, at our end-of-school-year party. <span style="font-style: italic;">June 2010.</span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TRBwcPJHgdI/AAAAAAAACMc/K5i35P5VBcE/s1600/225.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TRBwcPJHgdI/AAAAAAAACMc/K5i35P5VBcE/s400/225.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553061970951242194" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 0); font-weight: bold;">Wonderpants' last night in Russia. The two of us got incredibly drunk alone together and sang sea shanties.<span style="font-style: italic;"> June 2010.</span></span><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TRBtn1UxaFI/AAAAAAAACKE/kqfyb-owC2A/s1600/16.jpg"><br /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TRBtoYFn45I/AAAAAAAACKM/svRgFxDClVo/s1600/15.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TRBtoYFn45I/AAAAAAAACKM/svRgFxDClVo/s400/15.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553058880976053138" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 0); font-weight: bold;">Smoke from the burning peat bogs and forest fill Moscow, adding more misery to the +42 degree heat.<span style="font-style: italic;"> July 2010.</span></span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TRBtnj5pTvI/AAAAAAAACJ8/dAtaa4bzx68/s1600/17.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TRBtnj5pTvI/AAAAAAAACJ8/dAtaa4bzx68/s400/17.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553058866967170802" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 0); font-weight: bold;">Katya and I get married in ZAGS in Moscow. <span style="font-style: italic;">August 2010.</span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TRBtnaTVqNI/AAAAAAAACJ0/kqUXqYfOYMI/s1600/18.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TRBtnaTVqNI/AAAAAAAACJ0/kqUXqYfOYMI/s400/18.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553058864390580434" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 0); font-weight: bold;">Thatched-roof pub in Daventry, England. <span style="font-style: italic;">September 2010.</span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TRBtnO7EfZI/AAAAAAAACJs/V9B_lCvb3aY/s1600/19.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TRBtnO7EfZI/AAAAAAAACJs/V9B_lCvb3aY/s400/19.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553058861336001938" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 0); font-weight: bold;">Quagmire and I did a drinking tour of London, and despite getting extremely drunk (and spending all our money) we saw some interesting sights. <span style="font-style: italic;">September 2010.</span></span><br /><br /><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TRBtaZxfdOI/AAAAAAAACJk/wElsRrHAw0s/s1600/20.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 265px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TRBtaZxfdOI/AAAAAAAACJk/wElsRrHAw0s/s400/20.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553058640910316770" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 0); font-weight: bold;">Beautiful autumn near Ottawa, Ontario, Canada.</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 0); font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">October 2010</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TRBtaLbW8eI/AAAAAAAACJc/Q-ZnpI-ZecI/s1600/21.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TRBtaLbW8eI/AAAAAAAACJc/Q-ZnpI-ZecI/s400/21.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553058637059387874" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 0); font-weight: bold;">My sister and brother in Ottawa. Over the past few years I have grown closer to my family and it was such a joy to spend two months with them in the fall.<span style="font-style: italic;"> October 2010.</span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TRBtZwztWBI/AAAAAAAACJU/C219bfI4Hy0/s1600/22.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TRBtZwztWBI/AAAAAAAACJU/C219bfI4Hy0/s400/22.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553058629913761810" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 0); font-weight: bold;">First snowfall of the new winter. Katya in Shyolkova. <span style="font-style: italic;">November 2010.</span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TRBtZuDWDfI/AAAAAAAACJM/akTIWdUkIh8/s1600/23.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TRBtZuDWDfI/AAAAAAAACJM/akTIWdUkIh8/s400/23.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5553058629174038002" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 255, 0); font-weight: bold;">Doing something. I don't know what. Shyolkova,<span style="font-style: italic;"> December 2010.</span></span><br /></div>Nate Drescherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05616820586588551280noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1102753501088368472.post-21253239878828183822010-12-14T06:06:00.004-05:002010-12-14T06:22:27.585-05:00Kill Me...PleaseIt has been a greuling month for me so far, and one that I will take measures to prevent from happening again.<br /><br />As I'm now off-contract and fully-independent, I have worked very hard to build up a good schedule of private clients. While I have been succesful it is a lot more difficult to actually work that schedule than when I had a comfortable school to hang out in. Add to the fact that I'm living outside of the city and it takes nearly 2.5 hours to get to Moscow, and I have very long days. Language Link didn't help when they scheduled one of my Russian classes on Saturday afternoons, thus giving me only 1 day off per week.<br /><br />I wake up between 7:30 and 8 am, Monday to Saturday, and spend 30 minutes on a marshrutka (mini bus) and then over an hour on the elektrishka, Moscow's commuter train system. Then I spend between 30 and 45 minutes on the metro and on some days have to walk another 20 - 30 minutes from the metro station to reach my class. After the class I'm back on the metro and do it again for the next class. After that I repeat the whole process again.<br /><br />As most people want to study at 7 pm this means that I don't finish work until 9, and then it's a 2.5 hour ride back home. I get in the door around 11:30 every night, go to sleep, and wake up and do it again. I have no time to visit friends or enjoy a dinner or go to a bar. I spend every day fighting with the incredibly bitchy and stupid babushkas (I call them "babitchkas") on Moscow's public transit. I do this 6 days a week.<br /><br />Katya also works in Moscow, and although she doesn't have to spend hours riding the metro and walking in the freezing snow with a pair of sneakers that are falling apart, she is out the door by 6:30 every morning and isn't home until after 9. This means we only really see each other on Sundays.<br /><br />Sundays should at least be a relaxing day, except that we are living with Katya's mother, and on Sundays her sister and brother-in-law and her father come over and everyone has dinner and speaks very quickly in Russian I can't understand. There is no rest. Katya and I are both at our breaking point with only the promise of 10 days of peace during the New Year holidays in 3 weeks to keep us going.<br /><br />In the new year we are getting a flat in Moscow, probably in February, and hoping and praying that she can get her Canadian permanent residency visa soon. The moment she has that we are off to a more relaxed country, where we will have a car to get around and regular work places that pay well and a comfortable place to live in.<br /><br />Until then, we have no choice but to slug through our increasingly dreary existence and enjoy the few minutes of time we have alone together every week.Nate Drescherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05616820586588551280noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1102753501088368472.post-14529277011430741672010-12-06T03:46:00.007-05:002010-12-06T05:06:45.657-05:00The Tikkanen IncidentLiving overseas in South Korea and in Russia would seem like two completely different experiences, and until now they have been different, until two of my students took me to a Korean restaurant last week.<br /><br />Meeting these two students is in itself a strange coincidence. They are a young man and woman, and they both study Korean language at University. The young man spent some time studying Korean martal arts at a Buddhist temple in Incheon and Seoul last summer and the woman is going there in the spring. They have an intimate knowledge of Korea and we have been swapping stories and comparing life there with life in Moscow.<br /><br />When we walked into the Korean restaurant, about four blocks away from the last metro stop on the bottom of the red line, it was like I had been transported back to another period in my life. The restaurant was complete with in-table Korean barbeques, menus in Korean, Russian and English (and the awesomely hilarious Korean attempts at English, like the "Fried Friend Dumpling") and Korean, or possibly Chinese, staff who barely spoke Russian or English. We ordered delicious dwae-ji kalbi and it came with generous servings of kimchi, lettuce, pickled carrot slices and big chunks of fresh garlic to cook with the meat. There was also that delicious orange-brown chunky sauce that goes on the meat.<br /><br />As I sat there eating kimchi and kalbi with metal chopsticks, I felt transported back to Korea, and I began replaying adventures and incidents I had enjoyed there in my head. For some reason, perhaps because I am in Russia, which is a hockey country, and perhaps because Moscow is only a 10-hour train ride from Finland, my mind settled on one particular incident: the Tikkanen Incident.<br /><br />There's a bar in the Itaewon district of Seoul owned by two Canadian brothers. It's called the "Rocky Mountain Pub" and is an homage to Canadiana, complete with license plates and 24-hour hockey replays. It is a popular spot as it serves up delicious western food with proper western customer service, and is one of the few places in Korea where one can buy Molson Canadian on tap. Needless to say that my colleagues and I spent a fair amount of time there.<br /><br />On one occasion a group of us, including my ex, her sister, our friend Mr. Korea, a friend named Mr. San Diego and a couple of other English teachers, were sitting at the most comfortable piece of real estate in the joint, a corner table sunk low in the ground with windows to our backs and big blue cushions. The waiter approached us and asked us to move to a different table, as there was a VIP coming and he had requested that particular table.<br /><br />We obliged, not without grumbling, and relocated. Then the VIP walked in. He was a large man in his late 50s and he had with him two healthy-looking young blonde men who stood over six feet tall. I didn't recognize him right away, but Mr. Korea did. "It's fucking Esa Tikkanen!" he declared.<br />"What?!?" everybody answered.<br /><br />Esa Tikkanen is a retired NHL hockey player from Finland. He played for the Edmonton Oilers alongside Wayne Gretzky and later the New York Rangers. He was on two Stanley Cup championship winning teams and was known as an enforcer (a goon in layman's terms) who led the league in penalty minutes during the 1980s. Indeed, his record for spending the most time in the penalty box has yet to be broken. And here he was in the Rocky Mountain Pub in friggin' Seoul, South Korea.<br /><br />"Tikkanen!" Mr. Korea shouted out to him as he and his entourage sat at our recently-vacated table. "Hey!"<br />Tikkanen looked over and smiled and shouted back. "Hello!"<br />Mr. Korea, as excited as I've ever seen him, grabbed the waiter by the arm. "Get that table a round of tequila shots and a pitcher of beer, on me." The waiter, one of the Canadian owners, shook his head. "It's not a good idea to get Tikkanen drunk." he warned us.<br />"It's fine! Trust me!"<br />"I'm really trying to warn you, DO NOT GET ESA TIKKANEN DRUNK!"<br />"Just do it, okay?" Mr. Korea pleaded. With a sigh the waiter/owner shrugged like Pontas Pilate, as if to say "Okay, but it's your crucifixion, not mine." and he went to the bar.<br /><br />When Tikkanen and his two companions received their drinks they seemed delighted. "Where are you from?" Esa called out to Mr. Korea. "Canada!" Mr. Korea answered. "Well, don't just sit there, come over here!" Tikkanen called back.<br /><br />We changed tables, the girls not as enthusiastically as the guys, and were soon seated at our own table, this time with a washed-up, although still impressive, sports celebrity. We cheered with our tequila shots, poured a round of beer and then began talking.<br /><br />Tikkanen had been contracted to coach South Korea's first ever hockey team in the newly-formed Asian League Hockey, which consisted, at the time, of one team from South Korea, four from Japan, six from China, and two from Russia (who creamed the Asians in every game and won the championships every year). Tikkanen's companions were Finnish hockey players who played in the Russian KHL and on Finland's national team during world championship and winter olympics events. They were all there to get Korea's hockey team up and running.<br /><br />The conversation was lively and interesting, and Tikkanen, despite his bad-ass reputation and massive bulk which even at his age still rippled with barely-concealed muscle, was a charming and funny man. He loved Canada, he told us, and enjoyed his time in Edmonton and Toronto much more than in New York where, he told us, the beer wasn't as good. When he had heard there was a Canadian bar in town, he had gone there immediately and since become a regular.<br /><br />More tequila shots followed, and more pitchers of beer. People became rowdier and livelier.<br /><br />If anyone reading this has ever drank with English teachers living overseas, then you know that we are a fairly retarded bunch when we drink. Only overseas do we feel at liberty to do things we would never dream of doing back home. In this case, there was a small metal pail on the table filled with peanuts. Like at home, the concept is to munch on them and throw the shells on the floor, but somehow us ESL teachers in Korea had taken to whipping the peanuts, shells and all, at each other's heads when we were drunk (I won't bother explaining Mortal Combat Frisbee). Naturally this happened.<br /><br />Tikkanen, red in the face and talking loudly and more aggressively after four pitchers of beer and three rounds of tequila, started to say "Hey, stop that." every time a peanut whizzed close to him. It didn't deter us degenerate teachers, however, and we continued to throw peanuts at each other while we chatted. In hindsight, Tikkanen had become silent, but nobody noticed it at the time.<br /><br />Then my ex, a small blonde girl of about 100 lbs, whipped a badly-aimed peanut at Mr. Korea but nailed Esa Tikkanen square in the forehead by mistake, and Tikkanen snapped.<br /><br />"DO YOU THINK THAT'S FUNNY???!!!??" he screamed at my ex. Veins were bulging on his massive and balding forehead. "IS THAT FUCKING FUNNY??!!??" My ex sat calmly and stared at him, saying nothing.<br /><br />Tikkanen, red in the face and filled with rage, stood up so he was towering over her at the other side of the table. "YOU WANT TO FUCKING HIT ME IN THE EYE?" he screamed. The whole bar had gone silent. The waiter looked at us as if to say "I told you so". Tikkanen seemed to be getting angrier by the moment. "YOU CAN FUCKING KILL SOMEONE WITH ONE OF THESE! WELL? YOU WANT TO FUCKING KILL ME???" he screamed at the small girl, who sat and stared at him defiantly, no look of fear on her face.<br /><br />Mr. Korea, trying to restore the table to the former joviality we had been enjoying, stood up and patted Tikkanen on the shoulder in a friendly manner. "Okay, let's just all stop throwing peanuts and calm down." He picked up Tikkanen's beer. "Here, I'll buy you another one."<br /><br />Tikkanen turned on Mr. Korea, his massive body shaking in fury, looking for all the world like an angry bull. "SIT THE FUCK DOWN!" he hollered at Mr. Korea. "Okay!" Mr. Korea responded, and quickly sat down again. Tikkanen turned back to my ex. "YOU THINK THAT'S FUCKING FUNNY?" He shouted again, apparently the only phrase he knows when he gets drunk. She just calmly stared at him, saying nothing.<br /><br />One of the young Finnish players grabbed Tikkanen by the arm and said something in Finnish to him (probably "Let's go") and Tikkanen, still fuming, allowed himself to be dragged away from our table. "FUCKING STUPID BITCH! IT'S NOT FUNNY!" he continued to holler. The other Finn joined them and they put their jackets on left the bar, Tikkanen still hollering like a madman. The bartender came over to our table. "More beer?" he asked, and we all started to laugh.<br /><br />People from other tables came up to us. "Was that Esa Tikkanen? What did you say to him?" We had become minor celebrities ourselves, and I personally found it funny that my girlfriend was almost in a fist-fight with the feared Esa Tikkanen.<br /><br />Naturally the next weekend we all flocked to the Suwon hockey stadium to see Esa lead team Korea in a game against Japan. The Tikkanen influence on Korea's team was obvious, as Korean players continued to smash the Japanese players into the boards, and despite having players spend nearly half the game in the penalty box, they came out on top. It helped that Tikkanen and the two Finns would occasionally hop onto the ice themselves during a line change, pass the pack through the legs of the opposing players and fire it into the Japanese net while the goalie dove for cover.<br /><br />We went to a dozen more games, and in true hockey fashion, heckled the players to no end. "Tiiiikaaanen! Tiiiikaaaanen!" We would chant, to which Tikkanen, probably with no idea that we were the same people he had wanted to kill, would bow to us with a big goofy grin on his face, no doubt reliving his glory days when he played, and fought, alongside Wayne Gretzky in the NHL.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TPy1QrqtJXI/AAAAAAAACIM/aoYOWVvbX8E/s1600/n699475987_1023481_2589.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TPy1QrqtJXI/AAAAAAAACIM/aoYOWVvbX8E/s400/n699475987_1023481_2589.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5547508139217986930" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">Tikkanen leads Team Korea to a bone-crushing victory<br /></span></div>Nate Drescherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05616820586588551280noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1102753501088368472.post-15312625726506200002010-12-01T03:58:00.003-05:002010-12-01T04:23:47.837-05:00Adventures In SpeakingTaking Russian classes in Moscow has been both interesting and exciting. For me, learning to speak Russian is a source of great interest, and adds a third language to my linguistic abilities.<br /><br />As I've mentioned before in this blog, Russian is a difficult language to learn. Navigating the grammar is a constant source of headache yet is vital to the language. Russian is a grammar-heavy language filled with feminine/masculine/neuter nouns, pronouns that must agree with the subject and case endings for the verbs that vary depending on the context.<br /><br />Living with Katya's mother has helped, as she is only just learning to read the Latin alphabet and thus can't speak any English (except for the words "good" and "happy"), so I am forced to speak to her in badly butchered Russian. Yesterday she told me to smoke in the kitchen and not the balcony, as temperatures have dropped to -18 centigrade. I declined and told her the balcony was fine, and then explained to her, in Russian, that in Canada I can't smoke anywhere BUT outside, so smoking on the balcony in Russia is a treat. I was quite relieved when I actually got the sentence out without mistakes, complete with proper case endings!<br /><br />Russian is a very emotive and poetic language, and I personally find it sexy, but it wasn't always so.<br /><br />When I first arrived in Russia I was completely unable to communicate with anyone. I had learned to read Cyrillic before I came, which helped, but even the stock-phrases I had practised were pronounced wrong and came in very little use. After a few harrowing run-ins with bitchy clerks at the stores, I was terrified to open my mouth in public. Thankfully I had Quagmire and Ms. Australia.<br /><br />Quagmire had a commendable ability to bully his way through any situation in English. He went to the hair salon and in English demanded a haircut. When the hairdresser said "Shto?" (What?) he pointed repeatedly at his head and told them "What the hell do you think I want? A taco?" or something like that. He got his hair cut. He could aggressively cow any Russian service worker into giving him what he wanted.<br /><br />Both Quagmire and I, however, always had problems at the deli counter in grocery stores. We would both point to what we wanted and say "Moizhna kilogram" (Give me a kilogram). The clerk would do as requested and then ask us something in Russian. For some reason, we both always thought they were asking if that's what we wanted, to which we would reply "Da". Then the clerk would yell at us.<br /><br />This happened for many months on many occasions, but then after talking to Katya about it, we realized the clerk was asking us "Do you want anything else?" To which we were replying "Yes" and then standing there like idiots.<br /><br />Ms. Australia was also entertaining to watch with the Russian language. Unlike Quagmire, she made attempts to speak in Russian, and had studied some Russian with a tutor in Perth before coming to Moscow. Her problem, however, was that somehow she managed to import her Australian accent into her Russian speech, a phenomenon even I could hear. It confused the hell out of Russians.<br /><br />One time Ms. Australia and I walked to the local produkty to buy some chips and drinks. Ms. Australia asked the clerk "Moizhna Red Bull banki bolshoi" (Give me a big can of Red Bull), but the clerk looked at her in puzzlement. "Shto?" came the inevitable reply. "Red Bull...banki" Ms. Australia asked. "Ya tebya nye panamayou" (I don't understand you) the clerk said. Ms. Australia, getting frustrated now, tried the same phrase but in a louder voice. "Red Bull! Banki!" The clerk just stared at her in amazement.<br /><br />I interjected and repeated the exact same phrase as Ms. Australia. "Moizhna Red Bull banki bolshoi". The woman's face lit up. "Oh! Red Bull banki bolshoi!" and she gave Ms. Australia her can of Red Bull. Ms. Australia glared long and hard at me while I laughed. It wasn't my fault that while she has a strong western Australian accent, I was born with a plain North American one.<br /><br />Since I've met Katya her English has gone from a pre-intermediate level to an upper-intermediate level, with no formal lessons. She has even begun talking in her sleep in English, and her mother has remarked how we speak to each other a lot faster in English now than we did a year ago. It is my hope that my Russian classes combined with some gentle conversations in Russian with Katya and her family will eventually have the same effect on me.<br /><br />Until then, however, I will continue to stumble and bully and, ultimately, laugh my way through in Enlish.Nate Drescherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05616820586588551280noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1102753501088368472.post-47202941811885779982010-11-22T02:42:00.006-05:002010-11-22T04:00:26.509-05:00MeatballsWhen I woke up on Thursday morning and prepared for my day, a new thought entered my head that would lead me on a mission in Moscow. The thought stayed with me throughout the day, tormented me with such a clarity that it caused me to salivate. I thought of a meatball sub from Subway.<br /><br />When I had lived off-contract and taught privates in my second year in South Korea, I had made it a tradition every Friday to stop in at Subway and order a meatball sub. I like them a certain way: tomatoes, green peppers and olives, all warmed up in the microwave so the layer of cheese at the top melts over the saucy meatballs. As I brushed my teeth that Thursday morning in Moscow, I realized that I was doing much the same thing here in Russia as I had done in Korea, and there were indeed Subway restaurants dotted around the city.<br /><br />Part of the reason for the fanatiscism with which I set out to sink my teeth into a meatball sub was because I hadn't had one in over a year. Another reason was because I had eaten nothing for 3 days.<br /><br />Katya and I are at the end of our money for the month, and we've both been waiting to get paid. In the meantime, we have run out of food. As a Russian, Katya is quite happy eating a bowl of salty buckwheat gruel every day, and her company feeds her lunch every day. I personally won't eat buckwheat. I hate the stuff. In 1812, as Napolean's Grand Armee marched towards Moscow, living off what food they could force from the peasants, many French soldiers died of starvation because the only food that could be found was buckwheat, and the French refused to eat it and starved to death instead. I can now sympathize with them.<br /><br />But just the day before I had been compensated by some students and on that day, I was going to get a meatball sub, and I knew just the place. To the left of the place where Old Arbat joins New Arbat there is a Subway Sandwiches. As Arbat lies on the blue line, and I was travelling on the blue line that day, it seemed like fate.<br /><br />I set out full of joy. It felt like Christmas, I was so excited to eat that delicious sandwich with it's dried-up balls of processed pork-like meat product, which have sat in a slowly fermenting pool of tomato sauce all day. Mmmmm, delicious!<br /><br />It had began to rain and snow when I emerged from the metro. Although it was only 5:30, it was already dark, and fat drops of rain intermixed with swirling snowflakes fell down across the street lights. Arbat was its normal bustle of business men, people handing out Mir Tattoo flyers, beautiful women in skirts and heels, and buskers playing guitars and even one on a trumpet.<br /><br />I made my way to Subway. It wasn't very busy. There were two big young guys in black leather jackets sitting and eating, and an older lady was arguing with the girl at the counter about the process of making her a sub. The normal Subway decor was there, complete with a map of the New York subway system, the yellow walls and fake plants, and the L-shaped counter where one orders the sub and pays for it at the end. But as I perused the menu, I realized with a sinking feeling that in Russia, they DIDN'T HAVE THE MEATBALL SUB!!!<br /><br />With an inspection of the different toppings to make sure I wasn't reading the menu wrong, it was confirmed. There were no meatballs bobbing about pathetically in disgusting (yet delicious) tomato sauce, usually with a silver ladel sticking out of one side.<br /><br />"Can I help you?" The woman, a large creature with a heavy mongoloid face and jet-black hair, was staring at me. With her white t-shirt covered by a black Subway apron, she looked a lot like a penguin "Umm.." I replied wittily. Glancing over the menu, I saw the Subway staple. B.M.T. "Moizhna bolshoi Bay-Em-Tay. Bilayi hlyeb (Give me a large B.M.T. White bread)".<br /><br />The penguin grunted her response and grabbed a long white baton from the oven-thingy and began making my sub. Apparently in Russia one doesn't choose which toppings you get, however, because she just started piling on lettuce and other useless vegetables. *<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">*I hate lettuce. It serves no function. It has no flavour, nor does it even contain any nutritional content. It is mearly a leafy decoration and I would probably get more satisfaction out of putting hay on my sub.</span><br /><br />"Wait a moment. No lettuce, please." I instructed. The penguin gave me a hard look and then barked aggressively at me in Russian I didn't understand. She started piling lettuce on (ah, Russian customer service). Then she went for the onions. "Nyet!" I cried out, and the large Mongol woman literally snarled at me. After she had placed the lettuce and onions on, and refused to put green peppers on it as I instructed, she turned and put the sub into the toaster. "Nooooo!" I cried out. If I wanted toast, I would have gone to Quiznos! Except there are no Quiznos in Russia, thank god (I also hate Quiznos, with their cheap 1 ounce of meat and vegetables and stale bread that always burns).<br /><br />I sat down dejectedly with my half-burnt BMT and the toasted pieces of lettuce and onion sticking out of the sides. Thankfully it was still wrapped and I was hungry enough to actually eat it. Just then a soft female voice said, in English "Excuse me, but maybe I can help you?" I looked up to see a red-haired angel. She was tall and slim and curvy beneath her white wool sweater, with beautiful long, thick red hair flowing down her back. Her face was the typical soft, small Slavic work of art and she had such lovely brown eyes that my stomach tightened when I saw them. Or perhaps that was the third day of hunger setting in?<br /><br />"Umm, well, its too late now!" I replied. She giggled. "I guess." She had that cute and sexy Russian accent that all women who speak English here have. Sometimes I think they practise it from James Bond films.<br /><br />Remembering my manners, I stood. "What's your name?" I asked. She smiled warmly. "Masha." Then, noticing my wedding ring, she said "You're married?" I suddenly felt very guilty, for I am indeed married but instinct had, when presented with such a beauty, automatically gone into flirting mode. What to do? Lie? Tell the truth? Pursue? Back off? Eat my sub? I took the noble path. "Yes, I'm married!" I exclaimed with pride. This seemed to please Masha, who patted my forearm and said "Good for you. Married men are such good men." And she smiled and stared straight at me. I gulped.<br /><br />Just then one of the guys in the leather jackets who had been eating when I walked in shouted and leapt to his feet. He barelled straight at us. "Oi! Ti bla-bla-bla-bla-ka!" He was quite pissed off. Maybe Masha was his girlfriend? She apparently didn't know him because she shouted angrily to him in Russian. He ignored her and, standing a few inches from me he continued to shout. I understood a few of the words, including the word "foreigner" and "American".<br /><br />So this was it. Russia has always been torn between two camps, the Westerners, who want Russia to embrace the rest of the world and be more progressive, and the Slavophiles, who believe Russia has their own thing going and should be the cultural and political home of the Slavic peoples. There is a long history of paranoia towards all foreigners in Russia, and under Putin and his United Russia party, the passionate power of the Slavophile camp has been harnessed. This young man in front of me, then, was obviously the neo-nazi version of a Slavophile. How to explain that I am a friend of Russia, that I love the Slavs and their culture and hope to see Russia take its rightful place in the world?<br /><br />I didn't have time because the Slav-nazi jabbed his finger into my chest as he screamed a torrent of abuse at me. I was still wearing my heavy black winter coat so it didn't hurt, but my pride was injured and, forgetting that this guy could probably kill me I placed my sub down on the table and prepared to hit him square in the nose.<br /><br />Just then a large grey uniform pushed its way between us. We were both forced apart and I saw two men in uniforms with fur caps and gold double-headed eagle badges. The militsia! I looked around. Masha was nowhere to be seen. The penguin, who had obviously run out and flagged down the police during the altercation, was rambling away excitedly to the cop and pointing at me. The nazi was standing there while his eating companion quietly slipped out the door, probably the same way Masha had gone.<br /><br />The cops looked bored and patiently listened to the penguin, who was very excited but seemed to be full of spite towards me. The cop who had pushed us apart pulled out a notepad and began to take notes. The nazi, realizing nobody was paying attention to him, did a little side-step to the door and then ran off. It was only me, the penguin and two Russian militsia.<br /><br />I have, in 14 months, managed to stay out of trouble and have not once been harassed by the police in Russia. Stories aboud about unprovoked document checks of foreigners (everyone must carry their passport, visa and registration in Russia at all times), followed by the remark that something is out of order with the paperwork, followed by a heavy bribe to make "everything" in order again. Katya and I don't have a lot of money and I had just spent 200 roubles on a nasty sub, which I was determined to eat.<br /><br />As the penguin rattled on, following, it seemed, the anti-foreigner attitude of the nazi, the cops scribbled notes and looked at the ground. They were obviously not very interested. I realized that in the past minute or two since their arrival, they had hardly glanced at me. Not waiting for the inevitable "Dokumenti, palzhasta", I did a little sidestep towards the door. Nobody noticed me. I took another step and stopped. My heart was pounding. Nobody even looked at me. The door was only one more step away. Like a crab scurrying sideways along the beach, I did a quick shuffle to the door, slowly opened it and stepped out into the rain and snow along Arbat. I was free!<br /><br />I walked briskly for about ten seconds, aiming for the metro past the underground walkway when I suddenly remembered my BMT. I had left it on the table!<br /><br />Perhaps it was hunger, or the feeling that I had so far gone through too much to simply leave it behind. Perhaps it was guilt at spending the little money we had left. Whatever the reason, without much thought I turned back towards the door to Subway.<br /><br />It was only a few feet away from me and I could see that the penguin was still talking, pointing at the bread ovens now, and the cops were seemingly sleeping. I quietly opened the door and slipped inside, then did a little side-shuffle back to the table. My sub was still there. One of the cops, perhaps noticing movement, looked over at me with an inquisitive look, but I just stood there and smiled stupidly. "See?" I tried to tell him with my face. "I'm just a stupid foreigner!" He looked away. I quickly shot my hand out and grabbed my sub, still wrapped in wax paper which made a small crackling sound. Nobody noticed. Then I repeated my earlier escape.<br /><br />Once outside I beelined as fast as I could for the underground walkway that crosses noisy New Arbat. My heart was pounding fast. Surely they would give chase? I glanced behind me as I walked double-time but saw only the usual crowd of people. When I reached the metro station I took a last look, but apparently I wasn't worth going after. Surely they had noticed me missing by now, but I really had done nothing wrong, the nazi had disappeared and the penguin was complaining about bread. For the cops it must have been a relief to see me gone. Case closed. Let's go sit in our car and smoke.<br /><br />As I rode the metro to my evening class I laughed heartily to myself (in my head, so as not to seem insane). I had evaded trouble! I had nearly fought a nazi! I had escaped from the clutches of corruption not once but twice! Haha!<br /><br />When the train came to my stop I stepped off, still laughing. "Haha! You'll never catch me, coppers, see?" I made my way to the long, steep escalators and as I rode up I continued to think of my daring escape. "I can't believe I went back for the sub!" I thought to myself. "And now I am going to enjoy it even more!" I looked down at my sub, except it wasn't there. "No!" I actually shouted out.<br /><br />I had left the damn thing on the train.Nate Drescherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05616820586588551280noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1102753501088368472.post-32128136833963934082010-11-17T03:34:00.016-05:002010-11-17T05:52:14.920-05:00The KHLAs an avid hockey fan (the Canadian stereotype is true) I have enjoyed going to a couple of KHL games in Russia and watching quite a few on television. The KHL is home to a lot of hockey talent, many of whom end up in the NHL in North America.<br /><br />Hockey superstars from Russia such as Alexei Ovechkin, Marion Hossa, Alexander Eremenko, Z'Dno Chara and Alexandre Yashin all came from the KHL. Indeed, Russia has always been a hockey super-power, and the Soviet Union won gold in every competition until 1972 when, four years before the Americans did it (and took all the credit..."Miracle On Ice" my ass...more like "We Finally Managed To Do It After Canada Did It Twice And Sweden Once...On Ice"), a team of plucky young men from Canada defeated the Soviets in game seven of a nail-biting international series.<br /><br />The KHL has 23 teams divided into two conferences, east and west. In May of every year the two teams left standing after a grueling playoff season compete in the Gagarin Cup (named after the famous first man in space). One thing I've noticed from watching KHL games is that there seems to be a no-checking rule in place, much like in Olympic and women's hockey. As a result there is a greater emphasis on puck-handling and passing, although the strategic element of running roughshod over one's opponent is lacking. The stadiums are also much smaller than the gigantic colosseums of the NHL, and as a result I find the NHL, with it's good balance of skillful European skating and bone-crushing North-American hits, much more entertaining.<br /><br />The teams of the KHL are as follows:<br /><br />WESTERN CONFERENCE<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TOOfYR7n9aI/AAAAAAAACDA/orHmiPSVSiI/s1600/23d0997377a1f1336ec025f4a77ff307.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 100px; height: 100px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TOOfYR7n9aI/AAAAAAAACDA/orHmiPSVSiI/s320/23d0997377a1f1336ec025f4a77ff307.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5540447206075004322" border="0" /></a>Nizhny Novgorod Torpedo: A decent team and home to the Soviet goaltending legend Viktor Konovalenko.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TOOe7GcFRUI/AAAAAAAACCg/6a1mMfslwSc/s1600/2cf68953c6cd4fabe9285a28a5b3267a.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 100px; height: 100px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TOOe7GcFRUI/AAAAAAAACCg/6a1mMfslwSc/s320/2cf68953c6cd4fabe9285a28a5b3267a.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5540446704773711170" border="0" /></a>Yaroslav Lokomotive: Founded in 1949, Lokomotiv has since spawned a football club by the same name. In 2002 and 2003 they won the Gagarin Cup.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TOOfENdq8NI/AAAAAAAACCo/XrlWoPJgJ3M/s1600/3c825bf242ea47a502773e098c5e5922.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 100px; height: 100px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TOOfENdq8NI/AAAAAAAACCo/XrlWoPJgJ3M/s320/3c825bf242ea47a502773e098c5e5922.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5540446861278245074" border="0" /></a>Moscow Spartak: Founded in 1946, Spartak (Spartans) is also the name of a rough-and-tumble Moscow football club whose fans are famous hooligans. The hockey team attracts the same following by sake of the name alone.<br /><br />Spartak has not won a Gagarin Cup since 1991.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TOOfZQTgY8I/AAAAAAAACDI/haUUdH1Tje0/s1600/97c602120c26bffddf2ce5779921cd94.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 100px; height: 100px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TOOfZQTgY8I/AAAAAAAACDI/haUUdH1Tje0/s320/97c602120c26bffddf2ce5779921cd94.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5540447222818169794" border="0" /></a>Chekhov Vityaz: The Vityaz (Knights) were founded in 2004 and have not yet won any championships. Nevertheless, their fans are quite passionate and they are one of the only KHL teams to consistently sell-out seats.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TOOfZrdJUrI/AAAAAAAACDQ/bMlSPpHF2WQ/s1600/375d7ce6b9cf0032d7ac1284d678380a.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 100px; height: 100px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TOOfZrdJUrI/AAAAAAAACDQ/bMlSPpHF2WQ/s320/375d7ce6b9cf0032d7ac1284d678380a.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5540447230106358450" border="0" /></a>Cherepovyets Severstal: Founded in 1956 and owned by a large steel company, they won the cup in 2000.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TOOfW3IwcPI/AAAAAAAACCw/NJqcvfRB714/s1600/7e105347642037611c4dda340c4432ed.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 100px; height: 100px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TOOfW3IwcPI/AAAAAAAACCw/NJqcvfRB714/s320/7e105347642037611c4dda340c4432ed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5540447181702459634" border="0" /></a>Minsk Dynamo: The first and only team from Belarus to join the KHL in 2008, Minsk Dynamo is also the current team of up-and-coming NHL draft pick Jordan Henry, a Canadian playing in Minsk.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TOOgW5IyLaI/AAAAAAAACDY/qSeo5jPntak/s1600/8e7b77d461b4356f30f9700ac9fe373a.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 100px; height: 100px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TOOgW5IyLaI/AAAAAAAACDY/qSeo5jPntak/s320/8e7b77d461b4356f30f9700ac9fe373a.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5540448281751072162" border="0" /></a>St. Petersburg SKA: SKA (Sports Klub of the Army), despite it's Soviet-era name, is no longer a military club but owned by Gazprom. They won the championships in 1970, 1971 and 1977, but have since fizzled. They are, however, home to Minnesota Wild right-winger Maxim Sushinksi.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TOOgXvjdaGI/AAAAAAAACDg/sEL4QL_XfWM/s1600/656241d5b665c701c1d12302187f97ff.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 100px; height: 100px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TOOgXvjdaGI/AAAAAAAACDg/sEL4QL_XfWM/s320/656241d5b665c701c1d12302187f97ff.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5540448296358471778" border="0" /></a>Moscow CSKA: Like the St. Petersburg team, CSKA was a Soviet-era army club but has since gone mercenary (ie: private). CSKA has won more Russian championships and European League cups than any other team in history; 33, all told. Since 1989, however, their star has waned. Between 1975 and 1989 CSKA played 36 games against NHL teams and won 17 of them.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TOOgY1uk3BI/AAAAAAAACDw/-cJC8n4s7YM/s1600/bae430d260b6037fff47814965dacb7e.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 100px; height: 100px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TOOgY1uk3BI/AAAAAAAACDw/-cJC8n4s7YM/s320/bae430d260b6037fff47814965dacb7e.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5540448315195579410" border="0" /></a>Mytischi Atlant: Formed in 1998, the Atlant won the cup in 2007. They are now the current team of disgraced NHL goaltender, former Ottawa Senator Ray Emery. In keeping with his reputation he earned while in the Stanley Cup finals between Ottawa and Anaheim in 2007, Emery has since, in Mytischi, attacked his coach and been suspended for cocaine use. The Atlant are also the home team of next year's probably first-round NHL draft pick Sergei Mozyakin.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TOOgZdynoNI/AAAAAAAACD4/9ojzFj1sQHU/s1600/f077ed75fd2ca53a0963c4567a88c54f.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 100px; height: 100px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TOOgZdynoNI/AAAAAAAACD4/9ojzFj1sQHU/s320/f077ed75fd2ca53a0963c4567a88c54f.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5540448325949956306" border="0" /></a>Riga Dynamo: Founded in 2008, they are the first team from Latvia to join the KHL. They are the home team of hockey legend Marcel Hossa. Both Riga Dynamo and Minsk Dynamo were formed at the same time, and by a strange coincidence both teams chose the same name.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TOOgYteY6NI/AAAAAAAACDo/IbO0Dw6ydAs/s1600/4513277ddca29ca6dc32f4c4d20c5971.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 100px; height: 100px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TOOgYteY6NI/AAAAAAAACDo/IbO0Dw6ydAs/s320/4513277ddca29ca6dc32f4c4d20c5971.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5540448312980203730" border="0" /></a>Moscow Dynamo: Formed this past year in 2010 and taking the same name as the famous Moscow football club, they have yet to achieve anything other than to add a third Dynamo to the KHL's western conference.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />EASTERN CONFERENCE<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TOOhrS83vMI/AAAAAAAACEA/gZZltIWQoeo/s1600/4b74453b6043e9a88dcffe1c90eaafbd.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 100px; height: 100px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TOOhrS83vMI/AAAAAAAACEA/gZZltIWQoeo/s320/4b74453b6043e9a88dcffe1c90eaafbd.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5540449731789438146" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: right;">Khabarovsk Amur: Founded in 1966, the Amur are named after the nearby River Amur. They are the most isolated of the KHL teams; the nearest team is 3000 km away! Nevertheless, they manage to continuously win games and took home the championships in 1986 and 2006. They also had NHL veteran Nolan Pratt playing for them for a while.<br /></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TOOhrgEe2qI/AAAAAAAACEI/Cw9vxleHOXc/s1600/6a5cc939625eda385b466d0c70d31694.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 100px; height: 100px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TOOhrgEe2qI/AAAAAAAACEI/Cw9vxleHOXc/s320/6a5cc939625eda385b466d0c70d31694.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5540449735311022754" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: right;">Khanti-Manskisk Yugra: Since their foundation in 2006, Yugra has continued the tradition of providing top-notch Siberian teams to the world of hockey. They are likely contenders for the 2010-2011 Gagarin Cup.<br /></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TOOhrskfnXI/AAAAAAAACEQ/a2zoEu1LZ9E/s1600/6f285b18e880b540920dd6f74fcd8aec.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 100px; height: 100px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TOOhrskfnXI/AAAAAAAACEQ/a2zoEu1LZ9E/s320/6f285b18e880b540920dd6f74fcd8aec.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5540449738666515826" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: right;">Novokuznetsk Metallurg: Another fast and powerful team from Siberia, Metallurg won the championships in 1964 and 1966.<br /></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TOOhr_Ud9_I/AAAAAAAACEY/jh-LqUvWofs/s1600/17ea3fc69f3604cd90a40d56e867e97d.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 100px; height: 100px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TOOhr_Ud9_I/AAAAAAAACEY/jh-LqUvWofs/s320/17ea3fc69f3604cd90a40d56e867e97d.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5540449743699572722" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;">Chelyabinsk Traktor: Founded in 1947, Traktor is one of the only teams in the KHL to have beaten Moscow CSKA in the championships. Traktor has also played in the International Hockey League and won it twice. They are currently coached by former NHL veteran Andrei Nazarov, who was born and raised in Chelyabinsk.<br /></div><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TOOhsISOiiI/AAAAAAAACEg/kAka7YfAiqU/s1600/36b3bbbb0355a0bf4e3a2a7a246ae452.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 100px; height: 100px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TOOhsISOiiI/AAAAAAAACEg/kAka7YfAiqU/s320/36b3bbbb0355a0bf4e3a2a7a246ae452.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5540449746106092066" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: right;">Astana Baris: They played their first KHL game in 2008, and I can find little other information about them.<br /></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TOOinOzrzLI/AAAAAAAACEo/WfYdFHLBr1w/s1600/89eec748745b21cb5cd68131a21a9718.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 100px; height: 100px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TOOinOzrzLI/AAAAAAAACEo/WfYdFHLBr1w/s320/89eec748745b21cb5cd68131a21a9718.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5540450761469316274" border="0" /></a><br />Kazan Ak-Bars: The current super-team of the KHL, the Ak-Bars have won the past three Gagarin Cups and have yet to lose a game in the European Hockey League. Founded in 1958, the Ak-Bars (Tatar for "Snow Leopards") carries on the tradition of it's Mongol namesake by being one of the roughest and fastest teams in the KHL. NHL superstars Alexei Kovalev and Alexei Morozov have played for the Ak-Bars, and the NHL asked Canadian Ak-Bar defenceman Ray Giroux to sign on, but he refused and has stayed loyal to this tough team from Kazan.<br /></div><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TOOiop0kAgI/AAAAAAAACEw/VqlYjR6EGgI/s1600/96f0b4c89c1c77f10212b11dea3df26b.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 100px; height: 100px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TOOiop0kAgI/AAAAAAAACEw/VqlYjR6EGgI/s320/96f0b4c89c1c77f10212b11dea3df26b.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5540450785900626434" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div style="text-align: right;">Ufa Salavat Yulaev: From the city of Ufa, in southern Siberia, Salavat Yulaev has won 66 of the 77 games they have played, and are likely contenders for this year's championships.<br /></div><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TOOio8i6m_I/AAAAAAAACE4/ISygKHXnQX0/s1600/873a6498c0d793f9ab988e02ad3afb6d.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 100px; height: 100px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TOOio8i6m_I/AAAAAAAACE4/ISygKHXnQX0/s320/873a6498c0d793f9ab988e02ad3afb6d.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5540450790926883826" border="0" /></a><br />Nizhnekamsk Neftekhimik: From the Russian republic of Tatarstan, the Neftekhimik (Petrochemists) have yet to achieve anything spectacular.<br /></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TOOipXPCyKI/AAAAAAAACFA/JvrwwEAhDhw/s1600/b3a092116060e457a4be21772813325c.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 100px; height: 100px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TOOipXPCyKI/AAAAAAAACFA/JvrwwEAhDhw/s320/b3a092116060e457a4be21772813325c.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5540450798091290786" border="0" /></a><br />Yekaterinburg Avtomobilist: The "Automobilists", despite their incredibly silly name, are a top-notch hockey team with a lot of high-scoring players who we may eventually see in the NHL.<br /></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TOOiqNwX0uI/AAAAAAAACFI/aw97TIX6mhI/s1600/bc323900abd90c80d55d706dcde2ce82.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 100px; height: 100px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TOOiqNwX0uI/AAAAAAAACFI/aw97TIX6mhI/s320/bc323900abd90c80d55d706dcde2ce82.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5540450812726596322" border="0" /></a><br />Omsk Avangard: Established in 1950, the Avangard (Avante-Guarde) won the championships in 2004 and then the European Cup in the same year. In 2009 they signed NHL superstars Jamori Jagr and Stanislav Chistov. In the spring of 2010 they were involved in an on-ice, bench-clearing brawl that went viral on YouTube, partly because it was a fight amongst fellow team-members jealous over the ice time Jagr was getting.<br /></div><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TOOjq-kBvLI/AAAAAAAACFQ/-BtLxfyY3nw/s1600/d295510b9fda1a0282bb2d6fb3938c4a.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 100px; height: 100px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TOOjq-kBvLI/AAAAAAAACFQ/-BtLxfyY3nw/s320/d295510b9fda1a0282bb2d6fb3938c4a.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5540451925339782322" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div style="text-align: right;">Novosibirsk Sibir: The Sibir (Siberians) were formed in 1947 after Russian sports writer Ivan Ivanovich brought the first Canadian hockey stick to Novosibirsk and showed the people what ice hockey was. Fittingly, the Sibir were the first Soviet hockey team to import foreign talent...all of them from Canada.<br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TOOjrIiHV8I/AAAAAAAACFY/2QwzpyKchJ8/s1600/f678f2f194d257ccab87b24ac7aa0132.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 100px; height: 100px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_SmQk2jClOU4/TOOjrIiHV8I/AAAAAAAACFY/2QwzpyKchJ8/s320/f678f2f194d257ccab87b24ac7aa0132.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5540451928016115650" border="0" /></a><br />Magnitogorsk Metallurg: There's something fishy about the large number of teams in the KHL that have the same name, but the Metallurg from Magnitogorsk are the more famous team after they played the New York Rangers in the Victoria Cup and beat them 3-0.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">That is the KHL, the second largest hockey league in the world after the NHL, and home to nearly 40% of the NHL's talent, including a long list of hockey superstars whose names are household items (in some houses).<br /></div></div>Nate Drescherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05616820586588551280noreply@blogger.com0