You can grow flowers from where dirt used to be.

11.July

“If you don’t eat that cabbage you won’t have any strength.  How will you travel?  What if you are on the cruise and suddenly you have to row a boat on the river?  You won’t be able to because you won’t have any strength because you didn’t eat that cabbage.” – r.mom

I adore the idea that whether or not I eat cabbage today will have a direct effect on my boat rowing abilities more than two weeks from now. 

I didn’t eat the cabbage.  I just couldn’t.  I’d already eaten a bowl of thick soup with meatballs, a large salad, a plate of berries and several slices of black bread with butter.  Not to mention, all I did today was sleep, so I burnt, lets say, 5 of the 500+ calories I consumed from blini alone this morning. 

Here’s to hoping I don’t have to row any boats any time soon.

In other news, it really is always raining (and dirty) in Moscow.  When I got home last night around midnight, all I wanted to do was bathe.  Luckily, by the grace of God (whose I’m not sure), our hot water was turned back on, get this, five days early!  That is what I call a miracle.  I was able not only to bathe, but shower, in hot water.  It was lovely. 

You may be asking, why was I in Moscow?  Granted, you probably aren’t, as you may or may not realize that I actually live in Vladimir, and not Moscow.  Wait, who are you anyway?  Perhaps for my own records then, I went to Moscow to do something I had up until yesterday, never gone to Moscow to do – go to the doctor.  Fun times. 

In April, I had the pleasure of attempting to treat a mysterious blood-urinating problem I was having in Vladimir.  After waiting in several lines, bringing a urine sample with me in an old jam jar to the hospital, and scoffing at an old Soviet doctor with a complex (as if they don’t all have complexes), I gave up on solving the mystery.  However, after an incredibly painful and sleepless night last week, I decided to try again – this time, in Moscow.  I went to a European medical clinic where they spoke English, used sanitary containers for the testing of bodily fluids, wore gloves, washed their hands, took credit cards and seemed as if they genuinely were in the business of curing patients.  However, the European Union flag and the name of “European Medical Center,” were a little misconstruing, as all but three of the doctors were French.  The ophthalmologist was British, and there were two Japanese doctors (which, take note, Japan is not even in Europe).  I think they ought to rename it the “French Medical Center.”  But, I suppose if they changed the sign to the French flag, people might get confused because it looks so similar to the Russian one. 

Name of the establishment aside, the experience was a good one.  The girls at the desk were friendly (no way, right?) and spoke understandable English.  The doctor took me into his office early (when does that ever happen in America, eh?), attentively listened to what I had to said, did a test, waited while I underwent another test, talked to me again, wrote me out a prescription, and said he would call me when the results (not instantaneous) of my other test came in (also, double checked my cell phone number in order to reach me).  Thus far, I do not know precisely why I’m having the problems I am, but the urinalysis did show that, in fact, there is blood in my urine, which makes me feel a lot less mentally unstable (at least when it comes to imagining health problems).

Spending time at the clinic was not the only first I had in Moscow.  I also successfully gave directions to a Russian (which I have done in Vlad several times, but in Moscow never, I don’t even know where the hell I am).  Guess where?  McDonald’s!  Haha.  I’m a good little American, knowing how to get to the closest McDonald’s at all points in time. 

Realization: A carton of eggs is cheaper than taking a pee.  10 eggs -14 rubles, One public toilet use – 20 rubles.  

On the way home from Moscow, I was sitting on the electrichka, listening to some jams, trying to teach myself to crochet a hat, when some random молодой человек (young man), got my attention by saying, “дебушка (girl).”  When I looked up, he handed me a white rose and said “к вам (for/to you).” I blankly, or confusedly (I hope), stared at him for a minute, and then took the flower.  As he walked away, I managed to muttered, “спасибо (thank you).”  The women sitting next to me just looked at me and said I needed a vase and some water, as if there were nothing unusual about the situation.  Perhaps, on electrichki traveling between Moscow and Vladimir, strangers giving girls flowers is completely normal.

12.July

This morning, my r.mom informed me that Michael Jackson didn’t die on his own, but that he was killed!  Then she proceeded to ask me about it, inquiring “who killed him?”  Clearly, I, as an American, would know, who killed him.  When I regretfully told her I didn’t know, she told me to tell her if I hear anything.  As if, simply being born in the same country as MJ, means I must be in his inner circle.  The real question, why does she even care?  

N.B. After being seriously ill (according to my r.mom and all of the teachers), I travelled to Peter where I spent a few days.  It was lovely.  I was planning on writing a blog about both the illness (it warrants one, as it lead to my r.mom rubbing warm honey all over me, then wrapping me in plastic, covering me in blankets, and telling me to let my illness sweat itself out) and the trip (went to the ballet, the Nabokov house museum, realized the city was HUGE when I walked parts I'd somehow never walked before, and relaxed in the best company possible), but I don't have time.  I'll just have to rely on my actual memory to record these events in my history, or at the very least, remember that being ill in Russia is always interesting, and that I had a lovely time in Peter (yet again).