Friends I Admire (and Why) - Part 2

Comrade rides upon a Siberian steed!

Kit “Comrade” Baker -

• He just that friend that… gets it.
• Gets it so much you go to SIBERIA together. (In fact, responds with-- "Yeah I absolutely have friends all over Russia and parts of Poland..." ...cuz... he's that guy...the guy with friends in Siberia...)
• And when he asks you to go to that weird cafe on 2nd Avenue, or meet you in deepest Brooklyn, or go to the weird art exhibit or whatever-- you just go.
• He is the friend that reads your unpublished novel. Because he is that kind of friend that likes you enough to read your unpublished novel. 

Beautiful La

Lara Pulver

• We've known one another for many years but have truly grown to be each others' "people" in recent years, but she is the "La" to my "Al" and our backwards nicknames please us very much thank you. 
• La is one of those people is in a constant state of openness and growing from whomever it is she comes in contact with. When we speak, we both share and learn. And laugh. A lot.
• Lara is pretty faaaaamous (and about to be even moreso), but probably the only artist friend I never speak with about "the business" (except how it affects us spiritually). When we FaceTime... for over an hour. I appreciate that as much as I marvel at it. There is nothing that lies there that truly matters, on the deeper levels, to either of us. 
• We have strolled the streets of London town, had adventure days in New York City, and climbed to the top of the hills of Los Angeles together. Where to next La?  
• A few years back when we were both navigating the depths, we were one anothers' "Ariadne," holding onto the string at the mouth of the labyrinth, making certain we didn't get eaten by our respective Minotaurs.
• She is more than a survivor--she is a thriver. 
• She, quite seriously, makes me feel more celebrated than any other person in my life other than my mother.

Nikka Lanzarone

• One of the few friends I ever made “instantly”
• Makes me feel totally "seen--" in every way.
• She does a really a-ma-zing impression of "El Stans" (aka Elizabeth Stanley)
• The first time we talked we "went there" and have never gone back
• She pulls out (and off) witty one liners like no other:

1. but I want to be in the show"
2. "things i was not kidding about"
3. "it is not fair to others..."
4. and a strategic use of "too soon?" is included here... out of homage to her genius. and timing.

• She is a style genius.
• She introduced me to Pinterest. So there's that. 
• She is the "Whore" to my "Wife." (Our anniversary is 'The 12th of May.' Duh.)
• She makes things. Like a style business. And amazing music. And a killer podcast. 
• Her solo show is based on the structure of a vintage Rock documentary. It doesn't reeeeeally get cooler than that...
• She has world-class legs. 
• So sometimes, you (translation: ME) don't really cry (unless you happen to be in a corset and being paid) but you still have a liiiiiittle bit of a weepy New York style shaking-your-head-and-mumbling-stuff-circling-a-subway-entrance-like-a-crazy-person meltdown after the audition/voice lesson/day/month/week from hell. Then you have the great idea to call Nikka, you go immediately over to her apartment, you 'feel all the feelings' and she says, "We could make a Pro and Con list... but...I dunno...maybe we should just eat chocolate instead." And then you do. And immediately after you do, you decide to do fun German accents. Then you spontaneously make an Avant Garde Expressionist video....  Ja.
• She is a poster child for only children gone sooooo right.

Arielle

• She is one of those people that, given any task or life situation, she could excel at ANYTHING. If she were forced to be a surgeon she be all "Ughhhh I hate blood but LET'S DO THIS..." Or say, a taxidermist, or a cop, or an auto mechanic--she’d be the most successful all-of-those in the state. She's just...one of those people.
• She is that friend where you doesn’t have to do anything other than sit on a bench and eat frozen yogurt and you still feel super close. 
• Her photography is so beautiful not simply because it is visually stunning and technically perfect-- it is because she manages to not merely capture the way a person, a place or an event looked, she captures the uniquely magical way they feel. That's true artistry.
• When someone's child gets their middle name after you (and coincidentally her husband's best friend is also an "Alexander/Sasha")-- that's old fashioned, epic style friendship. 
• She is my first, and truest “Chosen Sister—” and the closest thing I know to honest to goodness, real-life, separated-at-birth, soul-matey type sisterhood.

I've Been

my new "What About Bob?" shirt

Making my own cold brew coffee.

Having slumber parties!

Singing my face off (with my great teachers and coaches, and recently blessed to sing in some really fancy places...)

Driving spontaneously to the Poconos with (and skinny dipping at 1am in the Delaware...)

Checking out a lot of new places popping up in my Astorian 'hood.

Going to the Astoria Farmer's Market with El Stans!

Taking myself on a lot of "Self Dates" (like treating myself to Preservation Hall Jazz Band at The McKittrick Hotel!)

Revisiting a lot of my favorite old books.

Contemplating getting a cat. (A black cat named Rasputin, specifically...)

WRITING!
     Finishing my trilogy of novels!
     aaaaand putting the finishing touches on my memoir. (PHEW!)
Plus, spending a great deal of time in local haunts pretending I'm Hemingway. (Thank you to Bugatti on 34th/31stAve for the glass of Chianti on the house!)

Watching ALL of Psych. It's.... amazing....

Anna is very strict about "home tasks"

Learning Russian! (Da.) From my incredibly awesome next-door-neighbor Anna.

Speaking of neighbors, throwing a building goodbye party for Apartment #22 (they are moving to Michigan!)

Juicing! (I bought a Nutribullet... WOW...)

Working
     working
          working. 
with some wonderful old pals, and making a lot of great new ones.

Spontaneously traveling up to the Berkshires to surprise my pal Richard Schiff in his glorious dramatization of Chaim Potok's The Chosen up at Barrington Stage.
     (Then road tripping back to NYC with him, his daughter, and Kate The Intern.)

Having major adventures with "Comrade" Kit Baker (to the fringe at the Mostly Mozart festival at Lincoln Center)

Really indulging the Audbile.com's series The Great Courses.
     Greek Mythology
     Understanding Opera
     Russian Literature

Lower East Side magic.

I practiced (reflections on a Carnegie Hall debut)

©Julia Murney

We all know the joke.
Okay... well most of us know the joke.

"How do you get to Carnegie Hall?"
The answer is not the corner of 57th  Street. It's
"Practice, Practice, Practice."

There really aren't words to describe the feeling of stepping out onto the stage at Carnegie Hall for the first time.
But, perhaps oddly, one of the words that crossed my mind as I stepped out on to the boards was "YES..."
Yes-- I thought, I am humbled, I am honored, but I... "practiced."
Let's do this.
I am ready.

It was a privilege of extraordinary proportion to make this debut alongside not only members of the Broadway community I admire so profoundly (Judy Kaye--who has always been a trail-blazing role model, not to mention the golden-throated, utterly dashing Jason Danieley, the legendary Anita Gillette, and Jim flippin' Dale).

But of special import was the joy of playing opposite one of my very oldest and most loyal pals Santino Fontana (who, the morning of the show was nominated for his first Tony award--wow). Santino and I met at summer camp in 1999--two teenagers, one anothers' first scene partners. We reunited at the NFAA A.R.T.S competition the next year. I even soooooort ooooof followed him to college (in the days when I went to the University of Minnesota... for 8 weeks... --some of you don't know that story, but believe me I was there, before 2001 "happened...").
All of which is to say: we have been there for the highest highs and the lowest of lows
     (and there sure have been both...)
Santino might not always wanna snuggle about it exactly, but he is the loyalest pal on earth.
Not to mention a talent beyond belief.
We used to chat online during his matinée of Billy Elliot and my evening performance of Carousel and dream big dreams... that made the entire experience extra special...

...
Work hard, readers.
Work harder than you think is necessary.
Find a goal and move toward it with "courage and integrity" (as you know I love to say).
Don't be negative.
Don't be a jerk.
 Believe in dreams.
...and, of course, practice.

Believe me-- it is worth it.

I've Been...

JULY

visiting the oboe doctor with Lilly

driving to Philadelphia

seeing Max kill it as Che in Evita

turning 29

socializing my FACE off

going La Ronde "again"

going to the circus...


hearing lots of live music
       and performance art (like Orchestra 360 from the NY Phil)

spending quality time with true friends
and skyping with far away ones

opening up

AUGUST
falling in love with my f'usband Will Reynolds
and Philadelphia

Making friends and doing stuff

Seeing Newsies ...in the second row. Like a fangirl. 

falling in looooooove (with an actual clown...)

SEPTEMBER
North American Premier of Love Story

Really gettin' into the City of Brotherly Love
Cheese-steak showdown

    
Reading  like a crazy library lady

•      The Marriage Plot
•      The Tipping Point
•      Assassination Vacation
•      Cloud Atlas

Making the most of "The Meanwhile"

Sometimes, you just have to get away with your very favo(u)rite people. The kind of people who remind you that a constant flow of meaningful conversations, laughter, observations and easy silences are all that is required for a marvelous day. Elizabeth ("El Stans") and I tumbled into a Red Jeep known simply as "Lucille" (as in Ball, yes, thank you for asking) early in the AM with a GPS, a rough sketch of a day in the Berks, and two hearts full of friend-love. It was so fantastic I couldn't resist another adventure with Kit ("Comrade Baker") the following weekend.

There were also gorgeous stretches of countryside, miles of endless American highways, singing in harmony to a perfectly cultivated "Roadtrip Mix," walks in the woods, waterfalls, fresh air, visual art, music, penny candies shared from the town general store, coffee, art stores, mini history lessons, nature meditations, and a few incredible meals.

Like I said, sometimes you just have to get away, and the journey doesn't have to be complicated. In fact, sometimes, the simpler the better.

Cherish your friends, Reader.
And make the most of "The Meanwhile."
Because life is The Meanwhile. 
Make it count...

the door to the lenox library; lenox, MA

I stayed alert with a "red eye"-- a drip coffee with an extra shot of espresso

our chariot: "Lucille"

serious country breakfast in millerton, ny

El Stans watching the river at Taconic State Park

Beautiful Bash Bish falls

an unexpected treasure-trove of emotions and learning at The Norman Rockwell Museum. Pictured here is his final studio in Stockbridge, Mass.

Comrade pet the bunny at the farmer's store

...the bunny...

Shaker Village

Chapin Music Hall

breathtaking country views

Quiet

Dear Blog-o-sphere,

I am so sorry to have been a bit quiet recently.
I needed the quiet.
Very much.

Isn't it interesting that in January we are inundated with television, internet and radio advertisements shoving pro-active, energetic new beginnings upon us? Buy this skincare line! Get in shape! Try this diet! That diet! Don't eat carbs! Don't eat meat! Don't eat anything! Find love! Find your ancestors! DO IT NOW!!!

I didn't want to "do it now," I wanted to sit alone in my house and be with myself (and at most, with Jessica Fletcher)... in the quiet.

I needed to think about my life, about life in general. About relationships with others and with myself. I needed to de-fragment the internal computer. Though the work was silent, I worked so hard, and multi-tasked so ferociously, that I made myself sick-- at the height of my internal re-organization I caught walking pneunmonia and was forced to go even deeper in.

Slowly, I am emerging. Slowly, I feel a very heavy veil lifting. But the work is arduous, and frustratingly time-consuming. Depleting.

I will come home from a day of actor-ing and tell myself to do something simple--
     "Boil the water" I say to myself. Out loud, like a crazy person, I respond,
     "Boil water? What am I, a chemist?!"
And I go to Plan B. [Please note: Plan B usually includes a can of black beans...don't you judge me!!]

All of this is to say the following: I have been getting to know myself again, and that didn't leave a great deal of space for sharing myself with others. But I value sharing life, and I value you, dear readers, and I apologize for leaving you so unceremoniously.
I have returned.

*

The other night I attended a concert at Carnegie Hall with Comrade Baker-- a marvelous evening of music which concluded with a performance of Stravinsky's The Firebird delivered by the St. Louis Symphony (passionately conducted by their own David Robertson).

I didn't just cry; I wept. I actually wept, and had to wait for everyone to leave the hall before I could get up and exit myself.

I know this is on the nose, I know that it sounds prosaic to say so, I know that--But music really does have the power to transform. Like winter into spring--the cold earth has not died, it has merely been resting, waiting to be shaken and invigorated by the tilting of the earth ever-closer to the sun. 

Welcome back, spring.
And Al.

Please: watch and hear the whole of this "mythical story of Life, Death and Renewal.".
You won't be sorry.

In My Life: Comrade Baker

kit baker

the berkshires, massachusettes

2010

The Dying Plant

"Now the Lord is that Spirit: and where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is liberty."

Sometimes you surprise yourself.

So Comrade Baker (aka Kit) works for a very interesting company called Aperture-- a nonprofit foundation dedicated to promoting photography. (Do, click on the link and read more about them).

*

Kit invited me to Aperture's annual benefit gala last Monday at The Lighthouse at Chelsea Piers in New York (complete with silent and live auctions, scrumptious dinner and mingling with people you've never met before. By the way, I've found recently that galas are somewhat like weddings in this way, only you feel depressed about your finances rather than your love life...)
 
At table 24 was sat many a stranger, arty types with black-rimmed glasses, snappy t-shirts beneath velvet jacket and brightly colo(u)red dresses cut on super chic angles (but unlike actor events, these people ate bread). Kit was to my right, and after a long and moving discussion during the impossible-to-talk-over live auction that began with "we're going to ignore everyone and have a long and moving discussion aren't we?" and the subsequent "Uh, yes," we moved beyond; Kit mingling to the right, I to the left.

Beside me was an Aperture board member-- an beautiful older woman beautifully dressed in blue cape who began with "I've never met a chocolate sauce I didn't like!" before introducing herself "Toni-- I've always liked being a girl with boy's name." I smiled and extended my hand "I'm Al," and she smiled back.

Beside Toni was a Photographer, enjoying red wine and laughing with abandon--a true artist spirit emanated from every part of him! Eventually, we all began to speak about who we were, what we did. "I'm an actress," I admit.
"And a singer (among other things)," added Kit.
"Oh how wonderful!" the Toni chimes,
"Oh yes. I'd love to come hear you sometime-- I enjoy live music!" adds the Photographer.

Eventually, we discuss where we were originally from: Toni from Chicago, the Photographer from Los Angeles.
"But there is no city in the world like New York," Toni concluded.
"Mmm..." agreed the Photographer.
"I've only been in this city about a year," I join in, "but it's been wonderful so far. I've been in the UK for the last 8 years and grew up in Detroit."
"Oh!" cried the Photographer, "I was born in Detroit!" he leaned in closer, "but I left when I was six and have never been back. I'd like to go."
There was a polite and slightly awkward silence, as there often is when Detroit gets mentioned. People don't know what to say, what to offer, how to feel. Do they believe what they've heard? What they've seen in the media?
"I hear it is on the up!" Toni said, trying to be bright.
"Yes, I've heard that too," added the Photographer.

I think of Howard Barker's quote:

At the fall of the cities:
Why did we inhabit them?

Suddenly I was filled with a feeling-- a wave of desire to give voice to those awkward silences, to speak on behalf of a place whose roar has been reduced to a whisper, but has soul nonetheless. 

"I love Detroit..." I said simply. I didn't know how else to say it.
"She does," insisted Kit. He has heard me speak of this love so often.


"Did you know that Detroit's downtown is larger than Boston, San Francisco and Manhattan combined? And between 1945 to 1972 there was simply no better place in America to be. A place that was once this Titan of industry and culture, a place where people with nothing more than hope and basic skills could come and make a life in a free and prospering place, have a car, a home, build a life. Isn't that the American dream? A city that used it's then controversial cultural makeup as an asset to build a music industry where one did not even commercially exist before Motown changed the face of music in this country and abroad forever. I don't want to sound to melodramatic or grand, but in all truth it almost seems like Rome or Troy-- a booming Middle-American Metropolis now abandoned with decay and disregard for reasons no one can pin down. But despite every adversity, the people in that place are still some of the most industrious, warm, and spiritually generous I've ever come across. In times like these it would be understandable that people would turn inward, think to protect only themselves and their assets-- this is my family, my home, my life. But what I've found is people turning toward one another, helping one another, joining together. Thousands of young people flock there because they have the ability to start small businesses, art warehouses, buy homes, start lives. There is beauty there: a city with resilient, hardworking people. It's unspeakable. I'm so proud to be from a place like that..." I come up for air and everyone is staring at me. "It is hard to talk about..." I add.

And everyone went very quiet.

"But how could any individual help to revive a city in such distress?" asked the Photographer, quietly.

And in that moment, something suddenly came to me.  "You know," I began, "a friend of mine was recently dog-sitting in Hells Kitchen and the plant-sitter that had been asked to show up and take the plants for the fortnight forgot, and the poor plant was practically murdered right there in the front room. By the end of my friend's 10 day stay there the plant was wilted beyond repair.

'I think I'm just going to throw it away,' he said, sighing, shrugging, his heart breaking slightly, 'besides, it is bad chi to have it around...'
'I'll take it,' I said, holding up the poor little floundering plant in the light. 'I'll revive it.'

'Are you sure?' he asked, 'it looks pretty far gone. Perhaps it is just better to let it go and start again. I think I'll just get them a whole new plant.'
I don't know what made me smart at this.
I don't know why I was so moved.
I looked down at the little plant, feeling it's pain twice-- for those who had neglected it and those who didn't believe in it's ability to flourish after so profound a demise.
'Haven't you ever felt like that?' I asked him.
'Yes,' he said, eyes curious.

'Well, when you did, would you have wanted someone to give up on you?'
He lowered his deep brown eyes filled with infinite heart, and nodded with acute understanding. Then he handed me the plant, his every gesture wishing me luck...
...That is how I feel about Detroit."

The photographer stared at me a moment then, reaching across the table, he gripped my hand.

"I think I'd like to go there with you..." he said.

And he smiled through the thin veil of mist in his eyes, "and I'd like to come hear you sing," he added, squeezing my hand a little harder.

You just did, I think to myself, but merely meet his gaze and squeeze his hand in response.

The Russia Diaries: Olkhon Island Photos

"We shall find peace. We shall hear the angels, we shall see the sky sparkling with diamonds."

--Anton Chekhov

The Russia Diaries: Moscow Photos

 

"I didn't choose Russia but Russia chose me. I had been fascinated from an early age by the culture, the language, the literature and the history to the place." 

-- Helen Dunmore

The Russia Diaries: St. Petersburg Photos

"Time will pass, and we shall go away for ever, and we shall be forgotten, our faces will be forgotten, our voices, and how many there were of us; but our sufferings will pass into joy for those who will live after us, happiness and peace will be established upon earth, and they will remember kindly and bless those who have lived before."
-- Anton Chekhov

Gratitudes 51-75

51. Kit
52. Clouds
53. Roses
54. The feeling I get when I teach
55. My beautiful computer
56. My Fiddler family
57. My waist! ;-)
58. Red lipstick
59. Jake the cat
60. Michael
61. BARACK OBAMA
62. The internet (which is amazing, oh my GOD)
63. Coffee
64. Mrs. Devine for teaching me how to read...
65. Nina Machus for teaching me how to sing...
66. Dude & Jimbob Stephenson for giving me a foundation
67. What About Bob?
68. Concealer!
69. Birmingham, Michigan
70. Danny Kaye
71. ...Dad... again...
72. The miracle of technology
73. Gap Curvy jeans
74. La Petite Coquette for the confidence boost of the decade, and for Arielle for showing me the light!
75. The Savoy Theatre

The Russia Diaries: The Tale of Rabbi Lieb

We found the bakery. It was there all along. Like Brigadoon. We sat down and enjoyed some rather splendid baked goods and coffee.
Then I got all philosophical.*


*how fascinating to know now, how prescient this video would truly become...

The Russia Diaries: 12 August - The Moscow Metro

Soviet resolution to build The Metro

We take the glorious Metro! The people's Palace of underground delights. 

The Moscow Metro (Моско́вский метрополите́н) serves the city as well as the neighboring Moscow Oblast towns of Krasnogorsk and Reutov. This first underground railway system in the Soviet Union was opened in 1935 with a single 11-kilometer (6.8 mi) line and 13 stations (it will soon have 188 stations and be over 313km). [Also! The beginning of the Cold War led to the construction of a deep section of the Arbatsko-Pokrovskaya Line. The stations on this line were planned as shelters in the event of nuclear war...holy crow...]   

There was an intense governmental glorification of The Metro, for it was not only one of the Soviet Union’s most extravagant architectural projects (with reflective marble walls, high ceilings and grandiose chandeliers, many Moscow Metro stations have been likened to an "artificial underground sun," in fact, the vertical design emphasis encouraged citizens to look upward as if looking up at the sun, and to boot, the Metro's chandeliers were one of the most technologically advanced aspects of the entire project). Stalin ordered the metro’s artists and architects to design a structure that embodied svet (radiance or brilliance) and svetloe budushchee (a radiant future).  This underground communist paradise reminded its riders that Stalin and his party had not only delivered something substantial to the people in return for their sacrifices, but the monument was in their honor and glorified the people themselves. Most important of all: proletarian labor produced this svetloe budushchee.

 
... I mean... where else in the world is the rumble of trains accompanied by the tinkle of chandeliers? I marvel that taking the Metro is a rather solemn, official experience. Everyone is entirely silent, the announcements deliberate, officious and almost reverent. The hum of the electric lights combined with that of the churning escalators lull the upright people who look straight ahead and stand very still.  "This is as close as the city would get to a church, I suppose," I whisper to Kit as we make our way down the stairs. He just turns around to me and nods, taking the social cue that THEY DON'T REALLY TALK IN THE METRO AT ALL, and perhaps lightly suggesting that I take the hint as well.

All of this as we prepare for the sleeper train to St. Petersburg tonight. 

 

The Russia Diaries: 12 August - "You feel how others feel..."

12 August 2009

Moscow

Tired. We walked nearly 12 kilometers yesterday and I slept like the dead. Vadim is an angel of hospitality, and we set off for a slightly slower-paced day filled with official business.

On the drive in to town I coerce Vadim to speak of his personal history. He is such a deep and curious man-- thoughts penetrative, mind broad and insatiable. Before we left this morning he gave us both a copy of his published novel! A story of an aging man in the Soviet Moscow who falls in love with a younger woman he cannot have...Hm.

It is evident soon that the story of his father is the starting point--a general in the Red Army who believed fervently in the Socialist ideal, "a great patriot," he added thoughtfully after a moments pause.

His father traveled to the U.S. during the Cold War, an absolutely shocking act of open-mindedness for the time, and found America to be "shockingly normal," returning with stories of human interest from Oregon to St. Louis, to Charlotte. Apparently motivated by the death of his own father (murdered by Germans only 500 meters or so from Vadim's house!), he joined the army young and never looked back.

"He adored his Motherland," says Vadim, interestingly referring to Russia as "his" Motherland and not "the" or "our." When I tentatively bring this up Vadim simply closes his eyes and shrugs, the wrinkles around his eyes deepening for a moment...

"And you?" I ask, changing the tone in typical British style, "How did you become the lifelong medical Muscovite?" He slaps the steering wheel and laughs, small teeth bared, head back in sudden joyous amusement-- so thrilled to be relieved of his dark thoughts for a moment.

"My mother's family has a medical background, and I think it was understood that my brother and I would follow this tradition. My father never pressured us to serve in the Army, and anyway as a medical doctor one is required to serve in the Army reserves as a Captain with training and everything. HA!" he explodes, slapping the wheel again, "Imagine me! Old man running about with teenagers in Georgia!" At this Irina laughs. She shifts cat-like in her seat, smirking at Vadim before glancing out the window again. He asks her is she understands him in English. She nods, and replies in Russian that she understands more than he knows. He looks at her and they both smile.


* * *


After arriving in town we change over some money and retire to Petrovka street at my request (it is going to feature...). Vadim takes u to a Turkmen restaurant and we embark on a glorious meal of "Asiatic" food served in a colourful tents illuminated by the blazing summer sun. There are men with pipes, students lounging on decadent jewel-toned sofas, and women in hats smoking skinny "European" cigarettes.. It was at this stage that I realize I am capable of reading Cyrillic letters and actually getting by in the Russian language! How did that happen?! Suddenly, the "code" cracked, I was at last able to read things and ask Vadim what things were, point, ask, etc. It was a real thrill.

I order a traditional stir-fry, Kit a sturgeon shish kebab and Irina noodles and pavlova. Vadim takes only coffee. I think of the photo albums from last night, of his relatively radical transformation from obese young man to fit and trim older man in what appeared in the photos to be just a few months. He not only lost weight, his hair turned gray, he grew a beard, he got glasses.... what prompted this shift? Dare I even ask? As if reading my mind he comments on it himself.

"When I was fat I would've eaten all day, but now just coffee," he apologizes/
"What brought about the change?" I ask, trying not to sound anything other than matter-of-fact.
"I was sick," he looks down into his coffee, "very sick. Yes." He glances away onto the green of the park where a few moments ago he had told us he has spent his childhood and youth behind the old hospital. "I am a medical doctor, I should have known something was not right," he explains this with a hint of what seems to be shame in his voice. "I was tired all the time, for 15 years. I thought I was just sick from Communism!" he laughs, but his face falls quickly, as does Irina's, the memory of that time devastating. "Anyway..." he continues quietly, "finally my colleague made me take a test, and I was able to identify the problem and move on from there..." he sips his coffee and thinks about this for another moment before speaking again, this time with more solemnity. "But the medication, the treatment, was the hardest thing in my life."

Ah Vadim. Such a complex man. A child of the Soviet Union, but an individual spirit aching to grow.

"The entire process, it takes ten years. I am in the middle of year eight," he says with humility. "Many, many people do not survive the process..." I cannot believe this. I press him gently to explain. "Well..." he searches, "all of the symptoms you had before are the same only in reverse and at 1000 percent. You are so irritable you are like a monster, lashing out at those you love for reasons you do not understand, it is as if the voice was not my own..." and then he grew very quiet in deed, moving the white cup between his surgeon's hands.

"But worst of all what is inside your mind. The opposite of exhaustion is not alertness... it is mania... and it is this that drives men to take their lives. It is the never-ending noise of the brain, releasing one thousand thoughts a second, every one of them menacing. And there is nothing to stop it. Nothing turns it off. No Sleep. No pill. Nothing but death itself..."

He finishes the final sip of his coffee with finality, exhaling as he replaces the cup upon the saucer.

"It took time, and a lot of tolerance from my family, but now I am more even and quite well. I do not know how they all managed. But it has made me a better Doctor," he said brightly, attempting to lighten things. "More sympathetic."

I look at him and try to penetrate him. I feel so limited by our too brief acquaintance, by the language barrier and by Kit and Irina, who are in this, removed and far away. I try.

"I can understand how hard that must have been," I fumble slightly, "I cannot feel the pain myself of course, but I can see it with my mind, I sympathize. And how challenging it must have been for those around you, who loved you and did not wish to see you in pain, not to be punished themselves when they had done nothing wrong. And as far as your practicing of medicine-- yes, I see. You see people at the most desperate moments of their lives. Some of them will never walk again, some of them die and you must tend to loved ones. Now, you have felt the despair, felt the frustration of being 'just another face' to a doctor, watched as your own wife and children suffered as you suffered. Of course you are a better doctor. You have been a patient..."

He looked at me a moment, trying to piece together exactly who I was. I could see I had puzzled him-- a young woman, the same age as his older son, who understood the greatest challenge of his life.

"You are a very sensitive girl, Alexandra. You understand. You feel how others feel."

The Russia Diaries: 12 August - The Post Office

At the post office to register our visas.

Whoa.

What a torment. An avalanche of paperwork and government bureaucracy required to visit a still archaic country.
     "Don't be fooled by our shopping malls," said Vadim as he filled out the forms for us, "We are still barbaric in many ways," and he checked off about 100 boxes. "Every day I spend hours filling our thousands of forms, hours I could be spending with my patients. But I must do it to prevent prosecution of course. I am not a dermatologist, I am operating on people's spines!"

We fill out the forms.
In Cyrillic.
We report to a window.
And eccentric elderly woman with gold teeth makes photocopies of a bazillion documents.
She points us to another window where we are to buy an envelope.
We buy the envelope.
We report to another window where we are to buy stamps
We buy them.
We report to a line where we are to send it off.
We stand in this line.
People cut in it.
We arrive at the window and after more kerfuffle send them off.

The process takes two hours.

The Post Office is damp and lightless and I cannot understand how we could possibly have survived it!
     "Russians must make everything hard..." Vadim sighs, "else, how would we suffer?" he twinkles.

The Russia Diaries: 11 August - Narzan

11 August 2009

Moscow

Day one.

доброе утро! Good morning Moscow, and what a glorious, clear day. Having (somewhat) recovered from the vodka of the night before, we embark upon our journey in to the heart of Moscow's city center by piling in to the Chevrolet armed, upon Vadim's passionate insistence, with bottles of Bulgakov's favourite sparkling water Narzan (Вода минерала нарзан). Vadim loves both Bulgakov and his preferred seltzer water. Very much.

In The Master and Margarita, Bulgakov doesn't merely talk of ordinary seltzer water, he mentions the brand by name. In one particularly brilliant scene, a group of writers attempt to purchase cold drinks at a refreshment stand, only to discover that the stand has nothing to offer whatsoever. It is an apt and sardonic sketch of 1930 Moscow manners.

"Give me some Narzan water," said Berlioz.
"There isn't any," replied the woman at the refreshment stand, taking umbrage for some reason.
"Got any beer?" inquired Bezdomny in a hoarse voice.
"The beer will be delivered later," the woman answered.
"So what have you got?" asked Berlioz.
"Apricot juice, only it's warm," said the woman.
"Wel, give us that then!..."

The apricot juice generated an abundance of yellow foam, and the air started smelling like a barbershop. The writers drank it down and immediately began hiccuping, paid their money, and went over and sat down on a bench facing the pond, with their backs to Bronnaya Street."

Since 1894 this water has been bottled in Kislovodsk, a city in the lush region of Stavropol in Ukraine. In Bulgakov’s time Narzan water was associated with this sunny resort town in the North Caucasus (comparable to Vittel in France).

Narzan water is a real taste of Russia, and comes in delightfully slim green bottles with a whimsical label. When communism collapsed, Narzan had assets that most other domestic enterprises could only dream of - a pre-Revolutionary brand name, an established reputation, and a quality product. But in everything else it was like any other company emerging from the dysfunctional- if secure- command economy. When regular orders from the state dried up, the factory was forced to switch to products targeted at mass consumers: cheap fortified wine and - OH! oh yes! - bedroom slippers. It was quite a step down from the days when the company made special deliveries to ailing Soviet leader Vladimir Lenin in the 1920s.

But happily, today Narzan outperforms its Soviet peak producing 70 million liters per year and is back on the tables of the nation's elite, including the Kremlin. Vadim has cases of it, Kit has been a Narzan convert since his first visit in 1991, and I? It was love at first sip. Crisp. Clean. Delicious.

The Russia Diaries: 10 August - That Evening

"His name is Emmanuelle..." he chews on the name like a sour taste. He wets and purses his mouth, scrunches his shoulders,

The family is meeting this Emmanuelle for the first time tonight, and it is endearing to see Vadim squirm, shift and mope about his daughter's Milanese boyfriend who is not-so-secretly living with his 21-ear-old daughter.

"Everyone is keeping it a secret from me," he mopes "but I know they are living together. I know and they know I know and... ugh, I don't know..." He shifts in the driver's seat, face contorted in a kind of scowl. "Also," he says, "his name... ugh. It is the name of a certain film that came to Russia in the 70's... a sort of..." he is uncertain as to how to proceed with me, I am, after all, a completely new female, in the back of his American vehicle. "a sort of," he searches, "soft, erotic film." There. He said it. Emmanuelle, famed French softcore erotic movie. Emmanuelle as in the word metonymic with erotic film. Yes. EMMANUELLE. The name of his daughter's boyfriend. Wonderful.

And in this vain, it is clear that in Vadim's mind, no one has ever had better sex than the sex his 21-year-old-daughter is having with Emmanuelle in his head. In Vadim's imagination, the pair of them are enacting the types of horrific things one only ever sees on the covers of books with titles like A Savage Hunger, or, Lady Jane and the Elusive Tome. Emmanuelle must be a tan, strapping Italian over 6-feet tall, with billowing, greasy hair and an oily chest. His long, elegant, tapered, masculine fingers with the well-trimmed perfectly clean nails continued on their journey down the buttons of his daughter's perfectly-tailored Milanese bodice... ARGH!

He shudders. The car has been very quiet. Feathers ruffled, Vadim's forehead is crumpled into terrible creases. He is a father suitably skeptical.

* * *

Emmanuelle, it turns out, is not in fact the greasy swaggering sex offender he has been feared to be, but was, in fact, a child. A cherubic puppy-eyed, golden curly haired child of about 20 with an eager face keen to please, and an irritatingly high level of innate personal Milanese style that draped on him awkwardly-- knight's armor too large upon the apprentice.

Nastia was clearly in charge, telling him (in what I would quickly learn was the extraordinarily direct Russian manner) where to stand, sit, what to eat, drink, when to speak and at what volume, and managing somehow to avoid any of these directions to come across as truly domineering. In this particular instance, it was evident that her high-handedness was actually considered helpful to what was clearly, (we could see it now!) a rather overwhelmed and frightened Emmanuelle! Yes, upon closer inspection it was actually very sweet. Nastia was being the classic Russian wife. And everyone was fine with that.

Everyone, that is, except Vadim.

Vadim was loathe to see his daughter so grown up and domesticated. His baby,his girl, his teenager who once "drank coca-cola and coca-cola only by the bucket" had now requested a juicer. She drank fresh juice. Everyday. "In Italy they drink juice..." Vadim explains with a glower. Something about the juice was specifically hurtful. Not the fashion school or fluent Italian or native boyfriend; no.

The juice had done Vadim in.

When exactly did she grow up?

The Russia Diaries: 10 August - The Beatles

Mankind is looking for something, and will certainly find it. Oh, if it only happened more quickly.
- Anton Chekhov

There is a moment or two in the car when we all get used to one another. I am unprepared and not quite certain how to proceed. Vadim switches his brain to English, and settles in to it carefully, consciously, while speaking of consciousness, I am mindful of communicating well in my feeble English-only-but-excellent-at-hand-gestures-in-fact-I-always-win-charades-and-can-provide-several-alternative-word-choices way. (Note: I really am quite excellent at charades and do not recommend being on an opposing team at a party... don't challenge me to a duel... you will lose and curse my name).

The radio hums un-imposingly in the background. There is a pause that fills the car when the small talk and general inquiries die down. "Do you like the Beatles, Alexandra?" he finally asks. "Yes," I reply, "Who doesn't?"

"Paul McCartney played Moscow in 2003..." he trails off. "I was there..." It was three tiny words, but it rang out, sending energetic ripples throughout the atmosphere of the American car. I was there was pregnant with meaning. I begin to suspect there is more to it than your average Western Beatle-mania.

"You see," he explains "being a Beatles fan in the West was easy. Not so in Soviet Union. In those days," he explains, "it was illegal to bring a Beatles record into Soviet Union and if you were found with one, it was usually taken away. The Beatles were considered the sound of the capitalist threat during the Cold War," he adds.

It is true. Apparently in Soviet times, if one did try to smuggle a Beatles record in to the country they authorities would put the record on a special device, scratch it, and return it to the smuggler as a souvenir. Owning one was considered to be a form of treason. Recordings that did manage to pass through the tight screen were like gold. Most of the Beatles music that Vadim managed to listen to was, at best, third- or fourth-generation copies.

In his 1930s novel, The Master and Margarita, Mikhail Bulgakov says that love fell upon the heroes like a mugger with a knife from a side street. Something similar apparently happened to the souls of Soviet "teenagers" (incidentally, a word Russia learned thanks to the Beatles).

"Beatlyi was the Russian word to describe things by the Beatles," Vadim adds. "I remember hearing the word for the first time. I knew exactly what it meant." He smiles wryly, the sensation of it ever present even now. "But it was impossible not to listen when all anyone was talking about was the Beatles. The music came to us from an unknown, incomprehensible world, and it bewitched us, it took hold of our spirits and imaginations."

In the early days, infatuation with the Beatles implied an unconscious oppositional stance, more curious than serious, and not at all threatening to the foundations of a socialist society.

"The youth of the Soviet Union do not need this cacophonous rubbish," stated Soviet leader Nikita Krushchev of the Beatles in the early 1960s. "It's just a small step from saxophones to switchblades."

Yet the Soviet youth, claims Vadim, did need the Beatles, and went to enormous lengths to be more like them. Vadim contends that the Beatles, more so than any other band of the time, was the single-most important factor in shaping pop culture behind the Iron Curtain.

"Later on, you could bring Rolling Stones albums into the country," he states, "but not the Beatles. The Beatles were an event. The Rolling Stones were just a rock band, but the Beatles were the cultural event of our century. 100 out of 100 youths, if asked who invented the electrical guitar," he continues, "would answer 'The Beatles.' Who invented rock-and-roll? The Beatles. Every event has a master, and the master of modern music was the Beatles."

He adjusts his black glasses in a swift, efficient movement. We are still for a moment, lost in thought. After a few minutes, he speaks again. His voice is quiet. His tone definite, what he is about to say is specific.

"The Beatles brought this message about love and peace. They allowed us a little bit of escape when there was no escape..."

We drive on. Flying through the traffic-less city streets with abandon.
Freedom.

The Russia Diaries: 10 August

10 August, 2009
Moscow

In Moscow you can sit in an enormous restaurant where you don't know anybody and where nobody knows you, and you don't feel that you're a stranger.
-- Anton Chekhov, The Three Sisters

* * *

To Moscow! Ah the cry of Chekhov's three sisters! To Moscow indeed!

Truth be told: I am depleted.
Drained.
Burnt out.
These are the most accurate words to describe my current condition, but naturally it only grazes the edges. At this moment in my life I am empty in every significant way. Confidence. Creativity. Basic energy required to function. Jobless, homeless, heartbroken and exhausted, I am uncertain as to whether or not I will be able to be present for this journey. Yet, great moments of human endeavor can stimulate a sort of poetry.

This moment calls for the poise and ponderous delivery of never-to-be-forgotten strengths, a compromise between spiritual slaughter and the potential for a kind of ascension... Oh the competition.

But one must persevere. I must not allow the depletion to impale my brain, or let others crush my currently unbeating heart.

I will make a point of healing, topping myself up again, and, perhaps most dauntingly, opening myself to woundedness. The rains shall rinse out every fear.

And after all, to quote Anton's sisters once again:

What seems to us serious, significant and important will, in future times, be forgotten or won’t seem important at all.

And so I am here, in Moscow, further than Irina, Olga and Masha ever got, and here, again referring to the words of the sisters, I am not a stranger. In Moscow, there shall be light.

* * *

After our three-hour Aeroflot flight from London we passed through the formidable gates of Russian security, collected our bags, and made our way through the glass airport doors.

And there, hands cradled behind his back, standing just beyond the threshold, he stood.

He wore a burgundy cotton t-shirt, perfectly pressed linen trousers and light-weight sandals to combat (or perhaps to appreciate) the glorious heat of a late Russian summer day. His gray head was angled ever-so-slightly downward, his eyes hopeful and expectant through his dark-rimmed glasses.

As we approached he opened both of his arms wide and smiled. The gesture was subtle but his face spoke volumes as he approached, embracing Kit with both of his already open arms. "Hello, old friend," he greeted, his accent rich and voice full of feeling. "Hello!" greeted Kit, equally thrilled. They look at one another and grin broadly. There is a look of appraisal, of flooding memory, of understanding at grayer hair and nearly matching black-rimmed glasses.

In the vestiges of my memory, even from the periphery I can recall Kit's last visit to Russia, for when he was last there he was with Lilly who was with me celebrating the New Year my house in 2002. He emailed her. He spoke of amber. I didn't know him then, but I remember it well.

It has been seven years since they visited last. They are very old friends, and it would not take hearing the story of their meeting in 1991 to know it in this moment.

"Oh! This is Alexandra," introduces Kit, and Vadim takes my hand with both of his, greeting me with such an intensity of welcoming that my breath is nearly taken away. "Come!" he says his voice suddenly full of fun, and we make our way across the busy parking lot.

I already like him.

"I love American cars," he informs us as he packs Kit's giant blue and my petite red suitcases in the truck of his Chevrolet. He shuts the lid of the trunk, opens the doors, and soon the bespectacled Vadim (sporting a new goatee so I am told) is buckled up and we are on our way.

"Shall we drive through the city center?" he asks with a degree of excitement in his voice. "I love to drive through the city when there is no traffic. Traffic is terrible problem in Moscow, but today is a Monday. I feel like we should take the opportunity. Today it is a very good day."

Yes it is.