moscow

It has been a long time since I was last here- too long in fact. It has been an even longer time, seven years to be precise, since I left Russia to study in Hungary. But the moment I arrive it feels like I still live here. Some things simply never change. I lock in to Moscow mode. I have been told I am a different person when I am here- I am not, I just use different parts of myself to function. But being back makes me realise acutely both how much I have missed Moscow, and why I will probably never live here again. As one (Russian) girl in my office put it- everything in Russia is great- except sometimes it makes you want to cry. I think of this as I go to my first meeting. In addition to my business card, reception takes and photocopies my passport and migration card- all of which are studied with more attention than I suspect my actual company materials will be. I then have to fill in several forms, all of which need to be stamped. I am then given an entry pass, and an armed guard escorts me through the building to the section I need to be in. fortunately I anticipated this and arrived at the office complex 15 minutes early to allow time for the procedure. This is quite efficient in many ways- one of the companies I am meeting tomorrow needed me to scan and fax over all my passport details 48 hours in advance, and I am sure there will still be piles of forms to fill out tomorrow when I arrive. At least I am used to this. I could have taken a consultant from my company with me, but chose not too on the grounds none of them speaks Russian. This is true, but another part of the reason was simply that I cannot imagine explaining this sort of thing to one of my British colleagues. I cant imagine taking them around on the metro and trying to explain its wonderfully efficient system, which is super user-friendly and well-signed posted….in Russian. And I certainly cannot imagine trying to explain the situation when I arrived in the airport and ran back in forth between several queues in an attempt to get through passport control within an hour or so, hindered by the people in front who would invite the 20 friends who materialized out of no where right as they approached the front of the queue and suddenly gained the right to go first.
In the evening I go for an incredibly delicious Korean feast with old friends. We drive through the city with its bright illuminated streets and wide avenues. We reminisce about the past, laugh, drink beer and eat kimchi and I am reminded what a special city Moscow is, particularities and all.

Aberdeen

Amazing how dependant our world is on air travel, so much so that 6 days without it can create unprecedented chaos, and touch so many people. One friend was meant to be the best man in a wedding ceremony, which he obviously missed. A colleague was stranded in Rome and had to take a several day trip, patching together cars and trains to get back to London. Another colleague got stranded in Dubai, whilst changing planes on the way from Tokyo to London. I ended up commuting by train between London, Edinburgh and Aberdeen. Aberdeen is the oil capital of the country. My father was raised in a satellite town 20 kilometres or so out in the countryside to the West of city, and in those days it was a sleepy backwater place, poor by even Scottish standards. Most of the lads my father grew up with planned to work on the land after school. Secondary school was voluntary back then, and my father was the only boy from his year who chose to go. The others didn’t really see the point. No one imagined that oil reserves would be found offshore, but they were in the 1970s, transforming Aberdeen forever.
That said, it is still a fairly bleak place, albeit an expensive one. As I arrived in the evening it was snowing, although it is late April and Spring in London. But then Scotland is known for condensing all four seasons into a day, rather than stretching them over the course of the year as the rest of the planet does. Sure enough, it was sunny for a few hours the next afternoon, although still blisteringly cold. For reasons beyond my comprehension, the entire core of the city was built with granite, giving it a gloomy grey colour to match the sky. But most of my meetings take place on industrial estates outside the city centre. From the outside, these estates look pretty grim, but that hides the activity that takes place on them, and the incredible sums of money being pumped about. Equally surprising is there multi-national character. Over the course of any given day, I find myself talking to Texans, Norwegians and Mexicans. But, unlike in most European cities, the cab drivers are all locally born, and astonished when they discover my local origins. One fellow driving me out to a meeting in Dyce was only two years younger than my father, but had gone to school a couple of towns over. He marvelled at my exotic accent, especially when I told him that my (adoptive) grandfather had been the headmaster of the school in Oldmeldrum. “You sound like a real Australian!” the taxi driver marvelled, and I didn’t bother complicating the story by correcting him. But it turned out that Australia was more on his mind than in my accent- he and his wife had thought of moving out there in the late 50s, during the Australian government’s “bring out a Briton” programme. Passage was apparently only 10 pounds a head in those days, and nearly all who went got land. The taxi drivers eyes got misty, looking out in the distance to the future that never materialized: a ailing father in law, the birth of children, a minor job promotion….and in the end they just never made it out there. “Just think, if I had gone, my grandkids would all sound like you” the driver said with a forced laugh, whilst I thought that if my father had stayed, I would no doubt be speaking proper Doric myself, instead of my bastard hybid tongue. The driver and I sat in silence, I guess each imagining how things could have been, had different decisions been taken half a century ago.

image making

so off i trot to the gym. I am asked if i would prefer a male or a female. i choose a male on the assumption that any female in such a job must surely be a bitch, whereas any male doing such a thing must be gay. gay men are easier to get on with an normally have better taste, so i went for the male option. the night before the appointment, harry is in town. he bursts out laughing and describes in detail the person he thinks i will be meeting: totally gay, probably latin american or arab. he proceeded to describe exactly what would happen and how. I doubt harry has ever gone through such a process, but he clearly knows what he is talking about. I showed up at my new gym last night, just in time to see Joao, my new personal trainer, prancing towards me. thats right, prancing. i have to admit, joao is lots of fun and he makes me laugh, which is just as well as the initial tests indicate i am way more out of shape than i thought. i had figured that biking around everywhere would at least keep me fit, but evidently not. although my BMI is excellent, i did poorly on most of the tests. Furthermore, after a 45 minute work out, i confess that i woke up today barely able to move. and here i have to grudgingly admit Joao the uber gay brazilian knew his stuff. he analyzed my body and proceeded to select exercises that hit every one of my (numerous) weaknesses. he came up with activities i had never heard of, and managed to exercise muscles i didnt even know i had- although i certainly feel them all today. and he did all this with a huge smiling and flying jazz hands. He also recommended i train in boxing, correctly concluding it was well matched to my personality. so we spent a good while in the boxing arena, as he taught me some basic moves. fortunately here i was not quite so lost. like most Scots, i know how to fight. the more he teased me dancing around the ring, the angrier i got and the harder i punched. it felt good.