The 30 Before 30 List

A to do list is as much about motivation as it is about keeping you on track. A classic Type A control freak, I have kept to do lists since I was old enough to write – even my finger paintings were cryptic to do lists.

1. Live and work in at least 4 countries (Australia, Russia, US and UK)

2. Live in the Russian Federation for 6 months soaking up the history and language (Murom)

3. Spend time in New Orléans (I am writing this in New Orleans!)

4. Visit 30 countries (close!)

5. Fill another passport

6. Finish designing my dream house

7. Decide on which country I want to live in

8. Win a scholarship  (I have been given 2)

9.  Invest in good quality brands that will last for beauty, fashion and most importantly, luggage.

10. Be a published writer (Yep)

11. Spend 1-2 semesters studying abroad (Jan 2013)

12. Trim those people out who don’t make an effort to be in your life

13. Develop a new skill (I am enrolling in classical french cooking classes!)

14. Buy a Rolls Royce Phantom (um….Safe to say this is not done)

15. Live at Chateau Marmont for one week

16. Spend one week at a holistic resort in Thailand or Bali (Booked in for November)

17. Contribute to a newspaper or magazine

18. Be heather and start running again (urgh.)

19. A fellowship or internship at an US medical/forensic facility

20. Become fluent in a language other than English

21. Be positive

22. Spend 6 months living in Philadelphia/Pittsburgh (next year)

23. Fall in love again with someone who will a) follow me or b) ask me to stay

24. Finally finish with University and decide about PhD programme

25. Buy a home/land or at least decide on where I want to live

26. Spend time meditating and relaxing each day

27. Live on a boat off Catalina for a week

28. Live in Morocco or India for one month and take cooking classes

29. Spend a week back in NY but stay in Harlem instead of the Upper East Side

30. Enjoy life and be happy!

I say I am about 75% there. What’s on your to do list? 

From Russia With Love. Living in Central Russia for 6 Months

 St Basil Cathedral, The Red Square. Amazing.

Those that read my blog regularly already know I lived in Russia for 6 months. Living in this country was one of those moments that changed my life. I have made many selfish decisions in my life but probably none more than moving east of Moscow to Murom. I finally found a guy I love and less than 4 months later I was on an aeroplane 5000km in the opposite direction. Selfishness aside, here is small insight into the life I led in Murom, Russia.

I spent these 6 months surrounded by things I love such as history, architecture, culture, language and vodka but I lived in a small town (and one of Russia’s oldest, 846) where no one spoke english and the only time I was able to speak english was when I was teaching a class. The teachers were native russian speakers and only referred directly to me in english – otherwise it was russian. The food was labelled in russian, the street signs were in russian and I didn’t know enough russian to get by. I couldn’t pronounce the street I lived on (kubyshakonivokanpanavoska or close to it) so the teachers at the college often called the taxi on my behalf. At home I couldn’t answer the telephone, the door or greet people in the elevator. I started to learn Russian mostly by watching MTV Russia.

My walk to work every morning

To show you just how absurd my trip was, a man I met asked after a recent trip to Moscow, “While in Moscow, what did you see?” My response was, “I don’t know enough russian to read the signs, so I have no idea what I saw!”

But in this isolated bubble, not being able to speak, read, write , listen, respond, shop, make phone calls, watch TV or communicate in general, is where I found myself as a person. I had nowhere to run, no one to talk to endlessly about my problems. I had myself, my own thoughts and a lot of time to realise what I want in this life. I thought leaving on an aeroplane from NYC to Helsinki and then to Moscow, I had made a huge mistake leaving behind someone I liked for a selfish adventure but somewhere between the clashes of opulent glamour and derelict streets, I developed an affinity for a country on the other side of the world. I had a renewed appreciation for my life. My outlook changed. I did not lose anyone, I was now grateful to have met him.

The view from my apartment in Murom, Russia. One of Russia’s oldest towns.

Over the course of the six months, I did learn russian and was able to read and greet people. I remember a small russian girl writing with her finger on the foggy bus window, “my name is Ala and I am happy” (in russian) and I was able to read it. I was happy to read, even if it was at a 4-year-old level. Inside the elevator in my home I saw the Russian graffiti and was able to eventually read this too. I didn’t know Demetri but apparently he loved Anya.

I walked to work most mornings to avoid the rattling 1940′s German buses, only to see mice and cats lying frozen on the side of the footpath. They had not survived the -36 degree nights. Russians stoically walked to work or grocery shopping in their fur hats, overcoats and high heels straight past them without looking down. It honestly felt like I had stepped back in time, just long enough to answer all the questions I needed answered, then proceeded back into the future on my next stop: London. I thought I would be glad to be out of Russia and back in reality, but its stoic charisma, history and lack of any meaningful technology, while frustrating, was also liberating. Time crept by and allowed you to live – even if the living you were doing was out of your window or at the local supermarket.

The books on my shelf at home in Russia.

 So, when I hear “from Russia with love” it feels like a small token for me to hold on to. It reminds me of Russia but also who I was before I moved there. It also reminds me of that one particular person I left behind. It is a loaded quote for me, but one I have been thankful for every day.

Here are a small few things I learnt about Russia:

Family is the first priority and Russians often spend a lot of quality time with their kids – every weekend is family time. Families take their children skiing, to a nearby ranch, to the local park or a small road trip. They are always holding hands. Always.

Technology is years away in Russia – at least in the smaller towns. In the town I lived in, I spent 2000 roubles every month on internet alone. (About 1/3 of my pay cheque!) It goes by how many MB you download. A hotel in Moscow tried to charge me $200 a night for wi-fi. No thanks. And even when you do connect it’s slow.

A decent two bedroom apartment in smaller towns go for around 1 million roubles. An average Russian is paid between 1-3000 roubles a month depending on their job so many teenagers live with their parents until they meet someone they will marry, and even then may continue to live at home until they have enough money to move out which is often in their 30′s. Various “Americanisms” such as Hubba Bubba (1 stick) was priced at 2 x the price of a 2kg bag of potatoes. Life is hard there. Still.

Russians are very superstitious. Not many will share their dreams or aspirations with you fearing that “saying them out loud” will be bad luck. They also seem to not like reminiscing or looking back. They are very firmly entrenched in the “now.” One Russian lady told me, “Why look back? There is nothing you can do. It’s gone.” How very Russian.

Living in Murom. My Temporary Life in Central Russia

Besides the  -30 temperatures, various corpses of animals who did not survive the winter nights littering the footpaths, German 194o’s buses full of short and stocky Russian Grandmothers who barely fit through the doors of said bus and a multitude of steadfast and intriguing superstitions, I discovered this 1992 time warp I inhibited for 6 months was quite famous. Madonna’s, “Like A Virgin” and “Vogue” were there on repeat on public buses mixed in with a constant techno remix of Katy Perry and various Russian pop songs and I was surrounded by people who either dressed like 1940′s war film heroines or sex vixen circa 1997 walking in 4 feet of snow in 6 inch rabbit fur knee-high boots.

Murom, my ancient home town for 6 months, was first mentioned in literature in 862 and is situated in Central Russia approximately 300km east of Moscow and sits on the bank of the Oka River. It has catered to some amazing guests who I am sure turned up without an invitation – Alexander the Great, Alexander Pushkin and Ivan the Terrible to name a few. Murom is like that cousin who has some juicy gossip but will never tell and you can never quite figure out if it’s because it is so scandalous or because their memory has forsaken them. (The cousin who is invariably found dead with some kind of hand imprint around their neck and a relative in the corner trying to act inconspicuously while trembling, “the b**ch wouldn’t tell me!”)

I lived in this town for six months and found trying to distinguish between what is a myth, firmly believed and what is fact is almost impossible. Russians are incredibly superstitious people, I cannot count how many bottles of champagne were cheerfully shoved in my face in the casual work place to mark an occasion that called for, ‘blessings’ and ‘luck.’ (Brought a new car, met a new ‘cute’ guy, wanting to get pregnant, birthdays, husband no longer has erectile dysfunction, travelling overseas. Pretty much every occasion. Ever.) The only blessing I seemed to get out of it was a slightly blurred vision and a general feeling of happiness.

I am sitting here (circa 2011) listening to Adele’s 21 album and thinking back to this little town. So many stories I want to share with you but where do I start? I decided to start with these photos. Small snap shots of the town I saw everyday as I navigated this vast land that is intriguing, fascinating, harsh, ancient, unforgiving, ruthless, dirty, dangerous, beautiful, breath-taking, out dated, over the top and most importantly, unique.

Have you been to Russia? What did you think?

Linguistically Challenged: The Train From Helsinki to Moscow

I have travelled a lot over the last decade and have never been a victim or even an observer of a Culture Shock – being hard to shock in general, I always thought it was a bit of a myth.

Being too adventurous and open-minded for my own good, without knowing any Russian and failing to research the fact most Russians do not speak English, I boarded an express train from Helsinki, Finland to Moscow, Russia. I somehow managed to work out the extravagantly complicated train ticket and waited patiently in the wrong aisle for two hours at the Helsinki train station. Staring at the ticket, I wondered, if by chance, it was intentionally designed  that way to send clueless foreigners like me who did not know Finnish or worse, Russian on a wrong train off to Kazakstan to fend off ill-fed chickens and aging women with no teeth in retribution.

After what seemed like a week I looked around and saw the 200 people who were waiting for alternative trains had left. I asked what looked like an employee (actually a Policeman) where I needed to catch my train. He looked at me from head to toe and muttered something in Finnish (I think…not knowing the language and all, it could have been Afrikaans for all I know) He pointed me to the direction of a train that looked like it was about to leave. With one oversized suitcase, one large duffel bag, a backpack, a handbag and a train ticket I ran after the employee climbing the ladder into the first carriage. I yelled, “I have a ticket!” The Officer saw me and obliged. “No, you are not first class. You are in the 22nd carriage. We are about to leave. I suggest you hurry.” Perfect English, just not what I wanted to hear. The train had sat in front of me for a good half an hour. I had stood there like a complete douche lord waiting for it to leave without me, apparently.

I started to run – well, waddle with the baggage both physical and emotional weighing me down past 5 carriages. I looked at the next carriage number – 12. Are you kidding me? I kept running, regretting not bringing running supplies with me. A gallon of water and some Shape Ups would’ve come in handy. I stopped next to carriage 19. I needed to catch my breath. I started to waddle again as I heard a loud whistle. I ran to what felt like Siberia. Finally, I got to carriage 22. I hadn’t noticed until then, just how long each carriage was. Was it built to migrate countries? The Russian Officer at this particular carriage did not speak any English at all. Luckily ‘passport’ in Russian sounds exactly the same as the English ‘passport’ – only if you had swallowed a fly halfway through pronouncing it and decided instead of spitting it out in front of company, you’d swallow it.

I handed over my passport. They looked at me from head to toe and muttered “Australie?” “Niet, Australie…AUSTRALIE?????” among themselves in surprise. I know for a fact I wasn’t the first Australian to board a Helsinki to Moscow train but felt if they didn’t fear looking ridiculous doing so they would’ve searched my bags for a pet Koala or a Brown snake. With an excess of  72 kg of luggage I climbed the ice-covered stairs into the carriage and slipped face first into the steel entrance. Hurrah!was my first thought…I am not dead and I did not split my head open. Nor was I wearing a skirt.

Inside the train my problems really started. Once I found a place to stash my oversized luggage (right in the middle of the anorexic aisle obviously sized up for Alessandro Ambrosio or a malnourished person of some type) I walked into my “cabin” to find a young blonde girl. She was from Russia but lived in Helsinki with her Army Officer husband who was Finnish. Moments after the train took off, a Russian Officer came into our cabin and angrily dictated lightening speed Russian for a good four minutes before handing us both a form. Convinced they just had a heated argument of epic proportions, I had hot flashes thinking within minutes I would find myself dead and hacked into small pieces and stuffed under the Soviet floorboards. As it turns out I have an overactive imagination and she was offering us a mild tea.

Of course the form she handed us was in Russian. It was also long enough to keep me occupied for the trip. I asked the girl in my cabin to help me. I knew some of it which was obvious even in Russian. The rest of the form I didn’t understand, was asking about valuables, if I wanted insurance or if I was carrying a weapon or cash. (Who would smuggle a semi automatic into Russia? Someone who missed the memo on Stalin and KGB perhaps) My newly acquainted Finnish friend saw I had 6000 roubles in my pocket which is roughly $200 US and thought I was an English Aristocrat and assumed I was intent on purchasing her or the Kremlin. I could never quite figure out which direction she was leaning towards.

Four hours later we finally completed our forms. The Russian woman came back in and yelled something at me in Russian. I hadn’t learnt to say, “I don’t speak Russian” so I sat there blankly staring at her trying to understand through sheer telepathy. I must have looked like a complete snob or an illiterate hobo. She complained to the girl in my cabin that the form was in English and she was unable to translate it so the Russian Officer asked the Finnish girl to translate the written English to spoken Russian. My stressed-out Finnish friend who had now aged roughly 6 years since meeting me mere hours ago proceeded to read out loud each answer in English and then translated it into Russian and at times, into Finnish, when she couldn’t figure out the direct translation. Paper work is always a pain but in three languages when you only speak one, it becomes tedious and stressful. I fear now that if I did want to buy her she wouldn’t let me. I was too much work. The Kremlin could have me as far as she was concerned.

Ordeal aside, time began to fly on by and I become nervous for the first time in my entire life. Am I stupid, brave or just naïve? I don’t even know Russian. I don’t even know how to say I don’t know Russian. The sun slowly dawned on Moscow and an announcement followed shortly after.  All I understood was “Mockva” and assumed it meant we would be there soon.

I had no idea that when I was looking out of the window that the next six months of my life would be the hardest, most isolating months I would ever endure. The girl who sat looking out of that window is not the girl I am today. Being so isolated physically, emotionally and linguistically, all I had was myself and through this 6 month journey I was able to find out who I really was. Sometimes you need to be shocked, whether to bring you enlightenment, to show you that your beliefs and way of life are not the only way or merely to garner an unexpected emotional response. When I exited the train station I arrived to the below sign, I swallowed my pride and started walking into the unknown. This was going to be a long six months.

Have you had a similar experience?

It’s Not Chanel, Darling: Shopping in Central Russia

Suzdal (Су́здаль)  is one of the oldest towns in Russia. Suzdal is located in the Golden Ring in Central Russia, approximately 26 kilometres (16 miles) from Vladimir and 38 kilometres (24 miles) from Moscow. To put the history of this town into perspective, I was born in Australia which was first sighted in 1688 and Suzdal was settled around 1024 –  about 664 years before my country was even discovered. Mind boggling.

One thing that still remains prominent in this tiny town is the traditional Russian street stalls. In fact, actual “stores” in Suzdal are hard to find. The air smells like a rustic old country side, chickens and live stock freely roam the streets, the street stalls are lined with meadows, elaborately decorated horses for rent, horse drawn carriages, quaint traditional Russian homes on a beautiful backdrop of a undisturbed sunset against the surrounding Medieval architecture. The people are friendly and spend their days in their street stalls selling everything from wooden spoons to aprons, to dolls and home-made food. Not necessarily “must-have” items but ones that are basic and used as both household utensils and souvenirs.

I was in Russia for six months teaching at a private college and my principal had taken me to Suzdal and Vladimir one day so I could “experience Russia”. In exchange I was given a wooden spoon decorated with hand painted traditional Russian pattern. Now every time I roast a chicken and stand in front of the 330 degree oven I’m reminded of my time in Central Russia. It feels like a world away. Well, it is a world away. Light years away from my hotel room in Manhattan, NYC.

The largest congregation of stalls was found in a large U shape around The Resurrection Cathedral and Market Square. The goods were mostly made from wood and hand painted the prices range anywhere from 30 roubles ($1US) to a couple of hundred. (The most expensive thing I saw was a large hand decorated porcelain pot which had a price tag of 350 roubles or $11.80US.)

The traditional and laid back lifestyle of Suzdal was a welcomed detour from the bustle and traffic circus in Moscow. The experience of walking along cobblestone and dirt as opposed to polished wooden floors or tiles in the Wes, shopping in the open and historical fields of Suzdal, surrounded by Churches older than my entire home country was refreshing and inspiring. No crowds, no inflated price tags, no central air conditioning or pushy sales assistants, no artificial smell. In a place filled with as much time and history as Suzdal, the opportunity for the day to drift away slowly without any rush was evident. What was in fact seven hours, felt like about four days. As I now prepare to head out to my local Nordstrom back in the USA,  I kind of miss the experience. And the prices.