Blog Entry the First: Welcome to Moscow

First of all, allow me to state that this trip, which has been agreed to and planned on for the last four or five years, did not come to pass without the help of our staggeringly generous family and friends. Huge hugs and massive thank you’s to everyone who gave us a hand along the way. Some day you will ask a favor of us, and on that day, we will not refuse.

A couple of points to make to catch up anyone who hasn’t been thoroughly in the loop:

Ian, my husband, father to our Simon, snuggler of kitty faces, and master pun-smith, is a professor of Russian History. As it turns out, the best place to research Russian history is in Russia. He’s been traveling to the Motherland almost annually for the past ten years (thanks for sticking around the summer Simon was born, honey! <3 <3). A long research sabbatical was always in the cards for him, and ten months is a long time to be away from his child and lady wife (me) and his secret attic wife he thinks I don’t know about (HI, HELGA. HAVE FUN LIVING IN THE STORAGE UNIT UNTIL WE GET BACK)

Most of our worldly possessions (and Helga) are in storage except for what we could fit in our Subaru Outback. We drove from California to Michigan in four days, visited with friends and family, left our two kitties with my parents (THAAAAAAANK YOOOOOOOU!!!!!), and, after successfully checking an obscene amount of luggage, boarded planes destined for Moscow with a blissfully short layover in Frankfurt.

So now we’re here.

Our apartment is RAD and I love it. Most of it looks like the owner tricked it out by IKEA and I am ALL about it (and once I get the place to myself for a few minutes I'll get some photos on here for y'all).

The search for a living space was long anticipated and, once actually initiated, thankfully short-lived. A realtor was recommended to us, he told us he’d start searching for a furnished apartment starting September 1^st, by the 5^th we had a place secured, and on the 13^th we moved in.

Prior to actually securing this apartment we looked at several choices online and, from the looks of things, I was prepared to feel utterly depressed living in someone else’s home.

Let me explain: 

The only Russian apartment I have any personal knowledge of is where Ian stayed during his year long Fulbright scholarship trip. He rented a room from a lady who also lived in the apartment, and so of course when I visited we confined ourselves to his room, the kitchen, and bathrooms. One doesn’t feel quite at home in that situation.

So even though we are, obviously, living in someone else's apartment, it doesn’t resemble what I had in mind and what several other internet listings had confirmed one bit. No drab walls, no rickety wardrobes, no tiny toilet closet with a sink and bathtub in a completely separate room.

Here I was prepared to poop in a closet and now I’d sleep in our bathroom just because there’s space. It’s bigger than any of our American bathrooms ever were. The tub is ginormous. IT HAS IT’S OWN PILLOW. As soon as Ian is off to work at the archives and Simon is in school for the day I’m going to fill that thing to the brim and live in it… if the outlet doesn’t kill me first.

Oh yes. The outlet. It’s right where the light switch should be in an American bathroom. The actual light switches are just outside the bathroom door, but I never remember that, and several times I have caught myself “instinctively” sticking my fingers into an electrical socket. I’d curse this sneaky Russian bathroom, but I can’t stay mad at it.

The only thing we’re (mainly Ian) “missing” in the bathroom is a medicine cabinet, mostly because a few shelves behind a mirror is a convenient spot to keep medicines out of reach. I’ve tucked all the pharmaceuticals neatly in some kitchen cubbies, but I get it. There’s something so natural about looking in the mirror and wanting to immediately medicate yourself.

Speaking of which… off I go. The Jet Lag must be dealt with.