Chillin' on the roof

After a week of sleeping outdoors at the family cabin in California, Alla and I decided to extend the pleasure by sleeping on our roof deck. Mostly, it's been quite pleasant. We'd burrow under the blankets and examine the few stars bright enough to overcome the city's glow, and then we'd sleep soundly until awakened by sunlight in the morning.

Last night was a little different. First, we were distracted by lots of sirens and other city noises as we waited to drift off to sleep. Second, we were further distracted by high winds. We put an extra sheet over our three blankets, hoping it would prove to be some sort of shield. Maybe it worked, but it's hard to tell. The wind blew hard all night, but we were fairly protected by wool caps on our heads and mounds of fabric over us.

In the middle of the night we evaluated whether we should abandon our rooftop outpost. Well, to be truthful it wasn't a very scientific evaluation, as we were both half asleep. I just knew that to get into bed downstairs would require removing the stuffed animals and the bed spread, while staying on the roof simply required that we sleep as close as possible to each other. We (or was it I?) selected the latter option.

We had no idea when the sun rose because both of us ended up with our hats pulled over our eyes. All I can say is, we survived.

At the cabin

We spent a few days at my family’s cabin in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada Mountains.

From 2009-08 Cabin

I spent lots of time here as a child, but only see the place infrequently now. Before me, my mom and her family spent vast amounts of time here since she was a girl.

It’s a great place to gather with family and enjoy the many things we have in common. This time we achieved nearly 100% attendance and collectively brought far more food than necessary. Alla and I stayed beyond the reunion weekend, along with an aunt and uncle, and tried pretty hard to eat our way to the back of the refrigerator.

Our friends Lonnie and Rocky thwarted our efforts with the refrigerator. They came up for a day and two nights with us and brought up a whole lot more food. In between meals we hiked, swam and slept under the stars.

We have a few photos here. I need to ask my cousins to send me pictures of the reunion.

Now I can write about it

There were a few odd things about Saturday’s bike ride, but I couldn’t quite figure out how to make a story out of it. Now that I know some more details, I’ll tell you what happened.

I started out on my favorite road, towards the Minsk Sea. Thoughtlessly, I turned right toward the Presidential Compound, following my early-morning route rather than going straight to the sea as I intended. I thought I could correct my error if I rode across a field and figured out how to get across the highway that encircles the city.

As I approached the field, I noticed an unusual number of highly-attentive policemen just before I saw a busload of young men in white shirts with walkie-talkies. I figured they really didn’t want me in the neighborhood so I went directly across the field. There was another person in the field with me, in a car, and I was weirded-out enough that I took the road he didn’t take. I ended up riding up to a cop anyway, so I asked him how to get across the highway. I tried to ask him if I could get through the culvert I saw up the road, but didn’t manage to make myself understood. Nevertheless, he wanted me to go that direction anyway so I did.

When I went down to see if the culvert were big enough and dry enough for me to cross under the road, I saw a single figure sitting on the ground at the far end of the ditch. What the heck; I went. When I got closer, I realized that it was a soldier in uniform, which felt a lot safer to me than the derelict I had first imagined.

I explored several beaches along the Minsk Sea before heading back home. I wanted to go back around the Presidential Compound because it’s the quietest way back. I had previously discovered some pathways from the Minsk Sea along an inlet and a river, and I proceeded that way towards the city.

I passed an amazing number of cops and military guys, especially under every bridge and overpass. I figured there was some reason for extra security but couldn’t figure out what it would be. Finally, as I approached the end of the bike path, one of those white-shirt guys stepped out and asked me to get off my bike and take a break for a few minutes. OK.

Other people began accumulating under the tree with me, but the guard on the other side of the road was letting people by. I think my guard was more cautious than the other, but I didn’t argue with him. I figured we’d see a presidential motorcade soon, and maybe that would be exciting somehow.

Things reached a frenzy for me when I heard the roar of a lot of motorcycles. Some of them sounded distinctly like Harley-Davidsons, but not all of them. The volume rose and fell as the motorcycles went by unseen, on the main road perpendicular to the presidential-access road where we were blocked.

We waited some more.

Finally, the presidential motorcade came by: One nice Chrysler lead car, a black Mercedes with a flag on the fender, and another nice Chrysler. That was it? What was the deal about all the motorcycles I heard. And why all the cops? Do they do this every time the President goes out for groceries?

The Secret Service guy let me get back onto my bike. As I approached Drozde, the presidential motorcade returned, the flag removed from the Mercedes. As I rode around the compound, I finally saw a few police motorcycles. The Belarusian cops ride sport bikes with blue lights on the front. I’m sure they are much faster than the Harleys our cops drive, but they’re also a lot quieter than the bikes I heard earlier. No story here.

Then today Alla challenged me to read an article in the newspaper. It was about President Lukashenko’s adventure on Saturday when an international motorcycle festival came to Minsk. At the culmination of the festival, one of the organizers offered President Lukashenko the opportunity to ride on a Harley-Davidson. The president put his young son on the seat in front of him and led everybody down the street where I could hear it.

I’m not sure I fully understand this security system. The President was out there riding around on a huge motorcycle without a helmet on while hundreds of security people protected him from bad guys. I wish one of the cops had handed him a helmet. And I wish I were there to see it.

Here are more pictures for you.

Good chocolate

I like chocolate. Around home, I always have a couple of bars of dark chocolate on hand, and it takes me a few days to nibble through each one. I broke this habit right away when I got settled in Minsk because I just couldn’t find any chocolate I enjoyed well enough to munch on. It wasn’t a big deal, of course, because it’s summer and I’ve been very well entertained snacking on fresh fruit. Still, every time I saw a new brand of dark chocolate I’d buy it, hoping to stock my selves with a few bars I’d enjoy nibbling.

I had pretty much given up on the chocolate project when I discovered the Korona supermarket. (Actually, they don’t even call it a supermarket. It’s a hypermarket. For my American readers, it’s something between a shopping center, Costco, and a gourmet supermarket.) Korona has a bigger variety of products than any store I’d ever seen in Belarus, so much so that Alla was overwhelmed and wanted to flee. I bought real Parmesan cheese, which was the priority that brought us there in the first place, and bought one of every kind of plain dark chocolate they had on their shelves.

I was pretty excited about all the chocolate. I prepared a piece of paper with all the brand names and took notes every time I tried a new one. They were generally a little better than the stuff I’d been buying previously, but not always by much. My favorite of the lot was A. Korkunov 72%, made in Moscow. I found it a little sweeter than I would have liked, and the texture seemed a little soft, but I thought it was good enough to buy again. Actually, that was the only one I thought was good enough to buy, but there aren’t many at home that I buy repetitively either. (Scharffen Berger!)

A couple of days ago, however, I went into a little supermarket Alla discovered really close to our house. It’s closer to us than the place where I did most of my shopping, but I didn’t realize it was even there because it’s in an underground mall I didn’t bother to explore. These guys had more brands of chocolate even than Korona, and I splurged on a couple more bars that looked promising. Wow! My new local favorite is Favarger Noir Plain, from Geneva. I like it well enough that I no longer wonder about schlepping a supply of chocolate on my next trip over here. Hooray!

K tests library security

I am not at liberty to divulge the name of a fellow student who came with us today to the National Library for lunch and a quiet place to do homework. Let's just call him K. Pretend you're Australian while you pronounce his initial.

When we had finished our homework, we went together to the wardrobe to pick up our bags. K opened his locker and found it empty. We foreigners were alarmed, but the library staff was simply helpful. First they took us to the lost-and-found locker, where they had one item that was left overnight. We explained that K's bag had only been there a few hours, and they summoned the Militsia. The attendants assured us again that everything would be alright.

We described K's bag to them. Worst case, we understood, they'd review the security tapes and see who took it out of the library.

K admitted that he had been a little distracted when he loaded the locker. Maybe he had put his bag in one locker and locked another. We joined forces to check all the unlocked lockers in the area, but they were all empty. So the head of the attendants asked the Militsia guy if she could open the neighboring lockers. OK.

On about the third try, she found K's bag. He withdrew his passport from the bag to prove that it was his. We were satisfied and prepared to leave, but the attendant wouldn't let us. "Where's the key?," she asked. Nobody knew. But to be good sports, we all checked our pockets. K dug deep. What do you know? He found another key down there, the key to the locker in question.

I think our stuff was all quite safe, under the watchful eyes of this attentive staff.

Eating at the Library

Arif and I talked last week about eating lunch at the National Library, but we were afraid all we could buy might be cakes and sweets. Then last weekend I took a tour with our house guest and learned that they have a restaurant. I had to try it, so Arif and I rounded up three classmates and took our library cards for an adventure.

From 2009-07 PhonePix

First we stopped at the foot of the statue in honor of Francisco Scorina, the first person to print a book in the Belarusian language. Then we found our way to the cafeteria.

My goodness, this is a wonderful cafeteria. In the first place, we get to eat with beautiful metal knives and forks; not the flimsy plastic stuff we get at the university. Next, we realized that the food is presented beautifully in substantial portions on full-sized china. Finally, we discovered that not only is this food priced similarly to the food in the University cafeteria, it's also delicious.

I made one mistake. I didn't realize that the plate of fish in the warming oven comprised three servings. I opened the door on my side of the warming oven and put this huge plate of fish onto my tray. I shared it, and I made a heroic effort to eat the rest. Oops. But it sure did taste good.

Luis helped us figure out how to check out a couple of copies of the textbook we use in our classes, and we took them into the reading area near the language dictionaries and we worked on our homework together. What fun!

Stunts

One of our young friends told me about a tradition among kids in Minsk to undertake some sort of performance art. Maybe they’ll all wear pajamas and take their pillows onto the Metro. Or pass out balloons. I think we saw the tail-end of a balloon-passing-out event a couple of trips back. At the time we couldn’t figure out where everybody got the balloons. Today I finally saw one of these events unfold. I was coming home from the renok (market) and saw a few kids with signs that said in English and Spanish “Free hugs.” I wasn’t interested in hugging any of those kids at that time and I continued ahead. Next I saw some kids with signs in Russian, but I didn’t know what the signs said. Maybe it was “Free kicks in the groin.” How would I know? I kept walking. Wave after wave of these “Free kicks in the groin” kids came by. Finally one of them came and gave me a hug. Then a bunch more of them came by and gave me hugs. This wasn’t just twenty or thirty kids, it was a very seriously organized project. I wonder how it was communicated and organized.