Doing business

As I wrote to a friend, “Doing business in Belarus is a maddeningly obtuse process, softened by displays of great kindness and generosity.” Here’s the story of the day.

I decided this morning that I’d like to go hear some music, and maybe bring along one or more of my blind friends. I went online to see if I could find a show they might like, maybe a rock concert of some sort. I found nothing promising, but stumbled across a jazz show by a group called the City Jazz Quartet. I listened to some of their music on YouTube, and they’re the real deal. Far better than the third-rate American musicians who sometimes come to perform in Minsk. And somehow, in the midst of a few unsold tickets, they had a block of four tickets off the center aisle in the orchestra section. They looked like ideal seats for this show, and I tried to buy a pair online.

I failed, of course. I don’t have a Belarusian bank card, and my Visa card never works for online ticket purchases. I tried, but couldn’t even reserve a ticket. Theoretically I could have reserved on the phone, but nobody answered either phone number so I want down to the nearest ticket agency, which turned out to be closed until August. The sign on their door said to go to October Square and see their affiliate. At October Square, they had different tickets to sell, but not the excellent seats I expected. I checked online. The tickets were still there. I tried to reserve them from my phone, but again without success. So I clicked through to get the address of an outlet with access to these seats. It was right where I started, beside the Metro station near home.

By the time I got to the right agency, the tickets I’d been trying to buy were no longer available. They’d been reserved but not picked up. I took second best and went home for lunch. After lunch, however, those two tickets were available again. Since the lady who sold me my tickets told me to keep the receipt “in case something comes up,” I figured she could help me swap them out. I assumed incorrectly, it turns out. She told me that they only sold tickets and if I wanted to make a return, I’d have to go to the main office. I opined that this sounded not worthwhile, but asked to know where it was. Maybe it would be useful information. She went into the back room, ostensibly to look it up.

She came back a few minutes later, stony faced. She walked right past me, over to her computer terminal. I followed. She typed. She scowled at the screen and typed some more, never saying a word to me. Somebody who appeared to be the shift supervisor came over to see what she was doing, and told her that she couldn’t take tickets back. My stony-faced clerk ignored her and made a couple of phone calls. I told her how grateful I was for her efforts. The big boss came in from the street and interrogated me on what the heck I was trying to do, but when she noticed her employee making progress she put her finger on her lips and went to the back of the store.

Now I have the tickets I set out to buy in the first place. It took far too long, but things often take a long time in Belarus. And, like now, the resolution may depend on somebody’s personal kindness. Somehow I find this frustrating and delightful at the same time.

Eating well

I’ve been trying to be methodical about my dinners, planning a week in advance and cooking interesting food for myself. It’s harder in Minsk because I don’t know how to buy things I’d like to use. I think the locals tend to work in the other direction: go to the store and imagine what you can make with what you find. I’m not that clever, however, and I start with recipes and struggle.

This evening I gave myself a pass. I hadn’t made a plan yet and I got home late after a long bike ride. What to do? I went onto TripAdvisor.com and looked around. I noticed that lots of people liked a restaurant called Spoon, which some friends had mentioned earlier. Since TripAdvisor thought I could eat there for a moderate price, and since I had no better plan, I rushed to the shower and called an Uber as soon as I got dressed. When I pushed the button on my app, it immediately reported that the car would be here in two minutes. I dashed to put on my shoes and get downstairs before the guy got here.

In my hurry, it turns out, I did not completely load my pockets. Specifically, I did not bring my wallet. I noticed this as I walked into the restaurant, patting my back pocket for reassurance and finding none. Oops. This place was far from home and my car had already left, so I put on my best “responsible citizen” expression and asked the hostess if, perhaps, they took Google Pay. (Fat chance. I don’t think it even exists in Belarus.) They’d heard of payments by phone, but could not help me out. I asked, then, if I might eat now and pay later. It was getting late and the round trip to get my wallet seemed overwhelming.

The hostess took me over near the manager, close enough that he could see me but far enough away that I couldn’t hear their conversation. They chatted. He looked at me. I came over and asked directly if I could eat now and pay later. He wanted to know when I’d pay, and I said I could even pay tonight if he wanted. He invited me to stay.

Guys, the food there is VERY GOOD. Delicious and interesting. Beautiful. (Sorry, but I didn’t take any pictures.) The waitress, the hostess and the manager were all super-nice. I loved it.

As I ate, I thought about how I’d pay. I’d hire an Uber to take me home, wait, take me back to the restaurant, wait, and take me home again. I could do that. But wouldn’t it be better simply to wait until tomorrow for the return trip, say around dinner time? Wouldn’t everybody like it better if I bought a second dinner tomorrow and paid for both of them at once? The manager thought so.

It sounds a lot better than going grocery shopping.

Kerfuffle

I saw my friends Sasha and Elena yesterday. Sasha was still celebrating his acquisition of an unusual English word, kerfuffle. He and I understand the word the same way. It’s about a disagreement that gets a little tense. I had one of those today.

I went down to the neighborhood bread store to get myself half a loaf of fresh bread (for about 32¢) and some snack stuff. Until maybe a year ago, everybody at this store queued up at the register of their choice and hoped they’d chosen a good line. But after a renovation and reconfiguration of the store, the space got so narrow that people started lining up in one long line and people at the front of the line split off to whichever register is free first. We all know it works better.

I noticed this transition taking place during the winter. Most people waited patiently in one line, but a few people would remember the old system and barge in front at the register farther from the queue. This usually resulted in a collapse of the new system and other people would add themselves to the newly-formed (and shorter) queue for the second cashier. It happened often enough that I didn’t feel bad about joining the disorder at that time, but now people are quite conscientious and cooperative about occupying a single line and letting the person who waited longest go to the first available cashier. I’ve been reformed, and always wait with everybody else.

Today, a man and his wife passed an unusually-long line in order to install themselves at the second register, immediately behind the person finishing her transaction. I tapped the man on the shoulder and told him that we’re occupying a single line and indicated the lengthy queue behind me. The people behind me looked like they wanted him to understand that they felt the same way.

The man replied that he’s been shopping here all his life and he knows how things work.

I replied that things change. I too remember the way it used to be, but the store is different now.

He congratulated me for remembering the old store, but went on to explain that he was born here and really knew how things worked.

I turned to the people behind me and said, “I tried.” They thanked me quietly, but nobody else spoke up to the couple. The line jumpers left the store just after me, as I was gathering my gym bag from a locker in the entryway. With a great show of graciousness, I opened the door for them and welcomed them. The lady behind them, who had been first behind me in the line, acted both amused and delighted.

Emboldened, I pressed my case as we walked down the sidewalk, encouraging the couple as kindly as I could to notice how the other people in the store were behaving. He bristled, returned to his refrain about his birthright and, basically, told me to shove off.

That, my friends, is a kerfuffle.

Gold digging

A Belarusian friend lamented, mainly in jest, that she had been unable to meet and marry a rich foreigner. That kind of thing happens around here sometimes, and it’s an easy exit from a dreary economy. For the general good, then, I’ll share what little I know about gold digging.

I’ve gotten to know two gold diggers willing to share with me something about how they think and operate. Let’s be clear about it: this is work. I met Gold Digger Number One, whom I’ll call Natalia, at dance class a few years ago. When I first met her, she told me she worked in tech. This had been true at one time, but was no longer true by the time I met her. She had befriended some sort of Czech criminal, who bought her an apartment and continued to send her money. While they still communicated, he couldn’t just pop in to visit because Interpol was looking for him. The authorities had asked Natalia about him too, and she told them she did not know how to reach him.

So, by the time I met her, Natalia was developing new skills, including salsa dancing; and networking with other foreigners on the internet. She had one particularly promising American on the line, and she asked me for help sometimes with terms of endearment in English. There had been a Spaniard before him, but he seemed to Natalia overly cynical, encouraging her to squeeze more money out of the Czech. Over dinner, we talked about gold diggers. She averred that she was not a gold digger herself, although she described one of her classmates as one. She simply liked to meet nice rich guys who would show her a good time, and in return she’d “show her gratitude.” “And,” she added brightly, “it’s fun.”

So, in Natalia’s example, we see a transactional mindset and a focused trolling for rich foreigners. I’m not sure what percentage of her guys imagined they were looking for long-term relationships, but she ultimately did marry a Lithuanian guy and stayed married to him for a couple of years. She trolled with subtlety, haunting dating sites and behaving romantically. Her Facebook profile included a collection of professional photographs which presented her in flattering and alluring ways. One photo suggested that she might have posed in the nude, but of course one would have to get to know her better in order to see the rest of those photos. She never said anything that made me imagine she really thought romantically, but she didn’t disabuse me of the belief either.

Gold Digger Number Two, whom I’ll call Katherine, told me in no uncertain terms that she didn’t believe in love. Alla and I met her over dinner at a friend’s house. Katherine had invited herself over when she learned that our friends were hosting a couple of Americans. She arrived in a tight dress, and radiated sexuality and availability. Katherine was older and more experienced than Natalia. By this time, she appeared to be financially stable and didn’t waste her time on anybody she couldn’t identify right away as financially secure. She liked to travel, and enjoyed visiting wealthy foreigners. But she bristled when I spoke of love. Perhaps love existed between her and her dogs, but nowhere else in her world. Like Natalia, she appeared to think transactionally.

I’m tempted to editorialize. This all strikes me as very cynical, and it discounts what is to me among the most important things in the world: love. Statistically, people who love well live longer, but clearly some people like to burn their candles from both ends and enjoy the bright lights while they last. Anyway, that’s how it’s done: Search actively, radiate sexuality and availability, keep a short time horizon and make the best deals you can. Good luck.

A day in Kiev

I came to Ukraine for a dance festival called Swinglandia. As it worked out, I saved money by coming a day early, so I got to explore Kiev yesterday.

When I came from the airport, my driver spoke animatedly about Kiev Pechersk Lavra, a religious complex with a monastery, several churches, religious museums and other stuff relating to the origins of Orthodox Christianity in the Slavic world. I learned how to get there on public transit and spent the morning wandering to and through the enormous compound. Given the country’s Soviet history, a surprising amount of beautiful artifacts survive today, though some required significant restorations after lying for decades in trash heaps.

I paid an extra fee for the privilege of climbing a bell tower at the apex of the complex. I enjoyed spectacular views from the parapet, and more spectacular views from the loft where the bells hang. (I guess that’s called a belfry, isn’t it?) A web of ropes reached the clappers of the larger bells far from where the bell-ringer worked. One person rings all the bells, working with hands and feet. I have to imagine it’s quite loud up there.

After I spent a couple of hours in the museum area at the top of the hill, I descended to the working monastery below and took a tour of underground caverns filed with coffins. I started into the cavern without a candle and discovered that I couldn’t see where I was going. Using the flashlight on my phone sounded too high-tech for this place, so I went back and bought a candle. It seemed crowded down there and I didn’t really like being in the midst of a lot of strangers holding open flames, but nobody lit anybody else’s clothing on fire during my visit. Most visitors kissed each of the caskets. I did not.

When I left, I found the monastery’s cafeteria, where I bought lunch for about $3.50. It was pretty good, considering how little I paid for it. My favorite part was the ugly brown salad, made from pickled eggplant, mushrooms, carrots and onions.

I stopped at my hotel for a little break on my way back from the monastery. It gave me a chance to recharge my phone before beginning the more commercial part of my tour.

Downtown Kiev looks reminiscent of a lot of European downtowns. I stopped, however, when I saw TSUM. The doors looked a whole lot like the doors on the downtown department store in Minsk, so I went inside to see how similar it might be. Kiev’s central department store looks like a modern mall on the inside with glass escalators, glowing purple tubes of light, a huge atrium, and a variety of attractive storefronts.

Maidan Square is filled with memorials of the political struggles that took place there. On the periphery, coves of bricks are stacked around photographs of people who lost their lives in the struggle. Many of the bricks had been thrown down from sidewalks high on the hill above, and the sidewalks are now repaved haphazardly with mismatched replacement bricks. I asked some kids why the sidewalks looked so bad, and they’re the ones who pointed out to me the memorials. One of them suggested that this commercial center doesn’t really represent the spirit of Kiev, and that I should take the Metro out to see a place called Hydropark. His friends agreed, so I want.

Hydropark features a wide sandy beach on the shores of the Dnieper River. Or maybe it was an island. The kids had sent me to the bank with the widest beach, where people have constructed a huge weightlifting facility made mostly of junk and scrap metal. Lots of people exercised there, and while I saw signs mentioning a website and a phone number, it appears mostly to be a cooperative venture with no particular oversight.

On the near side of the bridge, I strolled through a construction area, where workers hoped to refurbish an amusement park before Eurovision comes to town next week. It won’t be completely finished, but there’s plenty in place and I can imagine that it’ll be quite a party. They have at least three discos.

Returning, I rode the Metro one stop beyond my hotel so I could see the main train station. I’m glad I did, because I found a railway museum on one side of the tracks, and they have a collection of extremely fancy railroad cars, generally used by Soviet bigshots for occasional meetings and for comfortable travel to Crimea. I got to stroll through the salons at leisure, touch the upholstery and marvel at the shiny woodwork. It was a great way to balance my day, ending with something I liked as much as I liked the lavra in the beginning.

I’m heading off to dance camp now. Ideally, I’ll have something to write about.

You can see more pictures of today's adventures here.

From Green to greens

When we arrived in Minsk last month, our taxi driver mentioned that he liked a new hypermarket we passed, called Green City. I finally decided to pay them a visit today. For the sake of exercise, I walked. It took me well over an hour to get there and I arrived hungry, so I started by looking for a café. Unfortunately, there isn’t one. The hypermarket anchors a new mall, but most of the smaller spaces are still empty. The lady at the information desk suggested that I could buy a sandwich at the Green City juice bar, so I went there first.

I waited in line as a woman called Anna served the people ahead of me. She looked glum. I couldn’t tell if she were unhappy or if she simply thought her customers were contemptible. I resolved to make her smile, but didn’t feel optimistic about it because she looked like a tough case. Nevertheless, the customer ahead of me broke through with a little joke. She laughed, and I remarked on how pleasant it was to see her smile. She continued to smile, more or less, as she sold me a beef burger and a chicken wrap, which she took from a refrigerator and heated in a microwave. I liked the chicken wrap OK, but wasn’t so thrilled by the beef burger, which reminded me of a stale Big Mac. This being Belarus, the “secret sauce” must have been about 97% mayonnaise. My sandwich was a little cold, but I didn’t ask her to warm it any more because the microwave heating had already made the bun tough and I figured that any further heating would render the burger impossible to chew.

Fortified by my nutritious lunch, I went to explore the store. As I turned, my eye fell on a very unhappy-looking customer coming up the aisle. I looked around. Nobody older than high-school age smiled. OK. I exaggerate a bit. I saw a little hint of a smile here or there, but this did not come across to me as a happy place. The employees in their silly green uniforms certainly didn’t light the place, and the customers seemed to take their cues from the employees. Nothing I saw made me happy either. I wouldn’t buy any of their produce, which didn’t look terribly appealing, and couldn’t find anything else that even interested me. I tried hard to buy toothpaste, but couldn’t figure out where they kept it. I saw wiper blades and underwear, but needing neither I left with a bottle of drinkable yogurt and a package of crackers apparently made out of cardboard. (I’m not kidding. You should try them.)

Still needing some fruits and vegetables, I got onto the Metro and went back to Komorovsky Market. I love that place. Everything is different there. It’s dark and drafty, but people inside smile. Customers chat animatedly with each other as they walk to and fro. Sales people beckon: “Buy from me. Buy from me!” I went straight to Terane, from whom I always buy my greens. She welcomed me with a big smile and sold me beautiful and delicious stuff. Her friend the fruit lady next door took good care of me too. Then I went off and found Lydia, who makes mozzarella cheese at home and sells it at the market. Lydia isn’t always there, and this is the first time I’ve found her this year. Standing in a drafty place over her refrigerated showcase, she wore multiple layers and looked somewhat inflated. I bought two chunks of cheese, one for myself and one for Terane. Then I went back to buy some basil and some more tomatoes to go with my fresh mozzarella, giving Terane cheese to take home to her family when I finished. That’s the way to shop.

For more pictures, see this month's album here.

Minsk Mosque

I saw a news report a few weeks ago, telling about the opening of a new mosque in Minsk. Apparently, it had been under construction for some ten years; and finally some donors from Turkey took steps to get it completed. I was curious to see it, and didn’t have too much trouble talking my friend Natasha into helping me find it, since most of her students are Muslim and she was curious as well.

Officially, they give tours on Saturdays, but we dropped in optimistically today. We walked around the building trying to imagine the proper way in. Finally, we tried a door on the lower level, which opened but we found nobody inside. We tried all the other doors, but none of them opened so we returned to the first one, but felt reluctant to go inside without an invitation. Cautiously, we let ourselves into the reception area, where we saw lots of coats hanging in the wardrobe but I still couldn’t find a person as I went around knocking on doors. The last time I’d been in a mosque, in Kazan, I felt a little unwelcome, so I wanted to avoid putting myself into a position where I might offend somebody else here.

Nobody at this mosque, however, displayed anything but welcome. The young man who eventually found us brought us back to a meeting room where the Imam was lecturing a group of Christian ladies, explaining Islamic theology from their Christian point of view. He answered their questions with patience and, I think, a little imagination. I asked one question myself, about something that puzzled me when I read the Quran last year. The Book talks a lot about what men can expect in the afterlife (it’s pretty great) but says nothing about provisions for women. The Imam explained that women are cared for too, and that they can be invited into heaven by their husbands. They can get there through their own piety as well, and even invite their wayward husbands if necessary. I hadn’t seen any of these details in the Quran, and enjoyed hearing his explanation. We stayed for about a half hour, and then slipped out when we heard the doorman walk down the hall. He invited us into the first-floor prayer room, where we looked at photographs on the wall of prior Islamic structures in Belarus. There had been quite a few Muslims here before Soviet times, and the original Minsk mosque looked a lot like the new one.

We asked about upstairs, and he offered to get a key so he could take us up to the main prayer room. It’s bright, spacious and cold. They only heat it for their big religious gatherings on Fridays, but the thick carpet felt warm under our stocking feet.

The women’s areas, both downstairs and up, are much smaller than the men’s areas. Our guide explained that women come to pray much less often than men, and they usually rely on their husbands’ piety to assure their place in Paradise. I hope that works out for them. I’d show up, just in case. Now they’ve got a nice place in which to pray.

Note: To see more pictures of the mosque and all of this month's photos, click here.