“Baryshnikov on Broadway”

Before I continue further, I just want to say that everything that I write in my blog is 100% true, without exaggerations. If anyone ever wonders why Putin is the most beloved hero of all time, and McDonald’s is seen as date-night, then hopefully my blog will answer some of those questions by letting you in on the inner-workings of Russian life and Russian mindset. How do I cope with the absurdity that is Russia? Simple, I tell myself “Это Россия” or roughly translated as «It is Russia.» And if you ever find yourself in a situation of disbelief or shock, try repeating «It is Russia» to yourself, take 5 deep breaths, and of course don’t forget the shot of vodka.

So as I was walking home today, I decided that a nice snack at the local mart would be good. I step in, and low and behold the eggs are not refrigerated, and better yet neither is the yogurt. Now I know that it is cold here in Russia, but the marts are heated. They just like eggs that have most likely gone bad and yogurt that has curdled. Why else would they keep their precious dairy items at room temperature?

Last night after dinner, I was informed by Smigel that Baryshnikov would be on TV. Excited, I decided that it would be a fun thing to watch. So at 9:30, Smigel and I gathered round the TV and began to embark on the journey that is “Baryshnikov on Broadway” circa 1970 costarring a remarkable “with it” Liza Minella. Just as a side note, Russians are obsessed with Liza. Maybe its because of this classic TV production. Anyway, the whole thing starts out with Liza coming to meet her friend, Misha. They meet and decide it would be fun to pretend they are real Broadway starts (what a fetch). They dream they are in all these famous Broadway plays. And get this, in “Misha’s” dream, not only can he dance (and man can he dance) but he can sing too. What I found particularly weird was that the entire TV special was originally filmed in English. So when Baryshnikov is talking, he is dubbed into Russian (and of course Liza and everyone else too.) Anyway, the absurdity of Liza and “Misha” as old friends dreaming about becoming Broadway stars, while having “Misha” dubbed into his native language, while trying to squeeze “Misha” and Liza in as many ridiculous costumes as ever was a bit too much. Even for me. I cut out at Chorus Line. But don’t fret, I got to see the “Oklahoma!” number, where, get this, “Misha” had always dreamed of being a real American cowboy, and with this syndicated TV spectacular, he was able to do it, of course, with the help of his friend Liza. Don’t you just love the American dream!

So as I sat at dinner today, unbearably tired, (what else is new) my stomach started to get a bit uneasy as I approached the dinner table. I wasn’t sure what was going on. I made the brave step, and entered the kitchen despite the fact that my stomach was pleading for me not to go. I sat down to a huge plate of bare, overcooked chicken, with an equally heaping plate of rice, loving slathered with butter, onions, and garlic. To accompany the delectable meal was some peas, scattered along the plate in a beautiful array adding green, to the otherwise very white meal. Pleased that it wasn’t the carrot-sauerkraut-apple-butter mixture that usually has been offered to me at every meal, I felt confident that this was going to be a good meal. I picked up my knife and began to slice, but to no avail. No problem, there are sharper knives, and Smigel noticing my woes offered me the sharpest knife in the house. The chicken gave way to the mighty knife and I soon took my first bite. SALTY!! So salty. The chicken was practically jerkyed with salt. Seeing my obvious disgust at the inedible chicken, Smigel (and I am NOT kidding) offered me salt “for flavor and taste.” “It will make it better.” NO. NO. NO!!!! I kindly accepted the salt as a peace offering. I put a dab on the peas, hoping she wouldn’t notice, and quickly dashed out of the kitchen when she got up to get herself some more carrot-sauerkraut-apple-butter mixture.
And now as I am lying in bed reflecting on dinner, I realize why my stomach was pleading with me. Next time I’ll have to come up with a better excuse than running away as soon as she turns around. Maybe I can fake a “too much salt allergy.” Humph, I wonder how that would translate into Russian?