Anna Ershova – Page 6 – Anna’s Out of Town News

Furry Boots: Straight Man’s Kryptonite

anna ershova in russia What does one get for wearing PETA-unfriendly fluffy and furry winter boots? Apparently, lots of (unwanted) male attention.

The spring finally seems to be settling it here in New Haven, and as I was putting away all my winter clothes I came across a pair of winter boots that have made me very confused about men.

I went to Russia for the winter break last year, and brought along all the warmest clothes I had. However, because I had been living in Hong Kong at the time, my “warmest jacket” was actually a very thin blazer. Once I walked out of the airport in Moscow, I realized I had forgotten just how cold Russian winter can get. So I ended up rushing to the mall. Since I got really cold on the way there, I was looking for the warmest shoes and jacket possible. I faced a dilemma: either facing my own death by hypothermia or buying something that involved animals dying. Any shoes or jackets available had fur on them.

I managed to choose a jacket with the smallest amount of fur possible (still, why would anyone to have mink trimming on their pockets?). No such luck with boots: the warmest ones had sheep skin on the inside and lots of fluffy rabbit on the outside. I felt really bad for those rabbits, but I really, really, really wanted to make it through the winter break. So I bought those boots.

The winter was even colder this year. I went to Russia this winter break and made really good use of my warm clothes. I then decided to take some of them to New haven, since the weather forecast was not very promising for a hot weather aficionado like me.

To be honest, I was afraid that in the US some PETA activist would attack me, cut off the fur, and accuse me of crimes against animals. It would have been totally fair, but I did not want to throw the boots away having only gotten to wear them for a month total. I consoled myself with the thought that wasting one’s shoes is environmentally unfriendly anyway. And so my boots had their Yale debut… and Yalies (male ones, at least) turned out to be rather less environmentally conscious than I had thought.

For the first week of the semester, I observed the same intriguing male behavioral pattern. Guys I barely knew came over and announced my boots were “cool.” Then they reached over and tried to “pet” the dead rabbits’ fur. When it happened for the first time, I got scared. Here I was, sitting in a lecture browsing through the syllabus and this guy was trying to touch my shoes! Creepy, and strangely enough, it happened more than once.

My boots were complimented by some of the roughest and most unsentimental of men—those you would never imagine paying attention to anyone’s shoes. This list includes several policemen, coffee shop baristas, dining hall workers, an immigration official at JFK, and my teaching assistant.

Women never seemed to pay any attention to the furry masterpieces of the Italian shoemakers. I heard a couple of “oh your shoes are cute, nice to see you, bye’s” from friends, but that was it. So what was it that made so many (supposedly straight) men pay attention to my footwear? Did it make them feel like they were back in the Stone Age, when men would go off and hunt and their womenfolk would make fur shoes out of bear skins? Were they confused to see something that did not look like the ubiquitous “Uggs?” Did these boots have magic powers? I don’t have an answer.

Glossy magazines tell women they should wear strappy stilettos to attract men. I say, forget that and try furry flat-soled winter boots instead—just go for something synthetic, so the animals will fall for you, too.

How (Not) to Date a Russian Woman

There are only four things one needs to know to date a Russian woman: her age, height, weight and bra cup size. Who cares about all those old-fashioned things like personality, values and sense of humor anyway?

No, this is not just a misogynist statement by an old-school chauvinist. It is what many men in Western Europe seem to believe. I got to see an interesting catalog in Germany once: a thick volume filled with photographs of Slavic (mostly blond and blue-eyed) women in the most alluring of poses. Next to each photograph, there was a reference number one would need to contact the agency and the four aforementioned essential figures. If you are a bored Western European man and tired of the picky women around you, why not flip through a catalog and order a docile Eastern European who would be so happy to live in your developed country that she would cook, clean your house, and raise your kids 24/7?

For those brave enough to deal with the bureaucracy and get a Russian tourist visa, there is an even better option: a bride fair. All one needs to do is board that flight to Russia (usually Moscow and St. Petersburg), where he would be taken to an epitome of the social gatherings. Many charming Russian women would try to charm him in hopes that he would pick her as a potential life partner.

In fact, if one is too lazy to order a catalog or leave his home, there are plenty of resources online. Try googling a “Russian woman.” The first link that comes up lures one to the joys of marrying a Russian woman: “Meet Single Russian Women for Marriage: Mail Order Brides.” There are another 2,200,000 links to websites relating to Russian women. I am too lazy to go through all of them, but the top ten results are directly related to dating. A Google search for a “Russian bride” yields 881,000 results. The search for an exact word combination provides one with a whopping number of links: 711,000.

So why this Russian women frenzy? According to Mr MacCarthy, an American owner of the Ukraine-based marriage agency Mat-rimony.com, “Ukrainian girls and Russian women are very beautiful, well educated and are renowned for their strong traditional values of maintaining a home and raising a family.” If one reads along the line, this praise would sound something like this: “Russian and Ukrainian women, mostly the ones living in the poor provincial citizens, are desperate to get out of their countries where chauvinism prevails and an insane percentage of men are alcoholics. But the desperate situation many of them find themselves in is actually great for us Western men. We can come and lure them with our foreign passports and a promise of a nicer life. It is a fair exchange: we get free household help and they get a chance to get out of their countries.”

Even though there many countries where women face poverty and violations of their rights, the post-Soviet countries are especially attractive as the source of potential wives to the single Westerners. Slavic women conform to the Western beauty standards: everyone who has been to Moscow knows there is an immensely high density of tall, thin, blonde women per square meter of malls. Most “Russian wives” come from Russia, Ukraine and Belarus. The population in these countries displays a traditional Slavic look. Among the other post-Soviet countries, Latvia and Lithuania enjoy membership in the EU, so their women can live in a Western European aka civilized country without marrying a sleazy foreigner. The Central Asian countries like Azerbaijan and Tajikistan are predominantly Muslim, which makes their women less attractive on the mail order brides market.

Due to the way an education system functions, most Russian women get at least a bachelor’s degree; many speak at least one foreign language decently. A traditionally patriarchal society tells women they should know how to clean and cook. In fact, 99% of Russian schools have mandatory housekeeping classes for girls, where they are taught how to cook, clean and sew. Most women get married fairly early (usually in their very early 20’s) and they are taught by the society to obey their husbands. Even though most women work nowadays, the glass ceiling is ever-present; a woman is expected to take care of the household and make money. It is still very rare for a husband to help his wife with any household work (unless it involves opening a can of beer). No wonder the average Russian woman can be so attracted to the possibility of marrying a foreigner.

According to some of my sociologist friends, many Russian women who marry a foreigner out of material reasons end up getting divorced after they get their new foreign citizenship. In the meantime, they often manage to get an education and a job. Many of them end up finding a man who is interested in things other than their similarity to Victoria’s Secret models.

Even though I have not been living in Russia for a long time, I go back on a regular basis. Last year, I was unwillingly exposed to a family reunion. At one point, a distance relative of mine, an accomplished diplomat, asked me what I wanted to do in the future. I told him I was in the process of applying to colleges. He proceeded to ask me what my intended major was. Political science, I said. Everything went quiet. All the patriarchs of the family were looking at me as if I suddenly declared I was a lesbian (another pet peeve in the Russian culture). Then that diplomat relative of mine used the main argument against my career choice: “But you are a WOMAN.”

I was lucky because I did not have to stay in that country. But I can certainly imagine that if I had had to work amongst misogynists like him I might have contemplated going online and posting my profile on one of those online dating websites. Anything to escape a life like that of so many Russian women, so severely and tragically limited by backward perceptions of my gender.

Hot and Sexually Harassed: A Russian Woman Abroad

I saw a new issue of “Playboy” today. I wasn’t looking for one (fake-breasted naked airbrushed females are not really my type), but the 18+ magazines were closest to the entrance of the store where I was hoping to get my daily fix of chocolate . The cover boasted of pictures of 16 hot Russians inside. A couple of other glossy magazines had photographs and headings involving (somewhat dressed) Russian models. So is Russian the new hot?

When I travel, I often experience a strange dichotomy surrounding Russian women. We are supposed to be hot, but easy. Put another way, we are supposed to be hot, but ready to sell ourselves to anyone who comes from a more developed country in the hopes of securing a man who would take us away from the cold Siberian nightmare of our lives. I don’t have a problem with being called hot, it’s the second part of that stereotype that bothers me.

The only country ever to have rejected my visa application was the Philippines. I was going to school in Hong Kong and looking for a place to spend my senior year’s spring break. The Philippines seemed like an interesting option, so I bought a Lonely Planet and went to the embassy. I had a valid student visa in Hong Kong (which is pretty difficult to get in terms of background checks etc), many visas in Asia, plus plenty of other visas from less exotic locales (the visas for which are notoriously difficult to get, e.g, Germany and the US). The embassy’s website suggested I brought along all the usual paperwork — an application, airplane tickets, hotel reservations, and a bank statement, stating I had $200 in my account.

The lady I met at the embassy took one look at my passport. After that, she handed it back to me saying that I wouldn’t be issued a visa. She didn’t bother looking at my paperwork. After I demanded explanation, she said I didn’t have enough money (without even looking at my bank statement). I asked her how much I needed to have in my account. When she said it was $200, I told her I had more than that. Then she said $400. I had that. Then she said, oh wait, it’s $800 for you, without explaining how I was different form other applicants. Well, I had that.
She kept doubling he amount until I asked her if I was ever going to get that damn visa. She said no. So I want and bought a Lonely Planet on Cambodia instead. The vacation was awesome.

It was only later that I realized why I wasn’t issued a visa. It was because I was a Russian, over 18 and unmarried. I am sure that my being blond didn’t help, either. Apparently, many Russian prostitutes use Hong Kong and China as gateways to the Philippines. I can understand why the embassy was prejudiced against Russian females; the problem was that I had a valid and oh-so-hard to get student visa in Hong Kong, not to mention student and tourist visas to other countries Did they really think I had spent several years in comfortable and wealthy Hong Kong, going to one of their most prestigious schools so that I could trick them all and find a very desirable prostitution job in the poor and politically unstable Philippines?

When I was enjoying the aforementioned vacation in Cambodia, a (blonde) Russian-speaking friend of mine and I went to what that Lonely Planet termed “the coolest nightclub in Phnom Penh.” (If anyone is there and looking for a creepy place to meet affluent kids of the corrupted Cambodian politicians and the Western European students sex-touring around Southeast Asia, Heart of Darkness is the place to be). While hanging out with friends, two guys approached us and asked where we were from. They seemed sober (by Southeast Asian standards) and nice and we didn’t feel like leaving just yet, so we decided to be polite and answer. We said we were from Hong Kong. They obviously didn’t believe us. As we showed them our Hong Kong IDs and laughed about it, they asked us where we were actually from. Russia, we said (both of us are not, but it’s easier than explaining all the geopolitical details). The very moment we did, the guys started openly hitting on us in a very feisty manner. We had no choice but to leave.

I went to Thailand for a winter break once. In order to avoid the traditional elephant-riding-beach-strutting-cocktail-drinking
experience, I stayed with a Thai friend and her twin sister. It was great while we stayed in Bangkok and went to several places not frequented by tourists. I experienced the wonderful Thai hospitality, great food (very different from the Americanized kind, let me assure
you) and the joys of communicating with the locals. And then we went to Pattaya. It is a buzzing tourist city located in a lovely part of Thailand. The problem is that it is buzzing with Russians. There are numerous charter flights from Russia and other post-Soviet republics to this city. As I was walking down the street with my Thai friend, her sister and their Thai boyfriend, speaking English to them, I got to hear many catcalls in broken Russian addressed at me. At first, I was puzzled. How did they know I was Russian? I was not wearing a skimpy mini skirt, a bikini top or high heels (a very common uniform for many Russian women in Thailand; I am not being negative, anyone who has been there would confirm this). I was speaking (almost accent-free) English to my friends. So how in the world did they know ?

The answer was simple. There were so many blonde Russian women around that the local machos got accustomed to yelling suggestive phrases in Russian to any remotely blonde female passing by. Apparently, many were quite eager to be entertained by a hot Thai man. No wonder they got excited every time someone blonde passed by. (In defense of Russian women, Russian men acted even worse in Thailand. One got to see many (sadly, mostly Russian-speaking) old, fat, bald, wedding-band-wearing hairy men with two or three Thai girls clinging to them walking the streets of Pattaya).

While there are many Russian women who to go to Thailand to sell themselves, for many, like me, the only sex-related objects of interest are the phallic shrines. Those who fall in the latter category are often victimized by the adventurous local and foreign men. Many of my friends learned to say they are from somewhere else upon being inquired about their country of origin. Germany is always a good choice (many Germans are blond), although Finland (another country with a very blond
population) works best for me. Chances are, no one know enough about Finland or speaks Finnish to find the truth. (Although on a recent flight from Amsterdam to New York, an overly enthusiastic middle-aged man started blabbering away in Finnish; I had to admit I only have Finnish ancestors and don’t speak a language).

I am excited to go back to Hong Kong this summer. It is one of the few cities where there are almost no negative stereotypes about Russian women. But before I get there, I will be carefully hiding my passport and avoiding mention of my Russian nationality to anyone I meet along the way.

How Legos Didn’t Change My Life

Can you guess what the worst thing about growing up in the Post-Soviet Russia was?

No, not the lack of democracy and freedom of speech. Not the political instability. Not even the shattered economy. It was the lack of Legos.

Legos were one of the many products that poured into Russia after the USSR collapsed. Despite the harsh economic conditions, there was much demand: people were starved for exotic foreign things, so most international companies were thriving. However, there were only a few Lego stores in all of Russia– (at least that I was aware of) in Moscow and St. Petersburg, the largest one in the prohibitively expensive mall right across the Red Square.

Every holiday, I begged my parents for a new Lego set. My ploy to trick them to buy me one for my half-birthday didn’t work out, but for most other big events there was a new set waiting in my room. The only problem was that the stores didn’t carry enough sets. They usually offered only smaller sets since they were the ones in demand.
I pined for the Mechanic and Mindstorms sets. I spent hours drooling over the catalogues — to no avail for there was no opportunity to buy them (that was before the glorious era of internet shopping). I resorted to collecting teddy bears instead.

When I first started traveling, I ran into a Lego store in Germany, but managed to talk myself into not walking in. I figured that I would not be able to leave unless I bought as many Legos as possible. So I went and bought another teddy bear (there were many everywhere of them since it’s Berlin’s tourist specialty). During the trip, I accumulated a fairly large (and dusty) collection of plush animals and kept expanding it later on.

A couple of days ago, I walked into a store in Boston and was greeted by hundreds of shiny boxes…

Not that many things have changed since I used to fall asleep while playing with my beloved Lego sets . Lego Technic now has even more exciting machinery, Lego Mindstorms is now even more complicated (personally, I am not sure if I could deal with it) and there are lots of other Lego sets that drew my attention. I especially liked the Indiana Jones one since a new Indiana Jones was filmed at my college this summer.

I was about to buy a set, but couldn’t make up my mind. I was actually very tempted to purchase a Mindstorms set, but they are on a pricier side. I doubt it is a good investment since I am not sure I wouldn’t be able to assemble it properly.

And then my boyfriend announced he had “bucketfuls of Legos” at his house.

Half an hour later, I was diligently working on an intricate color scheme for a Lego house: I began with a red kitchen, which turned out nicely (red floor, red walls, red stove – my dream kitchen). Then I proceeded to a treasure room (every Lego house should have one, right?). I feel that I was more dexterous ten years ago, but who cares: it is all about the process and the joy of finding that perfect piece that makes an excellent skylight.

That house was later demolished by the tail of said boyfriend’s dog. I am glad it was, actually, for I would not have had the heart to do it myself — and I don’t have anywhere to keep it. Still, just being able to play with the little plastic pieces made me ecstatic.

No more teddy bears for me.

One iPod Convert’s Quest to Buy a Zune

Several years ago, I was given an iPod (a now obsolete 30 GB Classic) as a gift. I can’t say I was a big fan. iTunes is not exactly pleasant software to use, and my attempts to load some podcasts or videos onto it were futile. Still, I was happy just listening to the music on airplanes, hiking and on my way to class. And then it disappeared from a desk in my dorm room (destined for ebay or wherever it is ‘missing’ ipods go).

I missed it, but not badly enough to go buy one right away. I assumed I would just buy one at some point, but I was waiting for Apple to come up with an iPod in red – my favorite color. I briefly toyed with the idea of painting the one I used to have with nail polish/acrylic paint or putting a cover on it, but none of these solutions would make it perma-red, so I decided to accept it the way it was.

And then my boyfriend got a Zune. He had it customized (who would have thought some people out there want a picture of two robots fighting laser etched onto the back of their MP3 player?) and obsessively tracked it as it went from the factory in China to Alaska and then to his home. This trip through half of the world lasted for three business days.

I was very skeptical at first. It is only available in one color – plain, boring black. Yes, it has a radio – and WiFi – but who cares, given that the sleek look of an iPod is so much more familiar. The price — $249 — and the memory capacity — 80GB — are the same as the 80GB iPod I had been considering. A Zune is slightly larger, but it would still fit in my purse. It also has a larger screen, but I only used the one my iPod had to click my way through my playlist. As I said, I was one of the many iPod owners who never mastered the seemingly easy process of using it for anything but listening to the music.

As I watched my boyfriend easily navigate the Zune software and the website, I started believing that I could one day muster up the courage to watch some news podcasts on that 3.2 inch screen (3.2 in is still an abstract number to me, but 8.13 cm is impressive). And wirelessly syncing it with my laptop? Ah so very alluring.

Still, I was vacillating. If there were a red Zune out there, I would have gotten one right away, but making a step from the familiar clumsiness of an iPod to the unknown Zune world was painful.

Watching the National Geographic podcasts on my boyfriend’s Zune while on the subway was the last straw. The feature on polyandry in the Himalayas left me persuaded: I want it for myself (a Zune, not two extra boyfriends).

I was in Boston, so I thought there had to be some Zunes in the metro area. I went to a Best Buy – and there were none sold. An entire range of iPods, from a Shuffle to an iPod touch, was, however, represented. But the only Zunes available were the 30GB ones and overpriced 4/8 GB flash models.

One abortive trip to Staples and many calls to various stores later (“Are you sure you don’t want a 30GB one? They even have it in white”), I gave up. Maybe there were some places where one could buy an 80 GB Zune in Boston, but spending an entire day hunting them down is not exactly my cup of tea. Opting for the clunky older versions didn’t seem like that good an idea, either. By that time, I was in full blown retail therapy mood and was not willing to give up.

I could have bought it off the Zune website, but I didn’t really want it customized. Spending an extra $10 or $15 does not seem reasonable since I plan putting red vinyl covers on my Zune (I had researched them well before I decided to buy one). So I opted for the last resort: Amazon.

The order went through Monday evening; it is supposed to be here on Wednesday. For now, I am molesting my boyfriend’s Zune and loving it. While I am doubtful about the utility of the ‘Social’ function (there are not that many Zune owners on campus), I am very happy about the radio: I just found out that it provides the wavebands for US, Europe, and Asia. I just have to make sure that I develop a high level of tolerance for Canto pop, a staple on the Hong Kong radio.

It took my boyfriend’s endless efforts to convince me to get a Zune, and once he had persuaded me and we ventured out to buy one, it was nowhere to be found. What good is all the marketing if the product is unavailable?

For now, I’m sitting here molesting boyfriend’s Zune, waiting for the UPS truck…

The Western Medical Paranoia, Herbal Teas, and Why Russians Fear the Cold

I could have become a competitive swimmer, but the Soviet Union stopped me.

I had nephritis (a kidney infection) when I was five and the doctors instructed my mom to keep me away from swimming pools. They said that any exposure to “cold” water (anything with a temperature below boiling, in their opinion) would cause another bout of nephritis. My parents strictly followed that rule, making sure I only got to swim in the warm sea in the zenith of the summer for no longer than ten minutes. It was only at thirteen that I rebelled and signed up for swimming lessons at a local pool. My coach said I had an excellent potential, but started practicing too late to achieve competitive results.

Many children who grew up in the post-Soviet Russia were banned from swimming by the doctors. According to the Soviet medical logic, a female who sits on something cold/swims in something “cold” is bound to end up with an infection of her reproductive system that will definitely leave her infertile. A male who does the same will also experience an infection that will leave him infertile. If a child has ever had a kidney issue, then a prolonged exposure to “cold” water will cause renal failure and many fatal health issues. Nowadays, there are reasonable doctors in Russia who believe in scientifically proven theories, not bizarre superstitions. But every time I am in Russia, I hear mothers telling off their daughters for sitting on the “cold and dangerous” ground. Given the cold Russian winters and the low fertility rates, those mothers might be onto something.

I am having a kidney infection right now (and I have not been swimming or sitting on cold surfaces recently) and went to see a doctor today. The hospital is in the US, so I had to tell my medical history to a doctor whom I had never seen before . I briefly mentioned my kidney infection and the superstitions linked to it and she flashed me an understanding smile. Her parents are European and she has had her share of medical superstitions as a child. She was told she would get arthritis if she sat on something cold or didn’t wear clothes warm enough. Like most children, both of us did not obey the rules and still appear to be in a fairly good health.

Apart from medical superstitions, all countries to which I have been enjoy self-help ways of curing diseases. Having a cold in Russia? Eat garlic and drink linden tea with honey. Sick in Germany? Inhale steam coming from a bowl of hot water with onions and potatoes in it. Russians in particular seem to favor herbal teas. There are teas galore in most pharmacies, believed to cure everything: from obesity to diabetes to impotency.

Just like Russians, other nations are keen on using “natural cures.” A doctor in Hong Kong prescribed me ginseng (boil a handful of ginseng roots, take three times a day with meals) for feeling tired. It ws extremely effective, although the taste was abominable. A friend of mine wasn’t so lucky. She went to a pharmacy in an attempt to get rid of something that was most likely an allergic reaction to pollen. She came back with a package of a “6-flowers-cure” – a mix of dried flowers. Since the tea — quite predictably — made her feel worse, she resorted to the original plan of taking over-the-counter antihistamines, which worked well. But then, I know someone who claims an exotic mixture of dried snakes, deer antlers and herbs makes a life-changing tea.

While some nations favor a more natural approach to treatment, some favor pharmacological industries. A widely spread stereotype claims that the North Americans consume more anti-depressants than the rest of the world (Prozac, anyone?). Interestingly enough, many mental disorders are considered “purely American” worldwide. You can rarely find a European talking about a bipolar syndrome or ADHD. While both disorders certainly get diagnosed and treated, it seems to happen less often than in the US. In fact, I might have been diagnosed with ADHD if I grew up in the US.

I was extremely active and loud as a child. A friend of my parents has a guest visiting from the US. She was a psychiatrist and, taking one look at me, announced I had ADHD. My parents simply ignored her diagnosis (that was soon after the USSR collapsed, and no Russian was going to take an advice from an American doctor)–besides, they did not know what ADHD was. I tried researching it in Russian recently, but it was futile. None of my Russian friends had heard about this disorder and they certainly don’t know what a Russian term for it.
Apart from being loud and active (which I still am), I never exhibited any other symptoms of ADHD. I wonder if I would have been treated from it had I grown up in the US? You know, just in case I had it.

The “Western medical paranoia”, as the doctors in Russia refer to it, proved to be very contagious. I was very overworked when I came home to Russia for the winter break once. I was in my senior year of high school in Hong Kong. School was exhausting, college applications were annoying and I never wanted to hear the word “SAT” again. The Russian weather was cold and gloomy and I missed the Hong Kong sun. I couldn’t sleep properly. I kept having nightmares about lipase and helicase (Biology was my least favorite subject at school). I guess all I needed was lots of rest, maybe some retail therapy and chamomile tea to calm my nerves. However, by that time I had spent enough time abroad to think I also needed an anti-anxiety medication (I was pretty proud of myself being oh-so-civilized and westernized). My mom thought the idea was hilarious, but let me find a psychiatrist (the only available medical specialist in Russia who deals with anxiety etc; there are psychologists, but all they can do is talk to you since they don’t have a medical education and can’t prescribe anything).

The doctor seemed surprised when I told her I came because I couldn’t sleep properly.

-Do you have hallucinations?
-No.
-Any suicide thoughts?
-No.
-Sleep-walking?
-No…

She glared at me. “So WHY are you here?”

I have been sticking to the chamomile tea ever since.

Grooming and Globalization

I bought a bottle of a life-changing leave-in hair conditioner in Cambodia.

I woke up in Phnom Penh one day with very misbehaving hair from dry, hot air and lots of dancing the night before. So I went to a supermarket across the street and bought the first bottle with the word “conditioner” interspersed with the Khmer letters on which I set my eyes. It was produced in Thailand by Pantene. It worked wonders for my hair and I took it with me upon returning to Hong Kong. When I realized I was running out, an excursion to the hair-product aisle at a local supermarket proved futile. Pantene offered a variety of hair conditioners to its Hong Kong customers. Some of them of the leave-in kind, but none of them had the desired texture and efficiency. I took a picture of the bottle and sent it to my friends in Thailand. They said nothing similar could be found in Bangkok or anywhere else in Thailand for that matter. My American friends said they could not help, either. Google did not yield a response to my desperate request. I gave up.

Went I went to Russia for the summer break, I saw a familiar-looking bottle in a hair salon. With a slightly modified shape and with Russian instead of Khmer, it was that very same hair conditioner! I bought three bottles on the spot and took two of them with me when packing to go to the US to school. However, what I did forget to pack was my favorite razor. I learned from an online search that the brand (Schick) did not offer the exact same kind, so I settled for a four-bladed “Quattro.”

I was pretty happy with it until I went to Russia for the winter break. I needed a new cartridge and encountered raised eyebrows aplenty upon inquiring for it at the stores. “Four razors? In a *female* razor?” Left with no choice, I bought an environmentally-unfriendly disposable kind.

I am going back to Hong Kong this summer for a summer job/internship. I haven’t checked yet, but I am very sure the exact kind of a razor is not sold there. The kind I have in Russia is not sold there, either.

I have to have three different razor models – made by the same brand – in three different countries if I want to maintain basic hygiene. Apparently, the globalized world has a lot of unwanted body hair!

Why I Am Not Going to Vote

I always thought voting was cool.

I remember accompanying my parents to the voting stations and being oh-so-jealous as they got to put a thick check mark next to the person they trusted to run a country for the next four years . Back then I wished I was 18, had a passport (an ultimate form of an identification for any Russian) and could also vote.

I couldn’t participate in the last presidential elections in 2004 because I was only 17. Hearing my family’s joyful stories about hanging out at the voting booths made me pretty jealous (I was at school in the US back then and everyone back home clearly thought I was missing out). Now that I am finally over 18 and there is a presidential election this coming Sunday, I can go vote. I won’t.

I don’t have an absentee ballot (apparently, to get one I had to be in Russia exactly one month before the elections, which makes fulfilling my citizen duties a bit too troublesome and expensive), but my consulate claims I can just show up with my travelling passport. Still, I won’t even bother going to NYC for that. I am not a big fan of a guy who will be our next president (I can bet four years worth of my college tuition that it’s going to be him). The ballot will provide me with a choice of another three: A political clown who is only good at giving drunken interviews , a Communist (I won’t even bother explaining why I am not going to vote for him or his party – ever) and a young-ish candidate who doesn’t have a good understanding of how he would run a country. Since there is no “against all” or “abstaining” option (it was removed a couple of years ago), I guess I will just stay at home doing school work.

Midterms are wreaking havoc over here : (