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Vol 1 No 1

August 2001

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RUSSIA
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AS I SEE IT
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Shirley Timashev, foreign correspondent
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...CITY FEST...

Courtesy Vitalia

  
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Yekaterinburg is a "River City," situated as it is on the ISET RIVER as it descends the Asian side of the Ural Mountains. On Saturday Yekaterinburg held a "cityfest," down to the riverbanks. It was a big birthday party for Yekaterinburg, which just turned 274 years old (plans are already underway for next year's 275th).

It was raining in the morning. That did not stop the festivities, but it did dampen the crowds, so to speak. Slava and I watched the opening ceremonies on television, not yet being quite up to facing the combination of crowds and weather. First there was a welcome address by the mayor, and then there was a group wedding.

Group weddings are not uncommon in Russia. If several couples want to get married at the same time and at the same place--well, they just do. The ceremony is usually performed at a state office building, with music provided, and maybe some poetry reading. The official part is the signing of the wedding registry book.

I am not certain if the six couples on the sound stage at the river bank signed the wedding registry there, but they did listen to music and have a poetry reading. Six little girls held helium balloons which were released to the grey sky. And the audience was treated to six radiant beauty queens in long white gowns, marrying six nervous young gentlemen, no doubt hopeful that the tears of nature accompanying their nuptials were not omens for their marital futures.

Later in the day the skies cleared, and Slava and I decided to stretch our legs.We walked downtown from our apartment building, toward the broad river, flowing lazily now, deep in summer, and not at all like its rougher countenance when the snowmelt of the Urals swells its course.

There was a small crowd gathered on one of the street corners at an unusual happening for this city. A group of Caucasians were dancing and singing. Only the men were dancing, a la "Zorba the Greek." They were also preparing shash-leek for sale (known to Americans as shish-kabob).

Russian Slavs are not fond of their Caucasian cousins. Because of their swarthy appearance, people from the Caucus Mountains are called "chorny" or "black" in Russian. It's quite ironic that "Caucasian" has come to be synonymous with "white" in English, yet originated from a term now synonymous with "black" in Russia.

The Caucuses are desperately poor. As is often the case, poverty tends to breed crime. The Caucasians in Yekaterinburg may be bringing in agricultural products from the south--or they may be coming as thieves and bandits. We do need fruits and vegetables from the south, but there is plenty of local mafia, and we don't need more.

When we reached the concrete walkways along the Iset, we found the festivities continuing, but we didn't stay long enough to figure out what was on the evening program. For us, as well as for thousands of others, the main event was simply walking around. Young people were gathered together in bunches, teenage boys casting appreciative glances at long-legged girls dressed in micro-minis... to be covered all too soon in muffling winter wear when Yekaterinburg's brief season in the sun ends.

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Courtesy Asgar

Two views of the Iset River, broad and smooth as it flows through Yekaterinburg, past the city's signature combination of old Czarist Russian architecture, and stolid Communist era 'pragmatecture.'

Courtesy Vitalia

 

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Courtesy Gala

 

 

 

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We took another walk on Sunday, this time on a discovery shopping trip. Our purchases were small pleasures: Slava bought me a giant chrysanthemum, and I bought myself a piece of ginger root at the only store that carries it. Slava got himself some sleazy newspapers full of astounding stuff. We also got some gooseberries from a woman hawking them on the street.

What do you do with gooseberries? Well, Americans make gooseberry pie. Russians, with an eye to a much longer, over-winter purpose, make gooseberry preserves. Since even in summer we must look and plan ahead for winter, this was to be my project for Monday--a learning experience.

After cooking gooseberries all day on the apartment gas range, my personal judgment was that the preserves turned out better than my pickles of last season. Still, the grade earned from Slava was a lowly C+. Gooseberries look a lot like green grapes, so I had figured they should be smashed during the cooking process. What you get by doing that, in Slava's opinion, was a product strongly resembling popped eyeballs. Nevertheless, I cheekily served my gooseberry eyeballs at tea for my friend Galina. She diplomatically allowed that I had done just fine, although we both knew that I had not.

My hours visiting with Galina were my first serious re-immersion in conversational Russian. We had a great deal to talk about, with her inquisitiveness about my American life, and mine about the changing situation in Russia--particularly the impact on her life here in Yekaterinburg, which would have serious bearing on what I could expect for Slava and myself. Galina did not slow down to anything at all approaching lesson speed, so I was sorely pushed--or perhaps the word is embarrassed!--to maintain the pace. So now I am feeling much more strongly motivated to get back into the "student of language" mode!

So strongly, that I shall have to continue this later!

Dosvedanya for now.

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