Pontificum Scriblerus

When we were in immigration, that surreal and wonderful 4 month hiatus from either real life, be it Russian or American, we ended in Vienna during the week between Christmas and New Year. It was an absolutely magical week. Vienna, to us, freshly released from the cinder block world of communism, was in and of itself magical. We arrived, we got dropped off at the pension in the middle of the night, we fell asleep - still soviet. We woke up - free! We looked out the window to see "Kindermoden" children's fashions and "Mondo" supermarket. We went outside without hats or boots because it was 15 degrees Celsius in middle of December, and the streets were squeaky clean. We purchased baking yeast because we thought it was butter, and we bought a pastry to share between three people: it was the best thing we'd ever tried... Everything glittered. It was Christmas season, and the city was decorated, but not only that, there was also crystal everywhere. S...

Punta Cana, Punta Cana... Accepting us with open arms - right into a torrential downpour that kept us stranded in the wet lobby unable to wade across the resort into our villa. Well, at least our asses got upgraded to this awesome royal service suite. We have a jacuzzi for naughtiness and a menu for various pillows. I shit you not: aromatherapy pillow for a most relaxing sleep, orthopedic pillow for neck comfort, vibrating pillow for sexual release (just kidding. Or am I.) Given the current circumstances, ie the rain-slash-nothing to do, the nice room, the room service, there is an immediate cranking of the baby pressure to 11 on a scale of 1 to 10. Wowee, said the family. This is for making not just one baby, it's for making three! Get to it! Don't you wanna make a grandma out of me? Remember how I said I used to think the whole pregnancy thing was embarrassing, but I'm losing my sense of gynecological shame with each visit to the gyno? Yeah, not so much. Leave my apparatu...

I finally understand the 3/4 sleeve coat and why it was invented: for SF weather! I observe beautiful scenery and appreciate its uniqueness and opposite-ness from New England. I meet up with childhood friends all grown up, and find kindred spirits never die, but might become Republican. I stalk many little children, these two especially. I realize my own calf muscle weakness after scaling SF hills. I take in the Pacific, which is anything but pacified. I spend a week without eating meat - just didn't feel like it - and trying small plates and much wine both in the city and out. I meet Boston friends and we make good on California-nia knows how to party.

Please pardon my cheesiness with the title of this post. "Sur" in Russian is short for surrealism, and that is what I am referring to, not the actual beautiful region of Northern California. I'm just saying. SF seems surreal for several reasons. It's very East Coastish in the sense that it's a walking city, it has broad streets and tall buildings, but on the other hand, there are palm trees; it has a plethora of small businesses and mom and pop stores; it has all purpose bars and establishments like Europe; it has mountains in the background in either direciton, like Bilbao; and it's perpetually September here as far as I'm concerned, so the incongruity of Christmas trees and displays and ice skating in the square is... that's right, surreal. I was here last fifteen fucking years ago. That's also surreal; I was a real person then, with opinions and dramas. I remember that vacation very well, as I flew cross country on my own - after having missed a...

Today, I learned that there is such a thing as too much wine. I guess I knew that already, but it was reaffirmed today. Napa valley is gorgeous; I've never seen anything like it and I cannot believe it's America. And wine tasting was fun - for the first 3 wineries. Then, my tongue turned purple, and my tummy just turned. Unbelievably, we ordered more wine at dinner - it's like I just don't wanna listen to my body - at which point, I had premonitions of regurgitation. I think I'm done with wine for the rest of the trip, unfortunately. Oh - and I didn't see Sandra Oh anywhere, although I did have persistent visions of that guy from Sideways sticking it to the chubby waitress and then running nekked down the street with some near-frontal nudity. Or at least, twilight dangling in plain view. And I refused to drink Merlot.t

I remember when I was about 4, I was taken on my first aeroplane ride, from St Petersburg to Sochi. It was super fun. And I liked to fly: you suddenly get 6-8 hours for yourself to think, read, do nothing, with an excellent excuse. So, I don't understand, when did traveling become such a tremendous pain in the arse?? I don't remember the last time I enjoyed an airport experience at all! Yesterday, we boarded the plane, and things looked promising: in a full flight, we seemed to have been granted the only empty seat as the middle of our threesome. That's where the goodness ended, though. Imagine: doors shut, and the plane starts taxying, and all of sudden screeches to halt and backs up. 3 flight attendants race to the back of the plane - actually, about 3 rows behind us. I'm all, OMGeeee, is someone sick?? I'm like totally a doctor, maybe I should help! Hubby held me down. He's very pragmatic: Don't even think about it until they ask. Anyway, turned out, it w...

So, on the second day, after the famous hike, we woke up seriously creaky and crunchy; definite massive lactic acid buildup in them leg muscles. It was a gorgeous day, though, not to be wasted... We went to Mt. Killington, and instead of hiking the 3000 feet to the summit, we ended up taking a gondola up to the top. Gondola sounds romantic, but it's not. It rocks and makes scary thumping noises, and you can really see the metallic cord tensing right above your head, showing off its flimsy physique. All in all, rather frightening. The good news is, you can put your feet up, like so: When we got to the top, and looked around... It was enough to knock the wind out of me. I momentarily turned into a cheeseball, and thought of that early 90s easy listening song: "From distance/ the world looks blueeee and greeeen/ bla bla bla/ God is watching uuuuus from a distance." I think the point of the song is that from far away, the troubled and war-ridden planet Earth looks peaceful a...

Would you believe, after 20 years of living in New England, I've never been to Vermont? I still wanted to go to the woods, a craving that was not quite satisfied by a trawl through Portland, ME, so off we went to the greenest state I've ever seen. On our first day, we hiked up to the top of the mountain behind our house, broke a major sweat, took pictures, congratulated ourselves, and headed back down. On the way down, suddenly, a wrong turn was taken, and not only were we sort of lost in the woods, we somehow ended up on a trail called "Precipice," a new word I learned that day, which, let me tell you, did not make me happy. Scaling rocky mountain walls in sneakers and a t-shirt does not make me happy. The B+B had a huge library, that I perused, once recovered from the "hike." I suddenly realized, that as a well-read child (now regressed, I'm afraid, to a TV watching adult), I have actually read most of the English children's classics - but in Rus...

As previously mentioned, the first day of school in Russia was September 1st, and the last day was May 31st. The 3 months between those dates were off, and I mean, truly off: no silliness like summer jobs, or summer school, or summer internship to ruin the unabashed pure freedom of summer. We were from a big city, and summer in a big city was an amazing time because as if by magic, after May 31st, the city would get hot, fragrantly scented by poplar trees, dusty with the fuzz off their branches, and, eventually, empty out. Being there felt really strange, like being left behind in a vacant building... I'd say that kids from good families never spent the summer in the city. They would go away to the black sea, or dacha , or, in the worst case scenario, pioneer camp (like scout camp). [I never went to pioneer camp!] I'd even say that because there were 3 whole months, more than 1 vacation trip would be undertaken. I went to the Black Sea, on a tour of Ukraine, and to a small lake...

"Take me to the woods!" I said. "I want to observe wildlife and breathe pine air!" Unfortunately, our wilderness weekend consisted of blueberry pancakes and a leisurely stroll through the summer home town of our 41st president (I didn't know either: 41st President = George Dubbya, his summer home = Kennebunk Port, ME), followed by a nap in a king sized bed at the Hilton in Portland. We did get wild there for a second, hiking through an island state park. It was a hella hike: man made trails, benches every 100 feet, warnings of doggy doo and slippery mud, and a promise of an incline no greater than 10 degrees. A couple of things, though, were truly creepy. Like this: They're homes. For fairies. I imagine little kids built them. A fun activity for the whole family, except that it reminds me of that crazy Blair Witch Project movie, where the evil witch builds tipis around their tent, which means they will be killed in some supernatural and macabre manner. I tho...

My year of rest has come to an end. I'm enjoying the last 48 hours before I once again enter servitude and indenture to a hospital, this time in the capacity of a subspecialist in training, playing with stuff most people avoid talking about... Everyone says it's better than being a resident, but I have my doubts. Having blatantly escaped the old job a week earlier than the actual end date, I skipped town and went down the Cape with family. "You can do better than Falmouth," said a friend, when he found out that's where I was headed. Yeah... I guess I could, but we always come here; the beach is tiny and deserted, and the ocean water is swimmably warm. This time around it was also clear and of the most amazing green color, the kind you really only find in Cape Cod - well, that's what I think, some may disagree... While Boston complained of cold weather and nasty rain, we basked in a perfect 85 degree beach day. Sipping wine from a mountain dew bottle (alcohol n...

As an internist, I am a full fledged member of the community, board certified, practicing, and all. As a gastroenterologist, I've only just been allowed a glimpse so far, more to come as of July 1st. Getting my toes wet at the meeting this year is turning into an interesting sociology experiment. How do you get 10,000 people into one place and get them to wear the same back pack... There were 2,800 people signed up for the coursework part of the convention; most, I'd say around 65%, were aging white guys with huge foreheads. 10% were aging non-white guys with huge foreheads, mostly Indian and Asian. Another 10% were aging women that look like they've got something to prove. 10% were being hip and still hanging on to smatterings of youth, and about 5% were guys and girls still in training. The guys looked like part of a fraternity. The girls had very definitive jawlines. Can't be easy working with the frat brothers and the foreheads. And there was me. Developing my jawli...

On this trip to sunny Cali, I can't count how many times I've exclaimed, "This is like being in another country!" What with stucco, romantic beaches, palm trees and smells of the tropics in the air... Now we've arrived in San Diego, and had a chance to take a little stroll. Feeling right at home. First impressions: San Diego is for people who love the East Coast, and want to live it, but in 90 degree weather. Red brick houses, fire escapes, and streets paved with the same red brick, bar after bar after bar, hoards of young people out having fun on a Friday - on FOOT! - all screams Philly in July. Or Boston in July, really. We even saw an abnormal number of Red Sox and Celtics gear. But could a snobby New Englander really live here... Stay tuned!

Pale and translucent northeneres, we made our way to the beach in sunny Cali. Standing in a massive parking lot, trying to figure out how to put the top up in our Sea Bring convertible, while hoards of homeless people play the bongos in Venice beach, felt mildly surreal, but at the same time entirely congruous. Paradoxically. So it was no surprise or oddity whatsoever when a drawling voice coming from a giant truck asked us: "Do y'all know how to git to Hunnington Beach?" Ever helpful, we fumble with maps and guidebooks. The truck voice says, "We're from Texis." "We're from Boston." "You sound lack it." "You sound Texan!" A little more fumbling, this time with GPS. The voice says, "Are there bars in Hunnington? There are only 3 bars here!" When asked how many he needs, the voice answers, "Just wuuun, but if it's geewd!" The truck roars off. I realize I'm wearing a T shirt with an American f...

This time, we coincided with the Santo Tomas feria in Bilbao, so we decided to go check it out. It takes place 2 days before Christmas, sort of like a pre-Christmas practice party. It's basically an outside fair and food market that takes place by the ria Nervion downtown Bilbao. Obligatory aldeano outfits are worn by children and adults alike, there is folk music and live roosters. Also, lots and lots of pork. It takes place in the Plaza Nueva in the middle of husband's home-city. We get out of the metro in the old part of town. People are everywhere; they're donning green kerchiefs and are obviously inebriated (it's 11am), so we know we're close. He doesn't say anything, but as we seem to be wandering about rather aimlessly, I ask him where we are. Flushing and mumbling, he admits he completely forgot where the plaza is. He's Bilbaino! That's like forgetting where Times Square is to him. Asking for directions?? Are you fucking crazy? So we never found...

On one of my first trips to Spain, I asked what the official drinking age was, and was told that you may not buy alcohol under the age of 18, but yes, beer and wine. Beer and wine are not alcohol. Hey, even the Basque Santa Claus (El Olentzero, see below), is never displayed glassless. The tradition of poteo is really purely B asque: it involves visiting anywhere from 5-15 bars in any one one, and having a tiny drink in each one, a thimble-sized beer or wine. Usually, these are middle- to oldish-aged men who are chased out of the house in the afternoon after work while the wives make dinner. To make you feel like a more of a man, they come in a big glass which is mostly solid bottom, so you're holding on to something heavy. You spend no more than a half hour per bar. Sometimes they give you some olives, too. Butcha know what... 15 thimbles of wine? Makes a bottle! and you do this daily? You can end up majorly messed up. I sure did. Now, I'm no old man... I wouldn't even ...

I came home and am now suffering the back to reality syndrome. Namely, bank account balance, prospect of going to work this weekend, and the burly guys working up on the roof that are torturing me right towards a migraine. My first trip to Paris is forever enclosed by the sad parentheses of two funerals, one right before and one right after, and the biggest impression it has left on me is how goddamn tired I was the entire week, and how restless I felt. I don't remember any flavors at all from two years ago; I think I even shrugged and said, what's the big deal, it's just another big city. I was homesick. This time around though, despite the cold, and the wind, the short days and early dark, despite viruses, cramps and mishaps (like closed museums), I think I get it. I get Paris. This time, I so want to hold on to my Paris impressions... But they're like a spritz of perfume in the air. The scent is so real, but so short lived, and fades away so quickly. You can't gr...