Dinner of Death

Victimized. That's how I feel. Ya know, some friends you trust with your life.  Others not so much.  And worse yet, sometimes friends do things that put them over into the 'not so much' category.  Sunday was one of those times.  I think he's been mulling the idea in his mind for a while of exactly how he's going to kill me: first off, he sends me into the streets of Moscow by myself each day; secondly, he sicks his cat on me when I'm sitting on the windowsill 8 stories up, and this past Sunday he has me make dinner.
Now he's pretty smooth.  On Thursday he comes up to me and informs me of his executive decision that he's decided I'm going to make my famous sweet-and-sour chicken for dinner Sunday.  His excuse was that he 'wanted to learn how to make it'.  Right...  He's even nice enough to go out and buy all the ingredients we need -- great guy, huh?  He also decided to invite one of his friends over that night for dinner, apparently so they could work up an alibi...
Moving past the accusations, I begin making the dinner, starting with the rice, then the chicken and the sauce.  Everything seems to be going smoothly til we get to the sauce.  He's been watching intently, helping me measure the ingredients and such, until we get to the vinegar.  I needed a little over a half cup of the stuff, and we had that much in an old bottle.  But he insisted, fighting both me and his friend off, who were content using the already opened container, that we absolutely should use this new stuff.  'It'll be better', was his reasoning.  He fought us off for a good three minutes while trying to open the apparently child-proof container (it was hard to open!).  He finally wrested it open with the help of scissors and a lot of tugging, and we poured in more than a half-cup.  Man was that scent stiff!  It was the strongest vinegar I had ever smelled.  'Think nothing of it, it'll be just fine', he reassures.  'Fine', I'm thinking, I trust this guy (trustED), so I brewed my sauce as usual.  I took a sip of the sauce and immediately started coughing, but I couldn't stop! I ran to the sink and spat out all that was left in mouth, but I couldn't get rid of the burning!  The entire inside of my mouth was on fire: lips, teeth, cheeks, tongue, throat, everything!  I couldn't breath, I was losing strength, I knew I was going down, I had to lean on the counter just to stay standing.  I was coughing up my lungs, if just to get the taste out of mouth and throat.  My throat had burned raw, and it just kept getting worse.  They can't get near the sauce because of the smell, so they read the label of the vinegar: "WARNING!  Without the addition of water, this is dangerous for your life".  Oh great, I'm already dying and then I hear it was supposed to happen that way if I ingested that stuff!?!  We read on to learn that in order to make it safe to consume, you need to add 22 parts water to every one part of vinegar, and here I am, drinking purgatory straight from the bottle!  Thanks, friend, I trusted you!  Now, not so much.
P.S. I'm STILL coughing horribly 18 hours after.  I've drunken at least a gallon of water since, but I don't think I've diluted it enough yet.  We're still waiting to hear from the doctors.
P.P.S. We remade the sauce and saved dinner. 

Sunday Surprise!

Happiness like this isn't experienced every day.  Let me explain.  My favorite time to go to church is the morning time, for two reasons.  First off, if you have church later in the day, it seems like nothing ever gets accomplished in the morning, you're just waiting for church to start.  Secondly, when you get home after a late church, it seems like your whole day is gone.  Because of that, and another unnamed reason, I decided to go to an earlier branch here in Moscow instead of the usual branch that gets me home around 4:00.  I expected to sneak in just as the meeting started, sit down quietly at the back of the chapel, and be content as a visitor who didn't really know anyone, but I was barely in the door when that all changed.  Right at the front door was one of the most unexpected and fantastic sights I had seen in years, Irina Lisachenko (now Volkovo).  She came up to me and said hi, while I couldn't move my lips, I was so surprised.  I met her about 8 years ago we'd figured, and I hadn't seen her in the past 5.  She's married, a beamingly beautiful 8 months pregnant, and wonderfully happy.  I was so full of joy and astonishment it took my mouth some prodding to start talking with her.  We started chatting and when she introduced me to her husband (who was wearing a pink tie btw, so I knew he was a good guy) she simply said that I was Matt -- her 'first missionary'.  I can't think of, at the moment, any two words which might carry more meaning and explain so much to converts (or to those 'first missionaries') than 'first missionary'.  He instantly knew who I was, because she had told him all about me and my companion. Anyway, we sat together through the first two hours of the service just enjoying each others' company, reminiscing about the times in my first area when I could barely speak a lick of Russian...  Years have passed, and I'm about the same -- barely able to speak a lick of Russian, but so much has changed for her -- she has become so much happier.  I could see it shining in her eyes, and seeing her so joyous made me become indescribably happy, a feeling I won't soon forget.  What a delightful day to wake up early for church.  I guess, for this past Sunday, I now could give THREE reasons why I prefer going to church in the morning :)

Adventure with Bonaventure

I almost fell over laughing, Venture didn't think it was amusing at all.  But that's for later.  I hung out with my good friend Bonaventure last night.  Now Bonaventure, he's not your typical Russian, in fact, he's not Russian at all.  He's smart, good-looking (I guess, for a guy and all), dark.  Not that Russian guys can't be any or all of those...  Who am I kidding? Venture is from Tanzania, Africa.  We went to his university here in Moscow to watch some friendly competition - the Moscow University World Cup.  Waiting for the game between Tanzania and Cameroon, we shared some very intelligent conversation.  He wants to be a writer, and has some fascinating stories and great ideas.  So, naturally, we kicked around a few storylines and plot twists, and well as a few soccer balls.
After the game we decided to hit up some 'street ball' as he called it.  Well, for the next 3 hours I got beat-up, bruised and stepped on during my street ball 'experience'.  There was no street around, we were in the woods on a field of dirt!  Anyway, remind  Remind me to wear shoes next time I play with 'em. 
Anyway, to the funny part, we walked back to the metro around 11.00, still light outside by the way.  We were chattin just outside the metro when a witchy looking woman stopped and stared at us with her humongous, penetrating glare.  Frankly, she was creeping me out, but then I noticed she wasn't staring at us, she was staring at Venture.  He didn't notice until she had come within about 2 feet of him.  He looked petrified, too scared to move.  She reached her hand out from under her shawl (85 degrees and she's wearing a shawl) and slowly did the E.T. reach to Venture's forearm.  She touched it for about 2 seconds, shuddered, took a couple steps back, and as she turned, he asked her, in Russian, why she touched him.  She let out some kind of old-woman shreik, tripped over her own feet, and fell straight to the ground, and crawled away muttering, then pulled herself up and staggered away shaking her head.  I think it was the funniest thing I've seen in Moscow.  Yes, lady, there are black people, and yes, they are real, and a few of them are even intelligent enough to speak!  I'm still laughing about it.  I had a Russian missionary companion who had never seen a black person before I introduced him to a few that we were teaching, and yes, he wanted to touch them, too. 

St. Petersburg the Great

Celebrating an American holiday in a foreign land sometimes isn't the best idea, especially trying to celebrate your Independence Day with a man from the country you won your independence from.  That was just one of the fantastic moments of my trip to St. Petersburg the weekend of July 4. 
St. Pete's is unlike any other Russian place I've been -- first off, it's got Carl's Jr., secondly, it's got such a Western European feel you almost forget you're in Russia, thirdly, it's so amazingly beautiful you can't help but fall in love with the place.  From the moment we got off the speed train, til the time we returned to leave, I loved the city.  It's been called the 'Venice of the North' because of the river channels flowing all about the city.  The museums and palaces are top-notch, the architecture - immaculate.  5 million people in the city, but it didn't seem crowded, or dirty, most everything seemed happy and bright, even the sky never darkens for a few weeks during the summer.  In just one short weekend, I saw the city by foot, car, train, boat, and helicopter. We stayed in the American Consulate General's guest house, which was nice, the weather was perfect, and I even played frisbee!
It was practically my dream weekend trip, except for the snoring!  I found out I can't fall to sleep when I hear someone snoring.  Each night I had to hit my roommate when he started snoring so hopefully I could fall asleep by the time he started snoring again. Even after playing 'War' all night, starting at 2:30am, I wasn't tired enough to put up with it.  So it wasn't quite the perfect trip, but definitely a highlight, and a place I can't wait to return to. 

First Impression

          --map showing only Moscow proper--
Humongous.  That's the first word I think of when I think of my new surroundings in Moscow, Russia.  I've lived in some pretty large cities, like Los Angeles and Washington, D.C., but they pale to me in comparison to Moscow.  I didn't realize just how huge this place was until I was flying around it on my Singapore Air flight a few days ago.  Looking out the window down onto Moscow, I could not even see the middle of the city, and the buildings stretched as far as the eye could see.  Little did I realize then, but I was looking down into a labyrinth - a maze of streets, metro lines, and rivers leading to and fro.  As I've begun exploring the labyrinth,above and below the surface, I notice just how many people there are.  They are everywhere!  It seems like I am am always walking around someone on the sidewalk, or in the grocery store, the plaza, the metro, or crossing the street.  Crossing the street is a whole nother matter entirely - the drivers here are reckless, with little to no regard for anything or anyone else.  Cars are cut off all the time (which means horns are non-stop blaring), the white lines on the road mean nothing as a 4-lane road is turned into a 6-laner, stoplights hold little sway, and the sidewalks aren't even safe for walking, because the cars drive there, too!
 Along with the crowds comes a constant noise, yet you can't pinpoint it to just one thing, the masses certainly make noise, but the vehicles and all the construction going on contributes as well.  The minute I walk outside it reminds me of a 2010 World Cup match, with those annoying horns blowing every second of every game.  It's just constant noise that you can't escape!  So all I do to 'escape' the noise is cover it up with more noise.  I'm glad I brought my iPhone and my in-ear headphones, they are keeping me sane.  But I may need a bigger playlist, I'm thinking about the size of Moscow.

Heroes

We all need heroes.  Yep, that's right - you, me, everybody.  Dionysus, god of wine, admitted, in The Last Olympian, by Rick Riordan,  that even the gods need heroes.  Every one is in need.  Why, we might ask?  Heroes save us, sometimes literally, sometimes figuratively, and they also give us hope.  There comes a time in each of our lives when we run out of our own strength and need to look to someone else.
Some people will be looked at as heroes for the rest of eternity, while others may only be considered a hero for a few years, months, weeks, days, or even just moments.  Our heroes who are dead are easy to call heroes, but to call someone who is living, a hero, really takes greatness.  When people die, we generally pass over most of their flaws and focus on the positive things, and then call them heroes, assuming they were always one.  When we remember them, we sum up their lives by calling them heroes.  Why can't we do that when people are living?  Why can't we looked past their flaws and see them for the heroes they are, unless they do some grand, amazing, incredible thing?  We are so quick to pounce on people once they make a mistake, that it really comes as no surprise you don't hear many persons being regarded as a hero anymore...  Yet every day, you hear that somewhere, somebody does something heroic, but that's different.  They make the newspaper or television for jumping in a pool to save someone, for standing in the line of fire, for pulling a friend out of trouble, and other heroic acts.  And when asked about it, they just say something like, "It's nothing," or "It's my duty," or even, "Hey, nobody's that heartless!"  
Dictionary.com calls a hero 1) a person of distinguished courage or ability, admired for their brave deeds and noble qualities, and 2) a person who, in the opinion of others, has heroic qualities or has performed a heroic act and is regarded as a model or ideal.  One word sticks out to me in each of those definitions: 'and'.   It's not just the acts performed, it's also a person's character that makes a hero.

Some of my heroes are ordinary people, who, yes, do extraordinary things occasionally, but are those who stand up for what is right, even when they're standing alone; those who know what they believe, and live it, even during testing times; those who have everything bad tossed at them, yet somehow make it through with a smile on their face and encouraging words on their lips...  Some of my heroes are my neighbors, some are in my ward, some I even taught in my classroom.  Heroes are everywhere, because we each need them.
So, next time you need a hero, maybe a little closer than those who are serving our great country, or those who have passed on, look around - the hero you need may be closer than you think ;)

Shirts and Skins

Whoever it was that came up with the idea, 'Shirts and Skins', for men playing sports, was a genius.  It works with so many sports as the easiest way to differ between teams: soccer, ultimate frisbee, flag football, quidditch for muggles, water polo, airsoft/paintball :) j/k, lacrosse, etc.  But I played one where it didn't really work for me anymore.  Bright and early this morning, at 6:00, I went to a stake center across town to play some basketball..  I walked in, saw about 15 guys, of all ages and sizes, warming up and shooting hoops.  I saw a few tall guys, so I decided to stay and give it a shot.  Once they had divided up the first teams, 5 guys took off their shirts.  This was not a pretty sight - none of them had showered and some were already sweaty before even playing.  On my very first defensive play, a skin ran into me and now, I had his sweat all over me before I had even started my own sweating.  Part of the game, right?  I paid no attention to it, until I was posted up by a rather portly man with a water fountain coming out of his back.  That's what it seemed like anyway, as he was drenched in sweat.  He could've pulled up his shorts, too.  Well, needless to say, throughout the two games I played, I collected the sweat of at least 8 different skins.
In the good old days, when basketball wasn't such a contact sport, I was fine with playing shirts and skins, but now, if you're not bumped or rubbed, checked or charged every other play by a guy on the other team, it's not basketball.  There was so much closeness and contact it reminded me of being in an overstuffed club.  Now don't get me wrong, a little male bonding now and again is great, I had a fun time playing, but I just think it's more appropriate to use a towel instead of my shirt to wipe off your sweat.  Next time, if there is a next time with this group, I might just play in a bathrobe.

School's Out For Summer!

It's almost been a week since school let out.  Some of my students and my fellow teachers 'checked out' weeks ago, yet I find that I still haven't completely checked out yet.  I still wake up (automatically, if I'm not already awake) at 6 am, I've gone back to school twice, and I still edit some of my friends' text messages :)  I haven't done anything 'vacationy' yet, because I'm still trying to recover from surgery on Tuesday.  What a way to start summer, huh?  Doctor tells me I can't do any strenuous activity or any kind of exercise for 48 hours.  My summer break is usually synonymous with strenuous activity and exercise.  It's been killing me, to not be able to do all the things I want to do on these beautiful days: hiking, biking, swimming, rollerblading, boxing, working out, etc.  I think, when I start doing those things daily, it'll finally feel like summer has arrived.   Here's to hoping!