Stan's Chronicles -- Second Edition

Stan with Pasha


I

So one night after we went to the baby house we ask Karina our translator if she could take us to the bakery to get a few things. Vladimir picks us up and we bounce down the pothole-ridden streets to the bakery where Michelle picks out a few pastries and we buy some chicken wings. Yum! I noticed that they also have a huge selection of Vodka and some beer behind the counter so I ask Karina if she could find out how much the Miller High Life cost. She converses with them for about 6 minutes (because everything in Russian takes 10 times longer to say) and then tells me that it was “No good beer.” “What does that mean?” I ask her thinking perhaps it has an old born-on date and has expired or something. She makes a confused face like she didn’t know how to explain it in English and says something in Russian to the cashier again. “No, is not good beer,” she repeats. Apparently that’s the extent of the details. “Ok, is there a good Russian beer that I should get instead?” I ask thinking maybe they would recommend something else. More speaking Russian follows. “No, is all bad beer.” Ok, so are they refusing to sell me beer? They have beer. I can see it. What the hell is going on? “We can go to different store for beer if you want,” she suggested. Ok, let’s go. Man, these people have a long way to go if they are going to survive in a free market system and a global economy. Supply and demand … come on they have supply, and I have demand. That’s why communism collapsed. A complete disregard for the needs of the consumer. To think the Russian’s might have won the Cold War if they had just let everyone live the High Life. But I digress….

We get back in the car and Karina explains to Vladimir (in long winded Russian of course) that we need to go get beer somewhere. They argue back and forth for a few minutes. “Ok, Vladimir tells me where to go for beer,” she assures me. So we bump on down the road to a little shack that has the word Pinta over the door. Karina and I jump out and go inside. The place is tiny and smoke-filled with dark wood walls. There are dead fish hanging from the ceiling and guys filling up what look like empty two liters and used water bottles with some kind of beer coming out of a tap. “How much beer would you like?” she asked. “Like two or three bottles maybe,” I answer. She looks around for a moment. It’s obvious they don’t have any bottled beer and I’m not brave enough to test out whatever is coming out of those taps and going into those bottles.

We go back outside and jump back into the van. “No beer?” Vladimir questions. He and Karina converse back and forth with him for a moment. “Vladimir says that all Americans like beer here very much,” she informs me. Great so I’ve offended the 6’6” ex-KGB hit man looking guy. “Maybe next time?” she suggested. “Da, da,” I respond. Maybe I should just drink vodka.


II

Ok, so another trip to the baby house and another trip to the supermarket afterwards. Unfortunately, we were without a translator. No big deal. We’ve been to the supermarket before. No big deal unless you can’t find something and need to ask. Bread, eggs, chicken, soap. OK...beer? Beer? No beer. Oh well, so we check out with the provisions we picked up and get back in the van. Pasha of the gold teeth was driving us this time and I pondered whether I should mention the beer situation to him wondering if he would just drive me to the Pinta where I had insulted Vladimir the week before. “O-K,” Pasha asked very distinct and loud. “Ok,” I shrugged. “APARTAMENTE?” he asked. What the hell I thought. “No Beer,” I shrugged. “BEEER, BEEER?” he exclaimed. He speaks very loudly and animated whenever he talks. Whenever he talks to the translators or anyone on his cell phone you can only imagine that he is having a heated argument with them. One morning on our way to the baby house he seemed to be screaming at Karina but after he was done yelling at her she turned to us, very quietly and explained that Pasha wanted us to know that we had just passed the fire station. Even the most mundane conversation seems to come out of him like a fireball.

He points to the grocery store, “NO BEEER.” He jumps out of the van and pulls the side door open motioning me to get out of the van. Again he points to the supermarket, “NO BEER.” He then points mostly up in the air and says, “BABY.” Then points again at the supermarket, “NO BEER.” Up in the air, “BABY NO BEER.” It’s a wonder he’s not a translator. He then takes my arm like I’m a Russian bride and starts quickly walking down the street yelling the same two phrases. “BABY,” up in the air. “NO BEEER,” toward the grocery store. We go down the street a few doors and he points at the sign in Russian about the door. “BEER, O-K?” “Ok,” I answer. We go in and he yells back and forth with the women behind the counter for about 5 minutes. “NO BEEER,” he finally says and we leave. We go to the store next door, “BEEER,” he assumes me, although I am somewhat suspect now. Oh yes, they do have beer. He yells at the lady behind the counter for about 5 minutes. She yells back at him. “RUSSIAN BEEER,” he asked. Sure, whatever I nod. “ALCEHELL, NO ALCEHELL?” he asked. “Alcehall” I answer. Dear
God, after all this I surely am not looking for an O’Doules. “AHHHH, GOOOD VITH BEEER,” he pulls some sort of Kazak beernuts off the shelf but they are not beernuts. “FISH for FISH,” he tells me. Ok, what the hell does that mean? He hands them to me and I show them to Michelle. “Fish for fish?” I ask. “Nyet,” she answers. Pasha thinks this is hilarious and slaps me on the back. I pay for the beer, minus the beernuts and we leave. On the way back to the van he tries to explain again. “BEEER,” pointing to the store we just walked out of, “BABY,” again sort of in the air. “NO BEEER,” towards the supermarket. I assure him I understand and he lets go of my arm as we get back into the van. I tell Michelle no more adventures without the translator.

However, this is not the case.


III

After our morning visit to the baby house, we break for lunch and head out to meet Ken and Jenny with our translator Helena. We hadn’t seen them in a few days because Ken had been sick and wasn’t getting out much. However, when we get to the restaurant he looks cheerful and good as new. “So, Pasha is going to take me to the Banya tomorrow night if you want to go. Should really help this cold I’ve got.” He adds. “What’s a Banya?” I ask. He kind of shrugs his shoulders, “Like a sauna,” he assures me. I remember back to my last traumatic experience with Pasha. “Helena, will you come to translate?” I ask hopefully with little hope. She just smiles very mischievelously, “Oh no, only men at the Banya.”

Helena has her own special relationship with Pasha. She is this really sweet, shy, young girl and Pasha loves to make her uncomfortable. She’s only been with us for about a week and on her first day Pasha told her he has been in jail four times (which we were assured is not true). He keeps asking her about her love life and if she will go out on a date with him. In the beginning I think she was truly afraid of him. She even invented a make believe husband in the hopes that he would end his flirty questions but instead Pasha turned his questions to her fake husband. What was his name, what did he do for a living, could Pasha meet him…. Anyway, she kind of gets Pasha now so the novelty of picking on her has worn off for him a bit (besides there is another new translator he can tease now).

Anyway, so after lunch we do a little souvenir shopping. Helena takes us to a certain shop because some of the girls want to buy Russian nesting dolls. The same shop (about the size of a gas station store) also sells perfume, make-up, assorted stickers, and bras. We also see flip flops. Ken asked Helena if he needs to get some flip flops for the Banya. She says yes so I figure I need to get flip flops also. Flip flops. I guess that makes sense, hot sweaty sauna.

“Do you have towels also?” she asked. “We need towels also?” I ask. She shakes her head yes so now I have to buy a towel because we only have one towel and Michelle won’t let me take the one towel to the Banya. Alright, so I need to buy a towel. My idea of a nice spa-like sauna is starting to fade. No need to panic. All she said is that I need to bring my own towel. Towels mean less nudity, perhaps.

“Do you have a….” she can’t think of the word now but she does a kind of scrubbing your back motion. “What are you talking about?” I say starting to wonder about this whole thing. “You mean a loofah?” Michelle asks. “Loofer,” Helena repeats adding to her growing English vocabulary. “Why do I need a loofah?” “Some men bring to wash their back,” she answered. “or you can get….like tree branches with leaves.”

“What are you talking about?” Tree branches? “Yes, they hit,” and she makes a whipping sound as she slaps her back. There goes the ever-so-slight possibility of this being a normal, none-nude event. This is not going to be a spa. Maybe more like a concrete Soviet basement with some steam bursting from the pipes and a bunch of mafia men slapping themselves bloody with tree branches. Have you seen the episode of No Reservations where Anthony Bourdain is given an Uzbekistan massage against his better judgement? I have. Will I be washing Pasha’s back? “Ken, do you know about this?”

“Do you need some and Shampoo?” she ignores my question. “What are you talking about? Where are we going?” She smiles because she knows something but she doesn’t answer. God help me if she tries to tell me I need a rubber ducky.

I buy the flipflops and the towel. To hell with the Loofah.

Pasha picks us up outside. He turns and smiles all gold teeth and Russian mustache, “TO-MORR-OW, BANYA VITH PASHA.”