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It has been 2 days now that we have been sans aqua. There was a flood in the basement on Sunday. As it is a holiday now, no one is willing to work to get our pipes fixed. My guess is that late Wednesday, we might be able to do our Sunday dishes, if the bugs haven't cleaned them up for us. In an unfair twist of fate, our neighbors have water. Olga, the young student who has put me up in her flat, secretly went next door and returned with a huge tub of hot water and graciously offered to help me wash my hair. Of course, I declined the offer for help, but it was a treat after trudging around for 2 days in the same clothes! Fortunately, the heating didn't go off at the same time!
Speaking of heat, I can't help but notice all these enormous six-foot wide silver pipes paralleling the sidewalks and snaking their way above the streets throughout town. One day, as we were driving through the streets for the umpteenth time, passing the same landmarks over and over again, I asked the driver what the factory did that was belching out millions of pounds of smoke above the horizon. He said that was a central heating station, of which there are 3 in town. All those pipes, like a gang of metallic dragons, carry hot steam to all the houses, offices and apartment buildings throughout town. Occasionally, they break, sorry Igor, but for better or worse, this is "the system."
My flat is quite cozy and warm and if I need to turn down the heat, I just open the window for a few minutes and let in the subzero frozen exhaust-filled air from the streets to mingle with the hot stuffy dusty-air from my room. In Moscow, I remember that in the winter, a cheap plastic bag doubled as a second refrigerator as you hung your cheese and milk out the window, 13 stories off the ground. In Siberia, I guess they hang their ice cream and frozen chunks of butter out the windows in the winter. The occasional cracked egg or carton of kefir could be found around the edges of apartment buildings. I noticed that people seemed to walk in the middle of the sidewalks, to avoid the crazy drivers on one side and the potential falling objects on the other. Maybe that's why they make their sidewalks so wide? While crime may be low here in Siberia, it seems that statistically, a Siberian is more likely to be hit and killed by a falling chicken than a street gang. On a more serious note though, you can read the occasional story about the random death by a huge icicle as the unlucky pedestrian happened to pass under a building. In Tomsk, the edge of a frozen bra falling from a clothes line may do as much damage.
Our water returned on Tuesday, miraculously, and Olga did all the dishes before I returned in the evening for dinner. How nice! I was wondering how I would ever get the caked on grease off that frying pan! Ellen came over for dinner and I cooked up a gourmet feast of linguini el dente with frozen Czech vegetables and some unknown tomato paste that we enjoyed with the remaining bottle of my Moldovan wine. With jasmine tea and Hershey kisses for dessert, we sat like school children on the edge of my sofa-bed eagerly absorbing our respective messages from friends at home on the Internet. I got up to top off the wine, and to my amazement, a turtle appeared in the doorway of my room! Flabbergasted, stunned, amused and finally curious, I began searching everywhere for the hole through which this visitor arrived. Our flat is on the fifth floor, the door was shut, the windows were shut and I never heard Olga mention a pet turtle before. Is there a pipe under the bathtub? Do turtles swim through toilet tanks? Her cat, Psikh, Russian for crazy, was the only other living creature I knew of in our flat, other than the occasional cockroach.
With renewed courage, I picked the creature up and held it about 3-1/2 feet off the ground. Now, I am not squeamish, but as soon as the little creatures claws wriggled and brushed against my fingers, I screeched, dropping the poor critter with a thud onto the wooden floor. Like a veteran, it survived the fall only to find itself a prisoner in the boot box I had in my room. I began pondering what I was going to say to Olga about her nocturnal visitors when this mysterious maternal instinct overwhelmed me. I asked Ellen what we should feed it. She suggested grass. Of course, why didn't I think of that! Under the three feet of snow, I'm sure we might find a few blades at this time of year. Perhaps muesli? A few oats and raisins couldn't hurt. I gingerly shook the muesli box and sprinkled flakes of oats around the turtle, hoping some would fall close enough to its head for it to eat. The ungrateful creature turned and walked the other way, leaving a large wet pile of turtle poop in its path!
The mystery still unsolved, we finished our wine and packed up our things to leave, layering ourselves with sweater, socks, coat, hat, boots, gloves and scarves, not necessarily in that order. The borrowed fur beret was much too large for me and I had to perch it just right so it wouldn't fall into my eyes. Down the dark and smelly stairwell we trudged, plastic bag in one hand, the other holding the fur beret in place on my head. Gasp! Ah, fresh crisp night air filled our lungs as we gratefully pushed open the rickety wooden door to the outside and barreled our way through. The banya! Oh, the banya, 9 p.m. and we were off to the banya.