Yeah, We're Getting A Little Tired Of The Green Outfit, Too

Woke up at 6:30, couldn’t get back to sleep, so got up and checked e-mail. I then tried once more to decode the washing machine/dryer combo, which seems to have about 20 settings -- your clothes either wash but don’t spin, and water spills out when you open door, or you put the soap in wrong drawer and your clothes cycle without soap. We’ll probably get it figured out just before we leave.

At 8:00 thought I’d go out and get some fruit and bread for breakfast, but in a town that seems to go all night, nobody’s open at 8 except the local coffee bar, which hadn’t received its bread yet. So back home and back to reading Robert Caro’s The Power Broker, his bio of Robert Moses, a book I’ve always meant to get to. I’ve read all of Caro’s LBJ books and have been sucked in by each one. CD, her partner John, and my friend and colleague Bob Gaffey have been telling me for years, “I can’t believe you haven’t read it.” Well the book is, as John says, “a marvel,” and at 1300 pages should hold me for a while. CD wakes at 9, hits her e-mail, I take some snaps of apartment for blog, and CD posts some observations of Almaty with them. We head to market to buy diapers and provisions and head to orphanage at 2:00. (CD: Personally, I don’t understand this fascination with the chronology, but whatever.)

Otis is kind of out of it today; it’s a little muggy, (nothing like what you’re dealing with in NYC), and he’s lethargic and a bit cranky. Not many smiles, we read him Dr. Seuss’ The Fox in Socks (anyone detect a theme here?), he’s somewhat attentive, plays with some toys, but he’s not really interested. I lie down and sit him up on my chest, first he slides up and wraps his legs around my neck and tries to hug me while choking me, then lies back and looks up at ceiling lights. Ceiling lights fascinate him. One thing is clear, he wants to be held. (CD: He has us pegged as the people who give cuddles.)

We sit a desk and show Otis photo album with pix of house, friends, family; he looks at each one and pounds his fist on them. Nurse comes in at 3:30, 45 minutes early, and tries to retrieve him. Zoya, for once, protests. Nurse goes on to say we only brought one diaper today, and we need to bring three. Zoya responds that yesterday the nurse’s supervisor told us to only bring one, nurse shrugs and leaves. (CD: When we started it was four. Who cares? How about a number that says the same and everyone is happy with?)

Now Otis is getting sleepy, his usual time, so I cradle him in my arms and sing him a cowboy lullaby, “I Ride an Old Paint,” which he’s taken a liking to, and he nods off.

Sagat takes us to Green Bazaar, where we pick up five thick loin pork chops for about $9, a kilo of potatoes for 40 cents, a kilo of onions for 50 cents, etc. Then to supermarket which carries about 300 brands of Russian vodka; I pick up two Sagat recommends, one with honey & peppers, and one called Rostoff. I ask him about Raki (CD: He’s given up on finding grappa) and he makes a spitting motion and says “for the Turks.” We head home so CD can cook, while we drink beer and blog.

P.S. Elliott and Barbara N.: Even Zoya, in a country where people wear the same nice clothes repeatedly rather than lots of not so nice clothes, thinks the recurrence of the green outfit is a bit excessive.

Give up Dad 

I mean it, give up

I ride an old paint, I lead an old nag, I'm goin' to Montana to throw the Houlihan 

Ride round little dogies, ride round and slow, for the fiery and the snuffy are rarin' to go

Some Shots of 120 Furmanov, Apt. 5, Plus Some Stories From Almaty

Since some of you guys have asked for a few pics of the crib:


Bedroom, then living room. Note diapers on the couch in the living room, which we never use, but it makes a nice storage room.




Next, the kitchen with Turkish coffee pot on the stove. Finally, the den, where we spend most of our time blogging and running the Almaty offices of HR&A and Jones Day.





Stories....... Because we will posting Otis pics late today: we have to go to the Green Bazaar for more provisions. After last night’s dinner at another ex-pat place, dinner in will be the rule for a while. So here are some stories to tide you over.

ATMs. There are lots and lots of ATMs all over the city. We generally withdraw 20,000 Tenge at a time ($150). This is always dispensed as either two 10,000T or four 5,000T notes. This is exceedingly annoying in a city where almost everything that you want to buy costs very little, and most vendors have a lot of difficulty breaking a 2,000T note. (For instance, one night we bought two .5 liter bottles of beer and a 1 liter bottle of water for 250T, handed the merchant a 2,000T note, and she had to go next door to the neighboring restaurateur, and when, that failed, raid her daughter’s piggy bank.) DJ--Actually it was 5,oooT note, and we had to wait for a flush customer to come in, but CD always says her fiction is better than my fact.

Shoes. Just before we left, I (Candace) went to DSW and bought a pair of gold mesh shoes with big colored rhinestones all over them. (The parentheses were in case you thought David bought them.) Sort of Disco Elf Shoes. Kind of over the top, but, what the hell, threw them into the luggage. Who knew? They are the height of fashion. Everybody wears pointy shoes. The women with three to four inch heels in bright colors, the men of woven white leather. DJ-The men all wear shoes with pointy squared off toes, saw a guy in a suit yesterday and thought he might be American, till I glommed the shoes, which were velour with the pointy square toes. Many men also favor faux military outfits with mix & match camo.

Pay attention! I think it is incredibly hard to make a joke in a foreign language, so I thought this was cool. Yesterday, Zoya asked us what the verb form of “attention” is. We said, “to attend,” as in “attend to me.” But, we added, that is pretty formal, and most Americans would say, “pay attention.” David, added, “or look here.” Zoya said that English people always say “look here” and that it always seems a little rude; we agreed. She then added, “but it figures, the Americans, with all their money, would say pay attention.”

A Good Day

Small things make for exciting days about now:

• Galina told us that our paperwork is now out of the central Almaty Ministry of Education office and on to the Astana (national capital) office. Astana now needs to confirm (we hope) that notwithstanding Otis’ late registration, we can take him home on schedule. The paperwork then returns to Almaty, to be forwarded to the district (borough?) office, then to be forwarded to the judge for our hearing. More importantly, this means that the woman who interviewed us and was ostensibly concerned about our ages vis a vis Otis’ (1) got religion, (2) was prevailed upon by her superior, or (3) never had an objection in the first place, and Galina told us this story to make herself sound effective. You can guess which hypothesis is David’s. (The engines canna’ take anymore Cap’n. – DJ.) Notwithstanding, the last scary boogeyman (of which we are currently aware) has been dispatched.
• DJ -- We also spent the better part of an hour in a notary’s office today waiting to sign some more paperwork. Notaries seem to be the equivalent of storefront lawyers here -- their offices are everywhere.
• David and Otis spent about an hour blowing raspberries at each other, while Zoya and I howled with laughter. Then Otis and I played this Hop Hop Hoppity Frog game that I made up in which, oh, never mind….. Then Otis gave Dad a huge hug and fell asleep.

Pretty fabulous day.

Just so you don’t think we are completely consumed with Otis, another food post! I think we have forgotten to tell you that (amazing) tomato wedges and sliced cucumbers, usually with parsley, are served as the garnish to absolutely everything, regardless of the cuisine’s theoretical origin, i.e. with Kazakh meat dishes, in Russian salads, alongside burgers, etc.

Last night we went out for Chinese food, to one of those places that you can’t figure out where the people are from because there are dishes from all over China on the menu. By in large, the food was fantastic. We had pork with squid and bell peppers, in which fresh bamboo shoots appeared to have been substituted for the squid, excellent if not what was expected. The best scallion pancake either of us have ever had. A dish from Xinjiang (sp?), which is the part of China near here, of chicken, potatoes, and chiles in a honey sauce, which was a bit weird but worth trying. However, the definite highlight was hot and sour soup, which reminded us, once again, of the extraordinary ability of good Chinese cooks to reinvent their food using local ingredients. A clear pork broth that tasted fresh-made, the usual tree ears and tofu, plus egg white swirly things, cilantro, and, as its principal vegetable ingredients, yes, tomato wedges and, radical innovation, julienned cucumbers!

Let me show you how to blow a raspberry...... 

Now you do it, Dad! 

The view that fascinates 

I like this game, Mommy! 

Two sleepy guys 

Bein' A Dad

by Loudon Wainwright III

Bein' a dad isn't so bad
Except that you gotta feed 'em
You gotta shoe 'em and clothe 'em
And try not to loathe 'em
Bug 'em and hug 'em and heed 'em

Bein' a dad can sure make you mad
Man it even can drive you crazy
It's as hard as it looks
You gotta read them dumb books
And you end up despising Walt Disney

Bein' a dad starts to get radical
When they turn into teenagers
You gotta tighten the screws
Enforce the curfews
Confiscate weapons and pagers

But a daughter and son
Can be sort of fun
Just as long as they don't defy you
They'll treat you like a king
They'll believe anything
They're easy to frighten and lie to

Bein' a dad (bein' a dad)
Bein' a dad (bein' a dad)
Bein' a dad can make you feel glad
When you get paperweights and aftershave lotions
Yeah it feels pretty great when they graduate
That's when you're choked with emotions

But bein' a dad takes more than a tad of
Good luck and divine intervention
You need air-tight alibis
Fool proof disguises
Desperation's the father of invention

So sometimes you take off
For a few rounds of golf
And you stay away for half of their lifetimes
The result of it all is
You're captured and hauled up
Before a tribunal for dad crimes

Bein' a dad (bein' a dad)
Bein' a dad (bein' a dad)
Bein' a dad can make you feel sad
Like you're the insignificant other
Yeah right from the start
They break your heart
In the end every kid wants his mother

Bein' a dad (bein' a dad)

The Process Goes On

Woke up at 5:15 this morning, checked e-mail and blog and went back to bed around 6:30. CD woke around 9:00; I slept in until 10:30. CD prepared a fine breakfast of scrambled eggs, home fries and ham from the Green Bazaar, and we spent the rest of the time reading until it was time to see Otis. Candace packed some socks; I ditched the smokes, and we headed out.

New schedule, our arrival time is now 2:15, but they still snatch the little bugger away at 3:55 :-( Our coordinator, Galina was there today and after about 15 minutes with Otis, who was in a great mood, she took us down to the Director’s office. The OD read us a summary of Otis’ medical records, and CD took copious notes while I held O. We realized we had been miscalculating his age; his birthday’s 11-1-04, so he’s almost eight months old, not nine as we thought. (CD: this from a guy who calculates dates in his head and a woman who manipulates big dollar figures for their livings! Otis: the bad news is: your mom and dad are arithmetic morons. The good news is that your developmental achievements are that much more impressive.)

CD: OK, here are the new facts, for those of you (notably my mom) who are interested:

• He weighed 4.4 pounds at birth (eek! – possibly consistent with a mom who was starving herself to conceal her pregnancy? -- we’ll ask Dr. A about that) and was 46 cm long. (Consistent with the above, I have forgotten how to convert cms to inches, notwithstanding having been brought up during the ‘70’s flirtation with conversion to the metric system.) His Apgar scores were 7 and 8 – the low end of excellent. He tested negative for all the really bad stuff – HIV, hepatitis, syphilis. The “head pressure” diagnosis was absolutely a function of his having been born in Almaty, not of oxygen deprivation during birth. Every child born in Almaty is diagnosed with this.
• A month and six days later, he was transferred to the orphanage. At that time, he weighed 5.6 pounds. Ever since, he has tested well for all functions, has never been in the hospital, and has received all his vaccines but for TB. An interesting story here: when he was born, the TB vaccine that was being given was made in Serbia. Lots of KZ kids had a bad reaction to it, and because the orphanage is an essentially closed environment, the OD decided not to have him vaccinated. There is now a Russian vaccine available, and the OD is waiting to see how kids react to it before having him vaccinated. She suggested we may just want to do this in the US.
• As of June 1 (they weigh and measure the kids once a month on the first), he was 18 pounds and 63 cm long. As far as I can tell, this makes him a healthy weight but on the short side. On the other hand, all they’re feeding him is formula and juice.

OK, back to DJ….

Galina said the copies of the medical records had been sent to the Dept. of Education and she would have copies translated for us soon, but not today. I pressed her on this, saying we needed them for our doctor in the US and added, “I’m going to ask you about this every day.” Galina’s response: “And if the doctor sees something she doesn’t like, are you going to say you don’t want the baby?” Subduing the impulse to say: “Just get me the translations, bitch,” we both said: “No, no!” (CD: To which she replied, “Then why do you need to know?” !!!!!!!)

Galina told us that the Section Chief at the Dept. of Ed. was concerned about the age disparity between O and us, but she didn’t think it would be a problem. Tentatively, we have a July 12 court date. We thanked the OD profusely, told her O was perfect and went back to the bonding room.

The rash on O’s face and the cradle cap seem to be clearing up. Big moment: he spit up for the first time in front of us! The next 45 minutes passed quickly; he glommed onto my watch again, took our glasses off our faces and generally made us laugh. He fell asleep in CD’s arms five minutes before the nurse came to get him.

Back to the apartment, where Galina lightens the load in my money belt and is offended when I ask for a receipt. We are now trying to figure out where to go to dinner. Today I’m grateful for (besides C&O): 1) the internet and tri-band cell phones, which keep us tethered to 2) you guys and your love and friendship. It would be so much harder (CD: almost impossible) doing this without all of you.

The watch tastes even better today 

One sock off 

One sock on 

Love this shot-D 

Asleep but still clutching teething rattle, note funky socks on C&O, C's don't keep falling off. 

A Post Induced by Too Much Booker's (Single Barrel Bourbon), Too Many Cigarettes, Etc.

CD: This is the post that I’ve been thinking about writing and posting for a while now. A little different from the others. A lot disorganized, and highly unedited. Maybe it’ll get posted, maybe it won’t. Maybe it’s part of a letter to Otis. Maybe I’m a little too bourbon-ified.

This is hard.

This is not a vacation.

In the best of marriages, no one expects to spend 24-7 with her husband. It’s certainly making me remember how much I love David, but I face another four? five?, six? weeks with some trepidation.

I’m crying too much. I have no idea why. David says, “I’m allowed to be emotional”,… but why exactly am I crying?

I hate the loss of control.

David listens to music. And, I gotta say, the evolving welcome to the world track that we’ve been listening to – lots of Loudon, some Bruce, some Neil Young, whatever – is comforting, but not really my thing. And there’s only so much comfort you can take from the distraction the political and historical tomes I’ve brought provide.

I guess I’m writing to force myself into that analytical, calm format that is either me or the way I present myself to the world.

I hate feeling like I’m a 20-year old with a new boyfriend again, hating when it feels like he’s flirting with his old girlfriend… maybe his current girlfriend?... when the caregiver comes to get him and calls him “Rachman,” to which he does not respond (good or bad?), pinching his little thigh until he responds, while he looks back at us, “Why are they going?”

I hate not being in control. (DJ-there’s a newsflash-me too, as our good friend Ralph, has pointed out about me, and it applies you too, I always have to be right.)

And, I hate that so much revolves around whether our friends and family – that is, the life in which we have become so comfortable – are reading and responding to what we’ve written. Because writing has gotten so important. And we (I?) miss the familiarity so much.

This is so not a vacation.

Also I (we) miss Bruno. (DJ-I dream about Bruno)

Actually, writing helps a lot. The act of re-reading and rewriting -- OK, editing -- is calming.

I know how much I love my husband because he is about to/has just read this.

DJ: I light her cigarette, then mine and start to type. No, this is not a vacation, this is a process, this is how we get, for us, from three to four. It costs, it costs money, more than money, it costs time, time away from our jobs, our families, our dog, our friends, our comforts and vices. It costs dealing with bullshit about socks and watching them put OUR son in flannel PJ’s when it’s 85 degrees and keeping your mouth shut because he’s not YOUR son yet MF, from people we’re smarter than on their best day (And yes we’ve been lucky enough to be born American, white and upper middle class and they’re none of the above.) And yet, when that barely formed, drooling little creature tucks his head into my neck with that acne from his face not being wiped and cradle cap that these, over-worked people can’t keep up with, (but these MF’s are looking askance at the fat, prosperous gringos who are taking their sweet little Rachman away, the future of their nation), well FUCK IT, we’ll eat their shit for the next six weeks or whatever it fucking takes, and yes, I’ll quit smoking and yes, CD will wear socks, and jump through the rest of the fucking hoops, because that moment when that little boy nuzzles your neck and falls asleep in your arms makes ALL the bullshit, pain, fear and self-doubt look like small beer indeed.

You Smoke Too Much, Your Feet Stink

DJ: We both wake up around 7. I make the cowboy coffee in the Turkish coffee pot. It’s Candace’s method, but she says my technique is better. (Boil water, two rounded tablespoons in bottom of pot, pour water, let rest five minutes, add an ounce of cold water, wait ten seconds, then pour like you’re decanting a fine old red wine.) Breakfast is blackberries, raspberries, brown bread, butter and some cheese Zoya recommended.

Sasha calls around 9:00 to say that cable guy will be here at noon to install English channels. We are reading (me: James Ellroy’s Destination Morgue; CD: Peter Hopkirk’s The Great Game), and listening to Vin Scelsa on Itunes. Cable guy shows at 11:55, (exactly as promised!) asking about decoder, Sasha arrives two minutes later to make sure we get “All the English channels,” which turn out to be a grand total of three: Fox News, Sky News and BBC News. Great - two right wing news channels and one tight-ass news channel.

We take a walk, then meet Sagat to see Otis. Arrive at #3, ask Zoya to inquire about getting translation of Otis’ medical records (we’ve been asking since day one of visits) and meeting with his caregivers to find out about his schedule, what he eats, likes, dislikes etc. Zoya checks with Director: records still not ready and we are not allowed to talk to caregivers, only doctor, but not today, grrrr! I call Galina, our lawyer, she says she’s sorry, she’s busy today, she’ll see us tomorrow, nothing on translations, no court date yet, double grrrr! Zoya further tells us that Otis will be waking up at 2:10, so we can see him at 2:15. CD says, “So that means our visit lasts until 4:15, correct?” Zoya agrees.

Otis is brought in, big smiles for both of us. I show him the piano, he’s fascinated for a minute, but wants to look outside. The great outdoors has a huge allure for the boy, that and ceiling fixtures. I hold him way up in the air like Superman, and he smiles big and vocalizes. We sit at a desk, he grabs my watch and won’t let go. I take it off, hand it to him, he shakes it, puts it in his mouth and shakes it some more. Candace sits on the floor with him while he plays with toys. He still has a cold and is drooling a lot, but he is in a much better mood than Saturday, lots more smiles and vocalizing.

My cell rings, it’s Milena; she asks about medical records and promises to get on people. Milena then tells me she wants to pass on some concerns from the orphanage. They’re not happy about my smoking and the fact that Candace doesn’t wear socks when she visits. (At this point I feel constrained to ask that none of you leave comments or send e-mails to the effect of, “You really do need to quit smoking, you know, you’re about to raise of a child, don’t you want to be there for him?” If you do, I promise to hunt you down and arrange for a lung transplant; yours for mine, got it? As to the issue of Candace’s bare feet, what can I say? There’s no defending the indefensible. CD: This notwithstanding the facts that the orphanage asks you to take your shoes off, I have yet to see a Kazakhstani woman under the age of 80 wearing hose, and no one told me to wear socks.)

We have a nice hour or so more of playing with Otis (CD: He’s almost sitting on his own, and almost rolling over!) and then at 3:55, they take him from us; so much for the two hours. We communicate our unhappiness to Zoya and Sagat and are told, “It’s the orphanage, not us. We’re just the workers.” (CD: the age old, unfortunately usually true, refrain.) We return to apartment, where after some beers and grumbling, CD starts dinner, and I start typing this. Dinner is yesterday’s leftover rack of lamb, turned into a pilaf with hot peppers and onions, a salad of heirloom tomatoes, dill, scallions, basil & parsley, along with a slightly corked, indifferent Cotes du Rhone.

Brooklyn rhythm section

Dad's glad he left the good watch in Brooklyn 

It's a bird..... 

Play it again, Otis 

What an Urban Park Could and Should Be

Candace here. I think the word for the day is poignant. (Although David might argue that it is nauseous -- no scolding, Elliott -- more about that later.) We had an excellent morning and afternoon, but I kept feeling like everything we did would have been better if Otis and Bruno were along. Again, it is a gorgeous day...

Sagat picked us up at 11 and drove us to the Green Bazaar, at which point we realized we had forgotten the camera card, so no pictures of the Bazaar. They'll come later, because I intend to do all shopping there from now on. It is a huge two level, semi-enclosed market with literally thousands of small vendors selling amazing spices; trucked-in-from-the-farm fruit and vegetables; dried fruit and nuts that blow Sahadi's away; all kinds of cheese, meat, and fresh and smoked fish; cheap clothes and shoes; musical instruments for amateur musicians; souvenirs; etc. Very much like the open air markets in the Caribbean, but much, much bigger and much better quality. The meat section alone, which was awe-inspiring for an omnivore, sickening I guess if you're not, would have filled the average Manhattan supermarket twice. We sampled a lot, bought a lot. My personal highlight: buying about a quarter cup of powdered saffron for $.40 because the vendor didn't have change for the $.80 half kilo of apricots and $.80 half kilo of pistachios.

After a quick tour through the adjacent conventional supermarket (best quality, best value we've seen so far), we zipped back to get the card and then to a traditional Kazakh restaurant for lunch. We ate too much, and David may have gotten a tad too adventurous. Lunch for three included: a horsemeat cold cut platter (I particularly liked the belly, reminiscent of pork belly but a lot butterier), an amazing sorrel soup, lamb shashlik (sort of like a loose lamb sausage in a tortilla), what turned out to be a rack of lamb cooked with pomegranate molasses and a coriander rub, and mixed roast mutton offal with potatoes.

We also learned that Sagat: (1) was the distributor of Pepsi syrup for Central Asia for a number of years after the dissolution of the Soviet Union, became a very well-to-do man as a result, and then lost it all when his partner embezzled the profits and spent them gambling; (2) has a son who went to Oxford and the LSE and now works in the telecommunications industry here; and (3) has a daughter who went to Western Kentucky U at Bowling Green and is trying to make it as a photo-journalist in the States. The world is endlessly fascinating.

Then to walk off lunch, to Central Park nee Gorky Park. This next bit is for MJ, Donna, the HR&A folks, and everyone else who cares about urban parks. Almaty's Central Park is the sort of park we should be building. This is what Governor's Island (taking into account different topography and flora) could be. I'm guessing it's about 500 acres. Something like Tivoli Gardens, but more distinctly park-like, the park's designers have cut a network of paved paths and roadways (but not for cars) into what seems to be a fairly well-maintained woodland. The dominant feel is of walking in the woods with lots and lots of other people. Here and there, a glen has been cut for a meadow or garden. The park is surrounded by clearly desirable multi-story residences. And in the park .... pony rides, go-cart tracks, paddle boats, canoes, the zoo, picnic areas, an aqua park, beer gardens, a theater and cinema, an amusement park with arcades, food vendors..... and all the tremendous diversity of Almaty's population, drinking beer, pushing kids in stollers, watching each other, flirting.... For those of you who collect pictures of parks, see below.

Then the mutton offal caught up with David, so he is napping, and I am blogging.

One last story, which I realize we should have told you yesterday. (It came up in an e-mail conversation with Mel that started out being about Otis' future baseball allegiances. Go Sox!) Yesterday at the orphanage, Zoya asked us what we would tell the judge if she asks about our religion. This threw us for a bit of a loop. David began by saying that he was a Communist. When Zoya responded with peals of laughter, and an, "And?," we realized she was serious. So we fumbled around a bit, which is not great, because uncertainty about these kinds of questions is regarded as peculiar here. (This last happened to us during our Ministry of Education interview when we said that we were going to have to wait to see who/how Otis was before making final childcare decisions.) So now David is deciding whether he will be a New York Yankitarian or simply convert to Unitarianism (how I was brought up) in the next week or so.

Entrance to the park 

Shrek welcomes you 

Cinema in the park. Currently playing: Mr. and Mrs. Smith and Batman Begins 

The lake 

Waiting for paddle boats