Posts Tagged ‘russia’
Vallejo debates replacement of tombstones
The recent replacement of several tombstones for Russian sailors interred at the Mare Island Cemetery in 1863 was apparently performed without a completed permit.
A Flashback For Russian Dating
Russian dating has always been popular among people from all around the world. Before only open to the countries from the so called Soviet Block, today Russian women are mostly looking for dating partners from the rich western countries.
In the last few years, Russian dating has become extremely popular. It has always been on the increase, but after the fall of the old communist regime in Russia, the country became open and friendly to everyone who wanted to explore it. Russian dating is not an exception.
If you are reading this article it could be that you are planning to take a step towards Russian dating. Or maybe you are already dating a Russian? Or maybe you know someone who has started Russian dating and you want to know more about how he did it?
Actually Russian dating has always been an interesting phenomenon. It was popular in the 50′s or the 60′s but at that time little was known about Russia in the western countries or North America. The political situation in these years was not favorable for this.
What nowadays sounds absurd, was pure reality and if you are on your way to arrange a date with a Russian woman, you might be surprised by the stories she can tell you. At that time Russia was in coalition with many countries from the so-called Soviet Block. The local government used various techniques in the silent Cold War between the East and the West and often accused the West with strange crimes.
Today many women prefer to act as femme fatales from a romantic James Bond movie. For a foreigner this is fantastic way for flirt away from the beaten track. Be curious, always ask questions and try to explore. Russian dating today is popular precisely among those people from the banned “capitalist” countries from the old times. However women are careful before saying their final yes and letting foreigners into their real world.
The truth sometimes hurts. Many Russians are looking for those foreigners who want to just use and manipulate them, and try to profit from their curiosity and feelings. You can read many articles warning you about so called Russian dating scams. You will be surprised how many females are using their pretty looks to take advantage of prospective suitors – that is if they manage to twist you and delude you.
Many websites will tell you that Russian dating is just another conspiracy of the old regime. Of course this is far-fetched because the times of the Cold War are over and there are women with true feelings and emotions.
If you feel like starting such a relationship you can always do your own research or alternatively use the services of a company specialized in Russian dating. These firms are a good solution because people who work in this area will help you not only to start Russian dating, but also will give you advice on everything related to your future date.
Habits, etiquette and dress-code are extremely important when you plan your first meeting. Russia is the largest country in the world and in different areas people have different values. For example there are areas where people are highly sensitive on topics related to the former regime or the Ex-Soviet republics.
There are more than 140 million people living in Russia and no matter whether you have met the woman of your dreams accidentally or intentionally, be sure that you are about to enter brand new world of traditions and emotions.
Russian Women: How to Make the Right Choice
Foreign men willing to marry a Russian woman often have a reasonable fear to make a mistake in their choice. If you are one of them, our web-site will give you some pieces of useful advice. While communicating with your bride you should pay special attention at the following points:
- the way your lady behaves, if her behavior is too familiar and vulgar, then she is not the one you are looking for;
- the topics she is ready to discuss, and the manner she does it, whether she is concentrated on what you tell her and is sincerely interested in your personality;
- the drinks she prefers, if she doesn’t abuse alcohol;
- the way she treats others (in public transport, in the restaurant, in the hotel, in the street). Beware of rude and scandalous women;
- how she behaves with you. If she offers herself right after the first minutes, she is not the woman you need;
- how she spends money. It is not characteristic of a virtuous Russian woman to throw the money, even if she were rich;
- how she treats the children, yours and her own ones. A true Russian woman is easy to discover by her tender attitude to children;
- the people she deals with. The folk wisdom says: “Tell me who you friend is, and I’ll tell you who you are.” Even if a woman is a good actress and manages to create a favorable image of hers, her personal contacts will tell you much more about her.
If you find your lady honest, reliable and worthy getting married, then take your chance. And do not be afraid of Russian women. They are no different from women from another countries. Treat them the way you want to be treated. The best advice we can give you is go with a good agency, learn as much as you can, do not give money to anyone you do not know. Trust your intuition. It will guide you the best.
Mascha’s Talk about Russian Women
New York Times: Chechnya coerces women on dress, activists say
Sophia Kishkovsky writes from Moscow: Women in Chechnya are under pressure to adopt Islamic dress, according to human rights activists and an Islamic fundamentalist video circulating on the Internet in the latest example of deteriorating women’s rights under Ramzan A. Kadyrov , the president of the restive southern Russian republic.
Russian Brides Dating
Beautiful Russian Brides – Questions You Should Not Ask
After meeting your bride probably you wonder what she was doing in her twenties or why she is still single. Here are a few short answers to your questions.
Many men are asking how to find a beautiful Russian bride. The moment they open a website they see so many pretty women that suddenly they feel confused and suspicious: are all these dream girls real?
Russians have beauty genes. Almost all of them have fantastic body structures, deep eyes, natural charm and rare intelligence. The good news for you is that all they find foreigners sexy. Different cultures cause a fantastic explosion of emotions, curiosity and amazement.
Lets say that you have passed the period of long selection and have made up your mind who you want to date and make your wife forever. Here are a few advices how to keep her and not scare her with offensive behavior or inappropriate words.
Many Russian women have been working as models, actresses or dancers before their marriage and its industry standard to be exceptionally beautiful. They know the value of their looks but not all of them are trying to take advantage of it in their relationships. Modest by nature, Russians prefer to draw a line between private and public life.
If they have decided not to continue with the acting or dancing, they have reconsidered their priorities and have felt that it is time to settle down and have family. They do not want to talk about their job or professional life because sometimes they feel that you might get jealous and start thinking that it is more important than your affair.
Ladies know that being sexy means being desired by many. At the same time they often feel sick of all rude offers for paid sex they have had before. Local celebrities are not as big as the Hollywood stars but know the pressure of being always in the focus of men’s attention. After a few unsuccessful affairs they have learned how to identify true from fake lovers. You can not imagine how many Russians are so resistant to beauty and only interested in their macho collection of broken hearts.
Your Russian bride will appreciate if you do not push her from the very beginning. Sex is important for a successful marriage but to a woman that can have it any time, anywhere – what really matters are true feelings and emotions.
Another important issue is alcohol. Maybe you believe that all Russians are cool guys just like actors from a James Bond movie. You are wrong and your beautiful bride will tell you why. The truth is that local gentlemen allegedly have traditions for vodka drinking and endless booze. They have learnt this from their fathers and will teach their children.
Nothing can stop this. You know what happens when someone is constantly out of contact because of having too much alcohol: easy going mood is replaced by aggression. Russian women know it to and do not want to suffer it any longer.
Brides know that sobriety is a national problem and prefer not to talk about it. In many families there is at least one alcoholic but not all of them are bad people. Ladies afraid to share things like this because they are afraid that this will disgust their lovers and ruin the marriage.
Am I so addicted to Russian Brides?
I can not understand why these dating sites stuck in my mind. I feel crazy about having a Bride from Russia. I have a friend who has married a girl from Russia. And they live happily together now. I think I can be that happy either. Do you think this will be possible to find a lady via the Internet?
You should like a girl cause of her personality, not just cause she’s from Russia..
Society "Stories from the life of oligarch Roman Abramovich scheming a way to make money quickly, and serve as a soldier in the Soviet army years. He cut a deal with a driver of his unit to gasoline for sweets and pastries market. He then sold the "accumulated" gasoline, some of the officers of his unit.
Russian Brides Ru
Russian Dating Questions
My gf is russian, some part of me doesnt trust her and Im not sure why?
I think it has something to do with my up bringing and the ways russians are portrayed on tv and such, also the fact with mail order brides from russia gives there woman a bad name. What are russian women like in general. Should I be worried?
Also what is the site loveguru.ru about? I saw it one time on her computer with lots of messages from other guys.
russians are corrupt and bad… jk some aren’t maybe you got lucky… jk most aren’t bad, but a lot of them have commited crimes and will again… jk not alot have done crimes, but russians are mostly homosexual… jk they are not mostly homosexual
â€œWhat do you know about art, Volk?â€
Maxim Abdullaev hurls the question through the airwaves as if it were an ax, cleaving pretense.
I cram my Nokia cell phone against my ear. Clattering dishes, jostling diners, and raised voices give me an excuse to delay answering his question. â€œHold on,â€ I say, then step downstairs to my table in the basement of Vadimâ€™s CafÃ© near Staraya Street, where I make my office.
Maxim could be anywhere. His headquarters are in the Solsnetskaya neighborhood just a few blocks away, but he changes his personal place of business weekly, sometimes daily, so it is impossible to develop a mental picture of where he is or what he is doing.
Once Iâ€™ve moved away from the din, I take a moment to gather my thoughts. â€œArt? I have a masterâ€™s in art history from Moscow University.â€
Iâ€™m sure that Maxim knows enough about my life to catch the sarcasm. Dead mother, disappeared father, late-era Soviet poverty, and five years of killing and worse in Chechnya unsurprisingly failed to harmonize into a world-class education. The things I have learned are not taught in universities. He barks a deep-throated chuckle that offers no comfort. A polar bear probably makes the same sound just before it eats.
â€œListen,â€ he says. â€œYou do something for me. Talk to Gromov. Yes?â€
â€œYes,â€ I say, as if I have a choice, and Maxim disconnects.
Two hours later, nearing midnight, Gromov clumps like a plow horse into my basement office. The flesh on his bald head and puffy face droops like a shar-peiâ€™s skin and slits his eyes, which are shifty-nervous, with good cause. Valya lurks hidden among the shelves of cafÃ© sundries behind him.
â€œYou talked to Maxim?â€ he says.
I grunt acknowledgment.
He collapses into a padded roller chair that disappears, creaking, beneath his bulk. Even its silvery round feet are covered by the hanging folds of his overcoat, where one hand stays buried in a deep pocket. He likes to show off a chromed Colt .45 Peacemaker, an outdated cannon that rends great holes in bodies, a good weapon for a man whose business is intimidation.
â€œI got a business opportunity,â€ he begins. â€œMaxim says youâ€™re the guy to help me assess it.â€
â€œI donâ€™t do partners.â€
He knows this. My rule is one source of the friction between us. â€œYeah, yeah.â€ Scarred leather biker boots twirl the chair as he takes in the surroundings.
Thereâ€™s not much to see here in the basement level. Black slate floor, rows of shelves, exposed raw-wood beams, plaster walls randomly damaged to show the red brick beneath, and dusty â€™60s-era slot machines. Gromov is looking for Valya, I know, but she wonâ€™t be seen unless she wants to be. He finishes his survey and grins through crooked yellow teeth ridged black with omnipresent chewing tobacco.
â€œMaybe you should do partners.â€
â€œSay what you came to say.â€ I point to the empty tabletop in front of me. â€œIâ€™ve got work to do.â€
â€œYou know diamonds?â€
â€œMaxim says art, you say diamonds. Which is it?â€
â€œSame thing, asshole.â€
When he yanks his hand from his overcoat pocket, Valya materializes behind him and aims the short barrel of a pistol-grip, 12-gauge Mossberg at the back of his shaved skull. But instead of drawing the Colt, he tosses a crystal rectangle that tumbles sparkling through the air before smacking into my palm.
Gromov leans back, smugly oblivious to the nearness of death, while I examine his prize. The stone is about one centimeter square by three long. One end is broken, jagging up into a ragged half peak. Unreadable inscriptions are etched into its flat sides. The etchings are names written in Persian, I know. I toss it back, and he catches it deftly.
â€œYouâ€™re an idiot, Gromov.â€
His jaw muscles are so big that his face widens into a pyramid when he clenches his teeth. â€œFuck you.â€
I wave toward his hand. â€œThatâ€™s a bad imitation of the Shah Diamond. The real oneâ€™s five blocks up the road in the Kremlin Armory under more security than Putin.â€
Thatâ€™s a lie. The real oneâ€™s gone. It was originally a gift to Tsar Nicholas I to atone for a Russian diplomat made dead in 1820s Tehran. Famous, in part, because all the unlucky owners named in the inscriptions died owning it. Damn near ninety carats preserved in uncut form. Three years ago I helped it make a symbolic but unpublicized journey back to Persia, to the rare arts collection of a spoiled Saudi prince, in return for financial considerations benefiting my primary patron, the Russian army. A better fake than this one sits behind glass under twenty-four-hour security in the Kremlinâ€™s Diamond Fund.
â€œSee?â€ he says. â€œYou know about this kind of shit.â€
â€œEven the tourists know about the Shah Diamond.â€
He leans forward as far as his muscle-bound body will allow and settles flying-buttress elbows on my table, which groans but holds. Like much of the older furniture in Moscow, it was sturdily built by cold gulag hands. â€œWhat if I told you I could get the real thing, with nobody the wiser?â€
â€œYou canâ€™t. Donâ€™t waste my time.â€
â€œListen.â€ He scrunches his broad face, concentrating. â€œWe got inside guys. Military, pissed off by Putin capitalism. Theyâ€™re like pensioners on the dole while guys like us get rich. They take the diamond, replace it with the fake. Think about it. The fuckerâ€™s under glass all day, like goddamn Lenin. Who knows if whatâ€™s under there is real? Who cares? In five years some Swiss prick looks at it under a microscope and raises hell. By then, shit, thereâ€™s no way to trace who did what and when.â€
I say it canâ€™t be that easy, although it was.
â€œYou just worry about your end,â€ he says.
â€œWhatâ€™s my end?â€
â€œWork the distribution angle.â€ Gromovâ€™s running hot, trembling, obviously excited. â€œYouâ€™re tight with that fag, Nigel Bolles.â€ He mouths Nigelâ€™s name with curled-lip contempt. â€œHeâ€™ll point you to guys in London or New York or wherever and help us find someone with too much money to buy it.â€
â€œIâ€™m not your guy.â€
His jaw drops. â€œWhy not?â€
â€œI told you. I donâ€™t do partners. And I think your chances of getting the real thing out of there are zero.â€
Pounding veins ripple under the five oâ€™clock shadow that darkens his enormous dome. â€œWhy do you make things so fucking hard, Volk? Three times I say letâ€™s do business. Three times you tell me to fuck off.â€ He rolls mountainous shoulders, as if to make room under the overcoat. â€œBusiness is getting too tight. Every time I turn around youâ€™re there. Youâ€™re in my way.â€
Heâ€™s right about our businesses bumping into each other, at least the parts of mine he knows about — drugs, identity theft, pictures, and a Russian brides operation that caters to the middle classes of America and industrialized European and Asian countries. Russia has ten million more women than men, one product of her endless fighting and purging, and she always imports more than she exports. I figure the bride business evens out both imbalances.
Gromovâ€™s interests collide with mine in several ways, although heâ€™s big into child prostitution and other things that I wonâ€™t touch. But heâ€™s wrong to worry about it, because thereâ€™s plenty of business for both of us on this little stretch of road below old Lubyanka prison and because the Internet has made us international.
â€œDonâ€™t be so parochial, Gromov.â€
â€œWhat the fuck does that mean?â€
â€œIt means weâ€™ll get along fine if you concentrate on business instead of territorial bullshit. Steal your diamond. Hump Lyudmilla. Just stay away from me.â€
He doesnâ€™t like my way of rejecting him or the reference to his billowy-breasted girlfriend. He stands so suddenly his chair overturns. Snarls, roars something unintelligible, hauls out his hand cannon, and starts to bear down, slow and amateurish. I donâ€™t think heâ€™s going to fire. He just wants to make a point. But then the racking slide of a shotgun cracks through everything. He stops dead. His eyes click back and forth like the ones in the plastic clocks that look like tail-wagging pets, but heâ€™s careful not to turn around and provoke her.
â€œItâ€™s Valya,â€ I offer, and both of his hands go up slowly until the muzzle of the Colt brushes the bottom of a low beam.
Sheâ€™s behind him, looking amped, ready for anything, almost lost in lace-up boots, cinched parachute pants, and a chrome-colored jacket with its sable-lined hood turned down. The Mossberg rests lightly in her hands. Her white hair sprays backlight like a halo.
â€œIâ€™m done,â€ he says without turning around.
I nod at him, and he shucks open the overcoat and slots the Colt into a holster made from more than one cow. â€œI got no choice,â€ he says in the same tone you use to tell a cabdriver to turn right. â€œI gotta put you out of business, gimp.â€
The gibe about my foot doesnâ€™t bother me. Impending war does, especially given Maximâ€™s newly found interest in the world of art. The General and I had three years to operate freely in that arena. I wish our time wasnâ€™t coming to an end.
â€œHave at it, big man,â€ I say.
He turns fast, but Valya is nowhere to be seen. One last baleful look at me, and then Gromov lumbers away.
Lunch the next day is sliced smoked pork on the sunny side of an outdoor gazebo in grassy Gorky Park. Halfway through, Iâ€™m joined by Yuri, a baton-twirling cop. He goes sixty kilos, maybe. He approaches with his spindly chest puffed out, slides his baton into a steel ring attached to his belt, and plops down across from me. The sun glints through the silver birch trees and gambols off the gold double-headed Russian eagle in his cap as I slide an envelope stuffed with American dollars across the plastic tabletop. He plucks the envelope and tucks it under his leg, fast and furtive.
His eyes dart, but Iâ€™m busy with the pork. I donâ€™t care who sees. I stop chewing long enough to say, â€œThereâ€™s an extra five hundred for Viktor. And a note.â€
Viktor commands Yuriâ€™s area. Heâ€™s been on my payroll for two years. The note explains the information I want about Gromov, and the extra money pays for it. Gromov is probably paying for similar reports about me.
Yuri pulls a foil-wrapped sandwich from a brown bag blotched with oil stains, but then he sits and watches me without eating. He sets his cap on the table and licks the down on his upper lip, which has been the same since I met him a year ago, so I suppose itâ€™s a mustache.
â€œWhereâ€™s Valya?â€ he asks.
The pork is gone. I suck the fat off my fingers and pat his balding head. Heâ€™s younger than me, mid-twenties, but the hair gods are fickle. Heâ€™s softer than me as well. War and want have hardened my appearance. Military-cut bronze hair, hazel eyes with a feral blaze, stubbled jaw — I look ferocious even when Iâ€™m trying not to. Each pat makes his head bounce.
â€œDonâ€™t mess with me, Yuri.â€
His eyes widen. â€œGod no, Volk.â€
I leave him to his sandwich. Iâ€™m tromping through the high grass of Gorky Park to my Mercedes S-600 when the Nokia buzzes.
Bolles. My largest procurer of foreign business. The British expat fop Gromov asked about the day before. I wait.
â€œWordâ€™s out youâ€™re in a war, old boy,â€ he says.
His lilting voice is strained, due, no doubt, to a night of hard drinking and no morning Stolichnaya fix. â€œBusiness is always tough.â€
â€œHow can I help?â€
Just what I need. â€œThe British are coming,â€ I say, but he apparently misses the negative reference.
â€œPrecisely. I am at your service.â€
â€œJust keep finding customers.â€
â€œRight.â€ He clears his throat. It sounds like a cold motor coughing to life. â€œIn that regard, youâ€™ll be pleased to learn I have an opportunity for tonight. Swiss conventioneers with a common interest.â€
â€œBoys and girls, too.â€
He sounds regretful. He knows my scruple, silly as it is. In the end, what difference who makes the money? The children are pincushions either way.
I stop on a knoll carpeted with flattened grass that shines like wet jade. Even in early May the wind blows chill over the Moscow River and bends the tops of the stately line of birches that march up the embankment toward the towering peaks of the university. Industrial haze blurs the cityscape. The spires of Stalinâ€™s other Seven Sisters pierce the haze like upthrust stilettos. Gromov is manageable. I know I can dispatch him with relative ease. But heâ€™s one of Maximâ€™s poodles, and as chieftain of the Azeri mafia, Maxim can crush my enterprises on a whim.
â€œAre you still there, Volk?â€
I grit my teeth. â€œIâ€™ll meet you at the National Club at ten to arrange the details.â€ My chest tightens, and suddenly I feel as if I canâ€™t take in enough air.
â€œWell done.â€ Heâ€™s reenergized, doubtless calculating his twenty percent cut.
I end the call, limp to the Mercedes favoring my newly throbbing stump, and crank the shiny black car into heavy traffic, already ruing my decision. The cell buzzes again.
â€œWho wants to know?â€
Several years have passed since I last heard from Arkady Borodenkov — one of my companions in a foster care facility and, later, at a rehabilitation center for boys situated on the Baltic shore. A childhood friend in places where friends were scarce. And last I heard, an Ecstasy distributor and part-time fence in St. Petersburg. Slightly built, with blond hair worn long, too weak for anything except the fringes.
â€œWhatâ€™s up?â€ I say.
â€œI got a weird one for you. A score that needs muscle and hustle. But mostly it needs brains. I thought of you.â€
I cut through traffic and outraged pedestrians on Kremlevskaya Street, make an illegal U-turn and then a hard right and rattle over unevenly laid bricks on the edge of Red Square. St. Basilâ€™s Cathedral looms on the left, its colorful domes like ice-cream swirls. The bright colors and the crowds lined up around the cathedral seem to be mocking decades of Soviet religious oppression.
â€œIâ€™m not even sure how to describe it.â€
Iâ€™m in no mood for stalling, not while the scum of the deal I just made with Nigel still coats the inside of my mouth. â€œSpit it out.â€
â€œWhat do you know about art, Volk?â€
Copyright Â© 2007 Brent Ghelfi from the book Volks Game Published by Henry Holt and Company; June 2007;$23.00US; 978-0-8050-8254-8