(I know I recently did a post about drinking with the locals (at the Independence Day festival) and the fact is that I could probably do many like this. Also, drinking is a tremendously large part of this culture- much to the chagrin of the people who do not drink here. Although the upshot of this story could easily be told omitting the part about getting drunk with my friend, I am choosing to include it...for a bit of local flavor)
Part I: So there I was minding my own business...
I was walking home on Saturday evening about 8:30 when I ran into my neighbor Reme (pronounced Ream). He is my neighbor friend Katya's husband and both are grandparents to one of the young English speakers in the building. On occassion I find myself in the right place at the right time and they invite me over for tea- or other things. The family has been nice to me on every level and really look out for me on many levels. Anyway, as I was walking home Reme was putting his moped away for the evening and unpacked his little storage compartment under the seat. He pulled out a bottle of something he called chya-cha. I smelled it and could tell whatever it was very high in alcohol content. It burned my nose. He smiled wide and invited me up to his apartment to share it. Katya and granddaughter, Alyssa, were drinking tea in the kitchen when Reme entered announcing he brought a guest. Katya saw what he was about to do and with a giant, playful smile said "no, no, no! This is really bad stuff. Sim, would you like some tea instead?" Of course Reme put up his best "Sim, don't listen to her. Katya, you leave us to drink the good stuff" fight. She knew there was no way she was going to win this arguement...and resigned to start setting out food for us to eat. The whole time she had a sly smile knowing full well what I was getting into and was going to stick around just to watch the American to see if he would be able to handle it or not. As Reme and I sat down he wanted to prove the alcohol content to me. He dipped a small piece of cloth in the spirit and struck a match. The cloth combusted as if it had been doused in gasoline. It wasn't that I questioned its strength, but now I knew I had to be extra careful. He filled the shot glasses and we each took three shots in a pretty quick succession. Eating some bread and meat in between each shot. I asked what exactly we were drinking and he explained that it is a homemade vodka (called samagon here) made from grapes from the country of Georgia. It reminded me a bit of grappa or slivovitz- both of which are not my favorite. With the last of our shots the small bottle was almost empty. As I sat there, within minutes I knew that I was in no shape to drive my bike even, thankfully I only live 50 yards on foot from their apartmennt, so I didn't have to even think about any coordination beyond my feet. I knew I could still focus on speaking in Russian if only slightly slurred, but I could also tell that my brain couldn't keep up with the speed of their speech. I could not translate mentally as fast as I needed to. I needed to say something. So I said, "you know, my mom is coming to visit next week?" They were happy to hear that and gave us the invitation for tea while she is here. Then I said,"I need to find a bike for her to use while she is here." I told them I was thinking of riding out to see my friend Anne (Erin and my closest volunteer at 43km away). Reme said he had a bike he could lend me and that I should meet him in the morning to look at it. I was well enough to walk downstairs and then up the four floors to my apartment, so we called it a night with a plan to meet Sunday morning.
Part II: The Lost Art of Not Looking A Gift Horse In The Mouth
Reme was at our meeting spot as we had agreed. He said "are you ready? I can show you the bike...it needs some repair." As we walked into the garage I couldn't help but wonder if my definition of "some repair" differed wildly from his as we stood there looking at the vaguely shaped form of a bike. Then I started to have some communication issues. I couldn't tell if he was saying HE would repair the bike, if he wanted ME to fix the bike, or if he was just generally saying "IT needs to be fixed, then you can use it." We stood there looking at a bike frame situated upside down on the floor. The front tire completely deflated, but attached, the rear wheel also deflated, but leaning against the wall leaving the chain to dangle from the front gear where it hung down forming a small pile of greased metal onto the cardboard mat the skeleton of the bike was on. Reme grabbed the rear wheel and with ease reaffixed it to its proper slot. He restrung the chain and tightened the nuts to the bolt through the sprocket. If the tires had any pressure whatsoever, well, I fear to use the term roadworthy, but I think it could have been hobbled around a driveway for sure. Yeah, drivewayworthy- but that is all. I gave the machine a once over and as I did Reme sprang forward with a bolt in his hand. It was bent, but not into a U shape that I thought might fit somewhere. No, it was bent into a soft "L" shape. He bent down and screwed the bolt into the hole left by a missing right pedal. So now the bike had one pedal and a bolt acting as a surrogate pedal. I was stumped for a moment. "So...how are the brakes on this baby, Reme?" I thought to myself. I knew at this point that I needed to get the answer to my question. Was I supposed to fix this? Him? Or other? He confirmed that it was "other" and that I should take the bike to Sergey, the bike fixer in the market- assuring me that this fine piece of machinery would be right as rain with a tune up. Just before he turned the bike over onto its tires he did give them a spin. With this action I learned a new adjective- "eight". Yep, when a bent wheel is spun on its axle it it said to be "eight shaped" as it wobbles from side to side with each revolution. I call it "bent" he calls it "eightish". For good measure we confirmed that the rear wheel was also "eightish". He thought that the tires would hold air enough to walk it to Sergey's house. He called Sergey and asked if we could bring the patient in today...his day off. We got the go ahead and Reme grabbed a plastic bag from the garage. I held it while he handed me items to be added. One kickstand. One chain guard. New handlebars. A front fender. And a lone pedal. I carried the bag as told. Outside he pumped the tires and sure enough the did hold air long enough to get to Sergey's house. I told Reme I didn't know where Sergey lived so he pointed me on the street and told me to keep walking with the bike. "Just keep going strait" he said. I will be along on my moped before you reach the house. I did and he was. We met Sergey on the street and they spoke about what needed to be done with the bike. I figured just making the thing roadworthy was beyond his expert abilities, but he took it and said he would call when it was done. I knew he had his work cut out for him. About two hours later Reme came to my apartment to tell me that the bike would be done tomorrow at 1pm. I told him I was on it and that I was a little surprised that he would already be done by then.
I picked the gift horse up at five minutes to one this afternoon. Sergey wheeled the beauty from the garage to the street and asked me to take it for a test drive. A new front fender. A new right pedal. Attached kickstand and chain guard. And new handlebars with new foam grips and a brand new mirror perched on the left side. The rear fender must have met with some trauma at some point in the past as it only covers the right half of the top and the sidewall of the tire leaving the entire left half of the tire exposed. The metal pieces that attach the fender to the bike are connected properly. I pushed off and rode the bike up and down the street. I could see that Sergey was unable to do anything for the bent wheels- but also surprised at how little it affected the ride. I mean, the roads here are in such poor condition that you can't usually even notice wobbly or otherwise shaking wheels on them. I returned to Sergey who had taken a seat on a stump to watch my test drive and I said that the handlebars were loose- he showed me where the bolt was to tighten it. I told him I was a littlle concerned that the brakes didn't seem to work all that great at which point he jumped on the bike and rode it up the street returning with a coasting slow down. Me saying "see they don't work!" Him saying "see they work fine!" I knew this was an arguement I could not win. Finallly, in more of an understanding way I confirmed there was nothing he could do to repair the bent rims. That is when Sergey reminded me in Russian that you cannot, in fact, polish the proverbial turd. I paid the bill, never intending to ask Reme for the money since his generosity had been worth way more than that.
As I rode the bike to work two things occured to me. One: there is NO way that I am going to want mom to even attempt to ride this bike to Anne's town. And two: having a brand new mirror atop these handlebars is like installing a rear spoiler on a 1985 Ford Escort. Suddenly it dawned on me that this was Sergey's foray into turd polishing.
I saw Reme on the way home from work while I was riding the bike. I stopped and I told him that the bike rode steadier than I expected but that I didn't think it was going to work for the 43km (each way, by the way) ride to Anne's, but that it would probably do just fine for around town and up to the beach. He understood. As we stood there discussing the bike his friend stopped to join us. I spun the front wheel to show Reme that there was still a bit of a wobble. His friend looked down at the spinning wheel and remarked "eightish".
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