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Russian again?

I hate Russia.

I know, hate is a strong word. I think its supposed to be reserved for referring to philandering ex's or foods that make your stomach turn. You aren't really supposed to hate entire countries. So, I take it back. Kind of.

My team advanced to play a team in Kursk, Russia for FIBA cup playoffs. I wasn’t ecstatic about returning to the land of Red but like most things in my life, figured at least I would get a good story out of the experience. If nothing else, it would break up the monotony of my idyllic life in Athens. I mean enough of this sunny weather, beautiful cafes, and views of the Aegean. It just gets boring after awhile.

Going from Greece to Russia is like spending an afternoon at a carnival with balloons and cotton candy and rides to visiting a nursing home later in the day. It’s a shock to the senses and the contrast makes the nursing home even more depressing. And maybe you even feel a little guilty knowing the people inside don’t get to go on carnival rides or watch kids with sticky fingers pick out sponge bob square pants balloons. No, they eat jello and play bingo.

I say all this knowing full well that I could possibly play for a team in Russia at some point. There are many teams in the country and the league is competitive and money is very good. Russian oligarch's like to spend ridiculous amounts of money on things that they themselves could never do (such as win basketball games). I suppose I’m getting a little old to make large life decisions based on basketball alone but it certainly wouldn’t be the first time. Plus, I tend to take it as a personal challenge to find the charm in unlikely places.

I think that’s what bothers me about Russia though: I find it very difficult to see the charm of the place. And maybe I’m getting a little impatient with having to make an effort. Greece is a tsunami of charm. There is charm in every waiter, every old woman that offers to cook for me, every taxi driver that tries to run me over on their way to buy cigarettes. Its not that everyone is nice all the time, its that they live life with an edge and a positive life force that is infectious. While I was kidding about the carnival, the square of my neighborhood sells balloons and every so often brings in giant play apparatuses for the kids (mainly so they can be occupied while their parents sit in the sun and drink coffee and smoke).

Our team’s original travel itinerary was a daunting task. We were scheduled to take an overnight train ride from Moscow to Kursk, arriving at 6 am on the morning of the game. Many times in international competitions, the home team takes care of the travel arrangement for the opposing team; which may or may not have been the case in this situation. That being said, it might explain why the Kursk team is known to play much better at home. Not only did I have the added anxiety of an overnight train in Russia (where our managers were joking about kidnapped players or waking up to find a kidney missing. Really funny.), but now I had to worry if I’d start the game and realize that I had left my legs on the train.

Eventually they realized that the itinerary had to be changed if we wanted to compete in the game. As a result, we would spend more time in Kursk, Russia than any person should have to endure.

There is a moment during every season (hopefully only one moment), when everything seem to go badly. It happens on every team, every year, everywhere in the world. It’s often a test of the depth and resiliency of teams; its a lot easier to overcome if a team has ten players that are potential starters for instance (this is not in reference to my team by the way). This period often coincides with losses, exhausting travel, injuries, large team meetings, deep introspective questions, and a loss of sleep for everyone involved. Its the time of year when you begin to wonder why any maniac would subject herself to a life of athletics.

The week began and so did my period. Like most women working in close proximity, player’s menstrual cycles had synchronized, which is obviously a fun phenomenon for coaches, male coaches in particular, who generally have no idea why one player is really tired, another has back pain, one is more stubborn than usual, and another is crying on the baseline in the middle of practice.


We were all complaining about our periods in the locker room. One girl was even at home since she never practices on the first day of her period. I could elaborate on my feelings regarding her absence but its safe to say that I think that unless you are in the hospital with menstrual cramps, get your ass to practice like the rest of us! Exercise helps.

Anyway, we walked out to the court and sat down for our usual prepractice ten minute monologue, listening as coach explained the practice plan. Then he asked how everyone was feeling. I respond with my requisite, ‘fine’. But our captain pipes in with a full medical report, listing off all of us that are menstruating. She’s saying all this in Greek but I’ve lived here long enough to know what’s going on. She says my name and I raise my hand, guilty as charged. Apparently my ovaries are a matter of public knowledge. My American teammate was a little surprised and possibly offended but I wasn’t at all, probably indicating that I’ve been in Europe too long.

Many times menstruation has been translated into Greeklish as ‘women’s circle’ which isn’t entirely incorrect but always makes me think that we are all joining a book club or something. This of course leads me to picture us sitting around trying to discuss the book but instead bitching at each other and craving chocolate. Regardless, I’m sure my coach was making mental notes on who to leave alone during practice. The menstrual period is not the time to start nitpicking women on screening angles or their shooting stance. Wait for another day.

Menstruation is the female trump card. I think in the great manual of men there are two universals: don’t hit a woman and don’t have any opinion at all on menstruation. The only thoughts, emotions or actions males can demonstrate regarding the event is nonverbal sympathy, absolute agreement on everything, and walking on eggshells even in their own house. At no time should a male exhibit empathy (don’t even try it), understanding (you don’t), or any attempts at minimizing the obvious trauma of the situation (its not traumatic, it just seems like it).

Which leaves male coaches in a precarious situation and explains why players can miss practice due to menstruation. There is absolutely nothing he can say to her. In fact, it would be easier for him to hit her than question her female trump card. Trust me. I’ve actually seen coaches hit players. Never have I seen them argue over menstration induced absences.

Obviously, the week was starting off well. Tuesday morning at 6 o’clock we boarded the bus to the airport and flew to Moscow on a nearly empty plane. It was glorious. We all stretched out on the seats and slept our way to Russia. Clearly, Greeks aren’t flocking north in February.

We arrived to snow and freezing weather and depressing landscape which is really all I ever notice when I land in Russia. Since our next flight was domestic, we had to change airports, which led us to schlep our bags through the snow, wait in a delapitated airport where drunk Russian men kept trying to give us chocolate (kind of ironic), and waste time looking at Russian dolls. Finally we got information that there was a restaurant nearby so we attempted to cross the parking lot, rolling our suitcases through the snow, and trying really hard not to fall on the ice. The upside was that I was traveling with Greek people who were joking and laughing most of the time. My kind of traveling companions.

The restaurant was actually really charming in an authentic and 'seriously where in the world are we' kind of way. The food was good, although the lamb looked like a burnt carcass, which might explain why it took so long to get it served. The man next to us was drunk and talking to himself before the restaurant proprietor picked him up and literally threw him out of the building. There were lots of vodka bottles being served. Not vodka drinks, vodka bottles.

The plane to Kursk was scary. After checking in, we drove through a plane graveyard; a tarmac of old planes that looked like they came there to die. Unfortunately for us, they were all still in operation. Finally we arrived at our vessel. We walked out to the plane, around to the side, under the wing, and threw our bags on. There was some wire hanging off the back and the gas hose was inserted into the tank, supervised only by us passengers. We walked up the step ladder into the oldest plane I’ve ever seen. It looked like an old boat, which sounds charming but really isn’t if it supposed to fly. It might have been better served on a movie set; like a TMC kind of movie.

We sat down and buckled up and prayed. I kissed my Buddha necklace, joined my Orthodox teammates crossing themselves three times, and for sure would have continued with a tribal dance if I knew one. The flight attendant did nothing but hand out carmels and I realized how much I missed the safety instructions.

I stopped paying attention to safety instructions a long time ago. Honestly most of the time I am asleep already and if I’m not I’m mostly only interested in watching the sign language to see how closely it resembles the flight attendants overly emphasized hand gestures. But I like the fact that someone cares enough about my safety to make up mandatory instructions, its nice to know that some type A person wanted standardized regulations, that there are multiple people employed only to ensure that I know to put my oxygen mask on first before helping others. Because in Russia, apparently, they don’t care if you pass out from oxygen deprivation while trying to get a mask on a kid. Not that there were oxygen masks. Or kids for that matter.

Its fine if they don’t tell me my seat floats, this is Russia and if there is water, it’s frozen. Its not that I want totally useless information but it would have been nice to have some pretense of safety. Oksana the flight attendant could have said some gibberish in Russian, pointed a couple of times and I would have had the assurance that someone had thought of something generally related to safety. The carmels didn’t give me piece of mind.

I didn’t think I would be able to sleep. The flight was a little bumpy and lets be honest, I was really wishing that we had taken the 8 hour overnight train ride instead of the flight. But I did sleep because the loud humming from the propellor caused me to have temporary narcolepsy. I woke to someone gagging in the seat across from me. A Russian woman was vomiting into her airsickness bag, right next to my teammate Ty. She looked like she had ebola. Ty went and sat in the back. I sat there with tissue handy in case she needed any.

The hotel was clean and modern. I was so happy about this fact that I hesitate to even criticize the rest. But I will. The whole place was a little eery to be honest, starting with the fact that when we got there, no one spoke English. Its not that I need English to be spoken everywhere in the world, it just says a lot about a destination if the biggest and best hotel in the city doesn’t have multiple English speakers. A little odd in my experience. It felt like Hotel California where people had come and never left. One guy was sitting in the lobby literally the whole entire time we were there (four days); one woman was wearing a wig with a fake flower and a sequin top. She looked like she was about eighty years old but may have only been forty. She was in charge of the coat check. There were five people at the hotel besides us. Our coats were in our room.

The bartender worked for twenty hours straight one time. I noticed this only because I bought Sprite for my teammate the morning of our game and realized the next morning as we were leaving that he was still there. I'd slept twice since he had started his shift, and played in a game, and eaten four meals.

Finally, at every meal there was live singing despite the fact that we were the only ones in the restaurant most of the time. The same young women in the same black backless dress would lip sync sappy Russian songs as we ate spagetti. For breakfast, a man was playing the accordian on the small stage as we discussed what he would do if our whole team up and left all at once. I couldn’t help wondering if it was all left over from communism; give everyone a job even if the job doesn’t need to be done. I guess its nice to have a purpose, even if it weirds everyone out.

The gym was strange as well. The bus dropped us off outside an old building where students were coming in and out. As we walked in, a woman asked me something in Russian, I responded with a 'dah', hoping that she was asking if we were the expected team and not if i wanted to renounce my American citizenship and become Russian. She remained seated and pointed down a dark corridor. Very helpful. We reluctantly started walking through the labrynith of hallways and rooms and stairways, totally unsure where we were going. The floors were peeling linoleum and the paint was faded yellow and it felt like an abandoned hospital. I half expected to open doors and find forgotten patients. No one seemed particularly concerned that we found our way so I started asking random people where the gym was; this was accomplished by pretending to shoot a basket, the international symbol for a gym. Finally we heard balls bouncing.

After practice it was back to the hotel. Remember that it was only Tuesday night at this point. We weren’t playing our game until 8 o’clock Thursday night and we weren’t leaving until Friday morning. Three more days in Kursk!

I had thought with a whole day to kill we might find something to do in Kursk, walk to the supermarket and stare at indiscernable Russian products, take a stroll through the center and look at communist statues, or stop in little shops and take bets on who could get the salesperson to smile. Unfortunately our hotel was out in the middle of nowhere, it was snowing outside, and I didn’t have any motivation at all to leave indoor heating.

However, seeing as we were in Kursk for four days, we did go back and forth from the gym quite a few times. The bus made its way through the outskirts of town, following the river and the WWII street car with foggy windows, by the wooden houses near the train tracks, and through the center of town. The red square had two nice buildings and a statue of Lenin. Then there was the memorial to the largest tank battle in WWII, Kursk, Russia’s claim to fame.

I know historical evidence tells us that Hilter was defeated by the Russians because of starvation and exposure but I’ve never heard the psychological affects mentioned. Namely, that the Germans might have wondered why they were fighting for landscape that has absolutely no appeal. I know Russia has lots of natural resources and all that but I think it’s worth mentioning that given two armies, the one that wants to win more will win. Kind of basic psychology. My point of course is that no one really goes to Russia, views the landscape and thinks to themselves that they would willfully die in exchange for places like Kursk. Trust me, I was there wondering why the Russians even defended the place.

Another thing I couldn’t help but thinking about is how soldiers will no doubt be a lot more willing to die if the life they lead off the battlefield is difficult. Reminds of things I’ve heard of the Spartans; that if you had to eat what they ate, you wouldn’t mind dying either. While the Germans had beer and bratwurst and soft salty pretzels, the Russians had cold and potatoes. I mean at some point I would think the Germans would have looked at each other and said, “ How do you feel about going back to the motherland and getting some snitzel?”

More on this later. I have a surprising amount of things to say on this subject given the fact that I know nothing at all about warfare. I’m going to write about it anyway, but I’ll save it for another blog.

The game was a disaster. Ty had not surprisingly come down with ebola (or stomach flu or food poisoning). She was throwing up all day, which was really unfun for her and slightly stressful for me seeing as she was my roommate. Luckily they gave me a new room and I avoided the virus. But still there remained the problem that our only true post player was unable to keep food down.

The doctor from the other team gave her about ten different drugs and a shot in the ass. Everyone kept saying that she couldn’t play because she hadn’t eaten anything. I, of course have the mentality that she should tape an asprin to her stomach, down some Sprite and saltines and give it a try. She was fine with this idea. Europeans tend to err on the side of safety, Americans tend to risk bodily harm in pursuit of playing time. Neither mentality is particularily healthy. However, according to my vast medical knowledge, playing through stomach flu symptoms is not going to cause lasting damage. If she’s tired and dehydrated, sub her out!

To add to the fun, the other team was extremely dirty and the referees seem to be watching the crowd instead of the game. One of my teammates got elbowed in the stomach so badly that she couldn’t play the rest of the game. Every single cut or screen was preceeded with a two arm body block, to which the referees had the nerve to not only fail to call a foul but comment that we were setting moving screens. As if I could help but move when someone shoves me in the back. After one such screen, my opponent looked at me, raised her elbow to my face and struck as hard as she could. I had a moment where everything slowed down as I contemplated whether I should hit her or not. I somehow decided that I should let her get kicked out of the game while I kept playing. So I coolly shot two free throws from the technical foul and continued playing. I still can’t believe I didn’t hit her. Must be the meditation.

The next day, while walking through the airport, we were quite a sight. I had a giant bruise on my cheek, Ty was still feeling sick, another teammate was now throwing up, from whatever virus was now being passed around our team, and the one who had been elbowed in the stomach was still feeling pain, hopefully not from internal bleeding.

Like I said, there is a moment in every season……