Intern in Russia, part 2. Housing standard

Two-room flat is the most common flat in Russia. There is usually no living room and the entire interaction takes places in the kitchen. I was awarded the same flat type, which was also equipped with several local housing improvements.

The first thing you'll need to cope with is the front door. Along with the other keys from the flat you probably got one big enough to open the gates of Kremlin. You put it into the lock, but it won't turn around - it's upside down. You pull it out and start over, but the key gets stuck in the middle of the process and won't go any further. You make several logical attempts to open the door, you shake the door handle, but with no result. Therefore you decide to ring your neighbour's doorbell; an older woman in a bathrobe opens the door and doesn't follow what you say to her at all. Eventually she comes to the door and unlocks it on the first fry. The trick is simple: as you turn the key around, you need to lean against the door with your body and only then the key will make a full circle. Repeat twice. You successfully open the door and inside you find - another door, but this time with a European-style keyhole. You unlock it smoothly and ask yourself, why couldn't the first step be a piece of cake too. 

Security door to the flat barely passable even by its owner.

The key representing Russia as a whole - it's huge and unpractical. 

Two days after my arrival Penny, a Chinese girl teaching Chinese and Japanese, moved to the unoccupied room. She spends most of the day in her quarters behind closed door. Fans of Big Bang Theory can probably guess what I do at least once a day. Once we were told, that we'll be getting new furniture. I assumed that the delivery was primarily aimed at Penny as she had no wardrobes whatsoever and her room looked like a refugee camp. It was made clear that I'll be getting a new couch (although the previous one I slept on worked just fine). Here comes the owner of the flat with his wife, the plan is: dismantle the old couch and bring in the new one in pieces. It's partly possible to disintegrate the couch in the 'natural' way with a screwdriver, however, when it came to the first bigger obstacle, the owner pulled out a crowbar, loosened the rear part of the couch and swiftly kicked it out. The couch was halfway taken apart when two workers came with the new couch. The corridor is narrow, I decided not to get in their way, so I hid in Penny's room. Behing the door I can hear people hitting the walls and floor with pieces of furniture, interrupted by cursing and discussion over the best way how to put a couch together. I crack up, the Chinese girl doesn't get anything and I enjoy my participation in this comedy. 

Penny and her rehab from furniture.

My new couch. I used the non-functional internet cable to put up a clothline.

The technical states of machines and devices in Russia can be drawn close to a complete absurdum. One day Penny announced the news in the bathroom - she said that the washing machine didn't work. I implied that the problem could be much more Russian - what if just the sockets don't work. I tried all four of them and truly none of them worked. The score in Penny's room is 3:1 in favour of broken sockets, in my room there is just a single socket - the second one has left a mere hole in the wall. We have solved the problem with multiplexers and extension cords. The landlord had promised us a kettle, and when he finally brought it, we found out - guess what - that it was broken. We boil water in grandma's teapot. In the teachers' room we have a multifunctional copy machine, which occasionally prints text almost beyond the edge of legibility. My colleagues explain, that it's a huge problem here and and the management is probably trying to save a buck on the ink cartridges. And yet we have interns from all around the northern hemisphere. 

A working socket, a broken kettle and a ricemaker from China.

On the other hand, some things work better than necessary. Despite the relative ordinariness of our flat, we happen to have a quite modern shower with various settings of the water jet, even including a radio (which of course doesn't work). I enthusiastically stepped into the shower and pulled the temperature-controlling switch to the right. The water was gradually getting hotter and hotter, in the end it almost burned my skin, so I decided to pull the switch back to its original position. Suddenly I was taken by surprise by a splash of almost - boiling water? I was maniacally pulling the switch back and forth, but the water was still maintaining its temperature close to a freshly cooked chicken soup. I switched off the water and reconsidered - I might have just had a wrong plan and I need try something else on the control panel. Now a wave of hot water spilled out from above on my head and I jumped to the side, in the meantime switching the water to a different mode, I was again ambushed by lava bursting from the jets on the sides of the shower. This time I had nowhere to dodge it, so I swiftly switched off the water. The air in the shower was so hot that I could barely breathe, I opened the door a jar to prevent fainting. Unfortunately, the cool air coming inside seemed to be insufficient, I had to go out into the corridor to catch some breath. Later I was explained, that you had to be very accurate with hot water: if you let too much out in the beginning, you will never get rid of it. I was cursing the whole pipeline system in Volgodonsk and my prayers were heard - about three days later the water was completely cut off. The morning after I was woken up by banging on the front door - someone was obviously eager to get inside. While me still lying in bed, Penny answered the door, as usual not getting anything that was happening around her. I came out of the room to find out that a plumber was checking the throughput of the pipes. Besides that I was given a look of reproach - why was I not aware of the plumber coming? The said that they had even left a note on the door. I object that at midnight there had definitely not been any note and it was 9 in the morning.

This is how I picture a teleport to Baykonur.

The only source of boiling water (except for the shower).

The first few days I was managing the pecularities of the accommodation alone. I was sitting in the room, when I suddenly heard an unspecified yet loud voice saying a few words into the silence. The voice was not human, even though it was trying to sound like one. I walked through the flat, but I couldn't find its source. Later I noticed, that the voice appeared regularly. It was probably some sort of talking clock - and I was right. On the window sill there was a little Russian talking digital clock, which every hour reports the time and room temperature with a childish voice. Quite enough for a man to go nuts. However, I have got used to the clock so much that every hour I expect the announcement of xx hours and xx degrees centigrade. Even though there is always more than 20 degrees in the kitchen, Penny walks around the flat in a winter coat. I just laugh at the whole situation: the radiator in my room is so hot, that I have to keep the window open the whole night. Russia should definitely ease up on its several aspects in order to catch up in places where it's lagging behind the most.  

Our little talking horologe.

Half-Life: Volgodonsk Chronicles.

If you are in too good mood, just look outside the window.