No, Here Ish Yourrr Bill, Sirrr

In Eastern Europe, the standard way of arranging accommodation is to pay for the room(s) ahead of time and then cover the balance [minibar, laundry, girls of the night, surgery] when you depart. It's a rather sneaky way of doing business because the consumer has no power, no way to withhold payment if something goes awry. For example, last year, in Bucharest, I was pretty much stuck with the demon flat -- to this day I can just mentally summon the cuisinart-ed fish-shake smell that came gurgling out of the faucets. Comes in handy actually if I need to expunge my stomach contents at a moment's notice.

One would need to travel in Mother Russia to truly understand that Lenin's real legacy here is that there is now no such thing as luxury or comfort in any hotel. If you have your own shower, comrade, you're living regally and if there is hot running water, then shut the hell up Mister Fancypants Foreigner from the USA. You pay ahead of time and you get what you get, all of which is highly variable.

Imagine my surprise, while checking out this morning from overpriced-at-$45-a-night Hotel Siber (but the only thing available to a foreigner who is not part of one of those annoying busloads of tourists), when Natasha, the white-haired thirtysomething dominatrix working the check-out counter, demanded payment for the night. I didn't exactly say "Hello!?! Shuh! I already paid!" [<-- said valley-girl-like for full effect] but my body language sure did. I said, approximately, I think, "No way dude-ette, I paid up yesterday when I dragged myself, my baggage and my intestinal tract back into this place." She said, in broken English, "No, here ish yourrr bill, sirrr." This carried on, back and forth, me demanding that I had paid, Natasha's steel blue eyes unwavering, "No, here ish yourrr bill, sirrr." Um, yes, I think I got that message the seventh time you said that. I believe that I even said, eventually, "Yes, Natasha, now please quit saying that. I mean it."

One of the strategies I've used here in Russia, a country in which the locals joke that everyone is a criminal, is that when I start to sense that I'm being ripped off, I switch from broken Russian into full-board English. That makes people turn around, putting the spotlight on the con-artist-to-be, and I usually get what I want. So I started ripping into this chick, proclaimingly that I was going to call the embassy, that I don't like being ripped off, that American Express was going to be called and their account with them would be terminated (almost no businesses, except the very prestigious, accept American Express here). Loud, big, fast, power-invoking English. Surely this maneuver would gain me the satisfaction that I, the American, richly deserved.

I might've just dashed but, since they had my bag in storage, I had to remain the single non-hooligan in this city. By this time my loud ranting had attracted white-haired Elena, she would be the fourth one I've met here (pronounced, in case you care to hurt yourself or sound like a buffoon -- Ylah-ylah-nyeh, but with a trill here and a muscle cramping y-glide there). Very sweet, speaks better English, and the whole charade is repeated. Yes, I see my bill, thank you, but I have already paid. Is it all the crazy letters that makes you people not able to use a computer correctly for anything? Silicon Revolution anyone? I have to say, I was being quite the jackass, especially as it donned on me midstream, that I in fact had not paid yesterday like I had been arguing so vehemently. I had one of those "I suddenly know that I'm wrong but do I just give in and look like an idiot or keep going out of pride?" moments. You know you're not having the greatest hour of your life if you start debating "Idiot or Asshole, Idiot or Asshole?" As is usually the case, I ended up having to embrace both identities with open arms.

So, I paid up, slunk away and, feeling so bad about my boorish behavior, I tried to make amends by purchasing each of them a bar of dark chocolate from the corner store. Judging from their ebullient O-faced expressions, you would have thought I was Ed-F'ing-McMahon bringing that giant uncashable check to the front door. Ylaylanyeh even blushed -- I could tell because her skin now had a trace of color -- and giggled. These Russian girls are so unaccustomed to men being the slightest bit nice that even the simplest gesture of kindness makes them nutty.

Early tomorrow, I shall wedge myself back into the Trans-Siberian humidor for another 26 hours of blood, sweat, toil, tears and desperate flippage through my shockingly incomplete English-Russian dictionary, as I meander ever so slowly towards Yekaterinburg.

Still looking for those Gatorade bottles.

Update: Probably a good time to be leaving Novosibirsk. Hope I don't share my compartment with any avians.