“Office Shower” and other hospitalities

Office work was an inundating task of making pretty flowcharts, supplemented by observation, my raison d’être in Samara. With unlimited freedom to dig into all operating departments I attended a slew of meetings and ventured out into the field with loan officers. My first chance to observe came in a supervisor meeting invite from Samara’s branch manager Askar. When everyone settled around the long conference table in Askar’s room, the first thing that struck me was that all supervisors but one were soft-spoken women in their thirties and forties. Vladimir, the sole male supervisor in their midst, was a tan blond youth with blue eyes, high cheekbones and fine features underneath taught skin. His skeletal fragility gave Vladimir this youthful teen-age look, but a wedding band on a thin long phalange placed him somewhere into mid-twenties. We covered loan officer productivity quotas, which seemed an alarming vestige of Soviet-style management to my capitalist self. Askar explained that the quotas were mutually agreed upon by everyone through American-style consensus. Still, the fundamental problem of quota inefficiencies persisted, resulting in loan officers stowing away excess applications for the future as exceeding the monthly quota did not reward them a higher bonus.

The supervisors’ biggest complaint, however, was against headquarters’ stinginess of supplies. “We keep ordering and ordering supplies,” lamented Tamara, a ghostly petite Tatar in her forties with bleached locks permanently black at the roots and ochre eye-liner contouring her slightly slanted eyes. “The headquarters gave us five pens last month, five pens for three people for an entire month. We have no toilet paper, no tea to offer clients. We bring our own pens, tea, sugar, toilet paper, everything.” Was this a way to achieve profitability pressures, or just another vestige of the Soviet past? Naturally it wasn’t new to our co-workers who took matters into their own hands and even bought their own tea treats for the clients. At the headquarters too, notebooks and pens were in deficit. On one occasion I even had the honor of personally signing for a marker and making the solemn promise of returning it after use. All this logging and pledging and signing in thick black ledgers was just so very intriguing! What if I dared to break my vow and made off with that green little marker to Europe (as I inadvertently had, forgetting it inside my back-pack)? Would there be an Interpol-initiated cross-border pursuit? Would I forever go down in annals of Samara history under the following lurid headline: “Knifing thief from America makes off with Company Property!”?

At the end of the week we gathered for a symbolic celebration of a field office inauguration. No official inauguration was held as the office was fully operational during renovation. The office was in another run-down area of Samara, strategically located near the Frunze bazaar where many of our clients ran their small businesses. Its facade was the only freshly painted patch on the drab residential building in which it resided, grabbing attention with its jovial yellow hue. It was also the only patch not covered by graffiti, which worried Bill, who received prompt assurances from marketing director Volodia that the paint was washable.

Inside the office was modern and personable, like a private-banking branch, but for a vastly different clientele: small-time clothes and produce traders. A round gray counter welcomed visitors, with open loan officer cubicles on the side and the supervisor’s glass office behind. The branch supervisor, Natasha, observed that the glass not only reassured clients of strict office supervision, but fostered an open door policy for them too, “You know our people always head straight for the manager’s office. No, they don’t want to talk to the loan officer. They don’t want to listen to the receptionist. They demand the manager and march straight past the reception desk to my door. So the door is always open!” I loved her good-natured humor at this stale legacy. As much as the people had been afraid of the Soviet bureaucracy, they never shied away from junior subordinates like Natasha’s loan officers. The popular thing to do when faced with a green technocrat was to indignantly shake one’s fist in their face at their presumed incompetence and angrily demand the supervisor, and only after the apparition of the grand supervisor had presented itself, did the bureaucratic cowering begin. The only person who didn’t cower before the establishment was my grandmother. What made my grandmother’s outrage and indignation surpass any supervisor rank, was her never-ending quest for justice and truth. By the time that I was born grandmother retired from university. Of course, one never completely retired in those days and she occasionally read evening lectures, but the fact that she was officially retired gave her the new status of a vulnerable pensioner, which she proudly wore on her sleeve. I could tell that she very much loved this status as it gave her that opportunity to confront all the un-fairness that she saw in life and speak of it loudly and freely.

Grandmother had always carried her own scales everywhere she went. Be it in a shop or at Sunday bazaar, everything had to be weighed on them, as according to her, “People have become so soul-less, so dishonest that they even rob pensioners of their last pension!” God forbid there was a difference between her and the vendor’s scales, the wild torrent of indignation unleashed. “Where is you conscience, young woman?” she would demand loudly, causing everyone around us to turn their heads. “Cheating an old pensioner out of her last pension! Ai-ai-ai!” Disconsolately grandma would shake her head at this awful injustice. “Look at the scales, you’ve cheated me by almost half a kilo!” At this point the vendor always went red in the face from all the un-desired attention, while grandmother demonstratively stuck her hands into her sides and issued the ultimatum, “I’d like to see you supervisor, young woman!” If we were inside a shop, the supervisor was promptly procured to calm the storm by adding the missing weight to our batch. However if a bazaar vendor dared defend her scales, grandma made a big demonstration of not buying the produce and even took the pain of going to the administrator to make herself heard. If any rude person dared to insult her in these justice-seeking missions, grandmother would proudly retort, “I am speaking the truth!” Much to my mother’s protest, grandmother even volunteered as a shop inspector to satisfy this never-ending quest for truth. Then she would appear in the shop doorway like the grand inquisitor. The supervisor would always come out to welcome her, and fib by her side as grandmother checked the produce and scales. On those occasions the scales never lied, while fresh produce usually hidden for vendors’ friends in the back graced the front shelves.

But back to our office party where I just discovered that attitudes of indignation toward junior ranks existed to this very day. Everyone’s eyes were on the new reception accessory – a water cooler with fancy-looking buttons. A female shriek issued from the kitchen, “Aaaahh, look at this, you have two coolers! What is this?! Shouldn’t you only have one per office?!”
Natasha laughed back, “I know, isn’t it shocking that they still haven’t confiscated the old one?”
“Your entire office is made up of such pretty young girls,” I complimented Natasha, noticing that the office staff comprised of six young women and one lonely man..
Natasha took me into confidence, lowering her voice, “I’ll tell you why our office is all made up of girls. These men have major problems with a female boss. I was interviewing a young man the other day, clean suit, nice bag. I told him the loan officer responsibilities, and he asked me, “Will I need to fulfill your requests?” I told him, “No, you will need to fulfill your responsibilities as stated in the job description and I will monitor that you fulfill them correctly.” Needless to say, I ended the interview at that. Our men just aren’t ready for a female boss.” So much for the macho Russian. The party was much the livelier with women anyway. Besides, the majority of KBM’s clients were women, and the sociable girls in Natasha’s office were certainly more skilled in handling both sexes as men found them pretty while women were more apt to open up.

The first bottle of champagne that Vladimir opened slipped right through his fingers. He caught it just before it smashed on the floor, but half had already gushed out in a playful fountain, spraying us with its sweet sticky contents. The women scattered, squealing with laughter.
“Oopa! Horosho my obmili offis!” (How well we have bathed the office!) exclaimed Natasha, referring to the celebratory Russian tradition of ‘obmyvania,’ the closest Western equivalent of which would be a shower. Naturally, the Russian shower took place with good old vodochka, and for special occasions like ours, champagne.
Thereafter, we engaged in the second crucial component of any shower ceremony – the making of lengthy toasts. Of course, no one can say as lengthy a toast as the Georgians, who have been famous for their toast-making skill since the Soviet times, but the Russians came pretty close, adorning their felicitations with colorful anecdotes. At the end even I had to make a toast, which due to my lack of toast-making experience came out short and choppy, the shortest toast in their history, “To hospitality!”
Everyone paused expecting more, but that’s all they got. Puzzled, they said politely, “That’s a nice toast,” and we drank bottoms up.

On the way back home Askar suggested to see the beach in the center of town. Eager for my first trip into the city proper I dropped off my backpack at home and we drove into the center. Like most Russian cities the Samara before me was lost in a sea of parks and tree-lined streets, its washed-out apartment buildings peering through the tree-tops. Every apartment complex had the Russian “dvor,” a massive interior yard with benches, playgrounds and a make-shift football field or basketball court. Multiple communal activities were taking place within as children gathered on playgrounds and grannies gossiped on benches during the day, while carousing youths littered beer bottles and cigarette butts after dark. Bathed in burgeoning greenery the yards created a pleasant past-time for their inhabitants. Together Samara’s streets, parks and apartment yards formed a softer organic version of metropolitan space that was vastly different from New York’s steel and glass sheath. The city’s horizontal vegetative orientation hid it completely: the steel metropolis ceased to exist.

As we approached the center, ugly steel and glass shopping conglomerates popped up among vanishing greenery, then disappeared into the old city. Sadly, the old city was no charming European town, but a crumbling old Russian city of the 19th and early 20th century, which had not been maintained due to Soviet popularity of apartment blocks. Ornate wooden houses with elaborate window and door carvings slanted in all directions, about to keel over. Many houses were boarded up, their tradition and history rotting away in plain sight, while some had already been torn down. I promised to revisit these dilapidated buildings before they were bulldozed away.

We were dropped off on the much talked about Samara beach by the Volga – as I mentioned before, “the largest beach in Europe.” A typical Soviet resort park of flower-beds and firs occupied the space between Volga and the road. Joggers, bikers, rollerbladers, and strollers engaged in their various activities on the asphalt strips between trees, beyond which lay a long narrow beach full of vacationers, and the calm river. The other shore was fully submerged in green forestry, not quite my expectation of the drab industrial Volga only seen in Repin’s depressing serf sketches before. Looking out at this picturesque strip of beach greenery with its little bars and restaurants, I forgot all about the decaying old city behind.

Askar suggested a bite to eat at one of the out-door café tents. We examined the menu, to my surprise a mix of Russian and Central Asian food. Young townies socialized under the tent, the men casually dressed in jeans and netted wife-beaters, surrounded by visions of cool beauty in sweat-proof evening make-up, heels, and heaps of trinkets that garnished their voluptuous chests. The girls’ un-toned, but beautifully shaped proportional bodies were tightly bound in little dresses, stretch jeans and low-cut tanks. A tall blonde stood out in a smoke-blue backless mini-dress, heavy make-up and a ton of metal trinkets enchaining her long neck. Her silver studded stilettos added to the height, while the slightly flat posterior had firming potential. She sauntered through the café with a saucy mix of clumsiness and languor. MTV blared on a projector to the rhythm of mismatched songs blasting from side speakers. The DJ was a tall attractive brunette simply, but elegantly dressed in a jean mini and white tank clinched around the hips by a chunky belt. A refreshing contrast of natural, less doll-like beauty, she occasionally sang Russian chanson in a husky voice.

‘Malinki’ (Raspberries), Jeanna Friske’s seductive hit remix with Discoteka Avaria, blasted through the loudspeakers. The blonde gathered some less attractive females and drifted toward the dance floor where she began to swing her numerous assets to Jeanna’s playful voice, “Malinki, malinki… brunetki i blondinki… Serezhki i Marinki…” (Raspberries, raspberries, blondes and brunettes, Sergeis and Marinas) and Diskoteka Avaria’s rap “zdes hodiat devushki malinovye gubki” (here strut girls with raspberry lips). Everyone was hypnotized. After a few songs our raspberry slunk back to her table and planted a sloppy kiss on what must have been her boyfriend, a skinny fellow half her height with criminally cropped hair and one of those netted synthetic wife-beaters. I gathered there must have been a shortage of men in Samara.

A swarm of flower vendors gathered around us with roses, which I found quite annoying, especially after Askar insisted on buying one for me. I found this rather bizarre and sheepishly hoped that he did it to make the vendors go away. To be on the safe side I resorted to my usual defense when faced with unwanted attentions, and became very interested in his family life. Askar told me that his wife gave up her prestigious job in Kyrgyzstan to be with him and take care of their two children. Relieved that he was married, I enthusiastically exhausted the family subject to its last drop, and continuously harped on his luck with such an intelligent and surely beautiful wife. My previous experience of repelling married bankers whose rings did not deter them from chasing other skirts was becoming quite handy, and throughout the dinner I sent out friendly platonic vibes. By now I was quite an expert in platonic relations, having been ordered to sit next to one or another boss at cheesy bank dinners and dragged out to some god-awful clubs after, where my buddies and I would impatiently wait for the wife curfew before real fun began. Altough my platonic distance had indeed slipped with a few junior analysts, it always worked seamlessly on the married and elderly, just as it was during our dinner.

This dinner also dragged out and Askar kept ordering rounds of beer, which I declined after the first unfinished half-liter. I politely waited for him to finish so that we could leave: it was already ten. Despite my proposal to share the bill, Askar insisted on getting it as part of my “welcome.” I thanked him, awkwardly picked up the irritating flower, and carried it upside down. Its petals began to fall behind me, leaving a trail. Askar suggested that we check out the beach, which I began to protest, but he insisted that since I was already at the river, I had to see it. Some high school girls ran into the water in the on-coming dusk in bras and panties, one of them in a thong. The girls were fresh, fleshy and sportive. The one in the thong had a fabulous posterior, the sight of which Askar was thoroughly enjoying. He asked me, “Perhaps, you’d like to bathe in the river?”
At this my friendly platonic vibes had immediately cooled, “No, I don’t have a swim-suit.”
“It’s alright; these girls are just in their underwear. It’s dark so no one will see.”
The vibes now turned to seething outrage while I tried to keep outward composure, “I think it’s about time I went home. Do you know what marshrutka I can take in my direction?”
“Don’t worry, we’ll figure it out.” Askar responded.

I wondered if I would ever be rid of him as he insisted on dropping me home in a taxi despite the fact that my home was in the opposite direction from his. After some bargaining with one of the drivers, Askar agreed on a price and we set toward my apartment in what I hoped was an uncomfortable silence for him. As we pulled into the yard I hastily thanked him for the welcome and hopped out, coming face to face with a group of youngsters smoking outside. It clearly was none of their business to be outside my entrance, which didn’t have any benches, and I diagnosed their presence as highly suspicious. Hoping that they wouldn’t follow me inside, I muttered a muffled “Excuse me” in Russian and shuffled toward the door as fast as I could. They turned aside just enough to make room for me to slide through, and I scuttled upstairs. Thankfully, the taxi kept the group in the spotlight, flashing its lights into the entrance before backing out of the yard.

The next day, mother called me to check up. I described my week’s adventures, and mentioned dinner with a local co-worker, naturally keeping away some details, but mother was immediately concerned, “Men over there do not invite you to a dinner unless they have a sleazy intention. They think it natural for you to sleep with them if you accept. You’re not in America, darling.”
“Oh, I did find some of his behavior to be quite weird, but I thought that maybe it was some cultural hospitality I didn’t get.”
“You are lucky he wasn’t physical. Typically, if you refuse, they’ll take it as a flirt and paw you with their hands.”
He never got around to offering, but regardless, I had absolutely no desire to be pawed by anyone. I took serious note of this and decided to hang out only with American fellows when they arrived, or in a large group where everyone paid for themselves.