If you’re feeling deflated

While on a walk with the dog this afternoon, I saw an advertisement on the side of a van that made me head straight back home to get my phone to grab a picture. For non-Cyrillic readers, the company name is Charlie Sheen Mobile Tire Service. Amusingly, “sheen” is a Russian variant for the word tire, so fist pump for the double entendre 👊! 

acrobatics plus magic plus sex equals: Circus of Water, Fire, and Light

​I went to a circus this weekend, and honestly, it was pretty great. Aside from several macaws that would roll over for a treat, one yellow boa constrictor, and a falcon wearing a bedazzled hood, there were no other animals involved in the performances. Instead, the show featured acrobats, magicians, clowns, dancers, and jugglers over the span of exactly two hours and forty minutes. A front row ticket only cost 20 dollars, and it was easily the most thrilling, funny, and fast paced circus I’ve ever watched. And sexy too! Shirtless men, riding crops, chains, women dancing on water rockets, an aerial love story with teeth, straps and rose petals… the visual bounty was as impressive and intimidating. Drama! Excitement! Scaries! Funnies! Lasers! I can see why some youngins (and oldies!) dream about joining the circus.

Curious about how one does just that, I looked up circus school info. The New England Center for Circus Arts tuition costs about $17,000 per year for three years for development in gymnastics, dance, acrobatics, trapeze training etc. An 8 week clown course by Red Nose University charges $248 whereas Montreal’s Zani Clown 8-month course is about $3,200. Maybe a certificate of completion helps, but experience definitely does, so get ready to submit not only performance videos, but calisthenic videos too, head shots, and show ability to be a part of group work. Some talent agencies only allow non-union applicants, others do. In post-Soviet countries, a circus performer typically earns between $300 and $1,500 per month. Circus gig life is a real hustle, but man- it's magical too.

red rose and ropes romance

acrobatics in skinny studded jeans is hard core metal

white jeans white hankey in a handstand

we mayyy have inadvertently joined a cult

lemon brothers flinging each other off a teeterboard

and mayyy have watched S&M

mascot?

at the Metro, on the metro (but don't call it the metro)

Driving to and shopping at Astana’s Metro wholesale store (like Costco but without deliciously cheap pizza) requires a special kind of mental prep. From our house to the store, it’s a 45+ minute drive through honky, car packed streets with zero-warning lane closures. There’s drivers that simultaneously watch YouTube and video chat with relatives, or they stop in the middle of the road altogether to chitchat with a fellow motorist, even after the light turns green. The Metro parking lot reeks of abandonment with its drab, concrete Soviet-esque awnings, busted overhead lights, pothole riddled asphalt, and twisted chunks of broken drain grates.

The store entrance looks promising with smooth concrete floors, big carts, wide aisles, and stacked products ready for purchase- the more you buy, the bigger the discount. For example, one box of Oreos costs $3.25. If buying three boxes, the price is $3.03/each and six drops it to $2.69/per. Same goes for most products in the store, except alcohol, which costs the same no matter how much ends up in the cart. Shame. Moreover, because of the incentive, shoppers will open anything boxed or shrink wrapped to make sure they get their proper discounts. Doesn’t matter whether its a case of canned tuna, juice boxes, or mini chocolate bars, they will open and count out 1,000 Chupa Chup lollies before they all get counted again at check out.

The store is equipped with more than 18 checkout lanes, yet only 2 will be open. Trust that the 63 year-old babushka in front of the line who bought four yogurt cups and a candy bar will demand her VAT refund paperwork, and it cannot ever be completed in one motion, nor in one location. VAT receipts require phone calls, ID verification, your first born, and at least three extra forms with THE official stamp, and that’s assuming their system is online. The store suffers line jumpers, price arguers, and frozen product leavers. The restroom offers no toilet paper, no door locks, no soap, and no toilet seats. I’m not talking about squat toilets either. The seats are literally missing, a real bummer after a long drive.

Why do I bother with trips to Metro, then? I do get an excellent squat workout in the bathroom but it’s mostly because of their excellent frozen green beans. I buy multiple 2.5kg bags at a time to make up for our green vegetable gap - there’s only so much broccoli one can stand, no one in the family eats zucchini, and the asparagus here is fat, rare, and pricey. Metro gets bonus points for its other frozen bulk items like cherries, strawberries, mango, and fruit cocktail, also 2.5kg bags. You just have to be willing to pay for it. The raspberry bag cost $42, double the price in America. One time I got a bag of frozen avocado halves and giant frozen pretzels. I’ve not found since that one time, but the hope lives on. Metro sells huge chunks of fabulous KazBeef prime cut steak and the best corn tortilla chips in the country. The bags are American size big too! Totally could have gone for a nacho night, but they were gone too. However, I did get a 7/8ths full case of tonic water and 5/12ths case of tomato paste, no discount for me. Like a deal hungry babushka, I asked the checkout lady to see if she could unearth the missing items, knowing full well they would not be found. Saving six bucks wasn’t going to make my giant bill feel any smaller anyway. But when at the Metro, do as the locals do.

To make this day feel extra metro-focused, once I got home from spending big at the Metro, I also rode on the metro, the Tarlan Astana LRT - but don't call it the metro though, lest you get corrected immediately: it's the LIGHT RAIL,
PEOPLE.

When we arrived to Astana two years ago, our local colleagues were long disillusioned about it ever coming to fruition. Conceptually born in 2011, the metro should have opened in 2017, but construction only began that year so opening day wasn’t until May 2026. One ticket costs 43 cents purchased from a station kiosk with multiple language options, so zero mental prep was needed. The train cars are driverless and fully automated and the line hits 18 stations along the way, including the airport. The LRT is not anywhere near our house so I had to taxi into the city first and I could immediately see the appeal for those living near a station. Mall culture is a thing here (especially in winter) and I did just that- via the metro I went from one mall to another to purchase movie tickets to Spider Man. If my planning was better, I could have also caught a hockey game or soccer match (or speed skating race, velodrome race, basketball game, or a martial arts competition, there are like six arenas within walking distance), stay at a fancy hotel, and visit the famous Baiterek Tower all in one trip using the metro’s current, single line. Imagine what I can do when they finish building future metro lines by 2050… I’ll be 69 by then so I could see the need for mental prep to go either way, really.

tidy stacks make anything seem possible

complimentary vests for coldies 

social norms of wholesale shopping be damned

view from the LRT blue line (and only line)

pretend you're riding the metro, then ride the metro

Abu Nasr al-Farabi Mosque, named after a Shymkent
born philosopher who died in 951.

Skiing is Life

Growing up, whenever my mom took my brother and I skiing, there was one rule: no whining allowed. I definitely broke that rule, usually complaining about itchy wool, carrying heavy skis, or the snow getting down my pants. Mom ignored me. I disliked ski school and thought the instructors were mean because they wouldn’t let me hold onto the PVC pipe they used to guide students down the slope. I wanted to be cute and helpless like them! Mom ignored me. I didn’t like my ham and cheese sandwich mom packed for lunch. She ignored me, and rightfully so. Despite the whining, I lived for these trips which were planned by my mom and her best friend who had kids the same age. After ski school days and we got our freedom, we could find caddy corners along the trees and catch sweet, sweet air; sing from the top of our lungs on the lift; cackle as we watched the parents eat fake crab and cocktail sauce from a Ziplock bag during lunch.

As we got to be even better skiers, the No Whining Rule was replaced with the There-are-no-friends-on-powder-days Rule, meaning we wouldn’t stop all day, we’d eat on the chair lifts, and whiners always got ditched. My mom could always find the best stashes of snow which were usually tucked into the trees. Her lines cut perfect curves through back bowls and moguls. I loved watching her glide down the mountain in her belted one-piece jump suit.

Skiing was, and still is, my mom’s passion. Her first time on skis was in Minnesota as a college student where she used a rope tow and wore her dad's long underwear and knitted mittens, and she has never stopped. Choosing Santa Fe as her new home after college was largely based on the ability to ski between nursing shifts. My dad started skiing in 1984. He was 30 and had just joined the Up the Creek Ski Club, where he met his future wife, my mom. They've been skiing since.

Each Colorado ski season has always been met with crossed fingers, but my parents never waivered their commitment to get days in. So much so, as an adult, I’d often tease them to branch out and try new places. Eventually, they did ski in Montana a few times, where my brother and his family live. Mark and I finally convinced them to ski in Austria, Slovenia, and Spain with us. They liked it well enough, but it still wasn’t Colorado. I had to agree with them. In Europe, there’s no-wait lift lines, free parking, and affordable lift tickets, but it also means constant gray sky, flat light, little tree skiing, wind blown runs, and powderless snowpack.

In March, Mark and I took the kids back to France to ski for spring break. I wasn’t uber excited, but we needed to get out of Central Asia. Mark, who learned to ski in Oregon rain and rightly thinks I’m a snow snob, loves that we can do it as a family. His endearing sentimentality shuts me up, especially since we only have a few more years as a unit of four before the kids leave for college. I would rather feel the ugh of questionable snow conditions than the feeling of regret, so we packed our gear and took flights to get there. (Unfortunately my parents couldn’t make it on this trip but were there in spirit, especially now that Colorado had its worst snow season in history, leaving them unable to scratch that ski itch.)

Over the course of five days, Les Contamines and St. Gervais endured a series of downpours, fog, and high winds, but we also got fresh snow, blue sky, and warm conditions that felt exactly like the old Colorado ski days. Mark and I were shocked about our good fortune. I felt unconquerable and we skied to exhaustion, trying to imprint fabulous snow and family time into a core memory. I had nothing to whine about. Ok I whined a little for my sore knees and back because well… I’m old and complaining is what old people do.

Fully leaning into ski French life.

French folks know how to pick a view. From the shower!

Even better from the patio.

Child #1 whom I barely got photos of he skied so much.

Shocked by this thing called sunshine. My favorite Schlinks.

Walking into town for cheese and wine.

Mayo by the gallons but not ketchup. The French can't be perfect.

My mugger.

Winterizing: Inside

America is currently cold as hell. Girl, Kazakhstan feels you. January weather around here has not been for the faint of heart, plunging as low as -27F, and that’s without a wind chill! Last week, thousands of people around the city willingly dunked their bodies into the Ishim River to celebrate Epiphany, a holiday that represents the baptism of Christ/Jesus, when the city was at its coldest. Participants would step down a set of wooden stairs, cross themselves, dunk three times into the ice laden river, and step out on a second set while onlookers and paramedics watched. People love this event, despite the indoor bickering I hear daily (and contribute to) about the Siberian witch’s tit cold.

As a result of extreme and dangerous temperatures, we spend more time indoors than I like. The city uses a central, steam heating system to prevent pipes from freezing so when the outdoor temperatures dip, the indoor temperatures soar. Dwellings and public places are heated to an extreme. Our foyer and kitchen are so hot, we have to wear sandals to keep our feet from burning. The dog pants and tries to find the best cool spots in the house, while we crack windows to balance out the intensity - but it feels like a messed up version of Lisa Simpson’s fish sticks from “The Last Temptation of Homer” (season 5, ep 9). Going outside takes at least ten minutes to gear up, and admittedly, is one of my excuses to avoid doing anything. I have to remind myself that malls, restaurants, arenas, and theaters have stellar coat check services to deal with the layers of clothes we have to wear.

So, winter. We deal with the snow and wind, try to avoid frost bite, and spend a lot of time indoors. Life in cold Kazakhstan is not any different than what people do in cold America: I read, doomscroll, workout, rage clean, nap, eat… and embrace the mindset of sucking it up and getting outside, even if taking the dog for a walk is less than the time it takes to dress and undress. I attend as many sporting events, concerts, and activities as possible to catapult my inertia into action. I’ve joined sketching sessions, tried Pilates and archery, and failed to enjoy a snow bath after roasting in the sauna
Recently, I enjoyed an amateur English comedy show that featured only female comedians. Screw any bravery for going outside, these women got on stage to a sold out audience and told jokes in their second, third language.

We have at least three more months of snow and probably five months before Astana feels spring-ish. But for now I look forward to next week with a balmy 20F forecast. 

Epiphany dunk on the coldest day of 2026

sending screen shots to my bestie with a sad face

Free office space: the coffee shop
artist led drawing classes

So much hockey. All the hockey.

Looking at murals without getting out of the car.

Banyaaaaaaa, drink, repeat

Basketball at the Velodrome

Warming up in one of the millions of coffee shops. Frequently. 

Buying new shovel parts. Again. We've gone through 5 so far.

comedy night at the Wein Bar. she was riot.

Third Time's A Charm for Spain

During our first trip to Spain, my dad ended up getting admitted to a mountain town hospital for a bowel blockage. Because it was the covid fueled winter of 2021, no visitors were allowed inside the hospital. While he convalesced with anti-nausea meds, a nasogastric tube, and daily bowel prep drinks in an effort to avoid surgical intervention, the rest of us skied. Not happily, and not without care or guilt, but skiing helped pass the daytime. Evenings were spent on the phone and making contingency plans: maybe they'd have to transport him via ambulance to Barcelona for surgery. If his gut perforated, maybe he'd need air transport instead. We talked in circles, worrying about rental car issues, travel insurance kicking in, etc.   Either way, it would be a mandatory 6 week stay in the country before he'd be allowed to fly. Thank goodness, after 3 or 4 terrible days of prep drinking and waiting, he prevailed. My dad was discharged with an appreciation for the excellent, conservative care he received, but also a weariness for foreign travel that would take years to fade.

Right before our second trip to Spain in winter 2023, David got appendicitis, resulting in the two of us pivoting to London for surgery instead. We decided that Mark and Margo would go to Spain and we would rendezvous after he was cleared to fly. The two of us made it there a week late, minus an appendix. On this same trip, we also expected to spend it with Mark’s mom, dad, and brother, but his brother never ended up making it. Mark’s brother wasn’t known for being a good communicator. He rarely texted and emailed, and almost never called, so his no-show and subsequent silence was normal. We continued as usual, visiting wineries, relaxing on the patio, and playing games with the kids. A few days later, around two am on Christmas Eve, Mark’s parents found out he had passed away. Contacting the police station and detective to the case were difficult to get ahold of. And when they did, few details were given. As soon as we could, we all flew to the U.S. to face an impossible goodbye. Literally, mentally, psychologically, emotionally, and physically, no one would be the same again.

After two strike-outs, Mark and I were very surprised, when this year the kids requested a Spanish re-do. Margo wanted us to experience the city of Girona where everyone loves all things cycling. For example, there are tons of coffee shops that offer free coffee for life if you buy their custom jersey. Teams from all over the world train there, and bars routinely show bike races. She wanted to show us cobbled old town, eat tapas, and admire huge, churchy architecture. The kids remembered skiing Baquiera-Beret in vertigo inducing fog and chilling temperatures while worrying about Grandpa, but they still wanted to conquer all four peaks of the resort. They wanted to say thank you to the woman who, when their uncle died, took care of the live Christmas tree and full fridge we set up, and donated gifts we had to leave behind. So we went to Spain and did all of these things. The trip didn’t replace the aftertaste of uncertainty and loss, but it did reshape it into something sweeter.

Having a good time with Grandpa before he stopped having a good time.
Dec 2021

Then: (2021) pretending to have a good time.

Font Rubi, Spain, Dec 2022

Springfield, MO, Summer 2022
Brothers

Dec 2025, Girona

Girona, Dec 2025

Girona, Dec 2025

Now: Baqueira-Beret, Dec 2025

Font Rubi, Spain 2021
Credit: mark

Tired

Autumn weather changes brought us cooler temperatures which meant the properties of the Ideal Gas Law were enacted. The low tire pressure warning on our car went off so I ventured to a gas station to top off. I had spare coins to feed the air compressor and a pressure gauge still in its original packaging. Only problem was, neither the first, second, or third gas station had air hoses.

One hour later of driving uselessly around the city, did it occur to me that among the endless pharmacies, beauty salons, and flower shops that I should visit a sheeno-montage (tire service shop) which are also found basically everywhere. And, changing out tires in Astana is a big deal, because by the first snowfall, winter grade tires are required by law.

The mechanic charged me the American price of about 8 dollars to top off four tires (the actual cost should be like one dollar - I found out days later). He could only be paid by the equivalent of Kazakh Venmo, which I did not have. I asked if he would take cash which I also, did not have.

Promising to come back, I drove off to find an ATM. Google fooled me twice with banks that didn’t exist, and when I did find one, only larger bills were available to withdraw. Thinking two birds one stone, I then drove to the store where I picked up some groceries, paid via credit and asked if I could make change with the equivalent of a ten dollar bill. Cashier said no, not allowed.

Fine. I bought a Snickers and handed over the bill, where she asked me, snapping her gum ala Tina from Sandford Somerfield Supermarket if I had anything smaller. I mean...

The mechanic probably thought I had absconded with free air, but I did return to pay - if 2 hours late. Next time, I will actually use my brain, save time and money, and use the sheeno located just 220 meters from home.

Tina. Hott Fuzz.

Was as if I had never connected tires with air before.

30 second drive from my house

I guess he charged me for premium air.

Open 24 hours!