The first bank we went to said they didn't have any rubles. I figured they didn't understand me, and thought I wanted US dollars. I showed them my US $50 bill, and said I wanted rubles. They shook their heads, no. Lilia did some talking, and finally one clerk came to the exchange window. Lilia took two 20s out of by wallet, and passed them through the slot along with my visa and passport. I then noticed a sign on the wall warning against counterfeit US $50s and $100s. I thought the problem must be that they didn't trust my US $50, so I pulled out a $10 to add to the two $20s. Nyet. Not enough rubles. The clerk proceeded to do everything but taste test my two $20s, then started to count out a huge wad of rubles. 840 rubles, and only two 100 rubles notes in the bundle. The rest were 10s. It was a strange feeling, trying to find some place for this wad of bills that was at least three centimeters thick. They certainly wouldn't fit in my wallet. I finally spread them between my wallet, pocket, and camera bag.

We went to three other banks that day, and none of them had any rubles to sell me. At one exchange booth, there was a guy standing outside casually flashing a large wad of large ($50s and $100s) US bills. I don't know what kind of rate he would have given me, but I didn't really want to deal with him. I decided what I had would have to do. I still wasn't really used to Russian prices, and needn't have worried. I was carrying around a fortune.

We had a number of other errands to run, including checking on the translation of some of Lilia's documents. I found one document in particular interesting. All residents have a certificate that allows them to live in a certain region of the city. It lists their address, and who lives with them. I don't think moving is too much of a problem now days, but in Soviet times, even movement within the country was strictly controlled. Someone couldn't decide to move to Moscow or Leningrad, to try their luck at finding a better job.

Lilia asked me to read over the translation of her documents, and I found one which 'This document is to certificate...'. I pointed out the error, and of course the translator had to be summoned. She was a middle aged lady, who spoke very good English. I explained that 'certificate' is a noun, and what was needed was 'certify', which was a verb. She apologized many times, and blamed the dictionary. I don't know if it really was the dictionary that was wrong, but I didn't trust Lilia's Russian made dictionary very much, after reading some of the translations in it.

We were told that we could come back next week to pick up the corrected document. Actually, we would make about four more trips back, each time to be told it would be ready 'tomorrow'.

By this time it was getting late in the afternoon. There is a large cake factory in Yoshkar Ola, which sells cakes in most of the stores. We found one, and Lilia asked me the usual, "Which one?". Of course, I had no idea what kind of cakes they were! We finally picked a marang, because it looked good. It cost the princely sum of 50 rubles ($2 USD).

We managed to get a seat on the bus on the way home. There was a man standing in the aisle next to me As he reached for the overhead bar, his coat opened slightly, and out of the corner of my eye, I could see the butt of a pistol in his trousers. A chill went up my spine, and I spent the rest of the trip trying to not look at him. When I got off, I told Lilia about it. She shrugged, and said maybe he was a police officer on his way home. I said maybe New Russian? She laughed. I should have known better. New Russians don't take busses. They get driven in Mercedes Benz, and Land Rovers.

The cake was very good, and the three of us wished my sister a happy birthday in absentia! I was looking forward to the next day, as May 1st is traditionally one of the biggest holidays in Russia.

Part 4

Trip 2 Index

Part 6