Lost in Moscow tells the story of Kirsten’s summer camp hi-jinks: evading the Soviet Red Army in a foot race through and around Red Square, receiving radiation treatments for a minor case of tonsillitis, and making a gut-churning, unauthorized parachute jump — without being certain whether her parachute would open or even stay on.
Told from the point of view and in the voice of the young Kirsten, Lost in Moscow is sex, politics, religion, fashion, and finance through the eyes of an eleven-year-old. Hilarious and hair-raising, this is a highly unusual travel memoir — a story about children, but definitely not for children.
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reviews, excerpts, and photos!
"Kirsten Koza is like Judy Blume on acid."
- CHRY Radio's Bound & Covered
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"So much fun to read, I found myself wiggling with giggles..."
"So much fun to read, I found myself wiggling with giggles..."
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"A fun read, yes, but also for those who enjoy witnessing intelligence at work."
"A fun read, yes, but also for those who enjoy witnessing intelligence at work."
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"The funniest book I've ever read! Lost in Moscow is a brilliant read!"
"The funniest book I've ever read! Lost in Moscow is a brilliant read!"
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"The author has the uncanny ability of making the reader feel young again."
"The author has the uncanny ability of making the reader feel young again."
In print & on air:
Radio Canada International, CBC recently reviewed Kirsten’s book Lost in Moscow. Asked the host, “Is the book really that funny?” Book critic Geeta Nadkarni replied: “It IS... Kirsten Koza has an unusual gift. She’s got this wacky sense of humour that completely caught me off guard."
Read more of the review...
Read more of the review...
New Canadian Magazine said, “Some writers are famous for writing love poetry — Pablo Neruda, for instance. Others, like Scott Adams, have managed to pin to the page the preposterousness of corporate America. Rohinton Mistry is known for his poignant portraits of Mumbai; Sir Arthur Conan Doyle changed the face of detective novels by creating Sherlock Holmes. But no one can describe an unfamiliar bathroom quite like Kirsten Koza.”
They also declared, “Lost in Moscow: A Brat in the USSR is an excellent read. Touted by its publishers as ‘a book about children, but certainly not for children’, it is light, uproariously funny, and will leave you feeling 10 years younger. From Russia with love — and lots of laughter!” Review by Geeta Nadkarni.
They also declared, “Lost in Moscow: A Brat in the USSR is an excellent read. Touted by its publishers as ‘a book about children, but certainly not for children’, it is light, uproariously funny, and will leave you feeling 10 years younger. From Russia with love — and lots of laughter!” Review by Geeta Nadkarni.
Uptown magazine calls Lost in Moscow "very funny":
"Koza winningly writes from the perspective of a teenage girl…This is a really fun book. Koza, who has a degree in theatre, knows how to tell a story.
"Koza winningly writes from the perspective of a teenage girl…This is a really fun book. Koza, who has a degree in theatre, knows how to tell a story.
Winnipeg Free Press dubs Lost in Moscow "a chatty, funny memoir":
"Koza achieves that authentic-sounding pre-teen voice found in the better novels for young adult readers."
They do appropriately mention later on "The text is sprinkled with some four-letter words, references to an awkward understanding of sexuality and one underage drinking incident," but they recommend that it is fun to read and that it may well still be enjoyed by the younger set.
"Koza achieves that authentic-sounding pre-teen voice found in the better novels for young adult readers."
They do appropriately mention later on "The text is sprinkled with some four-letter words, references to an awkward understanding of sexuality and one underage drinking incident," but they recommend that it is fun to read and that it may well still be enjoyed by the younger set.
CHRY’s Bound & Covered: Hear reviewer Sandra Polifroni say to Kirsten “You are like Judy Blume on acid!” Listen in here.
Halifax's Chronicle-Herald newspaper featured Lost in Moscow in a piece titled "Travel junkie's first trip was to communist Russia".
You can read the article here.
You can read the article here.
In The Hills, a classy magazine that is delivered to all the people who are lucky enough to live in the hills, wrote about Kirsten’s sweaty little hands in their winter edition: "Lost in Moscow is a funny and fascinating look at the Western World’s bogeyman of the day—communism—through the fresh eyes of a child."
Click here to read the article which appears courtesy of the magazine and the reviewer, Tracey Fockler.
Click here to read the article which appears courtesy of the magazine and the reviewer, Tracey Fockler.
Prairie Books Now interviewed Kirsten about Lost in Moscow: A Brat in the USSR in their piece titled “FORGET WEENIE ROASTS , an 11-year-old camps out in Moscow.” Kirsten actually said in this interview at one point “You can’t spank me now!” The article has been supplied courtesy of Prairie Books Now and Polly Washburn.
The Georgina Advocate used the word “turd” which was a first for this newspaper according to its managing editor. The best quote from this review has to be “Lost In Moscow, A Brat In The USSR, is a delightful — if occasionally scatological romp —begging for a screenplay”.
Amazon.com:
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Not Eloise's Summer Vacation
Gary Buslik
[American travel writer and author and PhD professor of literature at University of Illinois at Chicago.]
Eleven-year-old Kirsten is a smart-aleck who happens to be much smarter than her clueless family and socialist adult friends, who still believe the Soviet-Union-utopia myth. She peels the layers of their stupidity with charming silliness and go-girl bravery. The funniest scene I ever read in any book is the one in which, as her classmates and leaders weep with maudlin goofiness at the prospect of leaving Russia, Kirsten tries to manufacture tears by imaging her parents on fire. But even that doesn't work.
This isn't Eloise's summer vacation. Koza writes with biting wit and delicious irony. A fun read, yes, but also for those who enjoy witnessing intelligence at work.
Not Eloise's Summer Vacation
Gary Buslik
[American travel writer and author and PhD professor of literature at University of Illinois at Chicago.]
Eleven-year-old Kirsten is a smart-aleck who happens to be much smarter than her clueless family and socialist adult friends, who still believe the Soviet-Union-utopia myth. She peels the layers of their stupidity with charming silliness and go-girl bravery. The funniest scene I ever read in any book is the one in which, as her classmates and leaders weep with maudlin goofiness at the prospect of leaving Russia, Kirsten tries to manufacture tears by imaging her parents on fire. But even that doesn't work.
This isn't Eloise's summer vacation. Koza writes with biting wit and delicious irony. A fun read, yes, but also for those who enjoy witnessing intelligence at work.
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An Amazing Camp Adventure
Carol Riddell
Lost in Moscow was so much fun to read, I found myself wiggling with giggles at several points. Kirsten Koza did such a great job re-creating the secret thoughts, angst, fears and dreams of her 11-year-old-self that I felt like I was right there as a kid, too! It's been awhile since I've thought about expressions we used in the seventies - and how much passion and fun we had with them ... and toe socks!
However, this camp experience was so bizarre and harrowing that, at times, I found myself feeling more like a parent — wanting to get that girl out of there! My 15-year-old daughter was also impressed with this book - and the things she learned about the USSR were quite an eye-opener for her. She now tells me I should have forced her to keep a journal at a younger age, so she could write like this too!
Kirsten has a nice, natural style of writing, with dialogue and descriptive settings that put me right in the scene. Bravo! I'm looking forward to her next book.
An Amazing Camp Adventure
Carol Riddell
Lost in Moscow was so much fun to read, I found myself wiggling with giggles at several points. Kirsten Koza did such a great job re-creating the secret thoughts, angst, fears and dreams of her 11-year-old-self that I felt like I was right there as a kid, too! It's been awhile since I've thought about expressions we used in the seventies - and how much passion and fun we had with them ... and toe socks!
However, this camp experience was so bizarre and harrowing that, at times, I found myself feeling more like a parent — wanting to get that girl out of there! My 15-year-old daughter was also impressed with this book - and the things she learned about the USSR were quite an eye-opener for her. She now tells me I should have forced her to keep a journal at a younger age, so she could write like this too!
Kirsten has a nice, natural style of writing, with dialogue and descriptive settings that put me right in the scene. Bravo! I'm looking forward to her next book.
From Amazon.co.uk:
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Lost in Moscow is fabulously funny, furiously fast and frightening
Travel-Bug "G.L."
Too bad western parents!....you can't avoid your pre-teen's puberty by sending them to Soviet summer camp in the USSR anymore!
In 1977 the author's parents did just that and a good thing too, because now we get to read about Kirsten Koza's hilarious culture shocking experiences at communist-Russian summer camp. The Black Sea camp this cheeky girl was sent to boasted cosmonaut training, had lawns dotted with war-planes and was where the Soviet Union sent all it's top athlete-teens and highest academic achievers and then there was Kirsten, a citizen of the UK and Canada, and just a regular 11-year-old girl. The end result is the funniest book I've ever read!
Can the commies convert this little capitalist? Can she ever learn to stomach the camp delicacies like whole boiled under-cooked cow tongue with taste buds and skin still on? Can she draw a picture that won't offend the Soviet government? Can she survive being radiated in a Russian sanatorium, the vodka, the humiliating toilets, or a parachute that doesn't fit? Well I guess she must have because she lived to write the book... but I was never quite certain if she'd survive the next embarrassing or dangerous moment as I lived that summer through her eyes.
Lost in Moscow is a brilliant read!
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Lost in Moscow is fabulously funny, furiously fast and frightening
Travel-Bug "G.L."
Too bad western parents!....you can't avoid your pre-teen's puberty by sending them to Soviet summer camp in the USSR anymore!
In 1977 the author's parents did just that and a good thing too, because now we get to read about Kirsten Koza's hilarious culture shocking experiences at communist-Russian summer camp. The Black Sea camp this cheeky girl was sent to boasted cosmonaut training, had lawns dotted with war-planes and was where the Soviet Union sent all it's top athlete-teens and highest academic achievers and then there was Kirsten, a citizen of the UK and Canada, and just a regular 11-year-old girl. The end result is the funniest book I've ever read!
Can the commies convert this little capitalist? Can she ever learn to stomach the camp delicacies like whole boiled under-cooked cow tongue with taste buds and skin still on? Can she draw a picture that won't offend the Soviet government? Can she survive being radiated in a Russian sanatorium, the vodka, the humiliating toilets, or a parachute that doesn't fit? Well I guess she must have because she lived to write the book... but I was never quite certain if she'd survive the next embarrassing or dangerous moment as I lived that summer through her eyes.
Lost in Moscow is a brilliant read!
These are the readings Kirsten usually does for schools and at other events.
She starts with an excerpt about sitting on the toilet contemplating cannibalism while telling fibs in her diary because there wouldn’t be the book “Lost in Moscow” at all without that little travel diary she was forced to write in by her mother.
The Moscow toilet was her first taste of culture shock – and the Soviet pop machine was another taste — it had a shared glass — all of Moscow drank from that glass — and it is probably why Kirsten ended up sick, in a Soviet hospital, where she was forgotten in public in plain view with a rectal thermometer sticking out of her bare bottom.
Kirsten was terrified that she wouldn’t be released from the hospital ever and she had to creatively hide her food so they’d think she was healthy and eating.
She starts with an excerpt about sitting on the toilet contemplating cannibalism while telling fibs in her diary because there wouldn’t be the book “Lost in Moscow” at all without that little travel diary she was forced to write in by her mother.
The Moscow toilet was her first taste of culture shock – and the Soviet pop machine was another taste — it had a shared glass — all of Moscow drank from that glass — and it is probably why Kirsten ended up sick, in a Soviet hospital, where she was forgotten in public in plain view with a rectal thermometer sticking out of her bare bottom.
Kirsten was terrified that she wouldn’t be released from the hospital ever and she had to creatively hide her food so they’d think she was healthy and eating.
Writing Lies in a Travel Diary
Lost in Moscow, pages 41-42
Chip, Rhonda and I lay in our beds, talking about our first day. We probably were exhausted but we could not sleep. It was two in the morning. I had never stayed up so late in my life. I had been up til 1:30 once at a sleepover. 2:00 was a new record.
“Everyone we have met seems to live so differently from us,” Rhonda said. She was lucky to be on the top bunk.
“Can you imagine living in a grass hut with a dirt floor?You’d never have to vacuum.” I hardly ever had to do housework so I didn’t know why I said that. My friend Patty Gluck, from next door, had to do chores every day. She dusted and vacuumed and cleaned and cut grass and did tons of stuff. Once, I told my parents that I thought that I should do chores too. I did for a couple of days. I found I wasn’t the chore-doing type. I had thought it would be neat to do chores for an allowance. My way was better, though. Do nothing and ask for money when you need it.
“I hope it stops raining tomorrow for sightseeing.” Chip’s voice was getting scratchy.Yup, we were tired.
“I didn’t write in my travel diary yet!” I leaped out of bed and grabbed it from the top of my carry-on bag.“I’ll do it in the bathroom so the light won’t bug you.” I loved being considerate.
“Thank you.” Rhonda was starting to mumble.
I hoped nobody snored. I could not sleep with snoring. My grandma snored. You could hear her two rooms away. I hated sleeping in the same room with her. I bit her arm once when I was in grade three.We were sleeping in the same bed at my Auntie Pie’s, in the Queen’s gardens, near Windsor Castle, in England. My grandma had dozed off reading. She was snoring and it bugged me. I looked at the meat on her arm and just got the urge to chomp. Her glasses flew right off her face. I left a ring of teeth marks on her arm. The biting part felt good. I’d never forget it, the feeling of the flesh. The shock and pain my grandma went through did not feel so good. She asked me why I did it. I didn’t really know. It might not have been the snoring. It might just have been because of the look of the meat on her arm. Like a big chicken drumstick. Human was supposed to taste like pork. It was probably better than the fish we had had at dinner. If I was really starving, I wondered, could I eat it? Could I eat a human?
I was sitting on the toilet now with my diary out. I’d try to poo again. I’d poo and write at the same time. Reading always helped so writing might too.At home I read the dictionary on the toilet, so I’d get better at Scrabble and be able to beat Gram. The rim was still cold, maybe colder than before. I could probably eat a person if it was a life and death situation. It would just depend how they were cooked. Boiled was definitely out of the question. I started to write. I wrote, Russia is a very nice place. When we got off the plane it began to pour with rain. The trip on the bus to the hotel was a very nice one. Right now I am in bed hearing the gentle breathing of my friend and the friendly gossip of two Russian men outside our room. There, that was enough. That was pretty good. Especially the gentle breathing and the friendly gossip bit. It wasn’t all true, but I couldn’t very well write that I was sitting on a toilet without a seat. My parents would want to read this when I got home.
Chip, Rhonda and I lay in our beds, talking about our first day. We probably were exhausted but we could not sleep. It was two in the morning. I had never stayed up so late in my life. I had been up til 1:30 once at a sleepover. 2:00 was a new record.
“Everyone we have met seems to live so differently from us,” Rhonda said. She was lucky to be on the top bunk.
“Can you imagine living in a grass hut with a dirt floor?You’d never have to vacuum.” I hardly ever had to do housework so I didn’t know why I said that. My friend Patty Gluck, from next door, had to do chores every day. She dusted and vacuumed and cleaned and cut grass and did tons of stuff. Once, I told my parents that I thought that I should do chores too. I did for a couple of days. I found I wasn’t the chore-doing type. I had thought it would be neat to do chores for an allowance. My way was better, though. Do nothing and ask for money when you need it.
“I hope it stops raining tomorrow for sightseeing.” Chip’s voice was getting scratchy.Yup, we were tired.
“I didn’t write in my travel diary yet!” I leaped out of bed and grabbed it from the top of my carry-on bag.“I’ll do it in the bathroom so the light won’t bug you.” I loved being considerate.
“Thank you.” Rhonda was starting to mumble.
I hoped nobody snored. I could not sleep with snoring. My grandma snored. You could hear her two rooms away. I hated sleeping in the same room with her. I bit her arm once when I was in grade three.We were sleeping in the same bed at my Auntie Pie’s, in the Queen’s gardens, near Windsor Castle, in England. My grandma had dozed off reading. She was snoring and it bugged me. I looked at the meat on her arm and just got the urge to chomp. Her glasses flew right off her face. I left a ring of teeth marks on her arm. The biting part felt good. I’d never forget it, the feeling of the flesh. The shock and pain my grandma went through did not feel so good. She asked me why I did it. I didn’t really know. It might not have been the snoring. It might just have been because of the look of the meat on her arm. Like a big chicken drumstick. Human was supposed to taste like pork. It was probably better than the fish we had had at dinner. If I was really starving, I wondered, could I eat it? Could I eat a human?
I was sitting on the toilet now with my diary out. I’d try to poo again. I’d poo and write at the same time. Reading always helped so writing might too.At home I read the dictionary on the toilet, so I’d get better at Scrabble and be able to beat Gram. The rim was still cold, maybe colder than before. I could probably eat a person if it was a life and death situation. It would just depend how they were cooked. Boiled was definitely out of the question. I started to write. I wrote, Russia is a very nice place. When we got off the plane it began to pour with rain. The trip on the bus to the hotel was a very nice one. Right now I am in bed hearing the gentle breathing of my friend and the friendly gossip of two Russian men outside our room. There, that was enough. That was pretty good. Especially the gentle breathing and the friendly gossip bit. It wasn’t all true, but I couldn’t very well write that I was sitting on a toilet without a seat. My parents would want to read this when I got home.
A Soviet Pop Machine
Lost in Moscow, pages 45-47
“That is a pop machine across the street.We can go there.” Nadia was neat. I liked her one thousand times better than Sonya. I wondered if you could get something without fizz from the pop machine. Everyone was pushing and shoving to get off the bus. Everyone was thirsty.
“Watch out!” Chip screamed at Sam.
Man, Soviet drivers were crazy. They drove a hundred miles an hour all the time. Their funny little cars were all over the road, swerving and beeping, brakes screeching, tires squealing. It was a nightmare crossing a road. Looking both ways wasn’t enough. Nadia took Rhonda’s and my hand and we ran like the Road Runner to get across.
“What’s the glass for?” Jay was at the machine, pointing to a small drinking glass on its ledge.“Did someone leave it?”
“The glass is for the pop.” Sonya had a kopek in her hand. She put it in the machine. Pop went into the glass.
“You mean everyone has to drink out of that glass?” Dee Dee’s nose crinkled.
“How can you take your pop with you? Can’t you get a can or bottle?” Alexi inquired while helping Oksana with her change. Oksana didn’t feel well. Her throat hurt and she had a headache. I wished I had a big brother.
“No. You drink your pop here out of the glass.” Sonya had finished her pop and put the glass back under the dispenser.
“This is very good.” Adrian was impressed. “Think of the waste and litter this cuts down on.”
“Yeah, but you are sharing a glass with all of Moscow and with no soap to clean it!” Dee Dee was not impressed. Sharing a glass didn’t bother me at all.
“This is going to take forever for the whole group to drink a pop.” I was eighth in line. I was worried too. I couldn’t drink pop fast. But I was so thirsty I didn’t want to wait until the end.
“What would you do if someone stole the glass?” Iggy asked.
“No one would steal the glass,”Adrian replied.“The citizens here have a great sense of honour. People do not steal here.”
“What would happen if someone did, though?” Iggy continued.
“It wouldn’t happen.”Adrian was solemn and definite. “Yeah but what if, just say if?” Iggy had his pop now.
“The Soviet people do not steal, Iggy.” Adrian was getting
irritated. I wanted Iggy to stop.
“Okay, but say one did. What would happen to them? Would they have to go to jail?”
“No!” Adrian was mad now.“No one would steal the glass here! There are hardly any criminals in Soviet jails.” I wondered if Adrian knew what he was talking about. “There is very little crime here.”
“Then why are there prisons at all? Who is in the prisons if it isn’t criminals?” Iggy had finished his pop.
“We are very proud of how little crime there is here. It is not like Canada or the United States.” Sonya smiled for the first time. I didn’t think she should have lumped us with the US. Nadia was looking at the ground. Nadia was not smiling.
“But someone is in the prisons.Who?” Iggy was pressing his luck. I didn’t know why someone just didn’t answer his question, though.
“Give your glass to the next person,” Adrian bellowed. Chip said something to Adrian in a hushed voice and Adrian started on Chip again.
“I want two pops.” Iggy had more change out. “I’m still thirsty.The glass is too small.”
“NO!”Adrian was going all shades again.
“Just wait until the end then, Iggy.” Chip was smart.“Wait until everyone has had some and then you can get more.”
“NO!”Adrian snapped.“We don’t have all day to spend over pop!”
There was one of those uncomfortable silences. No one said anything. We didn’t even look at each other. It was crazy having to line up and wait for each person to have drunk their pop before the next could go. My turn finally came. I watched the glass slowly fill. I took the glass and sipped.The pop tasted quite nice for pop. I wasn’t sure what the flavour was. It was the colour of ginger ale but it didn’t taste like ginger ale. It was nice and sweet. It wasn’t quite as bubbly as our pop, which helped me drink it but I still couldn’t go fast.
“Hurry up!” Little Karl was behind Rhonda.
“Gee, Karl, you are being as impatient as, um, as a, oh my, as a capitalist.” Rhonda dug that one in. It was great.
“No, I’m not.”You couldn’t see Little Karl’s eyes because of his stupid mirror sunglasses. It was cloudy. Good grief, he didn’t even need to wear them.“The selfish capitalist is the one hogging the glass!”
“That is a pop machine across the street.We can go there.” Nadia was neat. I liked her one thousand times better than Sonya. I wondered if you could get something without fizz from the pop machine. Everyone was pushing and shoving to get off the bus. Everyone was thirsty.
“Watch out!” Chip screamed at Sam.
Man, Soviet drivers were crazy. They drove a hundred miles an hour all the time. Their funny little cars were all over the road, swerving and beeping, brakes screeching, tires squealing. It was a nightmare crossing a road. Looking both ways wasn’t enough. Nadia took Rhonda’s and my hand and we ran like the Road Runner to get across.
“What’s the glass for?” Jay was at the machine, pointing to a small drinking glass on its ledge.“Did someone leave it?”
“The glass is for the pop.” Sonya had a kopek in her hand. She put it in the machine. Pop went into the glass.
“You mean everyone has to drink out of that glass?” Dee Dee’s nose crinkled.
“How can you take your pop with you? Can’t you get a can or bottle?” Alexi inquired while helping Oksana with her change. Oksana didn’t feel well. Her throat hurt and she had a headache. I wished I had a big brother.
“No. You drink your pop here out of the glass.” Sonya had finished her pop and put the glass back under the dispenser.
“This is very good.” Adrian was impressed. “Think of the waste and litter this cuts down on.”
“Yeah, but you are sharing a glass with all of Moscow and with no soap to clean it!” Dee Dee was not impressed. Sharing a glass didn’t bother me at all.
“This is going to take forever for the whole group to drink a pop.” I was eighth in line. I was worried too. I couldn’t drink pop fast. But I was so thirsty I didn’t want to wait until the end.
“What would you do if someone stole the glass?” Iggy asked.
“No one would steal the glass,”Adrian replied.“The citizens here have a great sense of honour. People do not steal here.”
“What would happen if someone did, though?” Iggy continued.
“It wouldn’t happen.”Adrian was solemn and definite. “Yeah but what if, just say if?” Iggy had his pop now.
“The Soviet people do not steal, Iggy.” Adrian was getting
irritated. I wanted Iggy to stop.
“Okay, but say one did. What would happen to them? Would they have to go to jail?”
“No!” Adrian was mad now.“No one would steal the glass here! There are hardly any criminals in Soviet jails.” I wondered if Adrian knew what he was talking about. “There is very little crime here.”
“Then why are there prisons at all? Who is in the prisons if it isn’t criminals?” Iggy had finished his pop.
“We are very proud of how little crime there is here. It is not like Canada or the United States.” Sonya smiled for the first time. I didn’t think she should have lumped us with the US. Nadia was looking at the ground. Nadia was not smiling.
“But someone is in the prisons.Who?” Iggy was pressing his luck. I didn’t know why someone just didn’t answer his question, though.
“Give your glass to the next person,” Adrian bellowed. Chip said something to Adrian in a hushed voice and Adrian started on Chip again.
“I want two pops.” Iggy had more change out. “I’m still thirsty.The glass is too small.”
“NO!”Adrian was going all shades again.
“Just wait until the end then, Iggy.” Chip was smart.“Wait until everyone has had some and then you can get more.”
“NO!”Adrian snapped.“We don’t have all day to spend over pop!”
There was one of those uncomfortable silences. No one said anything. We didn’t even look at each other. It was crazy having to line up and wait for each person to have drunk their pop before the next could go. My turn finally came. I watched the glass slowly fill. I took the glass and sipped.The pop tasted quite nice for pop. I wasn’t sure what the flavour was. It was the colour of ginger ale but it didn’t taste like ginger ale. It was nice and sweet. It wasn’t quite as bubbly as our pop, which helped me drink it but I still couldn’t go fast.
“Hurry up!” Little Karl was behind Rhonda.
“Gee, Karl, you are being as impatient as, um, as a, oh my, as a capitalist.” Rhonda dug that one in. It was great.
“No, I’m not.”You couldn’t see Little Karl’s eyes because of his stupid mirror sunglasses. It was cloudy. Good grief, he didn’t even need to wear them.“The selfish capitalist is the one hogging the glass!”
The Moscow Squat-Toilet
Lost in Moscow, pages 53-55
“Does anyone need to go to the toilet?” Sonya inquired. “There is a public toilet just over there.”
I needed to go. Most of us needed to.We headed over to the john, which was in a brick building.
“Rhon!” I was in utter disbelief.
“Oh my God!” She was too.
“Oh my.” Even Chip was shocked.
“I’ll see you later.” Dee Dee left the bathroom altogether.
The door of one of the toilet cubicles had swung open.There
was no toilet at all. There was a hole in the ground with two orange metal foot-pads with a turd on one of them. People were lined up in front of the cubicles. The doors on the cubicles were unbelievable too. They only covered the person’s body, not their face. So the lady going to the bathroom was staring right into the eyes of the people in the lineup.We got into line.
“Do you think the men’s is like this?”
“Ki-ersten, I think there is a good chance that it’s worse.” Chip hooked her purse strap over her neck to her opposite shoulder. She was obviously preparing for the worst. It was not like you could put your purse on the floor in this can. Gross. And you sure wouldn’t want to drop anything. There was a fat, old woman just finishing up in the one I was lined up in front of. She looked nasty. She swung open the door. Damn! There was a huge lump on the foot place of mine too. The woman next in line went in. Rhonda had entered hers. Rhonda looked at me over the door. I laughed at her.
“Shut up,” she laughed back.
I tried not to make eye contact with the woman who was going in front of me. It was too bizarre to look in the eyes of someone who was having a poop. When my cat Muzik went poo his eyes went out of focus. I noticed it was kind of like that for people too. It was my turn. I went in and closed the orange door. I tried to straddle the hole, not using the footpad that Mt. Kilimanjaro was residing on. I pulled down my jeans and looked ahead. I was so short that although I could still see over the top of the door, the bottom didn’t cover my bottom half. Everyone would be able to see me below the door with my pants down. What was with these stupid two-foot doors? They weren’t doors, they were gates.Why bother? There was no privacy. I wasn’t sure I could do this. I had to pee badly, though. I went. Now I knew why there were turds everywhere but the hole. It was so hard to aim this way, standing. My pee splashed on the cement floor, splashed up my jeans. I even felt it spray my hands and arms. There was no toilet paper! It didn’t matter. I’d already peed on my jeans. My GWGs were no longer Scrubbies. They were grubbies. An old woman was watching me with angry eyes. I dripped for one more second then pulled up my pants. I barely got out before she was pushing in the door. Her legs were bowed under the weight of her large body. She flattened me against the door frame on her way in. There was nowhere to wash your hands. I ran out into the open air.
“Gomme, gomme?” He was so close to me I could smell him. He was probably Rhonda’s age but had a man’s voice and whiskers. He did it again. His lips touched my ear. “Chewing gomme?” There was alcohol and cigarettes on his breath. He wore black leather shoes like a grown-up man would wear to work, but they were scuffed and wrinkled and he wore no socks. “I buy gomme?”
“No gum,” I whispered or maybe gasped. It was frightening. He made me think of the gypsies I had seen in England. There were more of them now. They all said gum funny, like the way it was spelled on the French side of the package.
“No gum.” I repeated it more loudly. “I have no gum.”
“You have gomme!”The first one was smiling. Kind of smiling. Maybe not nice smiling. His eyes had a light. They were blue but his hair was very black.“You have gomme,”he repeated.
“No, no gum.” I shook my head. I patted my pockets and shook my head. Suddenly Nadia was there. She spoke quickly and angrily to the boys. They scattered but stayed close. As our Canadian group moved off, the boys who were like men continued to call out “gomme” and “You sell jeans?" They followed us for a few seconds but then went back to their fountain where they hung out. I saw the first one light a cigarette. He struck the match on the bottom of his shoe. I’d never seen anyone do that before. I could still smell him. I didn’t normally like smelly people but for some reason I sort of liked his smell. It was an exciting smell. The smell of adventure.
“Does anyone need to go to the toilet?” Sonya inquired. “There is a public toilet just over there.”
I needed to go. Most of us needed to.We headed over to the john, which was in a brick building.
“Rhon!” I was in utter disbelief.
“Oh my God!” She was too.
“Oh my.” Even Chip was shocked.
“I’ll see you later.” Dee Dee left the bathroom altogether.
The door of one of the toilet cubicles had swung open.There
was no toilet at all. There was a hole in the ground with two orange metal foot-pads with a turd on one of them. People were lined up in front of the cubicles. The doors on the cubicles were unbelievable too. They only covered the person’s body, not their face. So the lady going to the bathroom was staring right into the eyes of the people in the lineup.We got into line.
“Do you think the men’s is like this?”
“Ki-ersten, I think there is a good chance that it’s worse.” Chip hooked her purse strap over her neck to her opposite shoulder. She was obviously preparing for the worst. It was not like you could put your purse on the floor in this can. Gross. And you sure wouldn’t want to drop anything. There was a fat, old woman just finishing up in the one I was lined up in front of. She looked nasty. She swung open the door. Damn! There was a huge lump on the foot place of mine too. The woman next in line went in. Rhonda had entered hers. Rhonda looked at me over the door. I laughed at her.
“Shut up,” she laughed back.
I tried not to make eye contact with the woman who was going in front of me. It was too bizarre to look in the eyes of someone who was having a poop. When my cat Muzik went poo his eyes went out of focus. I noticed it was kind of like that for people too. It was my turn. I went in and closed the orange door. I tried to straddle the hole, not using the footpad that Mt. Kilimanjaro was residing on. I pulled down my jeans and looked ahead. I was so short that although I could still see over the top of the door, the bottom didn’t cover my bottom half. Everyone would be able to see me below the door with my pants down. What was with these stupid two-foot doors? They weren’t doors, they were gates.Why bother? There was no privacy. I wasn’t sure I could do this. I had to pee badly, though. I went. Now I knew why there were turds everywhere but the hole. It was so hard to aim this way, standing. My pee splashed on the cement floor, splashed up my jeans. I even felt it spray my hands and arms. There was no toilet paper! It didn’t matter. I’d already peed on my jeans. My GWGs were no longer Scrubbies. They were grubbies. An old woman was watching me with angry eyes. I dripped for one more second then pulled up my pants. I barely got out before she was pushing in the door. Her legs were bowed under the weight of her large body. She flattened me against the door frame on her way in. There was nowhere to wash your hands. I ran out into the open air.
“Gomme, gomme?” He was so close to me I could smell him. He was probably Rhonda’s age but had a man’s voice and whiskers. He did it again. His lips touched my ear. “Chewing gomme?” There was alcohol and cigarettes on his breath. He wore black leather shoes like a grown-up man would wear to work, but they were scuffed and wrinkled and he wore no socks. “I buy gomme?”
“No gum,” I whispered or maybe gasped. It was frightening. He made me think of the gypsies I had seen in England. There were more of them now. They all said gum funny, like the way it was spelled on the French side of the package.
“No gum.” I repeated it more loudly. “I have no gum.”
“You have gomme!”The first one was smiling. Kind of smiling. Maybe not nice smiling. His eyes had a light. They were blue but his hair was very black.“You have gomme,”he repeated.
“No, no gum.” I shook my head. I patted my pockets and shook my head. Suddenly Nadia was there. She spoke quickly and angrily to the boys. They scattered but stayed close. As our Canadian group moved off, the boys who were like men continued to call out “gomme” and “You sell jeans?" They followed us for a few seconds but then went back to their fountain where they hung out. I saw the first one light a cigarette. He struck the match on the bottom of his shoe. I’d never seen anyone do that before. I could still smell him. I didn’t normally like smelly people but for some reason I sort of liked his smell. It was an exciting smell. The smell of adventure.
The Soviet Rectal Thermometer
Lost in Moscow, pages 106-107
The doctor said something in Russian and the translator translated. “I am told you did not eat your breakfast. Are you feeling sick to your stomach?”
“No. I feel fine. I feel great. I just don’t like kasha.”
The doctor came over to me and said, “Otkroitye rot, vysuntye yazyk.” I stuck out my tongue to show her how great my throat was now. She made a hmmm noise and wrote on her chart.The nurse produced a thermometer. I opened my mouth.
“Roll over,” the translator translated.
“No.” Oh my God, they weren’t going to give me a thermometer in my mouth—they wanted to stick it up my bum like a baby.
“The doctor needs to take your temperature.”
“Then she can do it under my tongue.” There was a three-way discussion in Russian.”
“We do not give children a thermometer to put under their tongue in case they bite glass.”
“I won’t bite the thermometer.” This was outrageous!
“If you want to join rest of your group, the doctor needs to take your temperature this way, otherwise we cannot let you leave the hospital.”
They had me trapped. I hated them all. I rolled over. My frilly bloomers were pulled down. The thermometer was freezing. I lay there in full view with a thermometer sticking out of my bum. The Russian girl was looking at me. I heard people in the hall. People came in and out of the room. I hated the girl staring at me. I put my face down in the pillow. Maybe I’d suffocate and die. Normally I did not want to die; right now, though, it would have been better that way, better to die. Several minutes went by. It was quiet now. When was the nurse going to come back and read my temperature, which was going to be normal after all this, anyway? I was fine. I waited. This was going on too long. I waited. They must have forgotten about me. Jeepers creepers! They forgot they were taking my temperature. I peeked at the Russian girl. She was reading now, not looking at me any more. I wondered if I should try to get her to find someone. I didn’t want to talk to her, though, not with something sticking out of my bare bum. Maybe I should yell. I’d yell. I couldn’t yell. I didn’t want all those people to come running in and see me. How could they have forgotten me like this? How could they have left me like this? I heard the sound of a teenage boy. He was saying something to the Russian girl. Why weren’t there curtains around these beds? I sunk my face deeper into the pillow. God, was this boy standing there look- ing at my bum? He said “bye” in Russian. She said “bye” back. I could hear my heart in my ears, the sound of my blood. My bum was burning. Burning with embarrassment. I bet it was red. Hot and red.
“How are you doing, Kirsten?” It was the voice of the translator. How could she ask that?
“Ummmm. I think they could take my temperature now.”
“Oh yes.You have been like this for long time!” She left. Good. She was going to get a nurse. I waited. I wondered if I could push the thermometer out with my bum hole muscles; I could say it just fell out finally because they had left me so long. There were footsteps again. I didn’t want to look in case it was that teenage boy.The thermometer was yanked out without warning. I pulled up my bloomers. No one even apologized. I must have been like that for fifteen minutes and no one even apologized. The nurse left the room. I rolled over onto my back and pulled up the sheet. Maybe they would let me go now. I’d get dressed. I looked for my suitcase. I looked under the bed. Weird. I looked all over the room. My bags were gone!
The doctor said something in Russian and the translator translated. “I am told you did not eat your breakfast. Are you feeling sick to your stomach?”
“No. I feel fine. I feel great. I just don’t like kasha.”
The doctor came over to me and said, “Otkroitye rot, vysuntye yazyk.” I stuck out my tongue to show her how great my throat was now. She made a hmmm noise and wrote on her chart.The nurse produced a thermometer. I opened my mouth.
“Roll over,” the translator translated.
“No.” Oh my God, they weren’t going to give me a thermometer in my mouth—they wanted to stick it up my bum like a baby.
“The doctor needs to take your temperature.”
“Then she can do it under my tongue.” There was a three-way discussion in Russian.”
“We do not give children a thermometer to put under their tongue in case they bite glass.”
“I won’t bite the thermometer.” This was outrageous!
“If you want to join rest of your group, the doctor needs to take your temperature this way, otherwise we cannot let you leave the hospital.”
They had me trapped. I hated them all. I rolled over. My frilly bloomers were pulled down. The thermometer was freezing. I lay there in full view with a thermometer sticking out of my bum. The Russian girl was looking at me. I heard people in the hall. People came in and out of the room. I hated the girl staring at me. I put my face down in the pillow. Maybe I’d suffocate and die. Normally I did not want to die; right now, though, it would have been better that way, better to die. Several minutes went by. It was quiet now. When was the nurse going to come back and read my temperature, which was going to be normal after all this, anyway? I was fine. I waited. This was going on too long. I waited. They must have forgotten about me. Jeepers creepers! They forgot they were taking my temperature. I peeked at the Russian girl. She was reading now, not looking at me any more. I wondered if I should try to get her to find someone. I didn’t want to talk to her, though, not with something sticking out of my bare bum. Maybe I should yell. I’d yell. I couldn’t yell. I didn’t want all those people to come running in and see me. How could they have forgotten me like this? How could they have left me like this? I heard the sound of a teenage boy. He was saying something to the Russian girl. Why weren’t there curtains around these beds? I sunk my face deeper into the pillow. God, was this boy standing there look- ing at my bum? He said “bye” in Russian. She said “bye” back. I could hear my heart in my ears, the sound of my blood. My bum was burning. Burning with embarrassment. I bet it was red. Hot and red.
“How are you doing, Kirsten?” It was the voice of the translator. How could she ask that?
“Ummmm. I think they could take my temperature now.”
“Oh yes.You have been like this for long time!” She left. Good. She was going to get a nurse. I waited. I wondered if I could push the thermometer out with my bum hole muscles; I could say it just fell out finally because they had left me so long. There were footsteps again. I didn’t want to look in case it was that teenage boy.The thermometer was yanked out without warning. I pulled up my bloomers. No one even apologized. I must have been like that for fifteen minutes and no one even apologized. The nurse left the room. I rolled over onto my back and pulled up the sheet. Maybe they would let me go now. I’d get dressed. I looked for my suitcase. I looked under the bed. Weird. I looked all over the room. My bags were gone!
Hiding Breakfast
Lost in Moscow, pages 127-128
I was being let go! I couldn’t believe it. I could join the others. A nurse with big calves had taken me from the hospital to another building. It was kind of an office building. There was a round table where I was to eat breakfast with three other kids, in this room that looked a bit like a classroom. A whole dead fish on a white plate was set down in front of me. The fish was definitely watching me. It was like one of those paintings you’d see in a gallery, where the eyes followed you wherever you went in the room.
A bowl of kasha was set down beside the dead fish. If I didn’t eat something, they would send me back to the hospital. If only there was somewhere to hide it, like behind the stove at home. Maybe I could hide the fish in my kasha so that at least it looked like I ate half my breakfast. I looked at the other three to make sure no one was watching me. I slid the fish off my plate and into my bowl of kasha. I tried to bury the dead fish. Its tail was too long—I couldn’t get it all in the bowl.
A teenage girl looked up at me. She made me think of Mary from Halifax. I put my arms around my bowl to hide what I had been up to. She was frowning at my empty fish plate.Why was she frowning? Of course! There should have been scraps on my plate. I wouldn’t eat the whole fish. There should have been bones and the head and the tail. She went back to eating. I slid the fish back out of the porridge bowl and onto the plate. Kasha had stuck to the outside of the fish. It looked even grosser now. I dropped my fork.
The girl looked again. She was looking at my plate. She frowned harder. I hoped she wouldn’t say something. I picked up my fork from under the table. As I sat up I bumped my head on a ledge under the table. A ledge! I sat all the way up. I looked around. I took my fork and knife and inserted them into the neck of the fish. I closed my eyes.This was awful. I cut. I could feel the knife sink through the fish. I opened my eyes.There was the head, eye still looking at me. Now the tail. Poor fishy. I cut off its tail. Good enough. I looked around to make sure no one was watching again. I took the fish body and slipped it onto the ledge that ran around the underside of the table top.
YES! Now for some kasha. I stuck my hand in my porridge bowl. The girl looked up again and saw me sitting there with my hand in my kasha bowl. She was looking at me like she could throw up. I laughed nervously. She turned away. I quickly took the handful of slop and loaded it onto the ledge. It was not so easy. I scraped it off my hand. I wiped the rest of the kasha off my hand and onto the underside of the table.Voila! Finito. Pretty damn good. It actually looked like I had eaten most of my breakfast. A woman was coming out to take my dishes. She told me what a good girl I was. I didn’t know the Russian words for it, but I could tell what she was saying anyway. I used that same voice when talking to Coolit.
I was being let go! I couldn’t believe it. I could join the others. A nurse with big calves had taken me from the hospital to another building. It was kind of an office building. There was a round table where I was to eat breakfast with three other kids, in this room that looked a bit like a classroom. A whole dead fish on a white plate was set down in front of me. The fish was definitely watching me. It was like one of those paintings you’d see in a gallery, where the eyes followed you wherever you went in the room.
A bowl of kasha was set down beside the dead fish. If I didn’t eat something, they would send me back to the hospital. If only there was somewhere to hide it, like behind the stove at home. Maybe I could hide the fish in my kasha so that at least it looked like I ate half my breakfast. I looked at the other three to make sure no one was watching me. I slid the fish off my plate and into my bowl of kasha. I tried to bury the dead fish. Its tail was too long—I couldn’t get it all in the bowl.
A teenage girl looked up at me. She made me think of Mary from Halifax. I put my arms around my bowl to hide what I had been up to. She was frowning at my empty fish plate.Why was she frowning? Of course! There should have been scraps on my plate. I wouldn’t eat the whole fish. There should have been bones and the head and the tail. She went back to eating. I slid the fish back out of the porridge bowl and onto the plate. Kasha had stuck to the outside of the fish. It looked even grosser now. I dropped my fork.
The girl looked again. She was looking at my plate. She frowned harder. I hoped she wouldn’t say something. I picked up my fork from under the table. As I sat up I bumped my head on a ledge under the table. A ledge! I sat all the way up. I looked around. I took my fork and knife and inserted them into the neck of the fish. I closed my eyes.This was awful. I cut. I could feel the knife sink through the fish. I opened my eyes.There was the head, eye still looking at me. Now the tail. Poor fishy. I cut off its tail. Good enough. I looked around to make sure no one was watching again. I took the fish body and slipped it onto the ledge that ran around the underside of the table top.
YES! Now for some kasha. I stuck my hand in my porridge bowl. The girl looked up again and saw me sitting there with my hand in my kasha bowl. She was looking at me like she could throw up. I laughed nervously. She turned away. I quickly took the handful of slop and loaded it onto the ledge. It was not so easy. I scraped it off my hand. I wiped the rest of the kasha off my hand and onto the underside of the table.Voila! Finito. Pretty damn good. It actually looked like I had eaten most of my breakfast. A woman was coming out to take my dishes. She told me what a good girl I was. I didn’t know the Russian words for it, but I could tell what she was saying anyway. I used that same voice when talking to Coolit.
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Lost in Moscow book cover by Doowah Design, courtesy of Turnstone Press.
© 2011 Kirsten Koza, all rights reserved | E-mail Kirsten
