Last weekend one of the most painful and rocky periods of my life entered its final phase. I bought the first pieces of furniture for our newly-built -- but not quite finished -- dacha.


The whole story began in 1989 or 1990 when my wife's father, who at the time was a medium-ranking executive at Gosstandard -- the State Committee for standards -- was offered a small piece of land in a new dacha development area. It was 700 square meters in the Pushkino region, about 40 kilometers away from Moscow, and at 1,500 rubles, we decided it would be silly not to take it. This was before we had bought our spacious Taganka apartment and were still living in a small studio flat in the southwest part of the city, so we thought it would be nice to build a serious house for ourselves, one where we could live full-time. We picked a design, a two-story, three-bedroom dwelling with a garage, and started construction. The trap snapped shut.


At the time, the estimated cost of building was about 100,000 rubles, a sum I could easily afford. We were also told that construction work would take under a year. And we, very naively, believed that all of that was true. In reality, the work took more than four years and God knows how much money -- I would say no less than $50,000. We have already gone through several teams of workers, and dealing with them always amounted to a pure class struggle. After lots of "everything will be in tip-top shape" promises and a month or two of proper work, the groups would suddenly lose interest in continuing, with no apparent reason, and disappear.


It wasn't because of money, because I always paid what was required. Nor was it because of "personal" problems -- we had been bringing them vodka regularly throughout and had even occasionally gotten drunk with them. Something else was to blame, and I still do not understand what. Actually, paying what was owed and making friendly offers of vodka all added up to a balancing act. Not paying was bad, because the workers would not work, but paying was also bad, because after that they would start drinking and give up working as well.


Slowly acquiring social and psychological experience, we pushed the construction forward step by step. By 1991, the foundation was ready. By 1992, the actual brick frame was laid in. By 1993, the roof and woodwork had been completed. And now we have just managed to get electricity, running water, an irrigation system, heating and pretty white walls inside. All that is left is the fence and fireplaces.


I'm grateful to all of the workers -- yes, all the approximately 30 of them who have labored over the course of the construction -- and I like the house very much. Considering the amount of time, money and nerves invested in it, however, I would not recommend that anyone subject themselves to the same project. If you are not a ruble billionaire who can afford foreign workers and unlimited materials, building a house in these times of skyrocketing prices and uncertain working relations can be a major misadventure. All over the Moscow region you can see half-built and abandoned houses -- the so-called nedostroi -- that owners could not afford to finish. I am glad we were not among them, but it has taken an enormous effort to get this thing done. My advice to those who are considering building in the country: Don't do it. You will be better off buying an existing dacha, walking back and forth to the well, using a plain old outhouse and just taking it easy.


n


Last Sunday I was invited to a birthday party for Alyona Sviridova, a talented up-and-coming pop singer whose "Pink Flamingo" video is currently getting a lot of air play. The party took place on a small riverboat and was sponsored by an assortment of trading companies, whose youngish bosses seem to enjoy being the patrons of show-business types. The party itself wasn't bad at all, and it shed some interesting light on the current trends and habits of Moscow's rich and (sometimes) famous. One amusing thing was that almost everyone was talking endlessly on portable phones -- discussing whatever business they could have possibly had on a Sunday evening. Another was the small-time "we paid for it all" vandalism, when plates, bottles and life preservers flew overboard, accompanied by loud laughter. The fashion "must" of the party seemed to be straw hats of different shapes and colors. One positive aspect was the almost complete absence of prostitutes. Instead, the boat was full of nice-looking yuppie girls -- all bearing their portable phones.