Moscow Highlights - retroactive

On the longest night of the year, June 22-23rd, I was on an overnight train ride from St. Petersburg to Moscow. Friends in St. Petersburg had a lot of negative things to say about Moscow, though the rivalry between the "two capitals" as they call them proved to be much more alive on the second-capital St. Petersburg side than on the first-capital Moscow side. I was told that the people in Moscow were all "prieziy" (non-residents), mostly from the central Asian republics and the Causases and while I'm sure the more-than-slightly racist Russians feel their capital is being overrun I felt Moscow had a much more colorful, urban, and modern feel due to all of the immigrants and non-Russian speakers on the streets and in the metro. The metro, as in St. Petersburg, was beautiful. But in Moscow the system was better layed out in the form of an asterisk, with a bundle of transfer stations in the middle, a ring line around the center, and lines radiating to all of the outer areas. This city itself, unlike Piter, is not beautiful. The Kremlin, a huge walled city downtown where Putin and the rest of Russia's government resides (picured below) is apparently the most beautiful part of the city but the long lines of tourists and short hours prevented me from visiting. Personally, I was much more interested in seeing Lenin's Tomb and though I waited in line for a cumulative 3 hours or so (over two days) it was worth it.Below is Lenin's Mausoleum, where he's layed since his death in 1924. It's situated at the Western side of Red Square in front of the red Kremlin wall (which gives Red Square is name). Tourists and Communist crazies are allowed free entrance 10AM-1PM only three days per week, though you have to pay to check any cameras, camera-capable phone, or bags you may have with you (mandatory). Most people waiting in line to enter the tomb were part of tour groups and there was one particularly annoying huge Chinese tour group right in front of me which I managed to skip in front of at one point. Once I got to the front of the line I was allowed into the square to check my camera and then I proceeded to the entrance of the Mausoleum. The tour group which had entered the suare before me was standing outside the building getting a lecture on Lenin and on what to do and what not to do when inside. I ran ahead and found myself in the Mausoleum all alone with Lenin. Aside from the militiamen inside at each turn who used their arms to direct me through the dark, maze like, structure I was totally alone with Vladimir Ilyich. I had been warned of the rules - no standing, no hands in the pockets, no talking - and I walked very very slowly around Lenin's body staring at his face, his suit, his hands, the red velvet draped around where he lay. The looks on the guarding soldiers' faces were the most somber, lifeless ones I had ever seen. The whole experience - especially being in there alone- was incredibly eerie and almost hypnotizing. I would recommend it to anyone visiting Russia.About those Communist crazies. There are lots of them around Red Square. These Lenin, Stalin, and (does anyone know who the third guy is supposed to be?) impersonators are there everyday behind Red Square near the entrance to the Lenin Museum and tourists like to take photos with them. When I was there I saw some elderly Communists come up to the Lenin-look-alike, shake his hand, hug him and exchange famous Communist slogans.Directly in front of the entrance to the Lenin Museum there was a crowd of elderly Communists. Mostly Russian babushkas dressed in "halats" or colorful peasant housewife robes. Some were waving red flags and enthusiastically singing Communist work songs while others simply stood and watched or sat on the steps looking depressed and nostalgic for what the Soviet Union used to be, or maybe just nostalgic for what it used to represent. In Moscow I went to an independent rock music festival called "Avantfest" (check out the bands that played at http://www.avantmusic.ru/default.aspx?hti=61&ti=3) staged in the courtyard of some factory. As expected, indy hipsters are the same wherever you go. These really liked Converse Allstars and though I was under the impression that the shoes were out of US hipster fashion, others have disagreed with me on that. I ended up chatting with some of the college-aged organizers and after the show I translated an interview (a Scottish duo called Arab Strap) for one of the organizers/online journalists. Though this is the biggest independent music festival in Russia I had never heard of any of the bands that played, the organizers were volunteers, and all of the press there was amateur. The kids at the show though seemed to understand completely their situation explaining to me that while the indy music genre has been going strong in the US for decades it has only started to take hold in Russia recently. Hell, nothing was independent in Russia until 1990. It was really nice to see some healthy youth nievety in Russia.
My last day in Moscow I called up my mom's old school friend Lena, now living in Moscow, whom my mother hadn't seen for over 30 years. She took me to a fantastic Russian "tractor-style" chain restaurant called "Yolki Palki" which has an awesome all you can eat Russian salad/hor d'overs bar for 250 rubles (9 bucks). Apparently my mother's crew of girlfriends in Kishinev was 4 strong and now I've met all of them (Lucya and Maria live in Israel and I met up with them there). What I find most fascinating in meeting these women is that they are so similar to my mother. First off they are all extremely generous and sweet, like my mother, but have a little tiny gleam of obnoxiousness, like my mother. They are all extremely easy to talk to and openned up to me right away sharing things about my mother that only they could really know. Luckily, I got to meet all of their husbands and that was really interesting because they are all a bit (some a bit more) like my father.

From Moscow to Balta

Sorry I didn't get to post while in Moscow, but just wanted to let you all know I'm heading to Balta now for a week. I will be spending the week with a group of graduate students from St. Petersburg Judaica Institute on expedition. They will be interviewing the small community of Balta Jews, many of whose family's have been living in Balta for many generations.

Klezmerfest, St. Petersburg

On Wednesday I attended a concert in St. Petersburg which was part of "Klezmerfest," a celebration of the Jewish folk music that is Klezmer and a forum and workshop for Klezmer musicians from different countries. I've always really liked the fiddle-like violin, the improvisation, and the soulful clarinet in Klezmer music and the recent "hipness factor" that this music has earned in places like New York and Warsaw made me curious to hear what klezmer musicians were doing here now. I was also curious what kind of crowd would show up. It turned out the crowd was mostly elderly Jewish folk, but a good amount of non-Russian tourists showed up, as well as some student-aged people. But there were no hipsters! A few of the musicians, however, specifically those from New York and England who I met when I ventured backstage at intermission, had a bit of that sort of geeky hipster Jew feel that many of my friends at Harvard snd Stuyvesant epitomized. The New Yorker is the one at the synthesizer in the first photo. He is attempting to integrate "hip-hop" with "klezmer" - I'd say his attempt was unsuccesful.The most amazing part of this experience was that Sergo Bengilsdorf, the journalist/music professor/Yiddish star whom I lived with in Kishinev was there! I had no idea he was going to be there and when I heard him being introduced by the MC I almost jumped out of my seat. I thought I'd never see him again. Suddently all of my Kishinev memories came back. It was as if my trip had come full circle. I remembered Sergo lovingly feeding his cat Lucya tiny bits of cow liver he cut up for her in the kitchen. I remembered him and his wife listening to his Yiddish-language radioshow (which every Jew in Kishinev knew about and every Yiddish-speaker listened to). Sergo and his wife welcomed me, a total stranger, as if I were their granddaughter. And it was so good to feel at home in a place so foreign as Kishinev and so cold. I cannot express what it was about this couple. They just radiated with love, devotion, and happiness - and projected these feelings onto eachother, onto their narod, and onto me. Of all the wonderful people I've met on this trip, Sergo was the most amazing and inspiring. I ran upto him at intermission and he gave me the warmest, happiest hug and in his ho-ho-ho Santa Claus voice told me that he hoped (and knew somehow) he'd see me here since I had told him I'd be in Piter in mid-June. I'm so glad that I didn't decide to go to Moscow one day earlier. I could have easily missed him. That's him in the photo playing the piano and playing a little skit with his singer (beyond the frame).

US Navy night out in St. Petersburg

Oh my way to the train station last night (to catch the overnight from St. Petes to Moscow) I ran into a bunch of American sailors with whom I had a drink and chatted for an hour or so. While one of them was doing a very good job showing the world how obnoxious drunk Americans can be (the one turned away), the other two were incredibly nice and friendly and normal. I translated for the Russian dudes in the back who were interested in talking about things like whose ships are better.

Avant Garde Play, Bridges, Tsarskoe Selo

Last Thursday I went to see the Andreevsky Theater's Production of Andrey Bely's novel Petersburg (staged in the courtyard of the Mikhailovsky Palace). I had heard from Ira that the director, Andrei Moguchi, had a reputation of puting on crazy avant-garde plays and though this was enough to discourage Ira from paying the relatively hefty price (800 rubles ~ 30$) I decided I had to see it, and even suggested it to visitors - Matt's friends Vera and Victor, and Victor's grandmother from Moscow. The four of us sat in a box with benches (one of ten boxes facing each other as below) whose walls opened and closed (and the boxes themselves were rolled around too) throughout the production. The stage was shaped like a runway between the two rows of five boxes of spectators, and in the beginning of the play it functioned well as Nevsky prospect. The small band (brass and xylophone) and chorus stood on top of the boxes facing eachother. For the last fifteen minutes of the production the audience was ushered out of its moving boxes and into the Mikhailovsky Palace where we got to witness the fates of all of the play's characters. In one room the revolutionary son character hung himself, in another the secondary characters were laid out on the floor as if dead for everyone to walk around and look at. The only room of the palace that has been renovated to look as it did two hundred years ago (fourth photo down) was filled with windup clocks. Other characters from the play walked among the audience as they walked through the rooms of the castle acting their parts, perhaps in an attempt to pull the audience itself into the play. As you can see below there were lots of dwarfs and lots of scary make-up. For some reason I feel like in the US avant-garde has taken on a bit of a different, more contemporary meaning - I don't think this would go off in New York. But please let me know if I'm wrong. I'm curious to hear what you all have to say on this topic. Friday night Vera, Victor, Victor's grandma, and I stayed up all night to watch the bridges open and close.



Yesterday Ira, Genya, and Ira's mother took me to the town of Pushkin/Tsarkoe Selo, where one of the most fancy palaces around St. Petersburg is located. The beautifully manicured park around the palace, as well as the wild, woodsy park on its other side were really wonderful to walk through. And I got burned from the hot sun. The "beach" along the walls of the Peter and Paul Fortress. That's the Neva you see, which is not nearly clean enough to swim in, though there were plenty of people swimming in it.

Land of Opportunity

These are some of the kids that hang out with Kuzya in the "dvor" or courtyard near my building. The one sitting next to Kuzya, who's name is Marfa (yes, with an f) showed up ridiculously dressed up in this 80s see through prostitute-like outfit and just when I was going to ask her where she was going she said she was taking a walk just around the neighborhood, maybe stopping by the produce store.On the bank ad: "Russia: Land of Opportunity."

Genya dressed up

Genya is dressed up because professors here like it when students get dressed up on exam days. Most of his final exams work like so: each student picks a question out of a hat then gets a certain amount of time to prepare an answer. After his time is up he's called up to the professor's desk and given an oral examination on that question. Almost everyone, and most certainly Genya, prepare little index cards with all sorts of information on them and shove them in their pockets on exam days to use when preparing their oral answer. This is not at all legal but apparently everyone cheats here and when I suggested that maybe someone could give away a cheater to the professor he said that would never happen. When I told him that some universities in the US work on an honor system in which students are expected to tell on each other he really thought I was kidding with him. He could not fathom how such a system might actually work. Another, I think related, social practice here is that drivers on highways are expected to flash their lights to warn oncoming traffic when they see a cop car hiding out behind a curve. I guess you could call it brotherly love.

Vyborg and Rich Datcha

Vyborg is located on the Karelian isthmus only 38 km. from the border with Finland. It has belonged to the Leningrad oblast since the Soviet army took over and beat the Finns in the Winter War of 1939. Well, that's not totally true. Vyborg was reconquered by the Finns between August 29, 1941 and the Red Army's Fourth Strategic Offensive in early June, 1944. My grandpa fought here during the Winter War and in his book he writes that the Finns fought so hard because the Karelian isthmus was their most prized land. He also suggests that Russia should give back the isthmus to Finland now, but it seems to me that most people, including most Finns, have accepted it as part of Russia. Vyborg castle in the background. From left to right: Genya, Ira, Ira's father Shura, and Ira's brother Edik.Below is the souvenir market in front of the central Vyborg food market. I heard lots of Finnish here. Apparently Finns cross the border often just to take a fun little day trip with the family or to go food shopping at the market (according to Ira the bread is significantly better here, and most of the produce is cheapter than in Finland). When it was realtively difficult and very expensive to get alcohol in Finland they'd come over to Vyborg and buy it cheaply from Russians selling it illegally here.
View from Vyborg castle. The body of water is the Saimensky Canal, part of a system of canals that continues north to Helsinki. I took this photo because I could tell that old yellow building used to be really beautiful even though it now looks like an abandoned drug den.Another view from the castle: the canal and the nice walkway along the water.
After our little walk around Vyborg Edik had to stop by a construction site he was working on (he builds houses all around St. Petersburg). Edik builds lots of wooden-cabin type complexes outside the city which people use as summer datchas as well as winter getaways. This (photos below) was one such complex on a beautiful foresty peice of land on the shore of a secluded lake. The family who owns this place consists of a man in his mid-thirties who hit it big in real estate in the 90s, his former model wife, and their 16 year old son. There is one big house for the family complete with indoor pool and huge jacuzzi but that's not all. There's a steam and sauna house on the shore of the lake, a bunch of guest cabins, a few cabins for the on-site staff (which includes a housekeeper/dog walked, a manager, and some lanscapers), and more yet to be built. I was surprised to here that the couple cook for themselves on an all-American barbeque grill. The family has 4 Yorkshire terriers and two German sheepherds. I met one of the German Sheepherds, a really sweet massive old animal called Woland (Master and Margarita) who won my heart right away. We had tea at the housekeeper's cabin and sat gossiping about the family on the veranda as we watched the family from afar. The son was kicking around a soccer ball and the wife talked on her cell phone in the garden in a bright blue robe.

The OVIR

This is a very rough working draft of something I eventually want to write about in the book that I will hopefully be producing. This is my idea of how to integrate my grandfather's experiences with mine. I will probably include his original text (translated) and something like this as sort of commentary on it. Let me know what you writers think about this kind of style.
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The OVIR (Office for Visas and Registration) has always been an example of – and a metaphor for – the Soviet bureaucracy’s inefficiency as well as a blatant snapshot of the government’s total disregard for its population.

My grandfather writes about the OVIR, devoting a chapter of his autobiography to his experience applying for emigration. There was an endless list of documents he had to provide with his application. In addition to his passport, birth certificate, military documents, employment documents, diplomas, and an invitation from a close family relative—all of which, I assume were meant to prove his worthy existence and someone’s willingness to support him abroad—the Soviet OVIR wanted from him: statements of knowledge of departure from all living relatives, proof of death of mother and father, official release from place of employment, proof of the renovated condition of his apartment, etc. Some of these documents were impossible to obtain because they had been destroyed during the German occupation of the area. In such cases, the author explains, proof of documents could be restored by supplying a statement from court with the signature of two witnesses. “But where were witnesses to be found after a long 50 years of death and occupation?” he asks. “Potential witnesses were scattered all over the globe or worse--killed.” It became necessary, he explains, to hire people off of the streets and bribe them to serve as witnesses and swear in court for you.

Once one finally gathered all of the necessary documents, he went to the OVIR on either a Tuesday or a Thursday and waited in line until his turn came up. If he waited all day and his turn hadn’t come up he came back the next working day. Once his documents were looked through and accepted he was told to wait for a reply, which for most came between 3 months and a year later. Many were totally unemployed during this period having already submitted their documents for resignation from their place of work (as was required, of course). My unemployed grandfather would stop by the OVIR every few weeks and ask how his application was moving along, always getting the official reply: “Your case has not yet been decided.” After 5 months he finally received a summons in the mail telling him to appear at the OVIR with his family the next day. He writes that he had almost given up hope by that time, and that he was sure that the Ministry had simply gotten sick of his nagging and decided to put aside his application. He had decided for himself that day that the summons was a denial. Luckily he was wrong, and the next day was probably the happiest in his life.

I kept my grandfather’s OVIR experience in mind when I visited the organization (4 times) in my (unsuccessful) attempt to register my residency directly with them. It would have been easier to go through a tourist agency, but it also would have been 5 times more expensive and I just thought it unnecessary. Though the experiences I had with the OVIR in St. Petersburg in 2006 came nothing at all close to being as torturous as my grandfather’s in Kishinev in 1978 – the OVIR for me was a budget choice for registration, while for my grandfather the OVIR held the key to the rest of his (and his family’s) life—I couldn’t help but notice how things hadn’t changed much.

I first visited the OVIR on Monday, May 10th, only my second day in St. Petersburg. Since I was officially invited to Russia by a tourist agency (called “OOO Victoria”) I was officially supposed to register through them, but since they were officially charging 50$ compared to the 10$ the OVIR was charging, I figured I’d try to register at my actual place of residency under my landlady’s passport. Registering is about getting permission to live in a city after all, and since I can’t actually live at the “OOO Victoria” tourist agency I figured this was not only a logical alternative to going through the agency but a more honest one. Only on my 4th visit to the OVIR did I realize that this type of logical reasoning is utterly useless in Russia.

I had experienced the line of angry pensioners at the Russian embassy in New York (see post from December, 2003) when applying for my Russian visa and I had already mentally braced myself for something at least as frustrating here on May 10th. I was disappointed, however, as the office for foreigner registration was on its day off (one of 5 during the week). Working hours were Tuesdays from 1-3pm and Thursdays from 4-6pm. Technically, a foreigner visiting St. Petersburg has to register his place of residency within three days (not including Saturday, Sunday and holidays) of his/her arrival into the country. This rule applies for citizens of any country other than Russia, including citizens of the former Soviet republics. I quickly did the math to work out that two working days per week is the exact minimum needed to fulfill this 3-day requirement. (Rethinking this now, if a person arrives on say, Thursday evening after 6:00, he actually has no way of fulfilling the registration requirement within 3 days.) In addition, no matter the visa’s period of validity (mine was 3 months) the person must register anew every month. This last bit about re-registering every month I was not informed of until I arrived even though I read through all of the Russian embassy materials online.

I came back to the OVIR at 4:00 on Tuesday, May 11th, still within my crucial 3 day time period. I don’t know why but I hadn’t foreseen that a line of about 15 people would have already formed in front of me. Apparently some of the people had been waiting since morning and someone had put together a list so I put myself down as number 16. After an hour or so I called Sveta, who of course needed to be there for me to register as living in her apartment, and told her to come by. We waited for an hour, only to see the door close at 6:00 at number 10 or so. I had no choice but to visit the tourist agency and fork over 50 bucks for them to register me.

When month number 2 was coming up I decided I was going to give it my all and try to register at the OVIR again. And it wasn’t just because of the money—it was the principle of it that made me go back to the OVIR instead of back to the tourist agency. Doing things like this on principle, I realize, is much more American than it is Russian. On the morning of June 8th I made my 3rd trip to the Vasilevsky neighborhood OVIR. I wasn’t going to make the same mistake I made in May and made sure to go early to get my name high up on the list this time. When I showed up at noon there was no one waiting in line and there was no list. I managed to find an officer, who told me she knew nothing about a list and that I had to show up at 4:00 and wait in line. I figured I’d take the opportunity to ask her about my “unique situation” and when I told her all about it she told me I could only register through the tourist agency that had invited me. Still, she said, I could come between 5:00 and 7:00 and talk to the “nachalnik” (the boss) to try to get special permission.

The nachalnik had a separate office next to the inspector’s with “NACHALNIK” and visiting hours written out on her door. That afternoon I showed up with Sveta early enough to meet the nachalnik, who told me I had to go through the agency that invited me. She also (was nice enough to) let me know that I was supposed to have registered within three days prior to my one month being up, and my month had happened to be up that day. This unwritten rule, of which no one had informed me, seemed counterintuitive; since you’re given three free days when you arrive before you are expected to be registered, wouldn’t you have three days to register after your month was up? I walked out, not so pissed this time, since I didn’t go in there expecting much. Just a little confused. I got some hachapuri (Georgian cheese-stuffed flatbread) and wine to help with the confusion and went home. It was no big deal, I would just go to the Turfirma the next day and take care of it.

Once I had become a regular visitor to the Vasilevsky OVIR I felt myself a bit of an expert and sat back and watched the confused first time visitors who couldn’t quite tell how things worked there. I noticed how people left their dignity at the door, becoming completely servile to the authorities. People in line didn’t talk to each other, and only when someone new came in and made a fool of him or herself –by not knowing which line to wait in or which door to stand by for his particular query—did the people in line seem to acknowledge their solidarity by laughing at him together. Once in a while someone, usually some feisty middle-aged woman, would cut her way through the line, announce that her request was urgent, and barge through the door and into the office. While people seemed pissed, no one ever had the confidence to stand up and stop her, and she always seemed to get through and get what she needed to done.

I’m sure my grandfather would have made the same observations as I did when he visited the OVIR often during those 5 months in 1978. I wonder how he acted. I cannot imagine him leaving his dignity outside. At first he probably acted like those obnoxious middle-aged women who barge in. I know for sure my aunt Dina, his daughter, would have acted like that (and still does) and everyone knows she got much of her character from him. Still, surely he couldn’t go on acting like that for 5 months. Maybe grandpa was one of those first people in line who volunteers to start the impromptu list so people don’t have to hang around for 3 hours and wait their turn. Maybe he was one of the few people you could tell have retained their humanity, those willing to help out the confused first-time visitors instead of ignore them. For sure he never liked being passive or obedient, and I’m sure being at the OVIR made him as frustrated and upset as it did me.

People in positions of power in the Soviet Union, of course, never had to deal with the OVIR and its tortures. Now, it seems, it is money that separates those who wait in line and those who don’t. Those who can afford it go through tourist agencies called “Turfirmas” which charge a hefty price for official documents like passports, visas, and registration. And those who can’t afford to go through agencies miss a day of work (and a day of pay) and wait in line. This is how capitalism and democracy has changed Russia. Of course, for the most part, those who could avoid the unpleasantness of bureaucracy back then can also afford to avoid it now. But it seems that there are a lot of people rich enough to avoid the unpleasantness now who couldn’t avoid it back then (incidentally, the Jewish population is probably very well represented in this sector of society). This is one of the reasons, I think, the situation in Russia in general is perceived as moving forward. People perceive things as much better now because they themselves have more control; if they work hard and make a lot of money they don’t have to wait in line anymore. But in actuality, the government cares just as little about them as it did when this place was the Soviet Union.

Technical Difficulties

Last week I attempted to visit Petrozovodsk, the capital of the Karelian Republic of Russia, and Kizhi, a small island in Lake Onega off the easter shore of Russian Karelia. Unfortunately it stormed, it poored, and it hurricaned (well, not really, but it was really windy). And I was left disgustingly soaking wet for most of the day with no clothes to change into and no where to dry off. It was sort of depressing. Since I took the overnight train from Piter to Petrozovodsk and I had booked the overnight train back the next night I didn't get a chance to even really get a feel for the city. The main purpose of my trip was to see Kizhi and its amazing wooden church, and though I did get to visit the island it was so unpleasantly cold and rainy and muddy that all I could think of was how much I wanted to get back on the boat to Petrozovodsk. I was reminded of the soccer games I had to play in the late fall on Long Island in freezing cold rain and hail.
I know some of you were really looking forward to photos of Karelia and I'm really sorry that all I have to offer is one of the big church. Only when I stepped inside the pogost chapel across from the big Church of the Transfiguration (photo coming as soon as Blogger fixes my blog) was it dry enough for me to take out my camera. The church's edifice is over twice the height of Moscow's St Basil's.The pogost complex of wooden churches and a bell tower was built over three centuries by local carpenters. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kizhi_pogost
Last night I visited the famous Marinsky Theater to hear Shostakovich's 3rd and 13th Symphonies conducted by the world-famous conductor Valery Gergiev. I got the second cheapest tickets (5$) but somehow the best seat in the house, in the balcony right above the conductor's head. I had people coming up to me asking if they could stand behind my chair just to get a glimpse of him during the performance. Watching him conduct with only a toothpick (apparently he usually has nothing in his hands) was quite an experience. This year, as part of the "Stars of the White Nights" festival, St. Petersburg is celebrating the 100th anniversary of Dmitri Shostakovich's birth and presenting all of his symphonies through the summer.
The bridge I was standing on while taking this photo down Canal Griboediv is guarded by four griffins and stands right next to the FinEc, the city's business university which Genya attends. There are always lots of drinking students here posing with the griffins in interesting and varied poses.
St. Isaac's Cathedral looks quite scary in the late evening. White nights are (almost) here. Some people say they've already started but that's only because they are sleeping through the 2 hours or real darkness between about 1 and 3AM. This was taken on my walk home across the river a few nights ago at about 12:30. The signs on this fence read "The garden is closed due to techical reasons." In fact, lots of things in St. Petersburg seem to close quite often for technical reasons. For example, the cafe down the street from me has looked abandoned and has had a sign like this on its doors and windows since I arrived in St. Petersburg. The store around the corner from my apartment, which just this weekend put up signs that say "NOW 24 HOURS!!!" took down those signs on the first night of their newly extended hours to replace them with ones that announce that the store will be closed tonight between 10PM and 8AM due to technical difficulties (difficulties which I assume had something to do with either lack of staff or lack of customers).