Update

It's been awhile since I last posted. That's not because nothing has happened, rather, because what shocked and disgusted me before now only evokes a chagrined smile. I was recently pushed out of my flat (I say -pushed- instead of thrown not because it was less than being thrown out, but because this time I dealt some therapeutic bitch slaps, although in the end it was me who turned out to be the dupe, on a number of levels.) The total bill for rip-offs this year is around 1000 dollars. One of my main reasons, if not THE main reason, is the cash: subtract the amount which has been separated from you from your annual income to arrive at your total income, then compare it to your after-tax US income. The result: you get paid better here. You are paying your university debts faster than you would be able to at home. You are simultaneously learning a foreign language. Of course, there are non-monetary costs- low trust and high disgust.
A quick run-down: I was living in NW Moscow in a good but overpriced flat until October, when Claptrap, my alcoholic, iconically debt-addicted US-heartland roommate's behavior became unbearably destructive. At the same moment I understood who and what Claptrap was, the world understood what the US was. While my living arrangement was turning to shit, people were talking about runs on the banks and massive unemployment, so I deemed it prudent to move to a more affordable room in SE Moscow.
I had already lived in my "new" place once before, when I first came to Moscow in 2006. The first time I lived there, I got thrown out by the supposedly imminent return, which in fact never materialised, of the gentlehearted landlady's unloved greasebucket ex-husband, which was the first link in a chain reaction of stolen deposits, scum-wafer landlords, and sundry whoremonger or homosexual ex-pat roommates.
I did not learn from history, and it repeated itself: the ex-husband wanted to come back, and his discovery of my existence might cause intra- and inter-family violence, so I had to go.
An acquaintance named Ivan, a real estate agent, offered to find a flat for me, and even give me a decent discount on the agent's fees. Since the beginning of the Great Recession, or what Russians call the Crisis, real estate prices have been falling, and what previously would have been unthinkably expensive locations have fallen back within the reach of ESL types like me. 600 bucks for a flat two minutes from the subway, three stops from the Kremlin. I jumped on the offer.
The landlord was a gentle, thoughtful, age-tonsured fellow with sunken eyes and a grape-sized wart thriving on his spotted pate. His name was Valentine. In the first month, he collected the rent and left me in peace. On the first day of the second month, he showed up several hours early without announcement not to collect rent, but to announce to me in an absolutely even tone that he was drunk because his wife had thrown him out.
Drunks always reason backwards: my wife beats me, and I am drinking because of it. I damaged my spinal cord by jumping headfirst into 3 feet of water, and now I am drinking because the accident makes me sad. Some guys beat me up and stole my computer, and I am drinking because my head hurts. I am drinking because I fell out of the bathtub and shattered the sink and feel bad about about it. Why aren't we friends?
When Valentine told me he was drunk, a slug's trail of tasted buds starting behind my uvula and terminating just above me entry sphincter appeared, and started telling my brain, "SOUR, SOUR, SOUR...". I knew from my experience with drunk, dying old Claptrap that Valentine's confession meant I was going to have to move soon...
Soon Valentine was coming into my room, stealing cash from me (I was of course smart enough to remove most of the money), looking through drawers, all while I was not at home.
Without getting into details, I requested the help of the agent, who had called himself my friend and acted accordingly. The plan was for me to change the locks on the doors, call the agent back. Then the agent was supposed to call Valentine. I changed the locks myself one rainy Saturday, and texted the agent right away with the landlord's number. Valentine had told me I was to be out by Wednesday, ie, the agent had days to make the call.
He never called- because I had sent the wrong number. It would have taken nothing to call me and get the right number.
On Tuesday, the landlord showed up while I was trying to sleep, and tried to open the door. No go, because of the new lock. Instead he walked out of the hall and into the bathroom, and climbed out the bathroom window onto the roof- I lived on the uppermost floor, so he could walk around on the roof, peering into the windows.
Must run. More later.