Семь дни

Seven days

Wednesday, August 3^rd

Seven days from now, I’ll be back in America. Just seven days. The days have been long and the weeks short. I’ll have to start packing soon. I need to buy souvenirs for the family and Sean. I need to study a bit for my final tests. And I need to memorize Kalinka before we sing it for our professors next week…

Next week. I’ll be able to drive my car, play with my dog, walk to the beach, and understand what people are saying to me next week.

That’s so WEIRD!

It’s a bittersweet feeling. I’m looking forward to being reunited with my family and friends…but I don’t want to leave SPB just yet. If only I could just transport all of you here instead…that would be ideal.

Anyways. In the past two months I have accomplished the following things:

·         Successfully entered more cathedrals than I ever have in my life without bursting into flames.

·         Taken three gypsy cabs without having a weapon of any sort pulled on me.

·         Danced my ass off until six in the morning. Several times.

·         Eaten more meat than in my entire life.

·         Suffered more bug bites than I thought physically possible.

·         Listened to Skrillex in a Carl’s Jr.

·         Drank beers in front of some of the most beautiful buildings I’ve ever seen.

·         Drank more vodka than I ever wanted to.

·         Saw Lenin.

·         Saw the entire Hermitage.

·         Got beaten with a branch while naked.

·         Beat someone else with a branch while naked.

·         Redefined my idea of “rudeness”

·         Gained a new appreciation for the politeness and attractiveness of American men.

·         Learned to recognize the difference between someone who’s learned Anglican or American English as their second (or third) language.

·         Met some amazing people whom I’ll never forget.

·         Felt more alone than I ever have.

·         Got in one car accident.

·         Took part in one drunken fight club.

·         Took two river boat cruises

·         Missed shark week.

·         Been SMI’d on seven times.

·         Eaten tongue.

·         Watched Archer and King of the Hill mercilessly make fun of Russians. In Russian.

·         Saw one bear, several monkeys, and three parrots.

·         Been groped on the metro twice.

·         Celebrated four birthdays, including my own.

·         Had the time of my freaking life.

This may be my last blog post from the trip, but I’ll try to get one more up before I depart. A special thanks to my parents for enabling me to run away halfway across the globe, and a thanks to all of my friends for supporting me the whole way. I couldn’t ask for a better group of people to come home to.

Москва

Moscow

Tuesday, July 26^th

Disclaimer: another long and rambly post. I didn’t have my computer in Moscow, so couldn’t break up the five days very easily. But I’ll date them to break them up a bit.

Thursday, July 21^st

We met at Moskovsky train station at 11:00 p.m. to catch the night train to Moscow. The train was scheduled to leave at 12:30 and arrive in Moscow at 9:00 a.m. It was hot (28 Celsius. So…80 something Fahrenheit? I’m learning Celsius, but I still can’t convert it to Fahrenheit very easily) in SPB that day, and because of that the train station and the train were sweaty boiler rooms… However, once the train started moving, the air conditioning turned on. We had some wine, which Scott opened with his teeth (ballin’), simply because falling asleep on that train was difficult enough sober. But by three a.m. I finally managed to pass out.

Friday, July 22^nd

We arrived at the Leningradsky train station in Moscow at 9 as scheduled, and were hurried off of the train. That early in the morning it wasn’t blisteringly hot quite yet, but I was tired enough to just stand around like a zombie waiting for the bus. It arrived and we were shuttled to our hotel, where we just had time for breakfast before a bus tour around Moscow. The hotel, a Holiday Inn, was absolutely gorgeous. We’re fairly certain it’s mainly used by international business people. All of the staff spoke at least English, and there were all sorts of languages being spoken by the guests. But let me return to this breakfast…it was BOMB. Full buffet of delicious American-esque breakfast food. My favorite part was the freshly cooked eggs, made by a man named Vladimir. I got into a huddle-line with some Indian guests, and I got to cut in front because of my ability to order in Russian. Therefore, Vlad and I were best friends. Miss that guy.

So after a breakfast of eggs, toast, potatoes, yogurt, cheese, fruit, and cucumbers (oh yeah I stuffed the crap out of my face), we were ushered back on the bus. Where I promptly fell into a food/exhaustion coma until we reached Red Square. Honestly, I didn’t feel like I missed much. Moscow is 400 square miles and resembles New York, only more sprawling. There are a few points of interest, but for the most part it’s filled with old soviet buildings and nondescript facades, unlike St. Petersburg, where you can look in any direction and spot something fascinating. Add on the fact that Moscow’s vying for the title of most expensive city in the world…meh.

But Red Square was, of course, beautiful. There’s St. Basil’s (that church that looks like Candyland), the Kremlin (giant red fortress where the president and head of the Russian Federation work), ГУМ (giant department store/mall) and the Moscow State Historical Museum (the other red building opposite St. Basil’s), that all border the giant square. But the square itself isn’t red. This is because in old Russian, the word for red (красный) used to mean beautiful (now красивый). So, when it was originally constructed, Red Square was known as Beautiful Square.

Then we went back on the bus and saw Moscow State University, which was one of the buildings dedicated to Stalin’s glorious butthole-ness, and then a convent on a lovely pond. There were statues of ducks there, a gift from Barbara Bush…apparently the same ones are in Boston. Amirite, Kfinn? Also, all the benches were labeled with “Bench.” As if us visiting Americans would get confused.

The bus tour was our only plan for the day, so we returned to the hotel, where I promptly passed out for a bit longer. That bed was so comfortable that I was considering asking the staff if I could bring it with me when I left. On the way, Nathan predicted that “Moscow’s when everyone’s going to start killing each other. Five days in heat and in close proximity…shit’s going to go down.” He was pretty correct, but as much as I want to go into the drunken fights and drama that happened all weekend…I don’t. Just know I avoided most of altercations other than failing to calm some drunkards down.

I woke up and went across the street to grab some McDonalds. A man cut me in line, then turned and asked me if there was a problem when I looked disgruntled. That was my first experience with the rudeness of Moscovites. I now appreciate how patient Russians in SPB are…because unless they were working in a service job…people there were total assholes. Oh well.

Then, I splurged for one coffee at the Starbucks across the street. It was outrageously expensive, so I only got one the whole trip…but it was so completely worth it. Coffee in SPB sucks, and the tea is pretty caffeine-less, so I’m sure you all can imagine how excited I was to have a soy mocha. Joe, Sam, and Spencer were making fun of my “coffee-gasm,” but I really didn’t care. I had my coffee, and I was damned if anyone was going to take that joy from me.

That night we grabbed some beers and drank in the hotel. Some Americans went out to the bars…but over the whole weekend, only about one out of three bars would let anyone in. Moscow: everyone speaks English, but they’re rude buttholes to Americans. St. Petersburg: not many people speak English, but they at least let you come in and have a good time…

Saturday, July 23^rd

We had to be up and breakfasted by 9:30 for our excursion to the Kremlin. This time, we went by metro. The Moscow metro is much larger, extensive, and less deep underground than the SPB metro, so it wasn’t too difficult. Also, the metro wasn’t quite as sweltering considering we didn’t have to ride an escalator a mile under the swamp…Anyways. We got to the Kremlin and first stopped at the armory. The armory is also a museum of Russian state artifacts. SPB has the palaces, Moscow has what filled them. We saw satin and silk clothes, giant carriages, suits of armor, Faberge eggs made of diamonds and metal, diamond and emerald studded bibles and icon frames, golden samovars…and the like. The more I see of the decadence of imperial Russia, the more it honestly disgusts me. I am starting to understand why socialism was such a popular change, and why Russians today don’t see it as such a negative. It’s not like they were starving like they were under the tsars…all the gold and decadence, when you consider that 98% of the population lived in servitude or poverty, just makes me angry after a while.

Also. If you come to Russia and say the Soviet Union was communist, you’re going to be called stupid. Labeling socialism as communism was very much a result of McCarthyism, and the Russians don’t consider it as such. They see communism, the ideas of Lenin and Marx, as a separate idea that their socialism was based off of. We need to get our facts straight.

Another interesting point is that, despite all of the anti-American propaganda, there was never as much anti-American sentiment in Russia as there was anti-Soviet in America. This goes back to Leonid’s lecture in SMI; the Russians have never trusted their government, so they didn’t trust what they had to say about America either. Russians during the Cold War were quite indifferent to America in general.

Moving on, halfway through the tour Joe and I asked our coordinator Katya when we’d be able to see Lenin’s corpse. For those of you who don’t know, after his death Lenin was embalmed and his body is still on display outside of the Kremlin. It’s free to see him, but you have to check any sort of bag. No mobile devices of any form are allowed in, and strictly no pictures are allowed. He’s also only on display for 3 hours a day, and the sprawling line to see him is where the slogan for Leninade (a taste worth waiting in line for!) comes from. He’s also closed on Mondays and Thursdays. Apparently, his tomb is a little elevator and they just send him down to get re-waxed and…whatever else they do to keep him fresh.

Anyways, Katya told us that the way the schedule was set up, there wasn’t any way we’d be able to see Lenin. That wasn’t going to fly with me…Lenin was on the top of my list of things to see in Moscow. So we asked if there was any way to skip out on the rest of the Kremlin tour to go see him…it was still only 11:00 a.m. at the time, so we could still make it. Katya looked around and said “after this, you can slip out. But be quiet about it.” That’s why I love Katya.

So after the armory, Joe and I very stealthily went the wrong way towards Lenin, and passed by the group twice while “sneaking away.” However, after we found the line, Natalie, David, and Don joined us after the next part of the tour was over. Despite the length of the line, we only waited for a half hour and even got to strike up a conversation with the Americans behind us. Hearing English on the street was a weird phenomenon, and when I can actually understand people in the states I’m going to feel like a wizard.

So the boys put all their things in mine and Natalie’s bags, and they went in first while we waited to check them. Finally we went in, passing by guards with rifles and somber expressions. I was super excited, so trying to keep from smiling was more of a challenge than usual. We entered the black, cold tomb and followed the line into the main chamber. Lenin was lying in a pedestal surrounded by glass and covered in a black sheet. It was definitely him…I was half expecting him to open an eye and say “hello comrades! How do you like my glorious revolution of the proletariat?” But I was disappointed…Nonetheless, it was my favorite experience by far in Moscow.

Afterwards, the boys were waiting outside…wearing our purses. Such gentlemen. We grabbed some food, warded off more incredibly rude Russians, and took an extraordinarily long metro ride to go to the souvenir market. We heard it was unbelievably expensive, but a giant market full of gypsies was irresistible. We made it, saw the colorful spires, and paid 10 rubles to get in. We spent several hours wandering around aisles filled with corny souvenirs, t-shirts, soviet propaganda posters, military items, paintings, colorful stones, old books and maps, and pretty much anything else you could ever want. Haggling was all part of the experience…and Joe somehow talked a knockoff Adidas merchant to give him a track suit for 1000 rubles (40 dollars). He hasn’t stopped wearing it either.

So then I went back to the hotel, passed out some more, swam in the pool, and took part in the beers for the night.

Sunday, July 24^th  

That day we had an excursion to the Tretyakov gallery. This museum of modern art has been competing with the Hermitage in SPB as the most prestigious art gallery in Russia. I’m a bit biased towards SPB…in case you haven’t noticed…but this museum was much more open and the art much more interesting than at the Hermitage. True, the Hermitage itself is a museum without being filled with priceless works…and after Thursday, when I return to see the Picassos and the Egyptian section, I have a feeling that my preference for the Hermitage will return. The other difference is that Tretyakov has exclusively Russian art, whereas the Hermitage has exclusively foreign art.

Anyways. After the tour, Nathan, Joe and I went venturing to find the Museum of the Revolution to quench our thirst for Soviet history. One student in our program gave us directions…which were incorrect. We went to the corner it was supposedly on, walking in the hot sun for half an hour when we could have gone to a much closer metro station, only to find a gaudy hotel instead of the museum. Frustrating. But we also wanted to go to Arbatskaya, a famous pedestrian street with a graffiti shrine to Viktor, the influential lead singer of the band Kino. We walked for a bit to find it, baking in the sun, but the Wendy’s we had on Arbatskaya was pretty worth it. The shrine was impressive, but other than that the street was just full of coffee shops and American fast food…so we went back to the hotel, passed out, and then took part in beers. Pretty typical.

That night, though, a few of us looked up where the supposed Panda Express was in Moscow. We’d heard rumors that it existed, which Google confirmed. It was only a few blocks up from Arbatskaya, so we planned to hike back up there the next day, our totally free day.

Monday, July 25^th

That morning, Vlad was missing from the omelette station. I was very sad not to see him, but I wrote on my room review card that they should give him a raise. Because he’s the bomb. But we packed our things and checked out of the hotel. We checked our bags into the luggage room and left for the day, returning at 11:00 p.m. to reclaim our luggage and head back to the train station.

Of course, the hottest, muggiest day was the one we couldn’t return to the hotel for a nap or a swim. Also, most museums in Moscow are closed on Mondays anyways. So we found a nice park for the first part of the day, lounging in the shade and trying to stay cool. After a few hours, we decided it was time for pot stickers, so we headed to the metro. An hour later, after checking the address several times and walking up and down the street…we learned that there was no Panda Express to be found. It was heartbreaking. I might have shed a tear over my lost chow mein…but we got Wendy’s again and went back to the park. We might’ve explored more if the weather wasn’t so ungodly awful and the city wasn’t such a sprawling poop factory. I was a little less than enchanted with Moscow, especially after that incident. We passed our time laying in the park, moaning about how much we missed SPB, and eventually started throwing things at one another to entertain ourselves. Yep. College students, responsible adults living in a foreign country to study…throwing orange peels at each other to pass the time.

Eventually though, 11 rolled around. We made it back to the hotel, grabbed our bags, and loaded back on the bus. From there we roasted in the train station, then in the train until the air conditioning turned on, had some more wine to sleep, and passed out until Katya knocked on our cabin door to usher us out. I was amazed at how relieved I was to make it back to my homestay. I slumped on the bed and passed out, dreaming of my homecooked breakfast and dinner. It really does feel like home here. And I’ll be leaving it for good in 17 days…

So, to sum all of this up. SPB is the bomb. Moscow sucks. That’s my conclusion. 

СМИ и баня

Mass communications and the bath house

Wednesday, July 20th

Once upon a time at Smolny institute, there was a class called SMI. It was just a one credit, once a week class about Russian communications. All the students who were cruelly forced to sit through it for an hour and a half loathed that class. They came up with names for it, and referred to the after-class brain pain as “getting SMI’d on.” They would dread going to it at least 24 hours before it began. The teacher, Leonid, was nice enough, but his subjects were boring and his voice (particularly in Russian, because that’s how all the classes go) lulled one to sleep. The first few classes, on babushkas and Dostoevsky, made the students want to scratch their eyeballs out. Then, one Tuesday, everything changed.

Leonid walked into the tiny room, his arms laden with articles as usual. The students inwardly groaned. He placed them on the table, where they remained untouched for the rest of class, then began the most interesting lecture any of them had taken yet at Smolny.

He began by telling the students that the highest salaries in Russia are paid to the KGB. That Europe and the rest of the world treat Russia like children, while the people cried out that it’s only their government that acts so. He calmly explained that 20 members of his family had been liquidated under the USSR, and he learned English and German as an escape from that broken system. Because, apparently, all those in charge of Russia today were once powerful under the USSR. He dared the students to look it up on the internet, though no one doubted him. He then launched into a story of a small village outside of Ekaterinburg called Sagra.

 Ekaterinburg is notoriously run by drug lords and gangsters, and the people of Sagra began to try to clean drugs out of their town. Two weeks ago, 60 gangsters of Ekaterinburg, led by one drug lord and armed to the teeth with machine guns and grenades, attacked Sagra in retaliation. They planned to kill everyone; women, children, the sick and the elderly…the townsfolk, when they heard, planned to defend themselves. They told the police, who merely said “well you’re not being attacked right now, so we don’t understand the problem.” 9 men, armed with simple hunting rifles, made their way into the woods to defend against automatic weapons and Caucasian gangsters. They managed to shoot the drug lord first, and the rest of the gangsters panicked and ran. They weren’t courageous enough to fight these 9 people, who were willing to risk their lives for their little town. Afterwards, these 9 men were arrested for the murder of that drug lord. They are currently in jail, and will most likely face at least 30 years in jail for defending their town against a senseless massacre…because they have no money to bribe the police or the judge, whereas those gangsters had plenty.

Leonid looked down after the story, breathed heavily, and said that Russians aren’t wild, they’re not xenophobic, they’re not mean…they’re just tired. Tired of not being able to rely on a government they don’t believe will ever help them, tired of working all their lives to barely scrape out a decent living, tired of trying to defend their livelihoods only to be thrown in jail when they can’t come up with enough bribe money. The confirmation of the corruption came when the only two news anchors brave enough to comment on this story were fired on the spot.

Talk about perspective. We talk about extreme censorship after Janet Jackson’s boob slipped out. I don’t think there’s much comparison between American media control (though, of course, I don’t deny that it exists. Or that it’s excusable) and Russian, especially with this story in mind. You can go look it up on the internet; some underground and western media sources have a few articles on it…

So, moving on from the huge downer…Wednesday is our day off, so a few other people and I went to the banya with Katya, our coordinator. We talked the day before and decided to splurge the extra 50 rubles (3 dollars) for a private banya, rather than one filled with naked babushkas. We met outside of a metro station and walked over. I, the smarty pants that I am, totally forgot my bathing suit. So I was going in the nude. However, a couple other girls had the same problem…and that’s part of the whole experience anyways. The banya was in a courtyard…I’m pretty sure the woman that ran it just turned her apartment into a banya and just lives in one tiny little room. She led us back to a room with a couch, billiards table, and dartboard. We paid our fee for two hours and stripped down. I also forgot shower sandals…but once again. Russian banya’s all about the authentic experience. The banya included a shower, massage table (we didn’t touch that), a sauna, and a small, cold pool. Katya bought us a veniki, or a birch branch that after an hour or so we would beat each other with in the sauna (apparently it gets rid of cellulite. I think that’s just an excuse to beat people though). The sauna was around 200 degrees, and I was happy to just sit in it and roast…but Katya kept ushering me out because “that’s dangerous.” Pfft. Dangerous my ass…

Okay. Might’ve been a bit dangerous. But whatever.

After an hour, Katya asked us with a sly smile “who wants to get beaten first?” Tricia volunteered, and Katya had her lay down in the sauna. A few of us packed in to watch as Katya dipped the veniki in water, then held it over the hot stones, then repeated a few times. She shook some water over Tricia’s back, then proceeded to whack the crap out of her. She asked Tricia if it hurt…but Tricia just giggled. She kept going, pressing the veniki against Tricia’s back and legs, and just continued to whap her. After a few more minutes, Katya had to get out, because beating people in 200 degrees can be a little strenuous. There was a whole process to it too…the person getting beat couldn’t be in the sauna until just before the beating…their skin had to be a certain shade of red…all sorts of things.

After Tricia’s beating, she proceeded to beat the crap out of me. Except I got to have my bare ass beaten too, considering I was naked in all my glory. It really didn’t hurt since the veniki had been soaking for the hour we had waited to start the beatings. It was also fragrant, and afterwards I was a bit covered in little leaves.

Banya’s really need to catch on in America. Here, most people go weekly, if not more. I mean, I understand why. Afterwards I got the best night of sleep I’ve had in a while, and just felt pleasantly relaxed. I hope you all know that when I return, we’re saunaing, and I’m whacking the crap out of you with a branch. No getting around it. Just accept it.

Моя семья

My family

Tuesday, July 12^th

As of tomorrow we’re halfway through the program. On one hand, time has seemed to just fly by. On the other, I feel like I’ve been here for six months. It’s a strange thing, but I am happy to have my return home in my sights. Because I miss you guys.

It’s hard to gauge how much my Russian has improved. Some days are more frustrating than others, those days that I feel like my Russian has somehow gotten worse than when I left. But Natalya assured Lindsay and I this weekend that our Russian is ten times better than the night we met her, back when we were just three days in. That made me smile…and then she invited us to her house for dinner and drinks next week! I’m so smitten with her, I think I’m going to miss her most of all.

However, I’m also going to miss my host family dearly. Inga, Masha (my host aunt), Lena, Johnny, and George have been so wonderful to me that I’ve started calling the apartment home. Especially considering some of the stories I’ve heard about other host families…here’s some of the worst stories I’ve heard, in comparison to my experience.

Lindsay’s host mother disapproves of her going out at night. Now, like I explained before, going out for us island folk is a bit tricky. We either have to be back before 1 (or before anything starts in Russia), or out past 6 a.m., otherwise the bridges will be up and the metro will be closed. When I tell Inga that I’ll be going out and I’ll be late, she either nods, laughs as she says “of course,” or just shrugs. One time, when I said I’d be back before the bridges closed, she looked at me and said “why? Nothing happens before the bridges close. Don’t do that.” Given, I always make sure she knows that I’ll be home late, and I always tell her where I’ll be going and what we’ll be doing.

Anne’s family has taken to talking about her in front of her, justifying it to each other by saying “she doesn’t understand what we’re saying anyways.” Now, comprehension is the easiest part of the language. I almost can always get at least the gist of what someone is saying to me…even if answering is a bit tricky. So it’s understandable that Anne’s a bit more than miffed with this habit. Once, when I told Inga’s friend to excuse my poor speaking of Russian, Inga whipped around and went off on me. For a full five minutes she kept saying “your Russian is perfectly normal. You’ve been getting better and better, and you’re very good. Don’t say that again, Sarechka.” Oh yeah. She calls me Sarechka. It’s probably one of the most adorable things ever.

Sam’s host mother makes him less than questionable food. Apparently he gets lots of meat blinny’s smothered in sour cream. I think the only time I got a less than decent meal from Inga or Masha was after Inga had several bloody Mary’s with her friend. Even then, the only problem was that the potatoes were half-cooked.

Joe’s host mother likes to watch violent Oprah-esque shows while he eats dinner. While watching shows about dogs gnawing off people’s arms and the like, she points at the TV and says “Idiots! Joe, do you understand they’re idiots?” Joe just tries to shovel down his food…Inga watches TV with me while I eat. She tells me about the shows (more often than not, it’s the Russian version of Scrubs), which characters she likes, and asks me about American TV. One time she asked me if I like Ashton Kutcher. I said he was handsome, but a bit stupid. She laughed and said that was always the case.

Have I mentioned Inga likes to talk shit? When my American roommate Cara couldn’t go to Finland, Inga said “Well, Finland’s boring and expensive anyways. You’re much better off staying here.” After I tried Bud Weisser for the first time, I told Inga it was amazingly delicious. Because it is. She responded by saying “Of course! Especially when you’re used to American beer that tastes like water.” Or when the electricity was turned off in the apartment for a day, she kept yelling about how she was calling people all day to figure it out. But she wasn’t saying people. She was using the art (oh yes. Apparently it’s an art) of Russian swearing to describe her distaste for those people.

I think my favorite night with the family happened last Wednesday. I returned home after studying at about 11:00. Inga and George had a couple of friends over who were visiting from Georgia. The table was spread with all sorts of food, and the kitchen was filled with cigarette smoke. Without even letting me put down my purse, they beckoned me into the kitchen, loaded my plate with fish, beet salad, a type of Georgian cheese bread, and…as I found out after eating half of it, tongue. George filled my shot glass with vodka and my larger glass with kvas (a mildly alcoholic drink, somewhere between coke and beer, that’s definitely an acquired taste), and proceeded to show me how to sip my vodka and properly chase it with fish. Until three in the morning, we laughed and talked, and George made sure my glass remained full of vodka. They asked me my preference between Bush, Obama, and McCain, to which I responded that I don’t have much of a liking for any politician. We bonded over the misunderstanding between Georgias (the country and the state) and Washingtons (the state and the city). Finally, George asked me if they looked black. I just laughed, but they were serious. I said of course not, to which they responded that in Russia they’re considered black. After many toasts to Russia, Georgia, and America, I said I needed to go to bed. They tried their hardest to make me stay, praising me for being “such a pretty American girl” and gave me kisses and one last shot before bed. Needless to say, my hangover the next day was totally worth it. 

Just some random thoughts

Friday, July 8^th

So here’s some more little nuglets (patent pending) of knowledge I’ve obtained, but haven’t really fit into some of my stories thus far; as well as some mini-stories I’ve been meaning to jot down.

After listening in on a slam poetry reading (totally understood exactly what was going on too. I mean…if catching a random word every other line counts as totally understanding something), the Russian respect for literature and history became more than apparent. Everyone, no matter how young, uncultured, disenchanted, or uninterested…everyone respects artists. Most metro stations are named after famous writers, architects, musicians, etc. Even without studying their work, people know who Dostoevsky, Pushkin, Evtushenko, Tolstoy, etc. are, what they wrote, what they had to say, and what they added to Russian society. But it’s not just artists. Every important historical figure demands a certain amount of respect. For example, I pass a small monument to Lenin every morning on my way to the metro, and before I get to school, I pass another one dedicated to the founder of the KGB. No, that doesn’t mean that all Russians love Lenin or the KGB, they just realize that they were immensely important in their country’s history, and are therefore worthy of remembering.

So, if I can switch gears from Russian respect to sketchiness…I have now had two borderline scary experiences on the metro. I take it at least twice a day, many times by myself, and that’s fine. However, one still needs to be aware that things like this happen…remember my supposed brag post about how Russian men are all up in my business? It can turn from mildly amusing to really creepy/borderline frightening very quickly.

One time, while going down the escalator, a man walked down adjacent to me and started trying to engage. I kept my headphones in, glared, and kept looking forward. Pretty standard “not interested” technique. However, he proceeded to rub against me, pressing me against the side of the escalator. I then pulled my headphones out and growled as menacingly as I could “отстат от меня (get away from me)!” He grinned and ran down the escalator, where he was waiting for me. I walked briskly past, resisting the urge to smack him with my bag, and he followed, still rubbing up against me. When I entered the train, he let me be, going back up the escalator to, I can only assume, harass another woman. Today, while in a particularly crowded train, someone behind me lifted my skirt and proceeded to grope me. I swung around, and whoever it was dropped their hand. I still have no idea who it was, and I’ve been pretty shaken by the ordeal for most of the day. But, please, don’t worry too much about me. I’m a big girl, and there are plenty of people in the city whom I can call if another situation like that arises. I also avoid walking alone at night like the plague, so I’m keeping myself as safe as I can possibly be.

I think my point is, Russia’s a lot different than I expected, but in a lot of ways it’s exactly what /b/ and reddit have to say about it. Like children riding their bikes with toy AK-47s hanging out of their backpacks…people sleeping in cars that are missing doors or tires…graffiti on absolutely every surface…etc.

Which brings me to the drinking culture. Drinking is huge here. Huge. Yes, alcoholism is a serious problem, but I’m not talking about that. Compared to our planned, mandatory excursions, I definitely feel that our nights out on the town are more valuable, more genuine cultural experiences. By losing their inhibitions and sharing common ground through a beer or a shot of vodka, the normally unfriendly Russians let their guard down and willingly engage with us Americans. It’s how we’ve met most of our Russian friends, and engaging in the night life is highly encouraged by our coordinators, who’ve joined us more times than not. Yes, it may sound at times like I’m just partying my ass off…but that’s only partially true. I find interacting with the culture in its most basic, everyday form much more rewarding and telling than taking a tour of a palace, during which no Russian in their right mind will engage with the gaggle of American students.

Anyways. I think that’s all I can think of for now…except for a big thank you for reading this. I’m really flattered that you find what I have to say so interesting…I don’t think I would. :)

Культурные отличие

Cultural differences

So I’ve been told to talk more about the cultural differences between Russians and Americans. I know there are a lot of misconceptions and ignorance about the Russian population, mostly because of the Cold War mentality.

There are a lot less differences than you might expect. European or Latin cities differ more than Russian, though I’m not exactly qualified to say that. People’s values, once you get to know them, are much the same. People care for their family and friends, work hard, and hope to lead a good life.

However, for your amusement, I’ve compiled a list of some of the more humorous and/or important differences.

·         Toilet paper is orange or green.

·         Toilets are in a different room than showers.

·         It’s better to look pissed off in public than friendly.

·         When in doubt, dress to impress. Even if that means wearing 4-inch heels to walk around the city.

·         Sidewalks and streets are washed every morning.

·         If you step in an open manhole (more common than you might expect), break your ankle, and try to sue someone, you’re going to get laughed at.

·         Americanos are lattes. Lattes are macchiatos. Macchiatos don’t exist.

·         You can get a drink pretty much anywhere, at any time of day. However, if you drink at home and not during a meal, you’re probably an alcoholic.

·         There are no to-go coffee cups.

·         If you bump into someone, just keep going. Russians don’t understand apologizing for something so inevitable.

·         Men should always hold doors open and carry bags for women. Women should never reciprocate, or they insult the man’s abilities.

·         In America and Russia, it’s rude to not offer your seat to an elderly or pregnant woman on the subway. However, if you don’t in Russia, the woman will tell you to move your ass for her.

·         Every meal is followed with a cup of tea or coffee. That way you always have warm soup belly.

·         Every couple must be sickeningly affectionate in public

·         Caesar salads have green peppers, tomatoes, cucumbers, and sour cream.

·         TV shows swear in English. All the time.

·         There’s a police officer on pretty much every corner, but more often than not he’s asleep or doing something totally irrelevant to his job.

·         Budweiser stole their name from an infinitely more delicious Czech beer, Bud Weisser. That’s not really a Russian thing, but I thought it was important.

·         If you ask someone for directions on the street, you’re more likely to get glared at then helped.

·         Always have exact change. Otherwise they might not let you buy whatever it is you’re trying to get.

·         Russian men are in no way deterred when you say you have a boyfriend. Even if your (pretend) boyfriend is standing right there.

·         McDonald’s has a chicken, bacon, and fried onion burger. Jealous? I thought so.

·         Drinking on the street, though technically illegal, is totally commonplace. And cheaper!

·         The same goes for not wearing seatbelts. Not sure if the cheaper part applies though.

·         Female friends often walk arm-in-arm. For a while I thought there was just a massive amount of lesbians.

·         The warning on cigarettes doesn’t say “warning: cigarettes may cause prenatal defects” or whatever random warning American cigarettes say. No. In block letters, it says “cigarettes are killing you.”

·         Russians don’t like lines. They like huddles pointed in the same general direction.

That’s all I’ve got for now. I’m sure there are plenty of new differences for me to discover though.

Я весь неделя была в делах.

I had a busy week.

Monday, July 4^th

I’ve been neglecting this blog recently. Mostly because I’ve barely had time to shower regularly, rather than sit down and write out my thoughts. Therefore, this is going to be a bit long and rambly. Just putting that out there.

Some of the birthday group

So I suppose the first order of business is my birthday. Tuesday was my 21^st! Thanks to all of you who wished me happy birthday in some form or another. In Russia, that officially makes me an old maid, considering I’m not married. Maybe that’ll be how I get rid of sketchy Russian dudes from now on. We had school as usual, then after I napped and met a few people at a well known bar to start the night. Lindsay bought me a whiskey, which was horrid…..horridly delicious! Then we trekked to our on-the-street drinking spot, where we were met by a surprising amount of people from the program, many of whom brought me small gifts or beers. Lindsay eventually started confiscating these after a while. Then we went to a bar…where Paul (who will have an entire blog post at some point about how much he sucks) threw up inside. Then I blacked out. Then I start remembering about two hours later…but it was much of the same stuff. There are more interesting talking points to get to, so I’ll leave the rest of my evening up to your imagination. But know that I didn’t puke, quite like the champ I like to pretend I am.

The next day, I slept through the meeting time for our excursion to Peterhorf…the Versailles of the North, a place I actually REALLY wanted to go to. But my hangover made me happy to stay in, and Natalya promised to take Lindsay and me later this month. I texted Jarlath my apologies, who just said he hoped I had a good birthday. Is it okay I’m proud that at least ten others missed that excursion because of my birthday? Actually, never mind. I don’t care if it’s okay. I’m proud.

The rest of the week was fairly uneventful.

NOT!

Friday was the Gogol Bordello show. It started at 8, so I planned to have dinner early and rush back to drink a bit before the show and get in line. However, we had a big meeting after classes about our trip to Valaam the next day, so despite my running through the city in 85 degrees and 80% humidity (ick) I was still late for dinner. The metro being stopped for 15 minutes didn’t help. But…there’s Russia for you. Nothing goes according to plan, especially when you need it to. But I made it back to the metro station in time to meet Renee and the group. At that point, just Renee, Joe and I had arrived, so we decided to grab brewskies and walk to the venue. Thank God. Because as we turned the corner to the club, we saw a man with raggedy black hair walking casually towards us. He resembled one of the many gypsies/beggars/alcoholics that line the streets, so we at first moved to avoid him. One more look…and there was no mistaking that stache or that gait. It was Eugene Hutz, lead singer of Gogol Bordello and Alex from Everything is Illuminated. We immediately stopped him, sputtering in our excitement, and tried to sound way cooler than we felt, considering how sweaty and American we were. He said “everyone’s getting drunk before the show!” He took pictures with us and then went on his way to…wherever he was going. But wherever it was, I bet it was the coolest place evar.

Sara and Renee and Hutz. Best friends.

Gogol saying goodnight

Everyone was super jealous when they arrived, but the show made up for it. Gogol puts on a great show, and this was no exception. Save for the fact that one of the air conditioners in the club was broken, making us literally drip with sweat, it was mind-blowing. Most songs they did in Russian, even the ones I know in English, except for Start Wearing Purple. To which the Russian crowd sang in English…which was hilarious.

Anyways. I should move on or you might not make it through all of this.

The next day was our trip to Valaam. Talk about switching gears from a drunken gypsy punk show the day before…Valaam is a 14^th century Russian Orthodox monastery, regarded as one of the holiest places in the religion. It’s located on an island in Lake Ladoga, the largest lake in Europe…not to be confused with Lake Baikal in Siberia, the largest lake in Russia. We met that evening at a metro station by the docks, as we took a 2 day cruise to see the island. After a questionable fish/rice dinner, we had a few beers at the bar. As much as I wanted to party, walking around a monastery with a raging hangover didn’t sound like very much fun. However, the boat had a discotek, so we hung out around there. The Georgetown kids were all dancing by themselves…no one wanted to join them. The girls were dancing like they were on poles…and when “Low” came on, they came around the pull us in, saying “this is our song!” I wasn’t aware we had a song. If America’s song is Low…we have sunk farther than I ever thought we could. When Joe refused Georgetown Jon, he said “sorry we’re not underground enough for you.” First of all, the California frat guy is underground to you? Secondly…it had nothing to do with anything being underground. Ugh. Some people. Like Paul. But I’m saving all of those goodies for later.

The next day, after sleeping on the most uncomfortable beds imaginable, we woke to find ourselves docked at Valaam. Let me tell you, if I wasn’t homesick before…that sight did it for me. Hills covered in towering evergreen trees sloping down towards still water…I might as well have been home.

Right at home

In the morning, after an equally questionable breakfast of salty kasha, pancakes, and sour cream, we took a walking tour of the natural parts of the island and some sketes. Sketes are smaller monastic settlements that are dotted around the island and connected to the main monastery. The tour took 3 hours to walk 4 miles…and did I mention we hadn’t had a drop of water since dinner the night before? I’m honestly surprised nobody passed out, as the weather wasn’t exactly cool. Also, the bugs were MASSIVE. I mean…I thought the arctic circle wouldn’t have flies the size of quarters, but I guess I was wrong. So, though it was beautiful, it was less than pleasant. Then we returned to the boat for a rest and lunch. After a good hour break, we took a smaller boat around the island to the main monastery. It was pretty touristy, which is very gracious of the monks who live there. Most have taken vows of silence, many for decades. Though crammed with people, the place was tranquil and beautiful. We weren’t allowed to take pictures of the main churches, where women had to wear long skirts and cover our heads and shoulders, while men had to wear long pants and uncover their heads. I felt bad for the guys walking in pants in that heat…

The main monastery

While there, we had the opportunity to see a choral group. Five men, all of whom looked so bored they could hardly stand it, almost brought me to tears. I mean, given, I have a sore spot for choral music, but this was so unbelievably beautiful I wanted to hug them. Add on the fact we were in a church with wonderful acoustics…I could have not seen anything else that day and been happy.

Then, hot, tired, dehydrated, and sweaty, we were herded back on the ferry and went back to our own boat. Some people went swimming, but the knowledge that the water was as cold as the Sound kept me away from it. I tried to warn a few people, who came back looking disgruntled at the cold. After a beyond questionable dinner of some meat roll that looked suspiciously like male genitalia, we headed to the bar to start celebrating the 4^th…and let’s be honest, what else were we going to do all night on that boat? When we started to hear thunder, we ventured outside to find our boat was headed out of a storm and into a new one. The boat began to rock on the waves. But all was fine; the only damage done was a few claps of sick thunder and an additional challenge to standing after a few beers.

When midnight hit, we all sang the national anthem as best we could, despite the fact it wouldn’t be the 4^th in the states for several hours. The bartenders, Semyon and Vlad, were feeding us champagne and pushing cigarettes. When John began to pack the Parliaments, they asked him what he was doing. I guess Russians don’t bother packing cigarettes…holds them up too much. However, when our friend Spencer found all of his prescription drugs stolen out of his room in the morning…we suspected our new friends had a different motivation to their generosity than simple kindness. Luckily, nothing else was stolen…except for my nose ring! Stolen…lost…same thing. I still need to get a new one, but I have the names of a few tattoo parlors that sell jewelry. Let me tell you, not having metal in my face is one of the weirdest feelings I’ve experienced in Russia.

I got to bed at about 6, like you do in Russia. At 9, we docked in St. Petersburg, and made our way home groaning and whining the whole way. Tonight, because we’ve decided that sleep is for losers, we’re going to go see Jarlath dj at a club. Should be an interesting time.

Til next time!