Hello From The Other Side!

This post is brought to you by the word наконец (na-con-YETS), meaning, “at last/finally.”

Ever since I returned to the States in December of 2010, I've contemplated writing an epilogue for my Russian chronicles. This blog began with my preparations for my semester abroad, and I always thought it would be nice to conclude with a postscript of my life after returning to American soil. Problem was, I didn't know what to say. I was planning to move back to the Motherland after I graduated, though, and I figured I'd wait to resuscitate my blog then. Well, life took a number of surprising turns. I did end up moving to a foreign nation, for a while, but it was Texas, not Russia. (Texas is practically its own planet. If you're not from there and you've visited, you know exactly what I'm talking about.) I didn't have many close encounters of the Slavic kind while I was in the Land of Dr. Pepper, Big Pickup Trucks, and Cowboys Fans, so I had nothing on-topic to add to this blog. I left it alone for the day when I could wrap up the narrative in a neat little bow.

It's been five years of radio silence, but boy, do I have a story to tell.

If you're the perceptive kind, you've noticed multiple references to a "buddy" that accompanied me on many of my Russian adventures. If you're anything like my grandfather was in 2010, you might have even wondered to yourself, "Gee, I'm wondering to myself if this is the same person?" Also - again, if you're like my grandfather - you might think, "Gee, was this person...special?" When I was asked those questions by various members of my family, my answers were "mostly" and "absolutely not." I did spend a lot of time roaming Piter with a particular American, but I made it painfully clear that this individual was just a friend. The poor boy actually poured out his affections for me via text, and I fired all torpedoes on that ship immediately. We remained good friends, despite this, and he was the only person I went out of my way to say goodbye to, before I left the country. I was definitely sad at our parting, but I joked, "As the romantics say, 'We'll always have Facebook.'" It turned out to be prophetic.

Now, don't get settled in for a Jim-and-Pam love story. I don't do sappy. It's also not what happened. What actually happened was a lot more...complicated. It started off with a war. (Kind of.)

See, both of us had been in the CIEE choir, and I had video of our concert. He wanted it, and he threatened to post a terrible pun on my Facebook wall every day until I surrendered it. At first, I just kept forgetting to send it, but after that ultimatum, I dug in my heels and prepared for the siege. It was no longer about the video, but about who would be stubborn longer, and who would be the weakling to bear the shame of defeat.

The war dragged on for months.

In November of 2011, he took a break from the hostilities to mention that his youngest sister was planning to tour Vanderbilt, and that he was thinking of tagging along to visit me. We made plans to get together, which almost fell apart when he came down with the flu. But he joined the 9-hour road trip after all, and I was reunited with my best friend from Russia, almost a year after I'd left him (alone, on a snowy sidewalk, gazing after me as I walked into the metro station after hugging him goodbye. Yeah). I took him all around campus, including to a restaurant nearby called "Noshville," because, duh. I'd forgotten how much fun he was to be around. Then, his time in Nashville was up. This time, he left me alone on a (rainy) sidewalk, gazing after him as he drove away after hugging me goodbye. It took me weeks to admit that I missed him.

We kept up our Facebooking and texting, but it was different, now, because I finally realized that I'd been burying romantic feelings since Russia. I certainly couldn't tell him that, so I turned to my best friend at Vandy. After way too many nights of hearing me pine, she pulled that quintessential middle school trick: she went behind my back and told him I liked him, and that he needed to make a move.

Heh.

We had what the kids used to call a DTR - a "define the relationship" talk. It ended arguably worse than the first failed takeoff. Why? Because we both admitted our feelings, but he didn't want to date. He was iffy about long-distance, and even about the depth of his emotions. So, we stayed friends. Friends that talked on the phone, texted, Facebooked, and Skyped for months. About literally everything and anything. Yeah. Friends. (Aside: Being friendzoned by a guy you belatedly realize you love and who actually likes you back is weird. But that was the summer of 2012, maudlin details spared.)

In the fall of 2012, I moved to Planet Texas to begin grad school. Here's the part of the story where I introduce another suitor to compete with Russia buddy. Texas boy was charming, bold, and straightforward about his interest in me. He asked if I would be open to dating him. I said I was. But not without a final DTR with a certain young man I'd met two years prior, just to clear the air. Texas boy was cool with that.

I asked for a Skype session with Russia buddy and insisted it couldn't wait. I dropped the news of his rival and basically told him to stop dancing around the issue and tell me if I should move on or not. I fully expected him to say, "Go for it, best friend! Why do you think we're still just friends, best friend?" He didn't. He instead made his move (after realizing that he could lose me). Finally. My reaction? I spent ten minutes in my bathroom, trying to talk myself out of it. Or into it. Both, really. Eventually, I signed back onto Skype and said, "I guess this means we're boyfriend and girlfriend?" Then I called the Texas rival and left the single most awkward message of my life. That was September 29th, 2012.

On May 17th, 2014:

On June 5th, 2015:

Photos by Oakwood Photography

So yes, that *insert random Russian activity* buddy you've been reading about is now my life buddy. It's been a fabulous first year of marriage, so far, and we're both looking forward to the future.

I didn't write this on my blog, but before I left for Piter, I prayed all summer for God to send me just one Christian friend to have while I was abroad. Well, he sent me one Christian friend...to have and to hold.

Best. Souvenir. Ever.

Until next time,
Katya

P.s. He still hasn’t seen that choir video. ;-)

When Russia Won't Let You Leave

This post is brought to you by the word приключение (pre-clue-CHE-ni-eh), meaning "adventure."

My time in Russia ended on December 18th. Saying goodbye to friends was not that hard because, as the romantics say, "We'll always have Facebook." Saying farewell to my host family made me cry. Up to the very end, Lelya and Nina were trying to get me to stay another semester. :-) Naturally. I gave them my address and email, and I hope to hear from them in the future. Lelya even promised to send me her new songs in the mail! She has her first international fan.

In case I haven't made it clear, traveling to and from Russia is generally an imperial pain. When I flew in Russia in August and November, my travel was fairly stress-free. However, since Russia wanted me to have an authentic experience, getting out of Piter in December became a 30-hour epic adventure. Honestly, though, I should have expected it: my host mom blessed me three times. Anytime she blesses me, something goes seriously wrong, lol. I'm sure she means well, but she must be crossing me improperly or something...

I've already recounted the following story for family and select friends. If, however, you were not privileged to hear the full account, here it is, in stunning HD:

It's 2:30 am and I am standing outside my apartment building in the snow with all my possessions, waiting for Andrei, the man who will be picking up 10 or so of us to go to the airport. Lelya is standing with me, which gives me a companion off of whom to bounce my confusion. I was supposed to be picked up a half hour ago, and the exact location of where the bus will arrive is unclear. I call my apartment buddy (she lives in the same complex down the street a little) to ask whether she knows what's going on. She doesn't. (Little do I know that Nina is calling apartment buddy's host mom to ask the same question.) Eventually, she calls me to say Andrei has just gotten her and they are coming to collect me. Andrei shows up, I hug Lelya one last time, and we set off for the airport. Some are concerned that we won't get there in time to check in and get through security before our flight leaves, but I'm not worried. We arrive at 4, only to find out that my calm was justified: our flight has been canceled.

Never in my life have I had airline problems. I've never even lost a bag (knock on wood). However, apartment buddy says that bad luck follows her everywhere, and it is apparently strong enough to counterbalance the good luck the rest of us usually have when traveling. Fortunately, Lufthansa has to make accommodations for us, since we didn't do anything wrong except book a flight with Marie. (Sorry, girl.) Unfortunately, it seems the Lufthansa office isn't really staffed at 4 am, which means everyone on the flight gets to stand in line outside the office for hours while the one booking agent tries to figure out where everyone needs to go. I'm really not that annoyed, because I have faith the efficient Germans will figure something out and get all of us back to the States. I begin to lose faith when I learn that line buddy #1 (henceforth, Annie) has been through this yesterday. Yes, she had a flight out of Piter on the 17th that was canceled, was put on my flight on the 18th, which was canceled. Worse comes to worse, I don't leave Russia today, take a bus back to Nina and stay an extra night. (My visa is good until the 21st.) But I've already said my goodbyes and I am finally ready to leave.

The going is slow and we're irritated mostly because we haven't slept since yesterday. Every time someone comes out of the Lufthansa office, those of us in line attack like zombies, wanting information about where people are being re-routed. After three hours in line, I'm told that I'm now flying through Moscow and Atlanta instead of Frankfurt and Chicago. This may seem simple enough, but remember that I am in Russia. Nothing is that simple. I must acquaint you with the Pulkovo airport. Or, more accurately, airports.

You might recall that Piter's airport has two terminals: one for international flights, and one for domestic. My Lufthansa flight was taking me to Germany, which meant I was flying out of Pulkovo 2. However, my new itinerary was taking me through Moscow, which flew out of Pulkovo 1. No big deal, you say. Simply walk to the next terminal. Great idea, except that Pulkovo 1 and 2 are about 5-10 minutes away by car. Yes, that means I get to take a cab to Pulkovo 1 to make my plane. I hire a cab, wait ten minutes for him to arrive, and pay an exorbitant amount for the short ride. (Let me put it this way: Annie paid twice as much for her taxi from her homestay to the airport, and the ride was 45 minutes long.) At that point, though, I was simply happy that I had enough money on me to pay the guy, and I needed to hustle to get to Pulkovo 1.

I arrive and check in for my flight, when I learn that Aeroflot can't transfer my bags to Atlanta, and I need to claim them and re-check them in Moscow. I laugh. I go through security with Annie and travel buddy #2 (henceforth Brian), get my pat down, and start going to the terminal/gate when Brian realizes his visa and migration card are gone. If he doesn't find them, he can't leave the country. So we wait as he calls program coordinators and goes back through security, coming back emtpy-handed. Annie and I decide to go to the terminal while Brian goes back again to search. The walk to the terminal is through this long, underground tunnel, which is getting colder and colder as we walk. Walking down the escalators (which, hilariously, aren't working - oh, Russia) and then climbing the stairs, we find ourselves...outdoors. We're separated from the snow and tarmac by two panes of glass. A coffee machine stands in the middle of the "terminal" as if it makes everything better. After gate changes and a half-hour of delays, Annie and I, resembling popsicles, get on the shuttle to take us to the plane. For the first time of the entire semester, I am sick of Piter and want to leave. Just before the bus doors close to take us to the plane, Brian jumps on, having found his paperwork. We celebrate.

We arrive in Moscow and run to baggage claim, where by God's grace our bags are some of the first ones off. We have an hour to check in and go through security before our flight to Atlanta takes off, so we go to the desk that says "international transfers" and are told that we need to go to another terminal to check in. It's a 20 minute run away. We get there and the green customs channel is closed, and there is a crowd of people waiting NOT to declare something. I consider hopping the gate, but the Russians come and open it up. Annie, Brian and I act like Russians and cut everyone in line, get our bags scanned, go to check in, get in the wrong line ("What is the purpose of your visit to Israel?"), get in the right line, and are told that our plane is already boarding. We know that. We just need to get through customs and security, but the Russians are taking their sweet time, asking us questions about whether we bought anything in the airport, whether we have weapons in our bags, whether strangers have handled our bags since we landed...Finally, they're done scrutinizing our paperwork and they take our bags - but the conveyor belt isn't working. We now have 10 mins to get to our plane before it takes off and we're stuck in Russia, so we just leave our bags with the check-in guys and hope they take them to the plane.

At passport control, Annie and I get through okay, but Brian is told to go into the line for Russian citizens (???) and it takes him about 3x as long to make it through. We run to security, get another pat down, and get into the terminal. We need to get to gate 55 and we're at 32, so we run some more. To our giddy delight, we find that our plane has been delayed, and folks are standing outside the gate in a giant mass, like at the Chernyshevskaya metro station. Why? Because airport attendants are hand-searching every carry-on bag. This is the fourth time my bag has been inspected since I arrived in Moscow, but I don't care, because I am actually leaving the country. I open up my bag for the indifferent Russian lady and I overhear an American man complaining to a Russian airport official that this system is inefficient, that he's already had his bags checked out, that he travels all the time and never is treated like this, that people in business class aren't getting their bags searched and they could be bringing anything on the plane, that this is ridiculous...Annie, Brian and I find this hilarious. I want to remind him that he's in Russia and ask him what he was expecting, but I get in line like a patient Russian.

I finally board, but since I'm one of the last ones, there is now no space in the overhead compartments for my carry-on bag because some schmuck thought it was okay to put his jacket in the overhead bins and not move it for me. There is no space in economy at all. There is no space in business class. I'm ticked off at this point, and when the flight attendant tells me I'm going to have to check my bag, I get snippy. It's not that my bag's too big, I inform her, it's that people are putting things in the bins that they shouldn't, and that I refuse to check my luggage. I see a bin marked "Crew Use Only" and ask if I can use that. She reluctantly agrees.

The 12 hour flight to Atlanta is okay; I sleep a little and chat with my seatmate, who is a band tour manager for artists like Ke$ha. We land in America and start clapping, though Annie, Brian and I are definitely more relieved to be on American soil than anyone else. My customs experience is very Russian: I am told to stand in one line, and they guy goes on a coffee break. Then I stand in another line, and the guy closes for some reason. The third line I stand in moves slowly, and then grinds to a halt when the person in front of me requires a Russian translator. Another customs agent opens a counter for me and I finally go down to baggage claim. Annie, Brian and I watch everyone else retrieve their luggage...we start to sweat, thinking that our bags never made it out of Moscow, but they come eventually, and we head over to re-check them and go through security. I get chosen to walk through the metal detector, but Annie and Brian go through the scanning machine and get pat downs. At the final stage of customs, I hand in my customs declaration form and the lady looks at it, looks at me and asks how old I am. Then she asks how long I was in Russia. Then if I studied abroad. Then where I studied and with whom I stayed. Then she tells me to be careful and to go on through. Lol?

I get to my gate and learn that my plane is delayed. I just laugh and call my mom. Boarding is slow because the computer has frozen and the airline official has to do everything by hand, but she's American, so we actually get on board in a reasonable amount of time. I sit in front of a Russian couple and feel a little better about all the English that's going on around me. My seatmates are this cool older lady and a guy who's just gotten back from Afghanistan. We chat for a while, I sleep, and we arrive in Phoenix without hassles. My bag takes a while to show up, but I collect it, wish my soldier buddy well and go home, finally, at 11pm. Naturally, I want to talk all about Russia, and I do for an hour, but my parents are tired and go to sleep. I have a bowl of cereal and rejoice over my sorely-missed American breakfast food. I watch Happy Feet and then go to sleep.

Until next time,

Katya

Extra! Extra! Russia Beats America at Capitalism!

This blog post is brought to you by the phrase хитрые люди, (KHEE-tree-ih LYOU-dee), meaning "sly people."

Once upon a time, I decided that one of my goals before I left the Motherland was to figure skate in a Petersburg ice rink. Then I went online and scouted out the price of such a dream at a place called Ice Palace, the rink where my beloved SKA plays. What I found inspired this mini-post.

Considering this is the home rink of the St. Petersburg hockey team, I knew skating there would be a little pricy. I did not expect that they would charge me $12. An hour. And that doesn't include the $4 skate rental fee since, alas, I left my pair in Nashville. I don't know about you, but skating for only an hour on public ice time is lame sauce. (In case you don't know, I was a figure skater when I was little, and skating for me is one of my first loves. In my opinion, the true Olympic Games are the winter ones. My current dream is to go to Sochi in 2014...to watch.) Normally when I skate in the U.S., I'm there for at least 2 hours. So if I were to go to Ice Palace here in Piter, it would cost me about $28 to skate. A tad pricy...and somewhat hilarious, since I can almost figure skate on the way to the metro, in the mornings.

Want to know the really funny part, though? If you just want to go to the ice rink and not skate at all, you get to pay for it. Yes, there is a special ticket, costing 20 rubles (less than a dollar, but still) for simply existing in the ice rink and breathing the air. Lol

Oh, Russia. You are making me laugh, even to the end.

Until next time,

Katya

Name That American TV Show Knock-Off

This blog post is brought to you by the word телевизор (tee-lee-VEE-zer), meaning “television.”

If you’ve never had the luck to watch Russian TV, consider yourself deprived. Unless a major motion picture, all precuts of the Russian Hollywood look almost as if I could film them with a decently priced camera from Radio Shack. Similarly, the acting, soundtrack and plots to regular television are of such B-movie quality that you really end up watching it to laugh. Some shows have a bigger budget, and can hire better actors and buy higher-quality equipment. However, compared to any cheesy show you find in America, Russian TV is not quite up to par.

Nevertheless, I’m a big fan of watching Russian serials, as they are entertaining and help me with my comprehension. My absolute favorite show is called “Возврeшение Мухтара-2,” which is a police procedural show set in Moscow (the only thing I have against it) and featuring a German Shepherd militsia dog. The show’s main cast (two male detectives, the dog and their female commander) solve nefarious crimes, like theft, forgery and the occasional kidnapping. I can’t really tell you why I like the show, other than the fact that the dog is cute and the main character, Maksim, is very likeable. The crimes are pretty lame for a police show, and whatever drama there is usually sizzles into nothingness almost immediately. There isn’t even romantic tension between Maksim and his commander. Basically, it fails as an American police procedural. But it wins at being a Russian show, and this is why:

THINGS I’VE NOTICED ABOUT RUSSIAN SHOWS:

• Almost all of them involve the miltsia/police in some capacity, and they are always the good guys.
• Whatever violence may happen on the show is nothing compared to what you find in G-rated movies. (Slight exaggeration.)
• The good guys always win.
• The bad guys are really dumb. If they are not, the good guys are always more clever.
• There is no cursing.
• There is little to no sexual tension, and affairs and such are subtly alluded to.
• Almost all TV shows are shot on location in either Moscow or Piter, rather than in a studio. (Earlier in the semester, I walked down the Fantanka River and saw people shooting a movie. I had to step over cables to get home.)

Aside from quality “original dramas,” Russia has a lot of American knock offs. There is a Russian version of “How I Met Your Mother,” “Dancing with the Stars” (not including a version of this plausibly translated as Figure Skating with the Stars) and, my personal favorite, Закон и Порядок. Don’t read Cyrillic? You don’t need to: (Be sure to watch the opening credits.)

Do you still wonder why I’ve been enjoying myself here?

Before you start thinking that Russia’s Hollywood is full of a bunch of copycats, I’d like to tell you about a show called Большая Разница. It’s a half-improv, half-sketch comedy show on which different contestants try to make the judges and audience laugh. If they do, they can complete their routine in peace. If they can’t, the judges each have a lever that tilts the back of the stage up, setting the would-be comedian off-balance. The performer has three chances to prove himself before the stage tilts at such an angle that he tumbles off onto the pillows of shame.

Another purely Russian show is one do not understand why my host mom likes to watch. It’s called Давай поженимся, which means “Let’s get married.” It’s like the Dating Game and the Bachelor rolled into one. An eligible man hangs out on stage with two friends and a panel of presumed marriage experts while three women submit themselves, individually, to a live interview with the very unfriendly panel. The man and women don’t really speak to each other. After the interrogation, the woman has to present a surprise for the man – usually something demonstrating her talents, like a song, or a sample of her cooking. Then the man decides who he will marry, if any of the three. The panel supposedly acts as a matchmaker or advisor for the guy, but in my opinion, its purpose is more to grill the potential wife about why her last marriage ended in divorce and whether it was her fault. My host mom once asked me if I could determine my marriage fate like those women do on the show, and I said “heck no.” She agreed, but she still likes to watch it. To me, it’s a bit degrading, since the women on the show are desperately prostituting themselves on national television, hoping to marry some random guy they never met before the show. At least the Bachelor gives the parties involved a reasonable amount of time to get to know each other and decide to get married. Давай поженимся is basically like speed dating, but with a wedding ring after the rounds end.

Overall, Russian TV just doesn't have the drama that American TV does, but what they do have is pretty entertaining. But don't get me started on their dubbing work...

A Petersburg Tragedy

This post is brought to you by the word скандал (skan-DAHL), meaning “scandal.”

On Tuesday, I went to a СКА game (aka SKA – Piter’s local hockey team). It was a big rivalry match between glorious Piter and crummy old Moscow. If you’re the discerning type, you’ve figured out by now that СКА didn’t do so well. Lost, in fact. 5-4, Moscow. Though a disappointing end, it was an exciting game, since СКА came back from behind to tie the game in the 3^rd period, surviving overtime but eventually losing in a shoot-out. Hence, the tragedy.

However, several cool things happened to me before and during the game that were good enough to be blog fodder. The first involves dinner. Deciding to eat out before the match, I figured a suitable restaurant was Papa John’s. (In case I haven’t mentioned about the ambience of pizza joints here in Piter, please take note that places like Papa John’s and Pizza Hut are sit-down restaurants that play soft jazz, have coat trees and serve wine.) The pizza I had was called a “Mexican Pizza,” which only deserved its title thanks to its stingy sprinkling of jalapenos. The waitress, hearing the order, looked moderately worried and said, “It’s very spicy.” To which I wanted to say, “That’s kinda the point.” Instead, I grinned behind her back and decided that Russians are wimps when it comes to spiciness. And, indeed, I don’t think they had a single packet of crushed red pepper in the entire restaurant. It would probably burn the Russians’ tongues out of their faces…

After pizza, I decided to order dessert and bought a carrot cake. Yes, at the same Papa John’s. I thought it funny to be eating carrot cake at a Papa John’s in Russia, so I took this picture:

After dinner, I went to the game and sat in beside the СКА cheering section. Indeed, at both СКА games I’ve been to, there has been an entire portion of the stands devoted to a mass of well-organized СКА fans. I’m pretty sure you have to audition and prove your loyalty to СКА by getting a tattoo or a brand to be able to sit there. They have two gigantic flags in bold СКА colors (white, blue and red), they cheer in perfect unison and they even have a marching band drummer. It’s intense. It was fun sitting next to them, but I think I had more fun last time, when I was sitting beside the Moscow cheering section. (A section, by the way, thronged with militsia men and security officers. In my assessment, they’re there to prevent СКА fans from committing murder.)

The beginning of the game was awful. I was about 70% convinced that the СКА players had shown up drunk, because they kept missing passes, slipping and generally reacting really slowly. They managed to clean up their skating in the 2^nd and 3^rd periods, but Moscow already had momentum. Before the game ended, I went out and bought an official СКА baseball cap (in Russian, бэйсболный кап, which is hilarious if you read Cyrillic) partially because I didn’t feel like enough of a fan without brandishing their colors and partially because I hoped my purchase would magically help them play better, which I like to think it did. They scored three times after I started wearing my hat. Maybe if I had also bought a scarf or something, they would have won.

My hat is more than just a fan item – it’s a St. Petersburg icon. Indeed, on the brim is the St. Petersburg skyline, with the most famous landmarks in the city center. I have been to every location pictured. Here is the glory that is my СКА cap:

From left to right: The Admiralty, The Bronze Horseman, an opening bridge, Peter and Paul Fortress in the middle of the bridge, the Horse Tamers of the Anichkov Bridge on the Fontanka River and St. Isaac’s Cathedral.

There and Back Again: A Tale of Two (Actually Three) Cities. Part 3.

Quick Stats: VIENNA

(Russian: Вена. German: Wien)

Capital of Austria.

Population: About 2 million.

Famous sights: Hofsburg Palace, Albertina Art Museum, Mozart’s House…and everything else in the city.

Opinion of sights: Spectacular.

Opinion of city: Good, but not for me.

While Poland is an EU country, it is a poor one, and a very Eastern one. Austria, on the other hand, struck me as being extremely Western and “upperclass EU,” if you will: wealthy, stable, friendly, clean and pretty. However, all the things that made it remarkable also made me uncomfortable.

Vienna is a beautiful Central European city with almost no bad side – which is I think why I didn’t quite like it, there. It seemed to me that everything went a little too smoothly for me not to remain suspicious. Maybe it’s simply because I’ve been living in a country that I affectionately describe as “functionally dysfunctional,” but when there is a seamless transition from walking on the street to getting into the subway system, and when transportation tickets are on the honor system, and when every building in the center of town looks like it’s still drying from a fresh layer of paint, and when there is absolutely no trash on the streets, and when strangers SMILE at you just because you are in their line of sight, I feel weird. I kept waiting for the other shoe to fall and all of Vienna’s misfortunes to come crashing down on my head, but nothing happened. Even the weather was perfect – more than perfect, actually, since the Saturday before I left, it was on the verge of being hot.

If you know me at all, you know that “things running smoothly” and “Kelsey” rarely hang out with each other in the same sentence. If there is something abnormal, uncommon and/or bizarre that can happen, it will usually happen when I am involved. I know, after two decades of experience, that “perfect” is not a viable descriptive word for reality. Apparently, however, Vienna did not get that memo. This weirds me out.

My feelings of “this city can’t be this nice” aside, I definitely enjoyed my time in Vienna. I particularly liked the Hofsburg palace, in which I saw the crown jewels collection, as well as the library of my dreams (think Beauty and the Beast library and Swan Princess library morphed together, and add a tasteful flair of 18^th century artistic expression).* I also thoroughly enjoyed the Noshmarkt, a half-mile strip of outdoor food/assorted merchandise booths. It was like a gigantic farmer’s market-flea market hybrid, with gorgeous colors, pleasing aromas and neat tchatchkes everywhere.

I do regret not eating sponge cake (invented by the Viennese) or strudel while I was there, but using the euro hurt both my wallet and my pride, and I was happy to save some for an airport lunch. I did have coffee, chocolate and cake, though, which is a definite must-try for anyone with Austrian travel plans. I can’t particularly say that I enjoyed Austrian food (which is basically German food) more than Russian food, but schnitzel is quite good, as is this bratwurst called a Bosner. I am rather biased, though, since I adore Russian food, Russian culture, the Russian language and Russia in general…

And speaking of my beloved Russia, I knew I was heading back to Piter when I got on the airplane in the Viennese airport. About 80% of the passengers were Russian, and this was evident not by their language, but by the totally inefficient and haphazard way they boarded the plane. There were people walking into each other trying to shove bags in overhead compartments 7 rows away from where they were sitting, people trying to change seats, people trying to find seats, people stopping in the middle of the aisle to take off their jackets, causing a pileup and general confused mayhem…it was so Russian. I was smiling (behind my magazine) the entire time. Also, half the men smelled like smoke. Again, very Russian.

Finally, I knew I had left Vienna behind when, as I got back into Piter and made my way from the airport to the closest metro, I discovered that the station was closed for repair, necessitating a 15 minute walk to the next stop.

Ah, Russia. How I missed you.

Favorite shot of the trip: Statue of Athena and other Greek gods in front of Parliament. (Nice, but our Athena in Nashville is better. Take that, Perfect Vienna!)

*Yes, Disney and Warner Brothers gave me unrealistic expectations of personal libraries. Sorry if their images don’t flood into your mind like they do, mine.

There and Back Again: A Tale of Two (Actually Three) Cities. Part 2.

Quick Stats: WARSAW

(Russian: Варшава. Polish: Warzsawa)

Capital of Poland.

Population: About 2 million.

Famous sights: Palace, Old Town, Warsaw Uprising Museum, Jewish Ghettos

Opinion of sights: Awesome.

Opinion of city: Awesome.

Warsaw really surprised me with how cool it was. The city was completely leveled (twice) during WW2, but they have rebuilt it (many thanks to the EU for the funding) and now it looks fantastic. The Old Town was rebuilt to look like 17^th-18^th century Warsaw did, with cobblestone streets, colorful cramped buildings and castle fortifications. The New Town was done in a more modern architectural style, but still has a very Polish reminiscent flavor to it, mostly because of the churches and monuments that abound throughout the city.

Like Russia, Poland very much remembers its past. Unlike Russia, it does not dwell on it. Monuments to Jewish persecution/execution almost litter Warsaw, but you don’t get the sense that the Poles feel like the wound is fresh. They honor their dead and the blood spilled to keep Poland free, but they are looking to the future in a way Russians don’t. But this is an entirely different blog topic…

I loved Warsaw because it had a delightful Eastern European flair, but it was Western enough that people were actually friendly, cars actually stopped when you were crossing the road, and you could get by with English. Yes, there was a lot more English in Piter than I expected (and in Moscow, as well), but if you sit down in a small restaurant in Piter and you don’t know Russian, ordering might be a challenge. In Warsaw, there were menus in English everywhere. The waiters mostly spoke some English, too, which was nice. (Polish, although a Slavic language, is very different from Russian. It doesn’t use Cyrillic, first of all – rather, the Latin alphabet. Many words are the same in both Russian and Polish, but unless you happen to catch them in conversation or decipher them on the menu, you’ll miss the cross-over.) And speaking of restaurants, the food I had in Poland was all very good. The first day we were there, we decided to eat at a place called “la Cantina,” which played ‘40s American music, was decorated like an Italian place and served me a pizza with bamboo and sesame seed toppings. In other words, it was a very Polish dining experience. Lol No, I did eat some more traditional Polish food, like pirogi, and was duly satisfied with my choices.

My favorite attraction in Warsaw was the Uprising Museum. In 1944, the Poles decided to fight the German occupation and take back their city. The uprising wasn’t really successful, but it was more of the principle of the matter, toward the end. In any case, the museum was possibly (no,definitely) the coolest place of learning and history I have ever been to. First of all, it was a three-storey building made to resemble a ghetto. The interior was lit more like a club than a museum – dark, with artistic, sporadic lighting. There was a steady thumping sound, which was simulated bombing runs. The exhibits were very well done, being both aesthetically pleasing and informational without being overbearing. Instead of having a bunch of dioramas or photographs, there were 3-D displays everywhere, including a full-sized replica of a B-17 bomber. Also, everything in the museum was in both Polish and English. Win.

Favorite picture of trip: Exhibit in Warsaw Uprising Museum. The lighting made it look like the old man was overseeing the execution.