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.

There and Back Again: A Tale of Two (Actually Three) Cities. Part 1.

This post is brought to you by the word путешествие (poot-ee-SHESS-vee-eh), meaning “travel.”

Three months ago, I had never been outside of the U.S. Now, I have been to four countries and have delightful visa stampage to prove it. My latest excursions have been to Warsaw, Poland and Vienna, Austria. Before my travel week, however, I spent a few nights in Moscow. Thus begins my breakdown of each city:

Quick Stats: MOSCOW

(Russian: Москва)

Capital of Russia.

Population: About 12 million people.

Most famous sights (достопримечательности): Kremlin, Lenin’s Mausoleum, St. Basil’s Cathedral ( = Red Square).

Opinion of sights: Cool.

Opinion of city as a whole: ...It’s nice. To visit. If you aren’t going to St. Petersburg.

Perhaps it’s because I’ve been living in Piter for three months (there is a rivalry between the two cities), but Moscow is not better than St. Petersburg, in my opinion. Red Square was definitely cool, as was Arbat, a street quite unlike any other I’ve seen (think a ton of cool shops, street performers, curious attractions and art displays crammed into a tiny space), but other than that and a far superior metro system, Moscow doesn’t have much on Piter. The city sprawls out very far, so while there is a lot to do, you have to go a ways in order to do it. In Piter, everything is within a 10 minute walk from Nevksy Prospekt. That being said, Moscow, though it has twice as many people in it, does not feel as crowded as Piter does. Personally, though, I prefer cramming a lot of cool architecture, museums, attractions, stores and people into a smaller place. It makes everything more accessible. Also, Moscow does not have as many Teremoks as does Piter. This is a travesty. In addition, Moscow is the most expensive city in Europe. And it’s dirty. And Muscovites have funny accents. And it’s not PITER! Having been to a Piter-Moscow hockey game, my loyalty is forever set with СКА (pronounced “Ska”) – ТОЛЬКО СКА И ТОЛЬКО ПОБЕДА! *ahem*

I definitely enjoyed my time in Moscow, though. I was saddened to learn that Lenin’s Mausoleum was closed while I was there (they do that every once in a while to fix Lenin’s face…his corpse is about 90, so he can be rather high maintenance), but other than that, nothing was particularly disappointing. My favorite part was walking along Staryi Arbat and listening to all the guitarists. Actually, I bought two CDs from street musicians. One was playing a sitar. Very Middle Eastern sounding instrument. I like his music, and he was nice. I spoke with him in Russian, of course, and received the compliment of my dreams: “Where are you from? Oh, America? Your Russian is good; you sound like a Latvian.”

Favorite picture of trip: Orthodox church bathed in heavenly light.

I Got Me Some Religion

This post is brought to you by the word голгофа (gal-GOH-fa), meaning “Calvary.” (Comes from the word Golgotha, the name of the hill on which Christ was crucified…)

I haven’t mentioned this on my blog yet, but one of the biggest adjustments I’ve had to make this semester has been church – or, the lack of it. When I’m at school, I have church on Sundays, Phi Lamb chapter (my Christian sorority) on Mondays, E.58 (college Bible study now apparently renamed “The Point”...thanks for changing the name on me while I’m away, guys! :-P) on Thursdays, and a few other small group meetings throughout the week. God/church/fellowshipping with Christians is a big part of my life that has been sadly absent, the past couple months. To make up for not going to church every week, I have been listening to some podcasts that my pastors put on iTunes. (Don’t you love modern technology? I can listen to sermons preached in Nashville, TN while I’m chilling out in my soviet-chic St. Petersburg apartment.) For a long time, I thought I was the only practicing Christian in my study abroad program. (I ran into a couple believers, but they aren’t the worry-about-what-to-do-for-church-in-Russia kind.) Fortunately, however, I learned that one of my classmates was also looking for a church to attend, and I no longer felt like I was alone in a sea of religiously indifferent peers.

A couple of weeks ago, I remembered that my college campus minister had some contacts that could get me in touch with missionaries in St. Petersburg. I asked him to pass along my info through the proper channels, and the next week I received an email from a missionary who wanted to meet me. Turns out he and his family live across the street from me. Also turns out that there are a bunch of other missionaries living in my neighborhood. Круто (cool), as the Russians would say.

The family that lives across the street had my friend and me over for dinner one night, chatted with us and told us about different churches on our island that we could try. (Also, their adorable 5-year-old daughter drew me a picture of a pink castle with a moat and a karate-man and pirate as guards. That’s one well-guarded castle.) Church buddy and I went to one of the recommended churches this past Sunday and were very happy with it. It was a Calvary Chapel (one of 3 in the city, apparently) and it was taught in both Russian and English. The pastor was Russian, and after every phrase or so he would stop to let the translator interpret for us. The songs during worship were completely in Russian, with the lyrics on a screen, but were translations of songs I knew in English. I really liked the Russian-English mix, because I could work on my comprehension while still understanding everything that was going on. It was good for my tongue, ears and soul. ;-)

Aside from the translation, which was cool enough as it was, the text of the sermon was the book of Numbers. Yes, you read that right. The entire book. In case you don’t usually go to church, most pastors will either preach sermons on a theme (like Forgiveness, Giving, etc.) and reference Bible verses pertaining to the theme, or they will read through a passage of scripture verse-by-verse and talk about modern-day applications of principles learned. This Russian pastor did a bit of both and a bit of neither. He basically presented the entire book of Numbers by talking about important themes and stories in the book and relating it to real life. We’d read a few verses in a particular chapter, then skip over a few chapters to the next big part in the story. It was Numbers, but the Cliff’s Notes version. This style of teaching enables people to get a good gist of what the book is about, and it also means that the church can get through the entire Bible relatively quickly. (My church back at home is sort of doing the same thing, but we’re going verse-by-verse, so it’s much slower. We’ve been in the book of John for 2 years, almost.)

I liked the whole book overview, though I think I prefer the in-depth exposition of my home church. Nevertheless, I’m happy with Calvary Chapel St. Petersburg and I plan to go back there for the rest of the semester.

Speaking of religion in general, as you know, Russia is nationally Eastern Orthodox. This means that there are a ton of churches, cathedrals and monasteries everywhere, and plenty of people frequent them. The thing is that religion here is more cultural than personal. After the fall of the Soviet Union, an entire nation lost its identity. In seeking that identity, they turned to the one thing that had defined Russia for thousands of years: Orthodoxy. That didn’t mean that Russia experienced a massive wave of Enlightenment-esque evangelization, however. It simply meant that people went to church because it was a label they could give themselves and it was inherently Russian. (Anecdote: My host mom said that “many years ago,” people would go to church simply because the church could give them bread and other material things. I don’t know how long ago she meant, but I’m guessing she meant the Soviet period, maybe during the stagnation of the 70’s.) I think the church still plays a part in modern Russian culture, but not really in politics. Unlike in America, where grassroots Christian organizations and the Religious Right lobby for political changes, the Orthodox Church mostly stays out of the Kremlin’s business, or so my professor once told me.

As a point of interest, President Medvedev’s wife is apparently a very religious woman. She constantly sponsors projects to restore cathedrals and is seen going to church often. She is known for her faith, and is seemingly well-regarded, according to my Grammar professor and my host mom – two opinions I know I can believe in. *wink*

Until next time,

Katya

Balloonigaas, Kroons, and the Fluu

This post is brought to you by the Estonian language, which I can’t pronounce, but think is rather amusing, since they have a predilection for doubling vowels. I mean, vooweells. And paarticullaar connsonnaannts.

This past weekend, my fellow American students and I piled into the ‘ole double-decker tour bus and went to Tallinn, Estonia. I had been looking forward to that trip since I heard about it last semester, and it was indeed a cool place to visit. Naturally, since I was coming from Russia, there had to be problems on the way there, while I was there, and on the way back. And, since it’s Russia we’re talking about, they were pretty amusing.

St. Petersburg and Tallinn are not that far from each other. It only took three or so hours to drive from the center of Piter to the Estonian border. However, it took another hour and generous change to get through the border. Not to get into Estonia, though. To get out of Russia. You see, Russia has a list of locations of every foreigner who is currently within the country (with info like this: John Smith, American, currently residing in St. Petersburg, Vasiliostrovsky Region, Maly Prospekt, House 22, etc…). When you leave Russia, they have to cross your name off that list, which entails a good amount of paperwork, fees and general bureaucratic schmaltz. Thus, when we arrived at the Russian-Estonian border, we had to prepare our passports, migration cards and multi-entry visas, and take all our luggage off the bus so that we could go through passport control. While we were getting our papers stamped (and our paperclips savagely ripped out of our passports because the border guy was mad he had to deal with 71 loud American college students), border guards were searching our bus. Then we made it out of Russia and, for fifteen minutes or so, were sitting in no-man’s-land between Russia and Estonia while the latter’s border officials stamped our passports. While Russia had required us to de-board with all our bourgeois crap in tow, Estonia sent one border official onto the bus who collected our passports, stamped them, and then gave them back to us shortly thereafter. The difference in procedure (and time) really epitomizes the difference between Russia and the rest of Europe.

Estonia, for those that don’t know, is part of the EU, so once we crossed the border we felt as if we were back in civilization. Mostly because the roads were paved nicely. (Russia has notoriously bad roads.) As we drove another couple of hours to the capitol city of Tallinn, it began to snow. The drive was pleasant, especially since my seat buddies and I were adding our own dubbing to a silly Russian movie playing on the bus.

The hotel we stayed in was supposedly a 4 star place, but compared with the 4 star joints in Russia we’d experienced, this one was a 5 star. People welcomed us to Estonia. People gave us free stuff. The rooms were nice and the bathroom floors were heated! The best part of the hotel, in my opinion, was the fact that I could drink the tap water. I felt like I was truly back in the West.

We had a walking tour of old Tallinn, which is a quaint little European/medieval city home to 400K smiling people. My tour guide was very funny (when splitting us into groups, he asked that all the pretty girls come with him…) and took us all over the old part of the city. After the tour, exploring buddy and I went around the town a bit more on our own and ran into some friends at a neat little coffee shop. We decided to have some hot chocolate, which turned out to be the best decision of a lifetime. It was a huge glass filled with a third of a cup of melted chocolate, a generous spoonful of cocoa, steaming hot milk, more cocoa powder and an Estonian chocolate on the side. Tres delicious.

Unfortunately for me, I came down with the 24-hour flu that evening, so the next day I spent mostly in my hotel room, watching strange movies and shows in Russian, Estonian, English and German. I did go out on a bus tour of the newer part of Tallinn and got to see the Baltic Sea, but I missed out on most of the souvenir-buying and general merriment opportunities. Luckily, I recovered enough by Sunday to enjoy the tour of the Narva fortress, on the border. (There are two fortresses facing each other on each side of the canal: one Estonian and one Russian. I can almost picture there having been a Monty-Python-esque exchanging of insults on more than one occasion.) We actually had lunch/dinner in the fortress, which was seriously cool, since I was seated at the head of the table and was telling everyone that it was only by my graciousness that I was allowing them to dine in my castle.

I bought a souvenir pillow at the fortress for my host sister (since I was missing her birthday and her concert by being abroad) and exchanged the rest of my Estonian stipend of kroons for rubles. I would have liked to have kept some kroons as momentos, but I barely had enough to exchange in the first place. (Estonia is moving into the Eurozone in 2011, so kroons are saying their farewell to the world.) Luckily for me, I happened to have picked up a 10 cent kroon coin (in Russia, of all places), so I will have a memento of my time in Tallinn and of the rapidly-dying currency. Too bad I couldn’t save the paper money, though. It was very colorful, like rubles.

The final excitement of the trip was the hullaballoo that entailed getting back into Russia. We had to fill out more migration cards and sit at the border (this time, the Estonian border, backed up because of the Russians) for over 3 hours. Then we hauled it home, hoping to make it in time before the metro closed at midnight…once we knew that wasn’t going to happen, we were shooting to get back before the bridges to Vasilievsky Island and Petrogradskaya were raised and we were stranded on the mainland until the metro opened again at 6 am. Our program directors called cabs ahead of time and dropped people off at lightning speed so that we barely made the bridge. Indeed, as we stopped to let people get off at Petrogradskaya, the bridge began to rise behind us. Had we spent another minute or two on the mainland, we would have been stranded. It was close, but by 3 am or so, all of us were finally home.

(In case I haven’t talked about this, St. Petersburg is an archipelago, and has a few islands connected to the mainland by the metro and bridges. The metro, as I said, closes at midnight. The bridges go up at 1:35 to let big commercial boats go through, and only certain ones go down again for 15 minutes at 2:45. Basically, if you live on one of the islands, like I do, you have to be Cinderella and make sure you’re home by midnight, or suffer the consequences and frustration of the bridge schedule.)

Though super-tired, I was very happy to be back in my lovably dysfunctional Russia. Tallinn was nice, though my experience wasn’t the greatest because of my flu, but Piter was calling me home.

And the best thing was…school was canceled for the next day. Probably because the big wigs knew that us getting back so late just meant that no one would have shown up, anyway. Forethought for the win.

Until next time,

Katya

P.s. So why balloonigaas? Because of this picture that I took at an Estonian gas station:

One Sunday in the Life of Katya

This post is brought to you by God, since He’s the one that gave me such a fantabulous weekend. To a lesser extent, this post is brought to you by Alexander Solzhenitsyn, whose classic One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovch has nothing to do with what I’m about to write, other than the fact that my title is modeled after his. (Cool points if you recognized that ahead of time.)

I had an awesome – the Russians would say изумительный (ih-zoo-ME-til-nee) or замичательный (zuh-me-CHA-til-nee) – day. For those of you not glued to Russian weather forecasts, the past week’s weather made my presence here in the motherland official: it snowed. It wasn’t much and it didn’t stick, but there were definitely white things falling from the sky for a few hours. And then it rained and my boots (which I bought here to be my waterproof footwear, only to have the escalator chew a hole into my heel when the woman in front of me stopped suddenly at the top) became water-carrying receptacles. But hey, it’s Russia. Life goes on. Anyway, the weather had been cold, grey and stereotypically European…until Sunday. I awoke to sunshine and large blue patches in the perennially cloudy sky. Awesome-ness number one.

What with the weather being so nice, I decided to sit in my room and read. I know, right? Kind of a waste of precious sunlight. I did enjoy the relatively warm weather and brilliant sun later on, though, when I went out with friends to a cello ensemble performance. As concert buddy and I were walking from the metro station to the concert location, I saw a guy standing in the middle of the sidewalk, holding a sign that said (in Russian), “Hug me.” Ecstatic that I finally ran into the Free Hugs campaign – and in stand-offish Russia, no less – I enthusiastically gave the guy a hug. It made my day. Awesome-ness the sequel. With awesome sauce on the side.

The cello ensemble concert, located in a rather difficult-to-find palace across from Pushkin’s old stomping ground and near the Hermitage Museum, was pretty cool. There were eight or so cellists, but from the first piece they played, I could have sworn there were people playing violins and a viola. It was neat to hear musicians play the full range of the cello, especially when they were playing some of my favorite Russian composers: Tchaikovsky, Borodin, Mussorgsky…They even played a jazzy piece and a blues number that involved rhythmic snapping. Awesome-ness numero tres.

One thing that I must mention is the way Russians clap. In America, whenever an audience wants to let the performer know he’s done a good job, people will give a rousing round of applause, with whistles and wooos! sprinkled in for good measure. In Russia, when a performer does well and the audience wants him to know, they all begin clapping in rhythm, so that it sounds like one person with really big hands is clapping. This simply goes to show that white people do indeed have rhythm. It’s the collective mentality, I suppose. Honestly, though, it feels rather unsatisfying to clap slowly with everyone else. But I guess that’s just my cultural upbringing. *shrug*

On the way back from the concert, it began to rain, so concert buddy and I dashed into a pyshki place, where I had just enough change for one pyshka and one piece of Russian candy. While the sweets were pretty awesome in and of themselves, I count my flawless ordering and correct guessing of what the singular of “candy” was as the true recipient of the awesome-ness the fourth award.

The penultimate awesome-ness of my Sunday belonged to the moment when I ran into another pair of Russian deaf girls in the metro. I watched their conversation, very aware that I was the only one staring, and was able to pick up a few things about guy-behind-me’s hair they thought looked funny. (Isn’t that the definition of talking smack about someone behind his back in front of his face? Lol) Awesome-ness part five.

The crown of my fabulous day was when I saw a piece of junk car rolling down the street…that had spinning rims. Yes, like the ones wannabe ghetto/gangsta/rap stars put on their shiny black Escalades to make it look like their wheels are spinning even when the car is stopped. Only 50 Kopeck (not to be confused with 50 Cent, since technically he’s worth more) had the lamest set of spinning rims ever, and they showed the beginnings of rust, to boot. L.O.L.

Man, I love Russia.

Until next time,

Katya

So There Was This One Time…

You are in for a treat, because this post is brought to you by two words. The first is анекдоты (ah-neek-DOE-ty), meaning “anecdotes” (though Russian anecdotes are usually short stories with punch lines). The second word is now my favorite in the entire Russian language: верблюд (veer-BLOOT), meaning “camel.”

The following are five stories I’ve been dying to retell:

5. Close Encounters of the Deaf Kind

For those that don’t know, I took 3 years of ASL (American Sign Language) in high school. Although I’m out-of-practice, I still try to understand sign whenever I see it. The other day, I had the opportunity to put my rusty reading skills to the test when I saw a pair of Russian deaf women on the metro. I didn’t understand much of what they were saying, though I did catch something about how one woman’s mom was driving somewhere the day before and saw something funny. Honestly, however, even if my interpreting skills were at their peak, I probably wouldn’t have understood too much more. Russian sign is its own language, much like spoken Russian is different from Polish, Czech or Croatian. There might be overlap in ASL and RSL, but it wouldn’t be the same. Anyway, I had fun watching them sign and seeing their expressiveness. (I don’t know if you’ve had the privilege of watching deaf people talk, but they are extremely dynamic with their facial expressions.) I also enjoyed watching them because I understood what they were talking about better than anyone else on the metro, for a change. Thus, I indulged in a few moments of linguistic superiority. Don’t judge.

4. Never Trust the Militsia

I’ve said already that the police in Russia are corrupt and that I’m afraid of them. In case you didn’t believe me, this is what my professor told me happened to her husband: He was heading toward his car after making a withdrawal from the bank (or something to that effect) when the militsia stopped him and asked for his documentation. He opened his wallet to get his paperwork and the militsia noticed he had a good amount of cash. They started to question him about where he had gotten so much money and eventually made him come down to the station to write a statement saying how he obtained it. They stuck him in an interrogation room, made him take out all the money in his wallet and lay it on the desk, and gave him a pen and paper on which to itemize who had given him money. Then they left the room. Just as he was beginning to write, the lights went out. The door opened again, the militsia swept around the room, then the lights came back on – and the money was gone. The husband asked, “Where’s my money?” and the militsia replied, “What money?” What could he do, report the crime? To the people who had committed it? They let him go and he went home. Never trust the militsia.

Another, less frightening story from the same professor: She had her purse stolen and reported the crime to the militsia. They said, “thank you, we’ll look into it.” Two years passed, and she finally got a call from the militsia, saying they might have captured the robber. Two years later! They asked her to come in and make an identification. The conversation that ensued was hilarious.

Militsia guy: “Do you think you could make a positive identification?”

Professor: “It’s been two years. Besides, all I saw was his behind as he ran away.”

Militsia guy (totally serious): “We’ll make the suspects turn around. Do you think you could recognize his behind?”

Professor: “Uh…no...”

Militsia guy: “Oh, well. Good day.”

~ click ~

Moral of the story? Don’t expect swift justice from the Russian militsia. And next time you get your purse stolen, keep the image of the hooligan’s rear end engrained in your memory, just in case.

3. Classy People Like Teremok

I’ve already talked about this amazing restaurant chain in Piter called Teremok: the one that serves a million variations of блины (blintzes) and is possibly the thing I will miss the most, when I leave. Well, yesterday, after spending a couple hours in the Russian Museum (where excursion buddy and I saw Russian icon art from the 13^th century!) we decided to eat at Teremok. While I was in line, I turned around to say something to excursion buddy when I saw a man and woman in period dress standing behind him. They were probably on their lunch break from working one of the nearby historical sites, but they were still entirely decked out in 18^th-century aristocratic garb, white powder wigs and all. I was really tempted to pull out my camera and take a picture, but I fought the urge. I don’t know about you, but there is something really anachronistically funny about Duke and Duchess Russia ordering fast food.

2. Putin Looks Like Dobby

If you think all I learn in my Russian classes is how to speak Russian, you are quite mistaken. I’ve learned a great deal about Russian life, culture, food, history, architecture, as well as the random opinions of my professors. One of the more recent amusing tangents in Grammar was my fault, when I asked (in perfect Russian grammar, I might add) what my professor would do if she met Putin. What began as a simple question launched into a discussion about how she thought Putin was a great guy (tidbit for Mom: apparently he’s a fabulous communicator and master of the Russian language) but she thought he looked like Dobby, from the Harry Potter movies. Fortunately for my prof, in case any FSB agents happen to be reading my blog, this connection has been made before. Google “Putin and Dobby” and you’ll see.

1. It’s 10 o’clock – Do You Know Where Your Camel Is?

If you’ve ever taken foreign language classes, you know that you have to come up with sentences using whatever grammatical structure you happen to be discussing in class. It can be difficult to think of examples on the fly, or just plain boring. Solution? Pick a random, silly word and use it in as many examples as possible. Like “camel.”

When my friend Jay first whipped out the camel sentences, it was absolutely hilarious, and everyone thought so. Now, however, some of our professors have begun reaching their heretofore-unknown camel tolerance limit and react to his examples with a mixture of mild frustration and tempered amusement. Naturally, that makes camel sentences even funnier. There’s talk of everyone coming in one day, ready with examples featuring other random animals, but it probably won’t happen. We wouldn’t want our teachers jumping into the Neva in despair. Or, purposefully teaching us improper Russian grammar…

Until next camel,

Katya

Death by Flowers

This blog post is brought to you by the phrase "слишком много цветов," (SLEESH-kum muh-NO-ga tsve-TOF), meaning "too many flowers."

I don't know if I've mentioned this before, but Russians have a thing for flowers. Actually, that's an understatement of gargantuan proportions. Outside my metro stop alone there are four flower shops and a lady who stands by the exit selling small bouquets. It seems that every ten feet (or 3 meters, to be regionally accurate) there is a flower-selling establishment. And they get serious business! Russian men are expected to give their girlfriends flowers on every date, as I understand it, and they are also expected to provide their female hosts with flowers at a party. Then, of course, you have your standard congratulatory flowers, sympathy flowers, thank you flowers and special event flowers. Russia rakes in a lot of money from selling gas to other countries, but their domestic economy is run on flower sales, I'm sure of it.

This became rather evident a few days ago, when I went to a concert. My host sister was singing backup at this concert and happened to have two free tickets to the show. So my friend and I went, knowing absolutely nothing about the kind of music we were about to subject ourselves to, other than the fact that the musician's name was Афина ("Afina"). Turns out that Афина is the Russian equivalent of Athena (as in Greek goddess of wisdom) and that the Greek reference was more than coincidental. Афина's music was a neat fusion of Greek pop/rock with Russian lyrics. She had Greek dancers on stage with her and even brought out some Gypsy dancers, too! I took some pictures, but I was mostly trying to get pics of my host sister, so I may not even have one of Афина herself. lol

Multiple times during the performance, the emcee's held up signs saying "flowers and gifts" and tons of people in the audience got up to give flowers to Афина. I would guess that 80% of the theater (which was a good size) ended up giving her flowers. Part of it had to do with the fact that it was her birthday, and part of it, my host sister told me later, is that Афина is well-loved and especially kind to her fans. (I asked if it was normal for Russian musicians to receive flowers in the middle of the performance, and my host sister said no.)

I left the concert early, partly because it was getting late, partly because my friend wasn't having as much fun as I was, and mostly because we were sick of dealing with the three blondes in front of us. They spent the entire time talking to one another, putting their heads together and blocking our view of the stage, and standing up in their row. The 7-year-old sitting with them was better behaved. At the end, they started tossing the 7-year-old's doll back and forth very high in the air...playing with her, obviously, but getting in the way of everyone behind them. I was really only mad at them for blocking my view of Lelya and for ruining multiple pictures. They could have blocked Афина all night, for all I cared. Still, their absolute disregard for the people behind them was a bit shocking, and I kind of wanted to whack them on the head and remind them that this was a concert, not a coffee shop, but I didn't. (Actually, I wouldn't have had to deal with them at all, if the people on the end of the row hadn't stolen my seats...but, hey, it's Russia. Can't expect people to respect the sanctity of private space.)

Anyway, after I went home, I decided to stop at one of the flower shops in my metro center and buy some flowers for my host sister. I had to keep two very important rules in my head as I chose, however:

RULE #1: NEVER give someone flowers in multiples of two. Even numbered bouquets are for funerals and deaths. Whenever someone receives even numbers of flowers, they get the heebie-jeebies. Or are insulted. (Usually, if a foreigner gives an even number, they don't take offense...but I didn't want to give my host sister and mother a heart attack.)

RULE #2: Yellow flowers mean intimacy...or are reserved for prostitutes. (Funny story: I was walking home from school when an older guy with a bouquet of yellow flowers came up to me, told me he liked my boots and asked me to help him out. I promptly said "No, sorry," and sped up. He left me alone. lol)

I decided upon two red carnations and a pink carnation, but I didn't like what the bouquet looked like and was about to add another flower when I caught myself at Rule #1. I actually started to say to the florist, "and I'll also have..." but I stopped myself, partly because I remembered the rule and partly because the florist started to look disturbed. Instead, I switched out the pink carnation for a white one and paid for my flowers. I felt pretty good, having gotten something kinda nice for my host sister, but when I woke up in the morning, I noticed she had a gorgeous bouquet of red, white and purple flowers on the table that Афина had given her as a thank-you. Next to that, my carnations looked scrawny and cheap, but she said she liked them and appreciated the note I had written her. I think she was just happy that I liked the performance and actually went to watch her. She's cool.

So if you're ever in Russia and want to give someone a dozen yellow roses...don't.

Top 10 Things I’ll Be Happy to Leave

I’ve loved being in Russia, so far, but it hasn’t been all roses and song. These are the things I will gladly say do svindanya to when I leave in December:

Smokers – Everybody smokes and likes to blow their cancerous habit in my face as I walk around town. I once went to a club where Jarlath, our program director, was playing and I used half a bottle of Febreeze on my coat alone to get out the smoke smell. There’s nothing like stepping outside in the morning in the rare sunshine and inhaling a lungful of smoke and cigarette ashes. I mean, seriously people, smoking is BAD FOR YOU. Knock. It. Off. Thank goodness America has gone postal on smoker’s rights and the air in big cities is full of more civilized things, like exhaust.

Scarce/temperamental internet access – Oh, Vanderbilt, how I miss your wireless campus. Oh, wireless routers at home. Oh, friendly people who actually SHARE networks. I’ve said enough about this that I don’t need to belabor the point. Though, I will say that not having regular access to the internet has enabled me to understand how people can survive without a computer. Sort of.

People who don’t smile – I’m not really a smiling bubbly person all the time, which is why living here hasn’t been that bad, but I will definitely appreciate being back in a place where it is accepted and expected to smile and say “good morning” to people walking down the street. I miss being nice. Except on the metro. There, get outta my way, fool! I’m in a hurry!

Commuting to class – My dorm last year was located as close to geographical center of my campus as possible, so the longest walk I had was 10 minutes in any direction. In Russia, I have a 30-40 minute commute to school, if I take the metro and the shuttle. If I walk once I get out of the metro, it’s closer to an hour. I’ve gotten used to waking up at 7:30 to get to school by 10, but I will love being back on a campus where I can get dressed 10 minutes before class starts and still be early.

Russian-style university – First off, classes are 90 minutes LONG. It’s been scientifically proven that people start losing focus when learning after an hour. I’m used to 50 minutes of class time. 90 minutes each class, with an average of 3 classes a day, and only 10 minutes between classes = lame sauce. Especially since the Russians at Smolny decided that it was a brilliant idea to have everyone in the Political Science Faculty have lunch at the exact same time, every day, and make the lunch break only 40 minutes. (<-- Example of Russian efficiency, or lack thereof.) That’s enough time if you brought your lunch, but if you need to buy it from the cafeteria or from across the street, you’re either going to have to shove it down your throat as you walk or be significantly late to class. And God help you if you don’t have close to exact change at the Smolny cafeteria. The cashier lady might just stab you with her serving spoon if you dare flash her a 500.

Enormous time difference between me and family/friends – Since my internet is limited, I can usually only Skype/G-chat with people when I’m at school, which is usually egregiously early in the morning for those of the Central and Pacific Time Zone persuasion. Or, when I’m walking to Chernyshevskaya from Smolny and want to chat with someone as I amble through the park, I can’t call home unless I want to give my parents a heart attack at 4 am. Often at Vandy, when I’m walking back from Wendy’s and going to my room, I’ll give my mom a ring and chat with her. I miss having the opportunity to do that, here.

Freaking out when I see anyone in uniform – I’ve already said that the militsia frightens me. I’m looking forward to when I can walk past a cop and feel like he’s really there to protect me.

Perennially overcast skies – St. Petersburg is located on the Gulf of Finland, so there is always enough water around to evaporate and turn into clouds. This means that every morning for the past month, basically, I have awoken to grey/white skies or tiny patches of blue. I look forward to seeing beautiful sunshine more often than once a day, every few days. (Then again, when the sun does come out in Piter, the beauty of the city around me just shimmers. I always used to appreciate sunshine in America, but I do so even more now.)

Paying for lunch – I know that I technically pay up front for my meal plan at Vanderbilt, but swiping the Card or using Commodore Cash (aka monopoly money) just feels so much better than digging into my wallet for 100 rubles every day. Or going to the produkti and buying lunch meat/bread/cheese to take to school. I like meal plans, because they are yet another way of staving off this thing called “being an adult and paying for your livelihood.”

Not understanding a thing people say – I know that’s why I’m here, but let’s face it: I’m not going to come back speaking fluent Russian after only 4 months. While my comprehension and speaking skills are improving (at least, I hope so, for the sake of my host mom), there are still plenty of instances where I have no freaking clue about what someone wants from me. While I intend to stick with Russian and hopefully someday trick people into thinking I’m a native speaker, it will be nice to be back in a country where I entirely understand what’s written on the menu.

Until next time,

Katya