Merry Christmas

Advice for anyone who finds themselves in Saint Petersburg on the 25 of December. Go to the Hermitage. You'll pretty much have it to yourself.

No, no snow. Go figure.

Baby, if you got it, flaunt it....

Okay, so one of the most annoying things about Russia is the attitude towards sharing -- music, that is.

Russia has a different attitude toward cell phone ettiquette. People don't turn off or silence their cell phones with the same vigilance shown in the US. Had a conversation with one of the Russian professors about this one day, and he suggested that Russians see (or saw in the recent past) possession of a cell phone as much more of a status symbol than Americans do.

I think it might go deeper than this. Virtually anytime I'm trying to study at the Institute -- there's a small group of Russian students playing music quite loudly on there computers. (Occasionally, I think to myself -- hey, some Soundgarden could totally drown out this second rate emo. I, however, have yet to enter into a speaker war that my decrepit computer would probably lose anyway. It's just a standing temptation.)

The same thing happens on the bus when people have an Mp3 player with speakers. Apparently, headphones aren't necessary -- you should do your fellow passengers the favor of sharing the second rate emo and punk. (Or rap -- however, the guys switching between FiftyCent and Weird Al's "White and Nerdy" were amusing -- I think they didn't realize Weird Al was a parody.)

I personally think that it would be hysterical to start playing "The Sound of Silence" on my pocket PC without headphones. But, the language barrier would kill the significance, and why antagonize babushki.

Water Update

It's back. This is good, as it just got cold and snowed again.

Centralized hot water = bad idea...

Current mood: Grouchy.

Day two of no hot water in my apartment. Apparently, a water line burst. Hopefully, this will be fixed soon, or I'm just going to snap.

Oh, also, no heat, because the heat is a radiator with hot water taken from the centralized source thereof. Fortunately, the temperature has been hovering around 50 for the past few days.

This does not mean however that the cold water -- still running -- is anything that could be passed off as warm, tepid, room temperature etc. This makes washing one's hair in the sink a very fun experience. (The water is cold enough to be mildly painful. And I just haven't felt like wearing a scarf and going with greasy hair.) Oh, and when I first turned on the cold water this morning, it was roughly the color of weak coffee. Cleared up later, but I was about to cry. I at least need a cat bath. Then the chihuahua started barking at me and nipping at my heels. The gods of housing hate me.

Bryan tells me the normal fixing time is one to two days, but could be as much as two weeks.

Maybe I'll get to do laundry tonight, because I don't think I can take dirty clothes on top of not being able to shower.

File under, "it sounds ridiculous, but welcome to Russia."

Protest in the Palace Square!

So, yesterday, was the scheduled whirlwind tour of the Hermitage with the Smolny group.

Yesterday was also an anti-Putin protest in Palace Square. (That would be right next to the Hermitage.)

Hannah and I took the number 7 autobus from the far end of world (a.k.a. Primorskaya) to the Hermitage. When we arrived at the Palace Embankment, which -- along with the Palace Square and the upper end of Nevsky -- was crawling with Russian cops in riot gear. Incidentally, all them seemed to be in a great mood. I'm not being sarcastic, they were just standing in line telling each other jokes and laughing. Hannah and I were politely barred from entering the Palace Square, where we were supposed to be meeting. I called our assistant baby-sitter who had no idea that there was a rally.

In the meantime, Hannah got very happy and started taking photos. If she posts them, I'll post links.

Hermitage. Whirlwind tour. Most of the art we saw on it was just the Italian collection, which isn't really my thing. Western classical religious art just disturbs me.

Da Vinci worked very small, by the way.

Planning to go back again, since my student I.D. gets me in free.

Convert Me: A Cooking in Russia Update

Found "corn meal" or something that we can pretend is cornmeal. And another girl found corn meal. So, now, I have a ton of cornmeal. Well, in reality, only about a kilogram of corn meal.

And therein lies the next hurdle. Converting recipes with US measurements into metric. Either that or eyeballing measurements since I suspect there are no measuring devices of any type in my apartment. Hey, that tea cup looks like 8 ounces! Tablespoons could be difficult as their are teaspoons and these huge soup spoons, and nothing else.

Oh, I needs to go find some baking powder now.

The Great Russian Shopping Extravaganza

I'm hunting cornmeal in St. Petersburg.

Don't ask me why I do silly things like this.

This morning I went to the "gipermarket" Lenta. Which is basically the Russian version of Wal-mart. Picture a more frustrating version of Wal-mart without cornmeal and something like three or four aisles of vodka, and ta-da, you will have Lenta in your head. Now, add tacky American Christmas carols. Wonder why they are playing such things, as it is not Christmas, nor does Russian really have American-style Christmas.

Then add in gates so that you can't leave without going through a check-out line, and I didn't want to try to explain that I hadn't found what I wanted, so I bought a chocolate bar, and confused the cashier because going into this store and only buying a chocolate bar is kinda silly. Just now I remembered that I should have bought ink pens and a gluestick, but those can be had else well.

On to try other options. I have a feeling that if I find cornmeal at all it will be the most expensive cornmeal ever. Good thing I don't need that much.

In the TMI category -- I have one wisdom coming in all happy and straight, and being pampered and carefully brushed. Can I get a second? Come on little tooth. I welcome you to my mouth, and would prefer that you take up residence there.

Moscow Part 5: The Arbat and Random Stuff

So, here’s my report on the Arbat. It’s a lot like Beale St. But longer and with more original buildings intact. Lots of restaurants. Lots of tourist kitsch. Yeah, Beale, but longer.

I might have a better appreciation of the Arbat, if I had tried harder to understand the tour guide or just know the history, or if I had spun by a night. But . . .

Hard Rock Café Moscow

Here I spent too much money on a very warm hoodie.

Statue of Aleksandr Pushkin and Natalya Goncharovna.

Tiles listing names and wedding dates of Russian couples in front of the above statue. For those of you familiar with Aleksandr and Natalya relationship – please, don’t ask me why you would want their “blessing” for your marriage.

This is another thing Russian couples do in Moscow – they attach padlocks to these wire trees on a bridge crossing the river. They also attach them to the bridge by the rebuild-to-attract-tourists Christ the Savior Cathedral.

And here’s an interesting statue, Anton pointed out to me. It’s supposed to represent the ways in which the world corrupts children.

Consumerism -- It's Everywhere You Want to Be

Russia doesn't celebrate Christmas the way America celebrates Christmas. This isn't the effect of some pernicious war on Christmas. Christmas is a religious holiday, not a secular gift-giving holiday. I was looking forawrd to not having to deal with the American build-up to commerical Christmas, beginning as it does now right after Halloween.

However, in Russia, the gift-giving partying holiday involving a tree and generous magical figures with beards is New Year's. The tree is called a yolka.

There are already two up in the shopping drag near the university. My friends, who are more observant say that they've been up for a couple of weeks now.

Yep. Right after Halloween -- even in a country that doesn't really do Halloween.

Oh, yeah, it's snowing. And there is ice on the Neva and the Gulf of Finland. I am approximately four years old.

Moscow Part 4: Novodevichy Monastery and Cemetery

Have I mentioned that I want to be a monk? But not a nun.

Before you are photographs taken at the Novodevichy Monastery, which at some point in the history of Moscow, was on the outskirts of Moscow. It has a long history of housing politically troublesome women in exile. It’s also quite a pretty place – there would be worse exiles, I suppose.

Here’s a wall. Yes, it’s supposed to look rather defensive.

An impressive tower.

Look! Trees! Green! Church!

Part 4 B: I looked on Yelstin’s grave from afar, but was too interested in finding Gogol to walk over.

Russian cemeteries are a trip and a half. They seem to be very attached to including images of the deceased somewhere in the grave marking (I suspect the derives from the iconography tradition – although, I’m not certain.) Some of these images can get quite impressive.

Exhibit A

Exhibit B

You’ve already seen and heard about Gogol (and if you haven’t, skip done to Dead Lenin).

They put Mikhail Bulgakov in the grave Gogol vacated when he was moved. In a strange way, I feel both writers would have appreciated the entire, sordid story.

Moscow Part 3: Red Square and the Kremlin

It’s big. Bigger than I had imagined. It’s also slightly sloped. (Moscow’s gentle hills are tiring after being spoiled by Saint Petersburg’s flatness.)

And in general – it’s rather impressive.

I’m a church junkie. Have some pictures of a church. The Church of Out Lady of Vladimir, I believe. Quite pretty.

After DEAD LENIN, we went through Saint Basil’s – which contains the first icon of

Saint Mary of Egypt that I’ve seen in Russia. Incidentally, whoever painted it wimped out and gave her a hair shirt.

Saint Basil’s is a warren of cramped stairwells, passages, and chapels. It’s also extremely beautiful and extremely surreal. Granted, the sort of heady, otherworldy sensation, might have been due to climbing up a spiral stairwell in which each stair was roughly a foot high – but it was

still an interesting effect.

Unfortunately, I have no pictures inside, as I didn’t chance it without a photo ticket. Also, I hate taking pictures in churches, because things don’t come out without a flash, and with a flash, you lose the ambience.

To the Kremlin.

I find it very Russian to have a flowerbed of decorative cabbage.

This is from the bridge you walk over to get to the Kremlin – after you go through a metal detector. Moscow loves metal detectors, by the way. I understand why you would have the at the Kremlin. At a hotel that isn’t even in the center of the city – not so much.

My cannon is bigger than your cannon.

Icon of Sophia, Divine Wisdom on the wall of a church in the Kremlin. Russia is groovy like that.

Always, always, look up. Yes. I played with the filter. No, I really didn’t take out much color. Russia’s like that. I think that’s why they have candy-colored churches.

Oh, yes, this is the Kremlin at night. Shot from the bridge. Pretty, pretty, pretty. Cold, cold, cold.

Moscow Part 2 – Sosiski

I don’t suggest that you eat breakfast in Russia. Ever. If you can help it. Blini are delicious, but they can be eaten at anytime, and probably won’t be for breakfast.

But the Hotel Yunost’, which is not recommended anyway for potential travelers, is particularly bad. We had three breakfasts in the hotel restaurant. I will share. Because I didn’t actually have to repeat kindergarten.

Day 1

* Slices of dry bread with a thick slice of cold butter and red caviar. Caviar has not made it into the list of things I want to eat again, and is most certainly not a breakfast food. By the way, the vegetarians were served dry bread with slices of salmon.
* A small cup of yogurt.
* Pre-packaged, crumbling, dry, pies.
* An “omelette” consisting only of egg whites.
* Tea or coffee, and the waitress had no concept of asking for preferences. Fortunately, I was sitting with a Russian girl who is very good at taking charge of things and demanding that situations be fixed.

Day 2

* Dry slices of bread with butter and kol’basa. Might be okay for dinner, or a snack, but breakfast?
* Small cups of yogurt.
* The horrible substance that is carbonated water.
* Dry slices of bread and jam.
* FLIPPING SOSISKI! (Hot dogs) My arch nemesis! That which my host family fixes every other day with pasta for dinner. Imagine this, please – hot dogs – for breakfast. Nothing to go with them. Just hot dogs and a bit of ketchup.

On this day, the vegetarians received an apple each, a dish of plain rice, and hard boiled eggs.

Day 3

* Bread and kol’basa. Yes, it was still dry.
* Yogurt.
* The crumbling pies again.
* Are you ready for this? Beautiful, flat, still, uncarbonated water!
* And – this really excited me – two fried eggs and ham. Real breakfast food. Pretty good too. Accompanied by a piece of sosiski.

What’s the real kicker? Our baby-sitter revealed how much was shelled out by the program for this “breakfast.” Fifteen dollars per person. Yes, my friends.

The lunches and dinners were quite good. They weren’t at the hotel of doom. Several variations on a delicious mushroom soup. Salads. Pirogi at one place we ate at twice. (Pirogi are little pies, and these were very good.)

So, now, I have returned to my host family. For the delights of kasha (oh, and they’re increasing the amount of salt in it), and vtorog (that’s the curds from cottage cheese pressed with dried fruit – it would be great in a smaller portion as a side dish – but not in a block slightly bigger than my palm), and salty grechka (buckwheat porridge – can be good, I had some cooked in milk the other day that was delightful, but generally, no), and my current favorite – myusli. Which is apparently not just a Russian thing, I saw a reference in a Margaret Atwood novel. But, it’s a cross between granola and oatmeal, and actually a satisfying breakfast food in and of itself.

Tonight was a sosiski and pasta night. But there was a slightly different pasta – hooray, I think.

Oh, how I miss lentils! And spices! And decent meats! And being able to eat breakfast on my own time as coffee or soda and maybe a granola bar.

Moscow, Part One – Dead Lenin

I have seen Dead Lenin. I was deeply saddened by not being able to take a picture of myself with Dead Lenin. Yes, I know that’s more than a little disrespectful, but . . . I want a picture with Dead Lenin! I mean, right around the corner of Red Square I could buy Lenin T-shirts – come on now!

Incidentally, if you seriously want to pay your respects to Vladimir Ilyich Lenin, I do not recommend the Lenin Mausoleum as the place to do so. You walk through, and keep moving. If you don’t keep moving, the young soldier in his incredibly awesome winter uniform will shoo you on with a whistle. No, this did not happen to me, I just watched a lady you was actually there to pay her respects to Lenin – not gawk at a body that’s been on public display for eighty odd years.

I got shooed away by guards at the Lenin Mausoleum much later, after dark, taking silly photos with the girls. I don’t think they appreciate it.

Incidentally. Lenin’s looking distinctively corpish these days, but still good for his age. Although, he needs a bit more than a rose colored light to bring out the color in his cheeks. In all honesty, I’m caught between morbid amusement with the entire Lenin experience, and being quite disturbed by the preserved body.

See, I don’t like the whole decomposing thing. The idea of being decomposed and, say, mixed back in with earth, doesn’t particularly bother me. But the notion of dead bodies slowing rotting into nothing creeps me out. It’s the slowly part. I’m really bothered by embalming, lead lined caskets, steel burial vaults, etc – anything that drags out the process further. In fact, I’m very, very much in favor of cremation – not only for myself, but I would generally prefer it for bodies I was close to when they were people, not that I necessarily get a say in such matters.

I also want to know if all the church bells and liturgies in Red Square (since at least one or two churches have been reopened) hurt Lenin’s waxy ears? Further, how does Lenin feel about hanging out next to the establishment of CAPITALISTIC PRIVILEGE that is the GUM – only the biggest and priciest of the at least four mega-malls of bourgeois privilege surrounding Red Square?

As I said, caught between repulsion and morbid amusement – welcome to my mind.

In further news, when they exhumed Gogol in the 1950s, they found him curled up on his side, not laid out in a neatly Orthodox manner on his back. It is believed that Gogol was buried alive.

Imagine the story he would have written from this.

(This would be a photo of Gogol's new grave, in which he was placed while most certainly dead.)

Russia Attempts Halloween

So, the Russian students at the Institute are trying the Halloween thing.

It's endearing and slightly funny. And, just not quite there.

For some reason, there is a broom hanging form the ceiling at the Institute. Perhaps, this is a Halloween tradition, I am not familiar with? There's also a sign up that reads "Terrible Halloween." The connotations of terrible are a bit different in Russian and English, I believe.

I'm going to east gummy bears. Maybe I'll get a Twix bar or two in celebration.

Russian Harry Potter

The final Harry Potter book was released in translation in Russian on
October 13. It popped up everywhere, of course, in window displays in
bookstores, in people's hands on the metro, and in the magazine/book
kiosks in and around the metro, which by the way, offered the cheapest
price – 169 rubles. I think that I might have seen a flyer or two for
a release party in one of the larger bookstores of Nevsky. But there,
thankfully, wasn't really any Pottermania to speak of – probably
because if you wanted to know how Harry Potter ended, I'm sure someone
had translated the spoiler summary into Russian on the internet by
now, or you just read the book in English, since Russia has a school
system that does logical things like starting foreign language classes
in the primary grades. Or, it could have just been that I don't have
Michelle and Whitney to keep me abreast of such things. :D

But, Harry Potter in Russian – you know, that's a fun thing to own.
Besides, I want to know just how they transliterated all the very
Russian unfriendly names: Harry is Garry, and Voldermort is
Volan-de-mort (in Russian, he is French), btw. Or if they fixed the
faux Slavic names that were driving me batty in the book. So today,
for the first time in my life, I bought a Harry Potter book
exclusively for myself. Not purportedly for my little brother with
everyone knowing I was reading it as soon as he was finished. Just
for me.

Here was my other question? What on earth is a Deathly Hallow? I
still couldn't really tell you after having read the book in English.
And how do you translate something that doesn't make sense in the
source language? Well, one option is to make it make sense in the
target language. So, we have Garry Potter i Dary Smerti, translated
back into English as Harry Potter and the Gifts of Death. Which makes
more sense, but I suppose didn't sound quite as mysterious. Or maybe
sounded too gothy/depressive for a kid's book. Who knows?

Pavlovsk

from September 30

Eventually, I will learn my lesson.

I just shouldn't go to the doctor. Ever. Never ever.

Last time I went to the doctor I asked about the "hole" in my right
thigh. Much poking and prodding later, I discover that I am the proud
owner of something that has been stuck in my leg for a decade or so,
there's nothing to be done about it other than cutting it out, unless
it gets infected that would be unnecessary, oh and, it just shifted
around so it will now be irritated by things that didn't irritate it
before, like driving, it'll think it needs to kill a new muscle/nerve
area, and the cold will bother it more than in the past. I learned
nothing much useful and the situation is slightly worse than it was
before. Oh, and there was the marvelous week of pain wherein I
thought Alien, as the thing has been dubbed, was trying to work his
way back out of my thigh.

So, yesterday, I developed a splitting headache after diving under a
desk to plug in my flash drive. This morning I woke up with a
splitting headache, a sore throat, and painful pressure in both ears.
Little worried that I might be coming down with strep throat as our
baby-sitter had it recently. When to the institute, as sitting at
home just means that the dog will be barking at me. Sat through my
first class, and felt much worse. I was running a fever, felt very
weak, throat hurt, ears hurt. Decided to go home. Saw Bryan on the
way out, and decided that I would go to the doctor.

Call the insurance to set up an appointment. Fun times. Make
appointment – 6pm with one of the doctors at one of the European
clinics in St. Petersburg. She supposedly speaks English.

Elena volunteers to go with me, which I'm very grateful for, as she
dealt with interrogating the receptionists (more to follow).

Get to the clinic. Initially, I didn't have to wait very long to see
the first doctor. A nice nurse, does the usual rounds, weight,
height, blood pressure, temperature. I was running a low grade fever
at that point. And I've lost ten pounds somewhere in St. Petersburg.
(Can't you hear me morning?)

The first doctor sort of speaks English – not really. And apparently
the best way to clarify something I didn't understand is to say it
louder. (Yes, lady, I can hear you, but you're throwing Russian
medical terms at me.) She asked me about symptoms and decided that I
needed to see a specialist. Makes a call or two, says the specialist
can see me in 20 minutes.

An hour and forty-five later, and two or three inquires from Elena
later, the specialist finally gets around to me.

Russians are insane.

Fortunately, the ear, nose, and throat specialist speaks much better
English. She also likes to talk and believes in using many words
where a few would have done. She checks my throat, my sinuses, my
ears. Says something to the effect of my eardrums aren't currently
bad off, but there are signs of past inflammation – surprise,
surprise. Wants to run a test on them. I decided not to fight –
after all they are a bit of a chronic problem, and maybe she'll catch
something the US doctors missed. The result is that my eardrums are a
little deviant from normal, but not enough to be problem at the
moment. She is concerned that further congestion will do damage, so I
have stuff to hopefully clear out my sinuses. All kinds of stuffs.
Sprays, drops, inhalers, oh my!

Moving on to my throat. Apparently, in Russia, they cauterize sore
throats with silver nitrate. I'm still skeptical, but I let her do it
(if I had heard the word cauterize, probably wouldn't have, but her
roundabout explanation did not include that word). If it actually
works, and I don't hop online tomorrow to find that silver nitrate is
deadly, I shall sing it's praises. Quite unpleasant, but not painful
per se. But, I'm skeptical.

And, back to the sinuses. She seems to be worried that there might be
a larger problem with my sinuses. (Hey, I am too!) Wants X-rays
done. Okay, whatever, I'm a little worried about payment as I'm not
certain how much the program's insurance covers upfront, but decide
sure why not. Granted, where there something massively wrong with my
sinuses, it ain't being fixed in Russia, but if she noticed something,
I could also have the info sent to the US. If I didn't just decide to
live on decongestants.

None of the x-ray technicians speak English. Between Metra's
elementary Russian and hand gestures it was managed. But, I'm glad I
wasn't really sick. Interesting adventure.

My sinuses look good, by the way.

Okay, back to the specialist. She writes out a prescription for
various and sundry things to clear up the sinus congestion and the
throat infection. (In Russian, by the way, fortunately, I read more
than I speak and have the luxury of relying on a dictionary.) Wants
to see me again in a week to make sure I'm well, also thinks that I
need to be resting at home for the week, and in the Russian system,
she could give me a slip basically ordering the university to let me
stay home, but she would have to see me again to sign off that I'm
well. I decide that's not necessary and talk her into just letting me
send her an e-mail in a week to confirm that I'm better, and promise
to call if I'm not better. (Russian doctors are far more serious
about minor ailments than US doctors.)

The reception people hadn't gone ahead and gotten the necessary copies
of my passport and insurance card while Elena and I were sitting there
for nearly two hours. So that had to be done. I think the
receptionist must have straightened out payment with the insurance
company on his own (I know he called to check on paying for the
prescriptions), because the bill was several hundred dollars over the
amount the insurance generally pays up front, and I didn't owe
anything, not did they ask for credit card information. So kudos to
the nice receptionist guy. If that is the case. (The insurance
company doesn't have a co-pay in theory, in practice its more
complicated.)

I finally left the clinic at 9. Drug my little self into the
apartment at 10:30. Explained to Galya with some difficulty that I
hadn't eaten any dinner yet, could I fix an egg for myself. Galya, of
course, fixes me an egg and a cosiska herself. Ate. Figured out my
drugs with the help of the Russian dictionary. And wrote this
account. Oh my.

As if the blues and rock and roll weren't enough...

Appreciate the Pig. And no, I don't mean the Beale Street BBQ joint. I mean PigglyWiggly. One of the great contributions of Memphis to the world.

You see, if I have my story straight, Piggly Wiggly (which is not, as a Yankee recently asked me, just a joke from Driving Miss Daisy) was the first grocery store, where you walked around, picked out what you wanted and then went to the cashier and checked out, instead of having to ask the clerk for the items you wanted to purchase. And Piggly Wiggly started in Memphis. We have the Pink Palace to prove it.

In Russia, the old system is still in place in about fifty percent of produkti (little groceries) and some larger stores. And while I'm sure that shopping there would be easier if I were used to the system and could speak the language, I now have a greater appreciation for the Pig and all of it's offspring. (Except Wal-mart, which I haven't really missed.)

So, don't let anyone ever say Memphis ain't paid her dues.

In Russia, Caucasians are Black

I was asked to comment last Sunday on whether racism in Russian was
worse or better than racism in the South (of the United States). And
I really couldn't answer the question with anything other than – it's
different. For one thing, I haven't been in Russia for a long enough
with enough language comprehension to have picked up on racially
structuring in Russia in anything other than a throughly academic
manner. (After however many years living full-time in Petersburg our
baby-sitter has picked up on the racial constructs, he went around the
room during orientation and picked out who might run into problems
because they do not fit the Russian, Orthodox ideal. Incidentally, my
Southern socialized mind would have classified all of them as white.)
Academically, I know that persons from the Caucasuses are referred to
as chernyi -- literally "black." It's a rude term, but not beyond the
pale, I've heard my eight year old host sister using it in a
discussion about her classmates with her grandmother, and while I
didn't catch all the implications it wasn't so much hateful as it was
entirely dismissive. (I had an awkward moment when my host mother and
grandmother asked if Memphis was a dangerous city, and when I said
that it was somewhat dangerous, one of them automatically followed up
with: "Well, don't you have a lot of blacks there?")

However, Russia has confirmed that yours truly is not color-blind.
I'm used to Memphis. Even if Rhodes remains mostly upper middle class
and white, I am used to Memphis. Russia is surrealistic in its
whiteness. All of the advertising features white people. Smiling
white Russian families – not necessarily blond haired and blue-eyed,
but definitely white (with rosy cheeks). A subtle difference from
American advertising which seems to shoot for a more pluralistic
ideal. (Gender stereotyping is just as bad, if not worse in Russia.)
The vast, vast majority of people I meet in the streets are white to
my mind. I have a sneaking suspicion that not everyone I would
classify as white is "white" by Russian standards. And on the
reverse, if my host sister were suddenly transplanted to Memphis, on
first glance, I think many people would decide she was Mexican, not
Russian. I saw a black man in the streets a couple weeks ago and felt
relieved at some odd restoration of normalcy. If I lived more toward
the center of the city, I think the surreal effects would be worse.
I'm in a working-class neighborhood, so there are more immigrants
living here than might be elsewhere.

So, yes, I'm quite aware of "race" in my white Southern-bred way. I
knew that, but now I know that.

Russian Cuisine

testing this post by email thing

Umm...yeah. So, I wasn't expecting miraculous delights of culinary
rapture from Russian, but some spices would be nice. Or just another
plate of borsch and a piece of black bread with mayonnaise on it in
place of the second course of hot dogs and pasta. Borsch is yummy and
the black bread is surprisingly good with mayonnaise and not so good
by itself. A double helping of the delightful tomato and cucumber
salad and I'm sure my belly will be full. Just please, please, no
more hot dogs.

So, yes, spices. Our babysitter informs me that Russians haven't the
tongues to able spices and are convinced that anything more intense
than black pepper – and perhaps just black pepper – will result in
spontaneous combustion.

But that's okay for I have found my culinary salvation! Shaverma!
Which is sharma in American speak, but I find it easier to pronounce
in Russian. I feel in love with the beefy Al-Rayan version over the
summer in Memphis, but the tasty chicken version served up for 55
rubles (a bit over two dollars) at the stand outside the Metro is
hitting the spot as well. Delightful, subtle use of spice in
delicious tender, greasy chicken flesh. Cool yogurt sauce. Chunks of
cucumber and tomato. All wrapped up in a warm pita ready for munching
on the walk home.

Oh, my friends, this is what fast food should be – so much better than
McDonalds. I'm modifying the suggested business plan, Whitney. I'm
sure we can do both blini and shaverma.

In other food news:

I bought some gummi bears today. How I love them! And they weren't
those nasty German gummi bears. Russian gummi bears are proportioned
differently from American gummi bears. They have bigger heads.

I found Mountain Dew. It's at the American run bar across from the US
Consulate (which, btw, is a very manly shade of pink.) There was much
delighted squealing from your humble narrator. And, it was a glorious
can of Mountain Dew after having abstained for about a month.
Glorious, I tell you, my friends.

I am alive.

Russian is turning me into a violent person. I want a handgun for multiple reasons, including but not limited to: a certain portion of males of the species, loud dogs, and blowing off steam by shooting things.

I have a new techie toy to play with. More blog updates will follow when I get it completely figured out. I also think that Windows Media Player is quite possibly the worst piece of software Microsoft ever created.

Everything is Funnier in a British Accent

So the recording for the English Second Language class are by a gent with the same type of British accent and vocal qualities as one of the Pythons, I believe Eric Idol. This makes overhearing the English class go over their listening comprehension exercises, as I have done for the past three mornings, unbearably funny. Because I'm visualizing the things the Pythons probably would have done with dialogue about renting a house, or inviting someone to a party. And apparently, there was one I missed about a house in Portugal with a fish sticking out of the roof.

On Turning 21 in Russia

So it’s marginally pointless to turn 21 in Russia. But these types of occasions need to be marked anyway. So here’s the dirt.

Decided to pretend that my birthday is Saturday instead of Sunday. Consulted the Lonely Planet guide to Saint Petersburg which is from 2001, because I am what can be termed a cheapskate. Thought I had found a Korean restaurant where food would involve spice; however, being an idiot, I did not call the restaurant to see if it were still open in 2007. Set off with the girls to go to said restaurant – which, we found to be no longer in operation. But we had passed two Chinese restaurants, so the decision was made to try the Russian version of Chinese -- not the Russian version of Mexican at a restaurant called "Tequila Boom."

The place we went to had a group of Chinese businessmen in the back VIP room and a menu that had been babelfished into English with hilarious results. “Laminated Rice” and “Pork in Sweet-Acid Sauce” being two outstanding examples. I thought about asking to see if I could have a copy of the menu. Ordered spicy pork and noodles – both of which were very good. The vegetarians were all pleased with their dishes. The one bad dish was the spicy beef which probably wasn't good meat to begin with, and then was overcooked.

Then we walked to Dacha. There were vodka shots. There was one shot of Jager, because I felt like I should try something new on my 21st birthday. The D.J. was playing soul music the entire time we were there. I felt sentimental about my Memphis. I kinda wanted to get up and dance, but I never got the chance because Dacha is overcrowded. Then, we left and went home before the Metros closed. And I’m twenty one. Woohoo!

And then, I tried to sleep because I needed to get up at 7:30 the next morning to go to Orthodox Liturgy. And my brain said, no – I’m hyper. And I said back, but brain you have had alcohol, you should go to sleep, operate slowly, isn’t this what alcohol is supposed to do to brains? And my brain decided that it wanted to skip around and make daisy chains for a couple hours before slipping into a weird lucid dream that, I believe, reveals the desire of my subconscious to write vivid His Dark Materials fanfic. (Perchance, someone reading this is familiar with that lovely trilogy and understands the tension between dreaming in those universes and then waking up and going to any church service – yes, no, maybe...)

But I successfully woke at 7:30, took a cold shower (hot water is complicated in Russia), made instant coffee (you’ll be pleased to know I can boil water, it took me a while to convince my host mom of this), and was on the other side of the city by 9:30 to go to liturgy with Sasha, who is from Atlanta. And understands that the weather here is currently like the weather around Christmas in the South. And the longing for some Southern food.

I feel that this particular location was well suited to my first Orthodox service in Russia. The building was quite old, and in the process of being restored, but the scars from the Soviet Era were still apparent. The dome was very high. I’m a bad judge of distance, but Rhodents: it would be like walking into Barrett and being able to look all the way up to the top of the tower. But from ten feet on up, the walls were bare cement. I suspect that they were originally covered with frescos of some sort. The majority of the icons within the building were prints. There were a few old icons and a few new, hand-painted icons. The iconostasis was quite beautiful in it’s own way. It was simply and elegantly constructed from wood. In a different setting it would have been lovely. The amount of space in the nave swallowed it up without a backwards glance.

Hearing a full choir sing the liturgy was quite an experience. (They also had a priest with a wonderful bass voice.) I also got a better sense of the amount of movement during an Orthodox service. St. Seraphim is so small that it’s hard to get a feel, and at St. John’s the pews get in the way.

And now I’m 21. Hooray! (Yes, Uncle R, I'm watching out for that Russian vodka. Btw, who is my second favorite uncle, because I'm not certain?)

Amusing Music Selections Overheard in Russian

1. A techno remix of Pink Floyd’s The Wall. It’s everywhere.
2. More technified mix of “The Phantom of Opera.” Might have been that I just caught the tail end as I was walking by the CD store, but they apparently just kept the instrumental part and the Christina screaming vocal acrobatics.
3. Two kids on the bus switching between various rap songs and then, Weird Al’s “White and Nerdy.” I’m not quite certain that they understood that “White and Nerdy” is a parody.

Russians Take being Sick very Seriously, and Rum not so Seriously

Or, How My Dislike of Beer Will Turn Me into a Pushy Russian Yet

The professor who teaches the class I’m auditing on ancient Russian art doesn’t have a good sense of time. Classes only meet once a week in Russia, and the schedule is supposed to be something like this. An hour and a half of class, a twenty minute break, and then another hour and a half of class. Yesterday, another student finally asked the prof for a break at two hours and twenty minutes of lecture. The last week, the prof went over by 45 minutes.

Also, I apparently looked sicker than I actually felt yesterday. (I still have a cough and a very decent amount of sinus congestion going.) But when the prof finally paused, another student came over, scolded me for being out and told me that I should go home.

Being a bad person, I decided to take this as an opportunity to just skip out of the rest of the class. (Mind, I’m only understanding every tenth word.) Went down to the program office, found Bryan and the Count, who were heading out for Italian before the group bowling extravaganza. I went along with them to try the best Italian food in Saint Petersburg. (All I have to say is, poor Saint Petersburg, if that’s the best Italian they have. It wasn’t bad, but, well, just no, not quite.) And then onto the bowling.

Bowling is apparently a very elite sport in Russia. And while Columbia’s bowling alleys might not make for a good comparison base, this was certainly the fanciest bowling alley that I had ever seen. With a bouncer, who makes you check your coat, and inspects your bag on entry. And a bar.

So the majority of the Americans promptly go get beer – that drink I do not comprehend. I was up for a drink, so I decided I’d splurge on a rum and coke (rum is expensive in Russia). Justification: I shall be 21 on Sunday. First, I had two failed attempts at getting an order in at the bar – ordering requires assaulting the bartender – this is most difficult for me. Finally, I think I have ordered a rum and coke, and the bartender – who had a mullet, oh yes – sets a small glass of beer down in front of me. I hate beer. I want my Cuba Libre. I decide not to demure. I argued with the bartender in what I’m sure was bad Russian. Finally, he figured out that I wanted rum and Coca-cola. He’d apparently never heard of the concept of combining the two, so I received a shot of rum, and a bottle of Coke. Close enough. And I had the rest of the coke to drink after the rum was gone. So, yeah, I argued in Russian. I feel slightly accomplished.

Sick in Russia

So, I have a cold. A killer cold. But it's okay now. I can speak again and the congestion is draining out of my head as I type. (I do enjoy sharing unpleasant sensations.)

I avoided any terrible Russian home remedies. My host grandma had me suck on a piece of lemon to help my throat -- which helped actually, and isn't particularly unpleasant. And later, I tried warm milk with a bit of butter in it, which I don't think is any more helpful than hot tea. My host mom also told me that I shouldn't take a shower, which I don't understand, so I showered while she was out of the house and felt much, much more human.

And that's all I have to say about that.

Buses Walk in Russia

If you don’t get the joke, too bad. It’s based in Russian grammar. Just know that they do.

I’ve now taken the bus twice. Once with a friend and once by myself. It’s a long ride – it takes just as long to get to Smolny by bus as it does to take the Metro – one simply walks less.

On the positive side – I get to see more of the island by riding the bus. The metro does have the disadvantage of being underground. Unfortunately, the sections of the island that the bus goes through are dominated by auto shops. This area is the Saint Petersburg equivalent of Summer Avenue for those of you playing from Memphis (and Uncle Roman).

But, on the whole, I’m not loving the bus. They seem to be more crowded than the metro – it’s much more difficult to maneuver one’s way in and out of the bus. And, they’re dirty. I watched a guy toss his still partially full can of beer on the floor. He refused to pick it up when the conductor asked him to. So obviously, the solution is to kick the can of beer out from under to the seat, in front of the guy, and then off the bus into street, sloshing the beer all over the floor of the bus. Oh yes. The Metro tends to be a bit cleaner.

Surreptitious people watching is more difficult on the bus. You’re either looking at the back of people’s heads, or all of two feet away from a very angry looking Russian woman, or there’s a real crowd and someone’s behind is hanging out in front of one. And people watching (done discreetly – of course) is one of the highlights of my commuting experience.

So currently, I’m not loving the bus – but we’ll see when it actually gets cold.

All's Fair in Love and Russian Computer Labs

That's right. Getting a computer in the lab is some tricky business. You have go hunting, stalk your prey carefully, and pounce at the first possible opportunity.

Okay, so last week was – interesting. The RSL intensive continued, so I had Russian classes every day from 9:30 until 1:00. Then in the afternoon and evenings, we had the academic class. Classes only meet once a week in Russian – but they meet for a very long time. Each class period is broken into two 1 hour and 30 minute sections with a twenty minute break in between. So on Tuesday and Friday, I had RSL in the morning and then other classes until 8 in the evening. It was fun, let me tell you. And exhausting. And thus, you see, a lack of updates regarding my life.

Incidently, Galya – my entirely awesome host grandmother – thought that this schedule was ridiculous, unmanageable, and I thought for a minute that she was going to call Bryan and inform him that she thought just that. The word babushka doesn’t work for Galya – all the connotations are wrong. For one thing, she really isn’t very old – early sixties at the most. She reminds me a lot of how Anna was when I was little. She’s very active, independent, funny, and I would not want to cross her. She doesn’t know much English, but she doesn’t mind repeating herself and rephrasing things until I understand – or resorting to gesturing.

I like my host family (even the psychotic dog is beginning to let me befriend it), but its difficult readjusting to living in a family situation. I’m too used to being on my own and taking care of myself. I didn’t manage to convince my host mom – who isn’t a morning person – that I could boil water to make myself coffee in the morning (all coffee is instant coffee – it makes me sad) for about a week. She gave in when I needed to leave quite early last Sunday morning for a group excursion, but for the previous week, she’d get up, fix me some sort of breakfast, and then go back to bed. My nine-year-old host sister has started back to school now, so the past week she was up getting Nastya off to school anyway. However, I’m allowed to do most of my own laundry – my host mom takes care of the settings on the incredibly complicated washing machine, but I get to sort, hang up, and put away my own clothes.

I also have to remember to give my host mom an idea as to where I’m going and when I’ll be back, or else she’ll get worried. Very different from the past three years of dorm life. At the same time, it’s not like being at home – she doesn’t care if I’m going to stay out late (or all night) she just wants to know what my plans are. For one thing, you really can’t stay out late in Maury County – what’s to do? The times I’ve been out late were the result of going to visit family or friends and talking until the wee hours of the morning. Here, there’s plenty of things to do, and after a certain point you have to just spend the whole night out. The Metro stops running at midnight, and the bridges to the islands from the mainland go up to allow ships through around 1:30 or 2 and don’t go back down until 5 am or so, so if you go out, you’ll probably wind up staying out if you live on one of the islands. Thus, I got in at 6 am this morning after going out with a group of girls from the program. Which wasn’t a problem for my host mom – since I had told her that I was going out. (Actually, I think she was happy that I went out, I think she worries that I study too much.) And, when all is said and down, walking from the metro station to the apartment is probably safer at 6 am than it is at midnight.

Back to School in Russia

Shopping for school supplies in Russia is totally more fun than shopping for such things in the US. Why? Russians have much, much cooler school supplies.

Take notebooks for an example. Most of the notebooks here have graph paper in them instead of being ruled. I think I dig it. Also, the notebooks are just niftier. I bought a large, hardbacked one with a faux leather cover. It has the imperial double-headed eagle holding a pen instead of a scepter embossed in silver on the cover. ‘Tis quite groovy. But the average notebook is a small affair, lightweight, about the size of a composition book in the US. And they have tons and tons of different, usually rather funny covers. Remember the folders with the pictures from elementary school – the one’s that were “cool.” Oh yes, that’s the type of covers we’re talking about.

Folders, on the other hand, are plain, off-white numbers. They cost about 6 rubles each. (At 25 rubles to the dollar, that’s a bit over 20 cents.) You place your papers in the folder, and then fold the flaps around them, and tie it with a bit of cloth. All of them are stamped with Папка для бумаг. (Folder for papers.) However, I haven’t seen any folders for anything else. Or, you could splurge and drop some more rubles on translucent plastic folders, but then you wouldn’t have somewhat amusing Russian writing on your folder, would you? (I’m thinking of returning to the US with a ton of папки для бумаг.

Have I mentioned recently how much I detest Microsoft Word?

Peter and Paul Fortress

Here's looking up at the spiren of the church -- have I mentioned the lovely skies in Saint Petersburg. That isn't edited in -- it's really that gorgeous. Puts a whole new spin on Soloviev's azure empress.


I forgot of whom this is a statue, but you're supposed to rub his thumb and make a wish.


The side of the church.


Another side of the church.


We climbed as far up the belltower as they would let us. Good view of the city from up top.


It's a me at the top.


Here's the ceiling inside fo the church. The columns aren't actually marble, but it's a pretty good paint job.


This iconostasis disturbs me. All of the icons are painted in a very Western European, Italian Renaissance style. And it just feels entirely wrong to me. Icons aren't supposed to be that corporeal. (Click on the photo to enlarge it, you'll be able to see the paintings better.)


You can tell it's just paint here.


It's a big church.


And, look! Dead Romanovs! You knew I would get a photo. Incidentally, the bodies of the family servants who were killed are also entombed here. And, for reasons unknown, but presumed to be good, the king and queen of Thailand are hanging out.

Water in Saint Petersburg

First things first -- do not drink the water in Saint Petersburg if it came from a tap and hasn't been boiled.

And just in case I was wondering why, yesterday I had the fun experience of returning home, changing into my home clothes, going to wash my hands, turning on the tap in the bathroom, and seeing dark brown water come out of the tap -- roughly the color of coffee.

Strangely enough, the water in the bathtub was fine -- for handwashing, not for drinking.

On September 2, 2007, Metra put on more clothes than she had in years. And later in the day she wished that she had put on more.

I was wearing jeans, a long-sleeved T-shirt, a turtle neck wool sweater, and my coat (sans lining). Oh, and a scarf. I wish I had worn tights under my jeans. I heard my host grandmother commenting that the weather today was like October. I suspect that buying some more sweaters might be necessary.

(poor Eve, she must be quite cold)

Peterhoff is quite pretty in a somewhat frightening, overly manicured way. It was an interesting little excursion. We were there in the morning when they turned on the fountains. This involves a voice over, fireworks, smoke rings, and dancers. It’s a very strange affair.


The most interesting event of the day was being yelled at by the old ladies in charge of one of the little out building surrounding Peterhoff. You see, there are two pricing systems for museums in Russia, one for Russians – which is very inexpensive – and one for foreigners – which is more, but still inexpensive in comparison with American museums. We all have Russian Student ID cards, so we can actually get the Russian student price. Provided that no one decides to raise Cain. Cause you know, the group of kids speaking in English or accented Russian, many wearing gear from American universities, are totally Russian.

(the bridge is where the yelling took place)

So Elena (one of our babysitters) had purchased the tickets to one of the little museums in the Peterhoff complex using our studentcheskii billeti and had gotten the Russian price. We’re queuing up to head into the museum, when the lady taking our tickets starts screaming that the one of the first guys isn’t Russia and needs a different ticket. Elena yells back “On russki! On russki!” (He’s Russian!) Finally, the lady lets him through, lets a few girls through and then stops another boy with “On ne russki!” Elena yelled her down again. I was hoping that someone would concoct some solution, because it’s quite obvious from our documents that we aren’t Russian (with one or two exceptions). The name Demetria just confuses Russians, I have found, and there’s also the glaring lack of a patronymic. I think the lady just gave up and they glared at us the entire time we were in the little museum. Interestingly enough, the first guy she yelled out is the most Russian in the group. His family immigrated when he was eight.

Adventures in lying your way into Russian museums for discounted prices will continue. (Although, I’m not going to press the issue too much on my own. Two dollars versus six dollars isn’t worth an argument with an angry Babushka.)

(P.S. I think the psychotic little dog is trying to kill me.)

Would You Strip on Nevsky Prospect for New Clothes?

Nevsky Prospect, by the way, is the main commercial street of Saint Petersburg. Everything and everybody is there.

Yes, there is a story behind that question. FYI, this post is probably rated PG-13.

The group was supposed to be meeting at a restaurant on a side street just off of Nevsky for dinner on Friday night. I took a long stroll through a decaying corner of Petersburg (basically, I was wandering through the setting of Crime and Punishment) managed to only temporarily become lost. (My sense of direction is a little screwy here. I blame the northern location and the lack of compass roses on our atlas. For instance, from the sun this sun it seems that Nevsky runs east to west. I thought it was more of a north-south street! And then, there are all the streets that run catty-corner – or catterwompus, if you’re from Oberlin – how confusing!) Eventually, I found Cennaya Ploshad’ and made it safely down Cadovaya to Nevsky, where I stumbled into two guys from my group.

We found the side street that the restaurant was on. At the front of the street, right on the edge of Nevsky – there was a crowd of people gathered around a stage and an announcer. Of course, we stopped. I had a bit of trouble seeing around all of the tall people, but in front of the stage there’s a young woman, with a shopping bag over her head, whose clothes are being cut off by a couple of assistants. They had her down to her underwear before we pressed on to the restaurant. Apparently, it was a promotion for a department store. If you were willing to strip down on Nevsky Prospect – they’d give you new clothes. Oh, the things to be seen in Russia!

After dinner, I went out to a bar with a decent percentage of the students in my groups. There’s this faux dive bar on the other side of Nevsky that for some reason unknown to me is very popular among American students – Dacha. It’s also apparently a good place for males to get to experience the Russian tradition of bribing the police to leave one alone (girls don’t get hassled as much, apparently). Rum and coke is very expensive, but beer is possibly more disgusting in Russia than it is in the United States. And, I’m not about to start having male Russians buying me drinks, so – for the most part – I watched several of the other students get quite drunk and quite silly. Had one shot of vodka. (Why do people make faces when they take vodka shots? It’s not that bad.) Continued watching the very drunk group of girls get drunker and had a couple fun conversations with the very drunk girls and perhaps just as drunk but more stoic boys. Decided that the two young Russians of the male variety who the very drunk girls had gotten drinks from were quite creepy. (Surprised? I wasn’t.) One of the other girls (not one of the very drunk ones) tried to explain the purpose of a bar to me. Apparently it’s simple. Everyone wants to be drunk, and get laid. I still don’t understand it. Left around 10:30 because the music was getting too loud, drunk people are only amusing for a certain amount of time, and I really didn’t want to be walking home from the metro station by my little lonesome self at 3am.

I’m kinda sad that I didn’t actually stop and watch the dude playing guitar and singing outside of my metro station.

I have a blister the size of a quarter on my right heel...

No, I don’t care that you didn’t need to know that. I needed to share that. It’s painful, and I can’t decide whether to cut off the dead skin (don’t ask why I can do minor surgical operations on myself with no problem but break down when medical persona try to stick me with needles) or just bandage it well tomorrow morning. I suspect that the culprit is the type of socks I have been wearing with the combat boots. Usually, I wear them only in the dead of Tennessee winters with wool socks. I’ve been wearing them with plain cotton socks as it hasn’t been cold enough for wool socks or warm enough for flip-flops (and there’s that whole I would really rather not pick up HIV from stepping on a dirty needle). I think the thicker wool socks are necessary to prevent blisters, because these boots normally don’t give me this many problems. And, well, it seems that tomorrow morning (and perhaps through the day, I wasn’t quite clear on the weather report via my host mom) it’ll be getting down into the temperatures normal for the dead of a Tennessee winter. Walking home this evening felt about like walking around in December and January in Memphis.

The intensive RSL classes have started. So far, I pretty much like all the instructors. They all seem to know roughly what they are dealing with and have appropriate expectations. They’re also kind so far. (My host mom thinks that two one page essays is two nights is a bit much, but that doesn’t really bother me.) I feel like my biggest problem right now is vocabulary. I feel good about grammar. My active understanding is less than it could be, but my passive understanding isn’t too terrible. Vocabulary, on the other hand . . . Speaking of grammar, the grammar instructor is a character and a half – she is what I one day aspire to be, wonderfully eccentric!

I went to McDonalds for lunch. I know – the shame! But it was good and greasy – even if Carli and I forgot to order ketchup for the fried we split. Tomorrow, I want to find a blini place or something near the Institute.

Oh yeah, there are plans in the works to celebrate the birthday of Aleksandr Blok in an appropriate fashion. As close to the Teatralnaya Ploshad’ as we can manage, I think . . . There are also plans (with the same group to infiltrate Russian Orthodox Cathedrals) during liturgy so we can see the areas forbidden to tourists. Yes, we will be appropriately attired, and no there will be no photos. I feel that the simultaneous planning of such activities is somehow appropriate – in a delightfully twisted way. (By the way, there are two Russian and Religion majors!) (And how many more times can I write appropriate in that paragraph?)

And now, back to reading a depressing story about lovers parting before a war and writing a short essay on Oscar Wilde... по-руссккии! I learned last night that trying to write a review of book when you have to coin new words in Russian in order to translate the titles isn’t the best idea ever. Who knew that the Russian language didn’t have a word equivalent to homoeroticism?

And this is what my name looks like on my visa – Деметрия Кэтлин Ворли.