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.