After two weeks of intensive training, I knew one metro stop, one nearby bank, one nearby eatery, my favorite pastry stand at the undergound street crossing, and a coffee house with internet access. Luckily, I’ve expanded my borders somewhat this past week now that our training sessions have given way to actual jobs. I have discovered two more parks, a few beautiful metro stations, a McDonalds with free internet access, and a bus-van that reminds me of the days of yore in Irkutsk, back when I had to shout out “at the next stop please” whenever I wanted to get off.
For all the capitalism and money this city has accumulated, it is, in appearance, still communist. The same flower kiosks adorn most streets, the same shopping kiosks are squeezed together in the underground walkways. There are no neighborhoods to speak of, just sprawling streets, ten lane highways, cement, parking lots, and the same apartment buildings, cloning themselves into infinity. There is no reason for me to like this city, especially compared with San Francisco, which has its views, walking routes, and, most importantly, distinct neighborhoods. In our search for a Moscow apartment, we had to keep reminding ourselves that one neighborhood was no better than another except in terms of proximity to the center. In New York City one’s neighborhood becomes one’s world, or so I am told. Each resident has his/her own Manhattan. Moscow is as big (bigger?) than NYC, but its neighborhoods are not nearly so independent. Even the most far flung areas reach inwards, trying to be as close to the center as possible. Every resident seems to strive towards the ring, the circular series of metro stops that divides outer and inner Moscow. As far as I can tell, outer Muscovites are physically self-sufficient outside the ring, but their spirits are left unsatiated if don’t make an occasional foray into the center.
As a city lacking in charming back roads and hidden corners, I don’t expect to find a warm café where I can fill out my graduate school applications, and I don’t expect the women at the market across the street to smile as I walk by. I don’t expect to heartily greet my neighbors, or feel any sense of community. But the city excites me nonetheless. I have yet to lose myself on the metro, seeing as there are no express trains that unexpectedly land me in Brooklyn. The lack of sights and quaint cafes is more than made up for by unexpected encounters. Today, for example, an extended political/philosophical discussion, begun and held up by a homeless drunk man, ended with his introducing us to the 18 year old boy sitting on a nearby bench. “Boy! What is your name? Igor? Igor, you are sitting next to two American girls, did you know that?!?! You should take advantage of the situation and ask them questions. This is Sarah, and this is Liza. Talk to them.” The man stumbled away, looked back, saw that we were not talking and that Igor was laughing uncomfortably, stumbled back over, physically pushed Igor over to our side of the bench, and demanded that he talk to us. Igor uncomfortably asked how the weather was in America. Once we were truly left alone, though, we did in fact befriend Igor.
It is not only the unnatural scenes that come with being a foreigner, though, that excite me. I am excited when I stand looking at advertisements and people on unbelievably long escalator rides. I am excited when I get home at 11pm, full of stories from the classroom, how I yelled at 12 year olds for speaking English. It is sometimes hard to believe that we have started a life here, have found an apartment, called realtors, argued with bank clerks, found our favorite cheese. These are all the things we should do at this point in our lives and at this age. But doing them here makes the effort seem heroic and the results, when they are successful, deserved.
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Diplomacy
In Russia, a night-time ride on the elektricka (tram) can remind you, suddenly, of the beauty of being a foreigner, and the host of opportunities that go along with the status. Misha, Sarah and I found three empty seats next to two middle-aged Russian men, who immediately informed us that we were lucky to have chosen them as seat mates. As Russians, we might have ignored them, or started one of the bickering fights that often break out in the railway cars. Instead, we threw ourselves into conversation with them. They began by congratulating Misha on being in the company of such pleasing young women. They asked our reasons for being here, our impressions of Russia. Without being asked, they gave their impressions of America. Sarah told them that Americans love Russia (“Why else would we have come to study here?!?!”) although I doubt they believed the generality of her statement. For a while, before the conversation disintegrated into baser humor, these two men tried convincing Sarah that she should run for congress in America, to get out of Russia and make it home in time for the elections.
This cross-cultural exchange of ideas and political stances lasted until one of the two (the drunker of the two, if they had been drinking) asked how old we were, and if we were married. Unable to believe that we were single and had no plans for marriage, they made sure we knew that it benefits a woman’s physical health to give birth before the age of 25. Upon establishing that I was the older girl, and had only a year left, they urged Misha to take me into the space between the train cars, which they claimed was called, translated directly from Russian, the “Reproductive Box.” The Reproductive Box then became the center of our conversation, and every time we got up to check the train stop, they insisted we make our way to The Box.
Thus a translated extract of our conversation would look something like this:
Sarah or I: “Wait, is this our stop? Which stop is this?”
Russian interlocutor: “You must go get pregnant now in the Box!”
Misha: “These girls have taken this elektrichka a lot of times. They’ve never seen the space between trains used in the way you are suggesting.”
Russian interlocutor: “Do women carry babies for 9 months in America too, or is the term different? HAHA, I mean, maybe in America you only have a baby in you for 7 months, or for 3 months….HAHAHA” (His friend tries to silence him.)
Me, trying to make out signs on street: “I really think this next one is our stop…”
Babushka sitting in the row next to us: “No, girls, your stop is the one after next…”
We sweetly thanked her every time she quietly passed along her information.
As the conversation got more inappropriate, it also got louder. By the time we exited the station, bidding our Russian company farewell and assuring them that they had not offended us, the passengers of our train car had put away their books, taken the head phones out of their ears, and were laughing right along with us. Everyone, it seemed, had been invested in our conversation; they chuckled, stared, and occasionally gaped. We walked home as if we had just exited stage left, stepping out of our role as US representatives and diplomats.
It is true that unexpected and hilarious conversations can sometimes break out on American buses. I have taken part in a few at home. Though I sometimes emerge from these encounters with flushed cheeks and an infusion of life, the inspiration rarely lasts beyond the conversation itself. But when we interact in another language and in another culture, our vulnerabilities our much closer to the surface. So when success comes, when others laugh, or we laugh, when we glide over confusions and explanations, it does not matter so much what we talked about, or whether our companions had a bit of drink on their breath.
It was one of those magical Russia moments that beats walking around Red Square, or going to the theater. (Neither of which we have done, yet.) It appears, though, that our thirst for attention has not been quenched. We came home filled with dreams of performing a series of American and Russian songs on the elektrichka, and we spent the rest of the evening deciding on our repertoire…
This cross-cultural exchange of ideas and political stances lasted until one of the two (the drunker of the two, if they had been drinking) asked how old we were, and if we were married. Unable to believe that we were single and had no plans for marriage, they made sure we knew that it benefits a woman’s physical health to give birth before the age of 25. Upon establishing that I was the older girl, and had only a year left, they urged Misha to take me into the space between the train cars, which they claimed was called, translated directly from Russian, the “Reproductive Box.” The Reproductive Box then became the center of our conversation, and every time we got up to check the train stop, they insisted we make our way to The Box.
Thus a translated extract of our conversation would look something like this:
Sarah or I: “Wait, is this our stop? Which stop is this?”
Russian interlocutor: “You must go get pregnant now in the Box!”
Misha: “These girls have taken this elektrichka a lot of times. They’ve never seen the space between trains used in the way you are suggesting.”
Russian interlocutor: “Do women carry babies for 9 months in America too, or is the term different? HAHA, I mean, maybe in America you only have a baby in you for 7 months, or for 3 months….HAHAHA” (His friend tries to silence him.)
Me, trying to make out signs on street: “I really think this next one is our stop…”
Babushka sitting in the row next to us: “No, girls, your stop is the one after next…”
We sweetly thanked her every time she quietly passed along her information.
As the conversation got more inappropriate, it also got louder. By the time we exited the station, bidding our Russian company farewell and assuring them that they had not offended us, the passengers of our train car had put away their books, taken the head phones out of their ears, and were laughing right along with us. Everyone, it seemed, had been invested in our conversation; they chuckled, stared, and occasionally gaped. We walked home as if we had just exited stage left, stepping out of our role as US representatives and diplomats.
It is true that unexpected and hilarious conversations can sometimes break out on American buses. I have taken part in a few at home. Though I sometimes emerge from these encounters with flushed cheeks and an infusion of life, the inspiration rarely lasts beyond the conversation itself. But when we interact in another language and in another culture, our vulnerabilities our much closer to the surface. So when success comes, when others laugh, or we laugh, when we glide over confusions and explanations, it does not matter so much what we talked about, or whether our companions had a bit of drink on their breath.
It was one of those magical Russia moments that beats walking around Red Square, or going to the theater. (Neither of which we have done, yet.) It appears, though, that our thirst for attention has not been quenched. We came home filled with dreams of performing a series of American and Russian songs on the elektrichka, and we spent the rest of the evening deciding on our repertoire…
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
And I Had Almost Forgotten...
Let me begin my first Russia entry by adding a post-script to my previous entry: My flight from London to Moscow was not delayed, as I so feared. Instead, during the flight, I caught the “cold from hell” (as my friend called it the following day, as I lay on our Soviet sofa-bed, bemoaning my fate.) Thus, my theory that nothing else could go wrong was entirely, well, wrong.
But now we are up and about. Today is the city’s 861st anniversary, and Russian and Belorussian singers and dancers graced various stages around Red Square. Men with stylish European mullets danced, and we wandered. Many aspects of street and home life already seem normal again, as if we’ve never left, but I still find myself laughing as we walk the streets, suddenly reminded of the styles, behaviors and sights that you can only find here. For instance, there are more public lovers here than I’ve ever seen in Paris, if only because most young people live with their parents or grandparents, and therefore can only find the space to kiss on Metro escalators. For instance, salads that we find pre-made in the markets are drowning in mayonaise. For instance, the woman sitting across from us on the train today was snacking on dried fish heads. In these moments, and there are several every day, Sarah and I look at each other, tacitly agreeing that we are happy to be citizens of our far-away country.
But there are other times when we are thrilled to be here, thrilled to be accepted. Yesterday, as we waited to cross a busy street, a group of young Russian men approached us at the corner and asked if we’d like to be escorted across the intersection. In a typically American, defensive, or feminist way, we rejected the offer. But afterwards I remembered that, here, we can be as helplessly feminine as we want. For all that is said about the dangers of Russia, women here are paradoxically quite protected. Had we been wearing heels, I’d have been tempted to say accept.
And other moments, smaller victories remind me of the times I smiled happily to myself in Irkutsk. Having a woman in a kiosk understand me when I ask for cough drops, or understanding a man from work explain popular songs from the 90’s—these moments would mean little at home. Here though, they symbolize cultural exchange, acceptance, signs that our lives can and will merge with Russian lives. In a country whose customs and history is are so foreign, these moments are gold.
Most importantly of all, though, is the discovery we made in a small grocery market ten minutes from our apartment. As we browsed, discussing our purchases and debating which black breads, smoked meats, and olives we should buy, I looked up. There, on the top shelf above the register was a familiar orange bottle of chinese sauce (‘kitayskii soyus’) that, three years ago, graced most of my meals in Irkutsk. We shrieked, then bought a bottle. As I write this now, I am eating a piece of gray-ish looking bread with nothing but sauce smeared thickly into all corners. My job and apartment situations are both somewhat precarious at the moment, but my Russian is understandable and the snacks are heavenly. For the moment, I am excited.
But now we are up and about. Today is the city’s 861st anniversary, and Russian and Belorussian singers and dancers graced various stages around Red Square. Men with stylish European mullets danced, and we wandered. Many aspects of street and home life already seem normal again, as if we’ve never left, but I still find myself laughing as we walk the streets, suddenly reminded of the styles, behaviors and sights that you can only find here. For instance, there are more public lovers here than I’ve ever seen in Paris, if only because most young people live with their parents or grandparents, and therefore can only find the space to kiss on Metro escalators. For instance, salads that we find pre-made in the markets are drowning in mayonaise. For instance, the woman sitting across from us on the train today was snacking on dried fish heads. In these moments, and there are several every day, Sarah and I look at each other, tacitly agreeing that we are happy to be citizens of our far-away country.
But there are other times when we are thrilled to be here, thrilled to be accepted. Yesterday, as we waited to cross a busy street, a group of young Russian men approached us at the corner and asked if we’d like to be escorted across the intersection. In a typically American, defensive, or feminist way, we rejected the offer. But afterwards I remembered that, here, we can be as helplessly feminine as we want. For all that is said about the dangers of Russia, women here are paradoxically quite protected. Had we been wearing heels, I’d have been tempted to say accept.
And other moments, smaller victories remind me of the times I smiled happily to myself in Irkutsk. Having a woman in a kiosk understand me when I ask for cough drops, or understanding a man from work explain popular songs from the 90’s—these moments would mean little at home. Here though, they symbolize cultural exchange, acceptance, signs that our lives can and will merge with Russian lives. In a country whose customs and history is are so foreign, these moments are gold.
Most importantly of all, though, is the discovery we made in a small grocery market ten minutes from our apartment. As we browsed, discussing our purchases and debating which black breads, smoked meats, and olives we should buy, I looked up. There, on the top shelf above the register was a familiar orange bottle of chinese sauce (‘kitayskii soyus’) that, three years ago, graced most of my meals in Irkutsk. We shrieked, then bought a bottle. As I write this now, I am eating a piece of gray-ish looking bread with nothing but sauce smeared thickly into all corners. My job and apartment situations are both somewhat precarious at the moment, but my Russian is understandable and the snacks are heavenly. For the moment, I am excited.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
the airport jitters
I thought had I improved on my departure technique after I cried only once when leaving San Francisco, as compared to when I left for college and broke down at regular intervals for several weeks. And I held myself together well in New York too, until this afternoon. After my last goodbyes, I made it back to my friend’s apartment, stood outside, twiddled the keys in my hand, and managed to convince myself that it was not, in fact, her apartment, and that there must just be another Bushwick avenue in Brooklyn, or that I was mis-remembering her address.
I made a few panicked phone calls, which went unanswered, and then walked a couple of blocks to see if anything, a gas station, a seafood restaurant, might be recognizable. They weren’t. I started to choke back sobs, and repeat to myself: “I KNEW this would happen. I’m lost in Brooklyn and I won’t have my suitcases when I leave and I’ll never make it to Moscow!!!”
I knew, though, that I was being irrational, and walked back to the original apartment that I had found. Suddenly, it did look like the right door, and, glory, the key fit in the lock, and the second key fit in the second lock, and the third key fit in the third lock! (There was a pneumonic device, involving a kidnapping story, to remember the order of the various keys.)
Maybe my body and mind reach an agreement that, for the sake of everyone concerned, it’s best for me to get my anxious sobs out when I’m alone, before I embark on the actual trip. It’s a last nervous ritual that keeps me calm for the rest of the journey. After all, here I am, sitting at the airport, hours before my flight, successfully welcomed through security, guarding my passport and ticket lovingly, and I can think to myself: “Well, I already almost got lost in Brooklyn….What else can go wrong?” If something is supposed to go wrong on every trip, as it invariably does, better to invent it yourself and get it out of the way early.
………..
Ah, but I see now that my flight is nine minutes delayed. I will now start wondering whether this delay, this delay that is sure to lengthen, will make me miss my second flight to Moscow.
………..
I made a few panicked phone calls, which went unanswered, and then walked a couple of blocks to see if anything, a gas station, a seafood restaurant, might be recognizable. They weren’t. I started to choke back sobs, and repeat to myself: “I KNEW this would happen. I’m lost in Brooklyn and I won’t have my suitcases when I leave and I’ll never make it to Moscow!!!”
I knew, though, that I was being irrational, and walked back to the original apartment that I had found. Suddenly, it did look like the right door, and, glory, the key fit in the lock, and the second key fit in the second lock, and the third key fit in the third lock! (There was a pneumonic device, involving a kidnapping story, to remember the order of the various keys.)
Maybe my body and mind reach an agreement that, for the sake of everyone concerned, it’s best for me to get my anxious sobs out when I’m alone, before I embark on the actual trip. It’s a last nervous ritual that keeps me calm for the rest of the journey. After all, here I am, sitting at the airport, hours before my flight, successfully welcomed through security, guarding my passport and ticket lovingly, and I can think to myself: “Well, I already almost got lost in Brooklyn….What else can go wrong?” If something is supposed to go wrong on every trip, as it invariably does, better to invent it yourself and get it out of the way early.
………..
Ah, but I see now that my flight is nine minutes delayed. I will now start wondering whether this delay, this delay that is sure to lengthen, will make me miss my second flight to Moscow.
………..
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