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.
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