do the cossack dance!

Impatient Readers...
Oh, what a strange, what a strange and a wonderful thing is the youth exchange. I have found another way of explaining Russia to hopeless foreigners: I am capable of complaining for HOURS about Russia, Russians, and all things vaguely connected. But no matter how hideous my stories, no matter how chilling my anecdotes, no matter how terrifying my adventures...I would still choose an exchange in Russia over any other country. I love Russia, for all her difficulties, oddities, irritations, irrationalities, and would not want her to be any other way.
The time I got mistaken for a thief breaking into the apartment and they almost called the police...the time we almost got mugged by local thugs and then followed down the main road...the time we were landed with paying our way through the conference and had to drop over 3000 rubles at an unexpected moment, miles from the nearest bank machine and without a place to stay the night...the ENTIRE YEAR OF TOILETS FROM HELL. I would not do away with any of these facts of Russia. Perhaps I ought to be institutionalized for it, but I would still do the year in Russia over again.
In today's news, life in Russia has changed once again--I have changed families for the last time. Once again I live at the Kondratyuks. I have rejoined the battle between myself and the Russian public transportation system, this time armed with the persuasive and fearsome power of the Russian language. Two days ago I returned from our Regional Conference, which bore all the earmarks of the Mother Country. The Conference was held on a camping base which was still under construction. The power went out periodically, there was a shortage of drinking water, and very little to eat. The Rotary club forgot to pay for us, and we hiked along the mountain roads in search of a bank machine. The guests and Rotarians stayed in luxurious, clean hotel rooms. If they'd remembered to fill the swimming pool, they could have swum. Their toilets were passable by American standards, and models of perfection by Russian standards. The exchange students stayed in tiny huts designed for four people (there only furniture was one bedside table and four beds) and in our cabin, there were six. The bathrooms were tiled holes in the ground, and the showers filthy. BUT!!!
We sat up every night into the wee hours, singing songs, teaching each other Russian folk songs and Irish ballads, playing on the harmonica and talking. We went biking in the wild, dark mountains in the day, and the final night danced the whole night away, running and jumping in circles, kicking out heels and clapping wildly to Russian music. It was a glorious family reunion of all my family members, from all my life in Russia--the former president of the Tomsk club, who deeply encouraged me in my second month when I was in Tomsk, the students I'd see three months ago, the woman who wanted me to study in university in Russia, the host mothers whom I dearly love, the Rotarians who are my grandparents, aunts and uncles, the Rotaracters who are brothers and sisters! The Rotarians took me dancing and we sang together and drank strong tea with wild honey and talked about Russia. It was like a little microcosm of Russia. And, of course, we had a riotously good time the Australians who are a JC team going through Siberia--they're the most beautiful people, and we've had wonderful times together, and I worked for them as a translator while they were in Barnaul.
And, having made fast friends with another exchange student, I was invited to Krasnoyarsk, about 17 hours by train from my own city of Barnaul! So, yesterday I had a farewell dinner at the Mexican restaurant with the Australians. I came home at one in the morning, packed until two, woke up at 4:40 to make breakfast and wrap up packing, left at six in a taxi, and left Barnaul at seven in a train to Novosibirsk! I know await the next train trip to Krasnoyarsk (That's this evening) and by a wonderful, beautiful turn of fate...ended up on the same train as the Australians. So we're together in Novosibirsk, and I await my next train! And I am SO TIRED! But I figure I'll sleep on the train. More news to come, and questions are welcome...
honestly, there's just too much to say to cover it all, so if anyone says they're interested more deeply in one thing or another, I can tell them another story about that!

Host Families Work in Mysterious Ways...

Well. I really need to blog more frequently. I always have these weird adventures, but then put off blogging for so long...that something else happens.
For example, I had this super cool adventure in the Altai Mountains, involving Rotarians, and banya, and excitement, and an art school, discussions of the four rules of Rotary students, and this interesting economic game. But then another adventure took place...
Soo...I've settled peacefully into my host family at last. Having lived there since the New Year, this is of course prime time for happy settled-ness. I was having a relaxing Saturday with my host mother, chatting, drinking coffee, sitting around, and then went for a stroll with a friend of mine.
Post-strolling, I come home and shuffle out of my wintery coat items, and chat mildly with host family members.
"Oh, by the way," said my host mother. "Someone called for you while you were out." I yawned, unaware of the impending chaos.
"Who?" I asked.
"Anastasia Denisova." My world narrowed...widened...narrowed...my perception of time warped...Anastasia Denisova is the fictional name of an elusive rotary member who heads up all the exchange student stuff, and moves my fate in subtle and devastating ways from afar. When her voice crackles over my telephone, I think of the words of Legolas--"There is a fell voice on the air!"
I waited until reality resettled and said calmly, "And...what did she say?"
My host mother seemed troubled. "She said...they're coming." This, too, is a line menacingly similar to something from Lord of the Rings. I don't know what, exactly, from Lord of the Rings, but undoubtedly something accompanied by dark, dark, terrible musical themes.
"They're coming," I repeated.
"That's all she said," nodded my host mother. "I think you might be changing host families. Why else would they be coming?"
I pondered this deeply. Who could be my next host family? And I took a deep and dangerous step--I called Anastasia Denisova myself.
"Anastasia Denisova!" I said cheerfully. "How do you do? This is Julia."
"Julia!" she said, equally cheerfully. My warning bells started going off. "Hi!"
"So..." I said. "What's...um, up?"
"You're going tomorrow!" chimed Anastasia Denisova. I blinked into the telephone.
"Excellent!" I said. "WHERE am I going?"
"You're coming to live with US, Julia!" And thus I changed families again. All is well--this is a lovely family, with a small dog, and helpful parents. It turns out Anastasia Denisova may be a fell voice on the air as a counselor, but is a caring and warm host mother. I have a little sister who likes to teach me Russian.
But the questions remain, troubling me in the wee hours of the morning--Why do I always change families instantly? Is there some kind of law that prevents me from being warned beforehand? Is it a secret test of exchange student caliber? Is there a camera hidden, broadcasting my frantic packing to televisions everywhere? The world may never know.

[sigh.]

Just to keep you on your toes, I'm writing another blog entry.
Actually, I'm writing it to tell you about some of the more random things that happened in The Silence of my blogging, otherwise known as New Years.
My life is a giant anecdote. Really. The Russians told me. And one of their favorite episodes is as follows--
So, I was sitting in German class (the fact that I take German makes the Russians start laughing before this story even gets rolling)...yes. I was sitting in German class, learning the pieces of an interactive dialogue. The boy I was sitting next to didn't understand the grammar bits, so I was explaining to him how to form plurals and all that. We were speaking Russian. All was progressing swimmingly (our text book, by the way, follows the intrepid adventures of two sibling frogs, Willi, and Milli. Use of the word "quatsch!" can be spotted early and often.)
So. Anyway, we're working through the different parts of the lesson, and we get to the part where you have to translate into Russian. GROAN. Speaking Russian and being understood is very straightforward. Writing Russian, having your grammar mistakes recorded for posterity, and then trying to get a Russian to stop laughing long enough to correct you, is NOT straightforward.
So, I write out my translation in Russian, and ask the boy next to me if I wrote it out correctly. He gave me a very weird look.
"What's up with you?" he snorted. "Of course it's correct."
"What's up with you?" I snorted back. "I'm not Russian!"
"YOU'RE NOT RUSSIAN?" he gaped. I was suddenly transported to a mythical land of singing birds and sunbursts, heavenly scents and silver-voiced choirs. SOMEONE HAD NOT NOTICED MY ACCENT. My accent, which deafens legions of Russians across the city, had somehow magically vanished. I had been mistaken for a Russian.
"What?" I laughed, the golden bells of joy still jingling, "you didn't hear my accent?"
This time HE laughed. "Of course not. I'm not Russian--I'm from Azerbaijan."

Talk about a let down. Yep. The Russians love that one.

Baking on the beaches of Barnaul...

SO MUCH HAS HAPPENED, that if I condensed each epic, magnificent tale, adventure, and episode into a bullet-sized sound bite, and than launched each one at the speed of a speeding bullet, it would flay the Elk off a Siberian Water Elk.
I leave you all to think that one over for a moment.
Life is good in Russia--as I wrote this blog entry, I sat peaceably over breakfast, eating yoghurt (lemon and green-tea flavoured) and drinking coffee out of my favorite "Russia! The Fatherland!" mug. The coffee is fake and instant, and absolutely horrible. It has a bald eagle and American flag on the front, and "America! The Real American Taste!" written on the package. I have changed host families, so I now have two little sisters. The younger one is one year old--she shrieks and squawks excellently, and loves me. She especially loves to hear me play on the bayan, and bobs up and down while I play. She had terrible taste in music.
The elder is four and a half, and says EXACTLY whatever occurs to her to say. She actually has a very good ear for linguistics, and corrects my accent in Russian (for which I am quite grateful.) Interestingly enough, she also corrects my accent in English.
Anyway, the first subject I will address, is MY BLOG. First of all, I have now been severely and cruelly trumped in my attempts at title-writing. It is NOT "very cold here," as I naively entitled this blog. It's barely under freezing these days. We have a blizzard every weekend, and it melts by Thursday. It's cold in America. Why is it that wherever I am, the weather is warm and boring? I'll admit the snow is nice here, though.
I remember when I was in America, and I heard jokes about Russian pollution being produced in HOPES of global warming. It is so not a joke. And here I really am being serious. Global Warming is a hot topic in Siberia, but it is spoken of reverently...hopefully....vengefully. Many a Siberian has said to me, "Global warming. You know...it's cold in California right now. Soon, Siberia will be the new California. We might have beaches."
They say this with a glint in their eye, a glint that says, "There is Karma. And we've had twenty thousand years of bad weather karma stacked up. The payback's gonna be a woozy in California."
Actually, this winter in Siberia is the warmest in 150 years. 150 years, people. What kind of luck is that? I feel severely cheated. I'm hoping we get a nice cold summer anyway.
But off of that depressing subject, and onto one that'll put a smile on anyone's face--ILLNESS! Yes! I have fallen ill! I have some kind of sinus-y thing which has (temporarily, I assure you) rendered me partitially deaf. This has done nothing for my communication skills, let me tell you. But it's all good. It has granted me a fascinating insight into Russian curing methods.
Russia is a country rooted in old traditions, natural healing, and grandmothers eager to foist healing upon you. First of all, there's the vodka. Vodka with pepper is the advised drink of choice for the healing. My Russian grandfather disagrees--he advised cognac.
Slightly gentler healing methods are--honey, consumed alone, or in warm milk, or warm chai; malina (I forgot which berry this is in English, but I'm going with cranberry) in the form of varenye (kind of like jam, but you can eat it with a spoon); and pepper lotion, that you rub on your feet to keep your toasty warm. Keeping feet warm amounts to a science here.
Mathieu, Our Canadian, has it worse--he's hurling up his cookies these days. Actually, they aren't cookies, they're called "sooshki," and they're half-way between pretzels and biscuits, and they're all he can eat. We don't know what happened to him, but the healing is underway. So those are most of our healing methods these days.
Friends--I'm off to dinner, and will write you more later. Vote for you favorite themes--Wild Times Teaching the One Year Old to Walk at New Years! The Eight Year Old Discotek! Harry Potter in Russia! Self-Defense and Ballerinas!

Christmas Hits Russia--Casualties Ensue.

Well, apparently Russia has struck my English as well, because I can't remember if it's "insue" or "ensue." Cut me some slack, people. At least I'm speakin' yer language.
Christmas has indeed struck, laying low thousands in its path. Oh, the things that have come to pass...
Vnuchka.
Well. Rotary, as usual, wrapped up this Rotary-meeting season with a New Year's Party (meetings will resume after the holidays.) The New Year's Party was MC-ed by your friend and ours, the Australian exchange student, dressed up as Dyet Maroz (grandfather frost.) What ensued was a lesson in translation.
Many people, on encountering similar holiday traditions, will assume that they are the same tradition with different names. They do the same thing with verbs. DO NOT DO THIS. Our Australian did this, and soon you will see the consequences. Dyet Maroz is NOT Santa Claus. They are exceedingly similar. They wear funny red clothes. THey have long white beards. They kareen around in sleds giving out presents. But they are not one and the same. And here, dear friends, is the all-important difference--Dyet Maroz's female counterpart is Sneguruchka. Santa Claus' female counterpart is Mrs. Santa Claus. Which means Sneguruchka is Mrs. Dyet Maroz, right? WRONG.
Back to our story. Eddie, The Australian MC-ed the New Years party dressed up as Dyet Maroz. He did so very willing, as Sneguruchka was played by the extremely attractive newest Rotary member, Sveta. Sveta is very young for a Rotarian. I will not say she is very beautiful for a Rotarian, but she is very beautiful. So Eddie with great satisfaction informed all (in Russian and in English, so that no one would be left in the dark) that he was married to a Rotarian, and a hot young Rotarian to boot.
All of the Russians laughed and said, "No, Eddie, no, Sneguruchka isn't Dyet Maroz's wife, she's his vnuchka." Vnuchka? we all pondered this new word. Eddie did not entirely understand, but did not ask. Mathieu (the Canadian) and I asked--"What's a vnuchka?"
All the way through the New Year's party, Eddie continued to refer to her as his wife (with great pride). Afterwards, when the festivities were over and the exchange students were being gang-pressed into carrying away the sound equipment, Mathieu and I pulled Eddie aside. "Eddie," we said. "She's not your wife."
"Yes she is," replied Eddie. "She's my vnuchka."
"Eddie. 'Vnuchka' means granddaughter." Awkward silence. Eddie mulled this over a little.
"Vnuchka means granddaughter?" he repeated. We nodded.
"And Eddie--she's a little old for you, isn't she?" we suggested (gently, I assure you.)
"Well," Eddie thought this one over. "Yeah. But...I look older with the beard on, don't I?" (He had been given a fake white beard as well.) We did not respond to this question. "And anyway, she's hot. And, she's a Rotarian."
Christmas Cards Are Sent--Let the Culture Clash Begin...
So, I've been helping my ex-host parents (who are extra cuddly and therefore still friends) to write Christmas Cards to their American friends. (That particular host family speaks limited English, so I am the oh-fficial translator.) So the first few Christmas cards were upon these very Russian lines--wishes of the fulfillment of the receiver's wildest dreams, happiness, wealth, etc. I dunno--we just don't say that in our Christmas cards. So I teetered between how to translate this and that, and finally got to my favorite Christmas card, sent to a former exchange student of theirs--the one that wished her "bolshoya i svetlaya lyubov!" (literally, a large and bright love.) This is one of those things that, even with a flying leap, cannot jump the cultural barrier. So, I gingerly wrote out that we wished her a great and beautiful love (my host father specified three exclamation points after this one) and translated the Russian jokes as best as possible. I figure all will come out well, because for heaven's sakes, the girl's lived in Russia, so she gets it.
What followed was one of the funnier conversations between my host parents. They were thinking over what to write, and decided to wish MY parents (American parents) that their children (myself and Angela) would bring them great joy.
"As much joy as they've brought us," added Larissa happily. She likes me.
"No," Valeriy shook his head. "Too sappy." I deleted it and waited.
"Um..." Larissa thought. "We wish them...that their children would bring them joy, and...hm..."
"Grandchildren!" decided Valeriy. (This was where I learned the word "vnuchka," by the way.) I typed in "grandchildren." "Many grandchildren," nodded Valeriy.
"No, Valera, it's much too early for that," contradicted Larissa, shaking her head. "You're going to spook them." I deleted "grandchildren."
I personally like the Russian wishes of Christmastide--it covers everything from money to progeny. How great is that? Plus, people give you chocolate if they want to give you a present but don't know you terribly well. Mathieu and I, being foreigners, know HUGE amounts of people (but not terribly well.) We were swamped with chocolate. This is not such a terrible problem.
Christmas has been a flurry of bright and sparkliness. I know the words in Russian for both. The "sparkliness" one is actually a favorite--blestyashishchee. Tasty.

Computer Games, and Strange Vocabulary
A lesson in vocabulary expansion. Playing computer games (all in Russian, have no fear) with Mathieu, we have learned all the words for centaur, monster, sea beast, helmet, sword, shield, breastplate, trap, puzzle, path, inventory, save, load, attack, weapon, armor, item, gloves, boots...the list goes on. Very odd, generally useless words. There is also the supreme irony of the game, Syberia. Syberia has been all translated into Russian and everything, but it's about (and I quote, translated...) "A journey into that secret and mysterious land, of endless snow, puzzles, and mammoths." Mammoths. My host mom bought me that one for Christmas, and got a good chuckle out of it. Plus, there's just the weirdness of hearing people talking about not being able to speak Russian...but they're in Russia...speaking Russian...WEIRD. I love it.
The City is Transformed.
That wasn't even a funny heading, but too bad. It's true. There are maybe twenty or thirty gigantic (10 ft) snow sculptures all over the city. EVERYWHERE. There are pigs (it's the year of the pig this new year) and Sneguruchkas, and Dyet Maroz, and a pirate ship, and a shark, and some dolphins. Nice.
Also, the children are more heavily swaddled than usual. Russian children tend towards swaddling, but it's really gotten pretty absurd. The other day, I saw one child, presumably (but not visibly) in full winter gear. I say not visibly, because the poor thing was entirely wrapped in a heavy rug, thus immobilized, and then strapped onto a sled. I didn't realize it was a child (no face visible) until a single eye snapped towards me as I walked by. Scared the living daylights out of me.
Also, Russians don't understand why it's funny that they're dressing up as pigs at New Years. I dunno. Maybe it's just funny for Americans.

Randomness...
1.) (In Economics class). Teacher: "Now. Who can give us an example of leadership?"
Student: "Putin! Putin!" (Gales of laughter.)

2.) Host sister calls home from Japan: "Oy, Mama, I miss New Years in Russia. I miss the presents...the mandarins...the Christmas tree--I miss Putin!" (The President gives a celebratory speech every New Years.) Don't we all miss Putin. Don't we all.

3.) The word for "shoelaces" in Russian is "shnurki." Only in Russia would shoelaces sound like an ancient dwarven chieftain.

I'm too tired to think of a good title.

Dear sweet good heavens above. It's been a long time, hasn't it? Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you all, but I have not been kidnapped by the mafia, or mauled viciously by a polar bear. I am still alive and well and un-mauled. Just...er...not writing.
I really am sorry for not writing so long--it's just that my brain runs on half Russian and half English, so to get everything clicking 100% in English is kind of a pain. Plus, my Russian skills plummet for the next half hour or so while I reacclimate to the frigid world of Russian consonants. Ah, Russian consonants...but I digress. I actually had specific things to tell you!
A world, a WORLD I tell you, of adventures have happened since I last wrote you, oh audience mine. The alcohol-soaked parties I avoided! The Pumpkin That Time Forgot! The Presentation That Will Not Die! Host Family Adventures! All is well this side of the globe. The weather has warmed up, to everyone's delight, to a bizarre and toasty -10 degrees Celsius (this actually is toasty. We're breaking out the t-shirts.) My Russian skills are getting better, and I've seriously hit the grammar books again, so I'm whipping out superlative adjectives left and right, comparatives, adverbial phrases--everything to warm a grammar-maven's cold, cold heart. But as usual. I digress. Allow the story-telling to procede.
The Presentation That Will Not Die.
Every student is required to make a presentation to their hosting rotary club. This presentation is usually about themselves, their homes, their lives in their host countries, their lives in their country of birth, yada yada yada. I have the horribly bad luck to have entered the country after Eddie. Eddie is the Australian living in Barnaul. During his presentation, he danced. He sang. He had pictures and flashing lights. He raised money. Eddie is legend in Barnaul. I do not dance. I do not sing. I have no pictures.
So anyway, what with one thing and another, I still haven't done my ACTUAL presentation for my rotary club. I did a presentation in school (for, like, three classes in a row.) I've talked to English classes, journalism classes, society classes. I gave a (very) brief presentation in Tomsk for the Tomsk Rotary Club. I gave a presentation (which was a nightmare) for the OTHER Rotary club in Barnaul. And now I have to do it for my club.
Plus, due to legalities (you can't do your presentation for someone else's club before you do it for your own) the other rotary club has decided I get to do ANOTHER presentation for them. This presentation just will not die. It's like a terrible horror movie.
The Pumpkin That Time Forgot
So. In a fit of holiday warmth and friendliness, I decided to bake a pumpkin pie. Oh, naive, naive, American (who doesn't know how to make umlauts and therefore cannot actually speak "naive" correctly...). The Russian for that is "byedni ribyonak!" (poor child!) I hear this phrase a lot, and therefore learned it very quickly. What I did not consider was that, a.) in America, we use canned pumpkin and usually, frozen crusts. b.) In Russia, there are neither canned pumpkin nor frozen crusts. c.) Heavy Whipping Cream and brown sugar are surprisingly difficult to translate, but even more difficult to find. I have no engaged in a struggle to the death with the supermarkets of Russia, whose employees sturdily refuse to admit they can understand my Russian. I KNOW THEY UNDERSTAND ME. They just don't know it yet.
The one difficult ingredient I have succeeded in finding was the pumpkin, ironically enough. The pumpkin was a gift from the secretary of our rotary club, who gave it to me at one of our rotary meetings. I got some rather strange looks. That pumpkin is currently deep-frozen in the car's trunk. It's Russia. Who needs refrigerators? That thing is preserved for time everlasting.
Host Family Adventures!
So. I've been in the process of switching ye olde hoste familie for about er...a few weeks...or so now. Well, I mean, the process got running about a week and a half ago, but it's late by a few weeks, so I've been worrying about it. Worry counts as part of the process, right? Well, anyway. The rotary club decided I go to one family...thought about it...thought about it...didn't answer cell phones...and then, decided on another family. I have no idea what's happening. Or who. But I do know that this Sunday night, I am sitting down to dinner with Host Families Past and Future, and then leaving in a car for a new future. I feel like Ebenezer Scrooge, with his Christmas spirits past and future and all that. It's all good.
And--word has it I'm heading to Tomsk for New Years! Par-tay! (I really, really, really, hope I don't end up with anyone who goes clubbing for New Years. If anyone, and I mean anyone, tries to take me to a club for New Years....grrr....) So I'm voting Novokusnyetsk. But all is unknown. The future is ahead. The past is behind. More perfectly obvious stereotypical phrases to come.

Quote for the Day:
"This language is kicking my ass." --The Spirit of Exchange Students Trapped in Russia. Excuse my French, please. People who actually speak French...sorry.

It's a Miracle!

And then a bright light broke through the clouds, and I realized that the impossible had happened...we have pictures.
Yes. Pictures. After all this time I thought it was impossible.
But anyway...I'm going to go ahead and tell you what you're looking at.

Okay. These are the cool people from Tomsk. The woman on my left is the former president. We went for a long walk in the Botanical Garden in Tomsk and she talked with me about languages and life and philosophy and was incredibly wonderful.
The man on her left is the current president. The woman on my right is Olga Basylyko (not sure how to spell it in English) but she's good friends with your friend and mine, Blue Bell Rotary Club. She says hi, and I lived with her family just under a week, and may return in the future. Hooray!


All right, so this is my first picture from St. Petersburg! Absolutely magnificent view from the extremely cold top of Isaak's Cathedral. I suffered for this photo, people. I lost three fingers and a nostril to frost bite.
Actually, it really was quite cold. But extremely lovely. The funny thing is, one of the most beautiful things in sight was the glow as the sunlight caught the big plumes of smoke coming off the many smoke stacks. Very pretty, pollution.

Hooray, all right, so this is Isaak's cathedral from the ground.
The place is just gigantic. I wish we had some little people you could see for scale, but they're too dang little to see. Grrr.

The opera house in St. Petersburg. The tickets for the seats from which this picture was taken cost about seven dollars each. I love Russia.

I have other pictures of the Tsar's theater box and all, but it's a pain to load, so I'm only showing you the highlights.

I saw "Marriage of Figaro" here! In Italian! With Russian subtitles! Thank heaven for American Academy music classes.

Here we've got our stereotypical Petersburgian tourist site.

I trotted around it and took pictures and felt cold. It's right next to a canal, and incredibly complex.

All right, so look at the turret on the far right. Further down, below the big arches, and then below the little (filled in) arches, you'll see lots of little bright squares (about half way up the building.) Each of those is a different painting. Just an example of the insanely bright nature of this nutty building. Oh, and the name (shiver) translated means "Savior on Spilled Blood" because Tsar Alexander II was murdered on the site. Shiver.

All right. I'll get you some more photos later (maybe. No guarantees after that nearly 3 month lack of photos) but for now, I need to stop imposing on Internet hospitality of my hosts, and go eat dinner. Goodnight everyone! Strange stories of living in Petersburg to come! Parading as a Russian citizen! The metro! Drew and his political incorrectness!