It's very cold here...

do the cossack dance!

2007-06-05T00:33:00.000-07:00

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...

2007-03-07T05:42:00.000-08:00

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.]

2007-02-11T01:17:00.000-08:00

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...

2007-02-10T03:44:00.000-08:00

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.

2006-12-27T21:10:00.000-08:00

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.

2006-12-05T03:17:00.000-08:00

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!

2006-11-06T08:32:00.000-08:00

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!

It's Just Better in Russian.

2006-11-05T23:37:00.000-08:00

One of the strangest things about Russia are the adaptations of European/American culture. It's really quite disorienting--the Russian pop songs bizarrely translated and sung in English...the names of American celebrities in Russian letters. [Sigh.] Russians often ask me if I listen to "ImEEnim." They mean Eminem, but that's the accepted pronunciation in Russia. Or Adidas. We say it "adEEdas." They say it "adidDAS." Harry Potter is Garry Potter. And his friend Germeeohay Graindzer. Professor Snape is Professor Sneg. I could devote an entire blog to the philology and linguistics of Harry Potter in translation, but I'm tired and don't want to think that much right now.
I have learned to stop questioning the culture. That whole Mary Poppins thing on ice, for example. Talk about a revelation. So, I'm all bemused by "supercalifragilisticexpialidocious" in Russian, and I commented on it in Petersburg, and everyone just nodded matter-of-factly. "It's better in Russian," they agreed. "Wonderful film." Turns out that Mary Poppins actually was made into a Russian version during the Soviet Era, and is considered a classic. [shiver.] So was Winnie the Pooh, actually, but the Russian version is grimmer, and more sketchily animated. Whoa, nelly, but I think I just about lost ten years of my life when I realized what I was watching. There are TWO Winnie the Poohs existing in one universe? Like I said. SHIVER.
Everything and anything can be found in Russian. The Tarzan books (all of them.) Robert Louis Stevenson. Jules Verne is especially popular. Shakespeare, too. And supposedly he's better in Russian too (snort.) I saw Otello in Russian. It was passionate. It was beautiful. It was moving. Itwas not Shakespeare. It involved lots of traditional Russian dancing and accordion music. Oh, and also--vocab word for the day, "platok." A platok is the flowery headscarf you always see babushkas wearing. Or, at least, I always see babushkas wearing. After about the fifth round of Otello bellowing, "Gdye moy platok?!" (Where's my handkerchief?!) I had had just about enough. It is just too hard to translate Shakespeare and preserve the original spirit. Especially with accordions in the background.
Well, also another problem was actually a little strange. Um...they kind of cut the whole race issue out of Othello. Like, entirely. It just wasn't there. Isn't that one of the central, driving forces of the play? Hm. I believe in looking at Shakespeare from different angles, but somehow I don't think the platok quite makes up the difference. I dunno. Maybe if you throw in the accordions, too...

but they're such manly tights...

2006-11-02T02:36:00.000-08:00

It's been almost two weeks. Or more. Actually, I don't know.
But regardless, what's important is that I have finally broken radio silence and am writing to you, yes, you, dear reader, once more.
There are so many things I could tell you about. And in the interests of establishing a tradition of poorly organized and unified writing, I'm going to open this episode with a totally unrelated anecdote.
So. I was talking with one of the girls in school about our dogs. Her dog, she explained, is a hunting dog. But since he lives in the city, he just goes around hunting for rubbish and then brings it proudly back and strews it about his home. Lovely.
I shared that my dog (as a poodle) is also a hunting dog, but he's extremely cowardly. "One time," I explained, "there was a meeshka in our house, and our dog would just bark--he wouldn't even go near it!" What I was unaware of is that the word for "small mouse" is actually "meehshka," a difference I can barely hear, let alone say. "meeshka" means "small bear."
"There was a small bear in your house?!" cried my friends. Ah, the misinformation I must unwittingly spread about America. No doubt this will have catastrophic inter-continental repercussions, but I let it go.
So, right, about those manly tights.
Anyway, yesterday I was trotting (in the cold. in the rain. in the wind.) from my accordion lesson to the rotary meeting, and I got a call from my host parents. They were taking me to a figure skating show in about 20 minutes--so I steered a new course to the Palace of Sport (no, really, that's what it's called.)
Well, I have to say first of all that it really is weird what shows up in little backwoods Siberian cities. This time, what showed up was literally the best figure skating in the world. I'm serious. They were all Olympic and World champions, and we even had the man himself, Plyooshenka. What? YOU DON'T KNOW WHO PLYOOSHENKA IS? I didn't either. He's the best figure skater in the world.
This gave me an opportunity to comment on some random culture differences. 1.) Why plush toys? So. After the more amazing displays of skill, the audience would throw flowers or plush toys onto the ice. "They're gifts," explained my host mother. Why on earth would anyone want stuffed animals? Let alone so many? When I tentatively asked, "Why stuffed animals?" My host mother explained simply, "Because they need to be soft--it's on the ice." But why stuffed animals?
2.) Russians clap in unison. The first time I saw it, I thought it was unique to dancing (the curtain call for Otello involved a traditional Russian dance.) The second time, I just thought it was odd. Now I know the truth. Russian's just like clapping in unison. I don't get it, but I'm at peace with that fact.
3.) They know who Plyooshenka is here. Plyooshenka skated. He flew. He glided. He swooped. He blew kisses to the crowd. Girls swooned, and the air was thick with stuffed animals.

Oh, and part of the musical program was focused on Mary Poppins. Not only do they know who Mary Poppins is, but it was translated and sung in Russian. Now I want you all to think about Supercallifragilisticexpialidocious in Russian. Chew that one over for a while.

Buildings in a Single Bound! Tupperware!

2006-10-16T03:55:00.000-07:00

Russians are just made of different stuff. Like cryptonite. Or tupperware. I'm quite convinced of this, and it's not just me blathering. Well. Maybe I am blathering, but I'm also right.
Piece of Evidence #1: Russian girls.
Russian girls wear heels. So? you say skeptically. Lots of people wear heels in the US. Yes, I reply patiently. But they are not four inch heels which are worn for long walks in the city, picnics in the countryside and walks on the river bank alike. They are not Russian heels. Russian heels, and Russian clothes, go out of their way to thumb their respective noses at comfort and usefulness. I have heard that in -40 degree weather (it's the same in Celsius and Fahrenheit) the girls still go around in short skirts and stockings. Wha...?! Crazy.
[just as a quick side comment, the word "crazy," oddly enough, is known in English by all Russians. About eighty percent of the people I've met here were either introduced as "she's crazy" or eventually described so by their friends.)
Piece of Evidence #2: My Weekend.
Sooooo. First of all, a note on my host parents. My host parents are awesome. They are host-parents of the highest quality. They are kind, considerate, caring, and always challenge me to make my own decisions and work hard. They are tupper-ware host parents: they're flexible, durable, and keep you feeling fresh and non-freezer burned. Churchill said that Russia was a question in an mystery in an enigma. I disagree. Russia is extremely easy to understand if you think of it as a gigantic freezer. But yes, so, I was saying. My tupper-ware host parents. They are amazing. But they also have this very Russian quality of "spontaneity."
What this means, is that they decide to go to Novosibirsk for a few days. I realize this on the way out the door the morning they leave--only because I see their suitcase waiting to be put in the car. So I trot back upstairs, quietly pack a bag for the weekend, and come trotting downstairs (I'll be staying with my grandparents.)
So, the tupperwares and I decided to go to Tomsk for various reasons (and for one night), hopped into the car, and were off for the eight hour drive to Tomsk. Eight hours later (around 10:30 at night) we arrive in Tomsk. Thank heavens. Finally. I can crash. But no. I can't. We happily call up the girl we were meeting inTomsk (it's a long story--if you want it, ask) met her in a cafe (it was eleven by the time we found it) and chatted for around half an hour before driving her home. Sweet clouds of heavenly glory. Why me?
So, eleven thirty and we're hunting for the apartment of the people we'll be staying with overnight. I knew where it was, and pointed us down the right streets, thinking--FINALLY. SLEEP. So we go in, get the usually flurry of Russian love and hospitality, start chatting--and are offered dinner. So we have dinner. And then sit around the table drinking and talking until two o' clock in the morning. Tupperware. I'm telling you.
(Another quick sidetrack on the subejct of long meals...the next morning, I naturally woke up at nine. This is bizarrely early, at least for the Russians I know. So only the mother of the household was up. She made me breakfast, and I sat around chatting and drinking coffee until my host mother got up. Post shower and all, the host parents sat down to breakfast around 10:30. I sat with them while they ate, and then the father of the household came back from running errands around eleven. We all sat with him, continuuing our breakfasts, until around 12, when the daughter of the household got up. She joined the breakfast throng, and, our number complete, we proceeded to draw out the meal until about 2 in the afternoon. I love Russia.)

I know that this is really weird and rambling, but I've gotta say--on the subject of tupperware. One thing I've come to realize, is that to live with tupperware, you have to be tupperware. This is actually fantastic, and I consider it as typifying part of the exchange experience. You are just always on your toes. Experience number one: I have about five minutes notice that I need to pack a bag for Novosibirsk. I pack a bag for the necessary overnight, and am out the door. But the host parents stay away two days. It seriously does not occur to Russians that having to wear the same clothes two days in a row could be a problem to someone.
Experience number two: So. Next time the fam is off to Novosibirsk, I wisely pack an extra-complete bag, with all the proper things and necessaries for an extended stay, and leave it where I leave it every time to get whisked away to wait for me at the grandparent's house. But it was forgotten. Hm. So I arrived at my grandparents with my textbooks and the clothes I was wearing. Being an exchange student requires superpowers. And considerable foresight. Not that I have either, but I'm working on it.

Take THAT, Russia!

2006-10-13T00:49:00.000-07:00

I will confess that my evil side tends to surface when I discover a way to turn the tables on the Russians. This happens very rarely, but it does happen! For example. I am now thoroughly used to the fact that I often forget Russian names. They're very difficult for me to say/remember/spell, and the Russians know this. They find it highly amusing.
So, after suffering through this for about a month, I discovered their mutual Achilles heel, and have been cruelly exploiting it ever since--they cannot, for the life of them, understand the name Soper.
This was discovered by the purest chance the first time one of my classmates asked me what my last name was. "Soper," I said. For heaven's sakes--it's two syllables. And (of course) to my ears, an extremely simple sounding name--clean consonants, clear vowels, none of these warm, furry, bristling Russian consonants. There was a little silence while everyone looked at me.
"Yesho ras?" they said, curiously (which basically means--"say that again, please.")
"Soper."
"Eh?"
"Soper," I repeat.
"Hm," they nod, pretending to catch it.
"S. O. P. E. R," I spell it out in Russian letters. Comprehension dawns.
"AH!" they say, understanding. "Soapyerrrrr." (Silly Americans--they just can't pronounce their names right.) I love it when this happens. And don't judge me--I'm not mocking them, I'm extremely fond of these people, but I've waded through two months now of asking people to spell their names, so it's only fair. I think that the consonants almost don't appear on Russian radar--they're used to these very strong, rough consonants, (zh, zzz, rrr, ts, ch as examples) and so the unrolled r's don't really register.
Another headline in today's news is, of course, the weather--cold, but not absurdly so. I'm actually uncomfortably warm if I'm indoors over five minutes without taking my coat off, because I've got this warm knit hat, gloves, scarf, and a very heavy winter coat on (plus two layers underneath.) This is the minimal, pre-winter garb of Russia. YES! Also, Russian men have this really not-acceptable-in-America habit of spitting in the street--I can tell it's cold because there are little frozen patches all over the sidewalk (in Russian, sidewalk is "trotuar." Just thought I'd share that.)
Ah! And, in a wonderful bit of news, I'm going to see Othello in the theater tonight! Woo-hoo! I'll tell you how it is in Russian.

a little weather pastiche..

2006-10-08T04:08:00.001-07:00

First of all, a quick update for the last couple of days...[swirly flashback transition]
Around Thursday (I think it was) I had my hysterical joy over the snow. On a side note, Eddie's mum has flown to Barnaul from Australia and is visiting for a week and bit. Eddie is the Australian exchange student here. This is important, because it meant that on Friday, I was saved from the clutches of school and snatched away to a day of museums and gardens and tours with Eddie and his Mother. Sweet.
So yes, Friday morning I wake up, luxuriating in the fact that I'm not going to school--and I see more snow. Admittedly, just another little powdering on the roofs, but it's just lovely to see in the morning--all that white, cool light pouring in, and the Christmasy feeling of carols and trumpets and roasting chestnuts filling the room. But that was all for the day.
Saturday morning--just a bit of snow here and there. I naturally wake up at 8 when I sleep in, but Russians (I'm talking the nation here) sleep in almost indefinitely. Well, that's not true, but I've known people to sleep past 2 in the afternoon. So, during the odd hour and a half or so while I was ironing my clothes, reading Harry Potter in Russian, etc, etc, I heard the rain start. Which turned to snow. Which turned to rain, back and forth all day. Long and short of it is, I went tramping around the city in frightful weather, soaked to the bone, splashed by cars twice, and had to ford some dreadfully swamped streets. GRRRRR. Of course, it actually turned out to be lovely because I went to lunch (which lasted until about four) at the home of Eddie's host parents, where he and his mother are staying, and they lent me toasty warm clothes, and my jeans dried on the bathroom floor (which is heated.) They're lovely people. So that's Russian weather for you.
Oh, and I encountered my first "chocolate chip cookie" here. HAH! A cruel joke, friends. A cruel joke. And could someone please give Sam a kick and tell him to get writing on his blog again? I WANT MORE NAZI JOKES! Honestly...

yes, but can you wear a tie in that sport?

2006-10-05T00:16:00.000-07:00

All right. So guess what. Well. For one thing, i am on a terrible keyboard again. suffer, people. suffer. an for another thing--it snowed last night! i know! it's really hard to express excitement without capital letters, but oh well!
i was (am, really) just over the moon about it. we got this little frosting of snow that's burned off by now (about six o clock in the evening) and it was so beautiful, and i got to see it falling, and was so happy i couldn't stop smiling. my host family found this very amusing. it's so beautiful! i'm so happy! snow!
here's the news on Russian weather--apparently, the first snow is always very light, and burns off very soon. this year's snow was unusually late (can you believe it?). a month after the first snow, winter begins, and i think that a few days after the first snow it snows again.
so it was cold today. oy oy oy. my ears! my hands! i trotted straight to a store after school and got myself a scarf, which has kept me fairly toasty. i'm quite warm as long as i'm walking.
russian lessons have started too! every day i have a russian lesson now, for an hour and a half or more after school. they're quite interesting, and keep me on my toes, but it's all material i've covered already, so i think we'll finish the text book by the end of next week, and we can get on to more complex stuff. i'm so excited.
snow!
what else to tell you? hm...i had fish for dinner last night. it was very tasty. um...oh, here, you'll love this! I'm often in my host mum's restaurant, which is modeled after an english pub. they're always playing sports, so i get to see the live sports coverage in russia--and you're going to love this, american academy (and dad)--they had live coverage of a chess game on the sports channel. they do so regularly. except the name is cooler here--it's "shakhMAtih." sweet.
oh, and there was so much else i wanted to tell you and forgot all about!
whenever my parents are in novosibirsk on business, i...dang it. got to run. sorry, i'll right more later! i know this post is all over the place, but i haven't got time to clean it up. cheers!

Skora zeema!

2006-10-02T01:25:00.000-07:00

correction pronunciation: SKOra zeeMA.
This one's going to be quicky, because for one thing, I'm in an internet cafe, and it's expensive, and for another thing, I have to use my right pinky to hit the shift button instead of my left, and it's irritating the goodness out of me. Sweet Mother of Jefferson Davis--the things I do for you people.
Winter is coming, and the preparations began long ago, if only I had had eyes to see. For one thing, for well over a month now, my host father has been pushing food at me. Well, everyone's been pushing food at me, but him especially. And when I politely declined, he would frown and shake his head gravely and say, "Skora zeema, Dzulia." (Soon winter, Julia.) I was, of course, outraged at the suggestion that I naturally insulate myself in this fashion, which he found extremely amusing. Now, at almost every meal, he offers someone an extra helping, or takes one himself, and then turns to me, and says, "Ee pachemoo?" (and why?) and I say, "Skora zeema!"
The hatches are being battened down in school too. I first realized that the dark shadow of winter was looming over me when I saw a little old man clambering around the windows with a hammer, banging shut all the latches and locking everything closed. And do you know why? Skora zeema.
All the stalls in the market place are featuring furry hats and heavy coats, and old women knitting caps for late autumn. The outdoor summer cafes (which are actually solely for the consumption of beer) have long since closed, and are now being disassembled. All the ice cream sellers are looking grim (but they will, I've been informed, remain open all the way through the winter. What a weird country. When you think about it, the ice cream will have to be heated to remain at the correct temperature.) It feels like that scene in Lord of the Rings, when Gandalf looks out over the plains around Gondor and says, "The board is set. The pieces are moving." And why all of these things? Why? I think we all know the answer to that question.
Skora zeema.

quick postscript: emergency need for information--what do you people think? Should I study the piano accordion, or should I study the concertina (the little one?) I need to know soon! The little concertina will be less expensive, and easier to lug around. And cool. It reminds me of pirate shanties. On the other hand--the big piano accordion is more complex, and plays cooler music. Naturally, I have no actual experience to back any of this information up. I just sort gathered vague, subjective impressions and presented them as facts. Come on, people! Share your wisdom!

And now, as a speeding bullet...

2006-09-29T08:14:00.000-07:00

Greetings. As it has been 10 DAYS since my last posting, I have much to tell you of, and so...in a single post...I give you:

1.) The Most Terrifying Toilet on the Eurasian Continent.
Oh. My. Word. It was terrifying. So, I was in my high school (which is, I should tell you, in one of the classier buildings around town.) It was built during the Soviet era, which means it's good construction, sturdy, rather sweeping, and full of murals of hard working communists in the fields, in the cities, in outer space. It also means that the toilets are to dreadful to recall. So, yes, I was in my high school, and I go trooping to the rest room (please excuse the petty details of my life) and open the stall door and SWEET HEAVENS ABOVE.
The restroom is thus: there are (apparently) three stalls, with three doors with latches. On opening one of the doors, however, you simultaneously discover several facts--a.)two of the stalls are actually one stall. One very large stall, containing two "toilets." Please note the quote marks. Two, non-segregated, "toilets." B.) These "toilets" are of a most "curious" construction. "Curious" here, is meant as "horrifying and dreadful, but I'm too multi-cultural and tolerant to say so." Their construction is thus--you have the floor, and then a tiled platform about four inches off the floor, in which are two round holes which are whimsically referred to as "toilets." There is no toilet paper. Needless to say, I simply do not frequent such places anymore.

2.) No, Actually You Translated That Right...

Yes. So, as you know, I was swamped with Russian from all sides while living in Tomsk, which was FANTASTIC because I learned so so much. It was, however, occasionally very strange. I would translate something correctly in my head, and then reject the translation as impossible. Allow me to demonstrate with a selection of these strange phrases...

--"Well, it's your chicken, do what you want."
--"Gold fish! You, gold fish!"
--"No, they were cardboard policemen."

And I was going to tell you more, but my host mother needs the phone and I've been on the internet and unholy long time. Good night, and good luck to you all. And for heavens sakes, if you are ever in Russia, please, for everyone's sakes--bring your own toilet paper.

The All-Embracing Arms of Rotary

2006-09-19T07:04:00.000-07:00

So. Once again, it is proved true that Rotary is EVERYWHERE. Things are just strange right now. Allow me a flashback to the not so distant past...
Okay. So, maybe Friday morning I'm woken up by my cellphone ringing. "'Allyo?" I grumble in my finest Russian accent. "Prevyet."
"Julie?" Is this the voice of Father, I wonder, or am I merely sleeping? It is, after all, six in the morning.
"Yes?" I blink.
"Your voice is all rough--are you sick?" I blink again and sit up in bed.
"No," I growl. "I was sleeping. How are you?"
Well, it turns out that Father has called with a purpose. He has called to prove that the long-reaching Arms of Rotary can reach you anywhere--even at six o'clock in the morning in a sleepy village suburb in Russia. Rotary had called with a mission, should I choose to accept it. I chose. To accept it, that is. Namely, Rotary gave me a name and a phone number--the number of Olga, who was hosted in a business program in America by my Rotary club. Olga lives with her fam in Tomsk, about eight hours north and several degrees colder than Barnaul.
So, I make the call, and eventually give up trying to talk Russian and the phone over to my host father. Plans are made without my knowledge, and then explained to me later in very fast Russian. To make a long story short, I am now living in comfort and happiness for a week in Tomsk, sans school.
Thank you Rotary. That's about all I'm going to say for this post, as all I really want to impress upon you is that Rotary really is everywhere. I leave the tales of my adventures in Tomsk for a later day--let is suffice to tell you that I know have in my possession a plaster ear, a large plastic banner and further missions in my future. But if I told you more, I'd have to kill you. Dasvidanya.

they be little, but they be fierce...

2006-09-15T08:53:00.000-07:00

Soo...a long week later. I still have no pictures. Why don't you just give up? I mean, really. People. You. And your demands.
So, today, I went to my first kick-boxing lesson. It was brutal. Push ups. Running. Punching. Running. Push ups. Pain. I went with Eddie, who always does kick-boxing. (Why kick-boxing, you ask?) The answer is quite simple. IT'S FREE. Thank you, rotary. Our club president owns the gym. Actually, most of the things in Barnaul seem to be owned by one Rotarian or another, but you usually can't snitch favors off of someone else's host parents. For example: my mother has an absolutely amazing restaurant, where I eat whenever I'm in the city (which is every day.) Eddie is grim with jealousy. Eddie's parents have an office building with a super-fast internet connection which he uses for a few hours every day. Grrr...
But yes, kick boxing. So, I go trotting across the city to the fountain in Sovietob Square (yes, you heard correctly. It sports the largest Lenin statue in the city, and that's saying something.) Only I'm early, so I go walking around and around the square to stay warm while I wait for Eddie (who's late). And I'm on my fourth round of the square when I hear, booming across the square "DDDZZZZ-OOOOO-LEEEEEE-YAAAAA!" I turn. Eddie is jumping and waving his arms happily, having arrived late (and warm) in a coat and on a bus. Dang you, Eddie. You and your coat.
And we merrily traverse the square to the kick-boxing club. And what do I see going into the club in front of me, but a ribyonak. (Small child.) And when I say small, I'm not talking twelve years old, I'm talking eight or nine. DO NOT MESS WITH SMALL CHILDREN IN RUSSIA. They kick box.
This had several repercussions: first of all, I will be more careful not to offend small children in the streets of Russia. And second of all, while we were all enduring the grueling work out, and Eddie and I were dragging ourselves grimly along through push ups and jumps and running, there are these little munchkins nipping at our heels. BACK OFF, RIBYONKA! Talk about motivation. Does anyone seriously want to get shown up at kick boxing by a child smaller than my dog? Words to ponder. Words to ponder.

oh, you mean THAT desktop...

2006-09-10T02:17:00.000-07:00

So, basically since the first week of arriving in Russia I've been suffering trying to get pictures on the web. The things I go through for you people. No, really, I do want to get pictures up because the weather is changing, and I'm meeting people and going places and I just don't know how to properly describe it all for you. But anyway, Veronica (my older exchange sister) took pity on me and got most of the pictures off my camera onto the computer before she flew off for Merry Old England. The problem is, I didn't know where she put them.
So. Yesterday morning, I mention this difficulty over the breakfast table. My host mother looked up over her sausages and said, "Pictures? They wouldn't be in a file marked Dzulia, would they?" Well, she didn't exactly say that, but I'm translating.
"Yes!" I said, astonished. "Where did you find them?" I'd been searching for quite some time.
"On the desk top," she said, returning to her sausages. I could not believe it. But there they were, sitting squarely in the center of the screen, the whole time. Things like this really make me wonder what my host family thinks of my intelligence level.
Without further ado...

Really thought you were going to get them that time didn't you? Don't be bitter, I thought so too. All right, so they aren't loading, so if you want them, please e-mail me and I'll try to send them as an attachment. Stop your griping. This is just as frustrating for me as it is for you.

Oy, malodinka...

2006-09-06T08:36:00.000-07:00

So, school has started, and a whole new world of Russian people are now observing me with interest and confusion. Since my Russian is atrocious, it requires every scrap of my attention to follow what on earth is going on (at all) during my lessons.
"She's so humble," you think, smiling indulgently. "She understands the lessons." Oh no, fictitiously complimentary reader. It is not so. I still haven't figured out what some of the subjects are. I'm serious.
Fixing my eagle eye on the various teachers has led to various reactions. My history teacher, who gave a great rolling lecture on Socialism and Capitolism, reviewing the previous year's work (I understood the Russian words "sozialeezm," and "kapitolizm" with little difficulty), came and sat down on the edge of the my desk at the end of the lesson, and said, with large sympathetic eyes, "Dzulya. Shto vih poneemala?" (Julia. What did you understand?) I smiled my best smile.
"Socialism and Capitolism," I said bravely.
"Ah! Vih poneemala oorok!" she smiled, nodding. (Oh! You understood the lesson.)
"Mm...nyet. Tolko eti dva slova," I explained. (No. Only those two words.)
She looked at me, eyes wide, and put a hand gently on the top of my head. "Ribyonkah," (poor little girl) she sighed. "Malodinka," (dear little child.) I smiled brightly. That is just one of those things about being an exchange student. It's really hard to talk to people, but you can understand a good deal, so you get to listen to people (who don't know this) discussing in front of you how badly you speak Russian, and the five words you know.
In contrast to the wondering pity evoked in my history teacher, I have won a friend in (of all people) my physics teacher. It began thus.
So, I'm sitting in this physics class, watching the physics teacher like a hawk to follow every Russian word that came out of his mouth, and thinking, "Hm. He seems like a friendly, eccentric math professor." And then some of the boys in the back of the class started laughing. Now, I will be the first to admit that these kids are insanely cooperative in their antics (cell phone ring, music is listened to in class, and all under the protection of fellow classmates), but this teacher started roaring like some proverbially loud animal. Oy.
So, I was starting to not like him, but still watched extremely closely--only this time, with some grim, tired ill-will. Apparently he mistook my ill-will as irritation with the other students for interrupting such a subject as physics, because after class he very patiently, and very slowly said, "Ya hachu bcyo stoodyenti pohozha tebya." (I want all my students to be like you.) "You listen very well. You are a good student," he nodded. I translated this slowly in my head, and managed "Spaseeba." (thank you.) Now he waves excitedly at me in the hallways, pauses a moment to think, and then says, "Hello!" (in English.)
So school is a very strange experience.

what about those pictures?

2006-09-01T07:28:00.000-07:00

So--Russian joke.
A man is depressed, decides life is never going to get any better, and prepares to hang himself (don't you love Russian humor?) So, he makes a noose, and hangs it on a beam, and stands on the chair with his head through the noose when--eh? What's that? He sees a cigarette butt on the floor. Eh. He might as well have a smoke before he dies. He climbs down and has a smoke.
And while he's having a smoke, he looks behind the fridge, and--eh, what's that? A little bottle half full of vodka, so he has a little drink. And he sits. And he smokes, and he drinks his vodka, and he thinks--well. Life is better now.
About those pictures...er, sorry...the connection's not too good...I think you're breaking up...I can't hear (crackle, crackle, crackle)...

no, it's PENNsylvania...

2006-09-01T07:20:00.000-07:00

Okay. So everyone who hears I'm from America is very interested, and everyone asks if I'm cold (ha. ha. ha.) and do I have any stereotypes about Russia (yes, and I'm going to broadcast them loudly in the middle of a room full of Russians who speak English), do I like Russian boys (?) and finally--"What state are you from?"
Pennsylvania's pretty famous, right? And Philadelphia is no bumpkin burg, right? WRONG. Out of all the people who heard "Pennsylvania," all but one of them said, "Pennsylvania? You mean, like Dracula?"
No. Not like Dracula. That's Transylvania, people. Transylvania. Pointy teeth. Funny cape. Not Pennsylvania. The first couple times I was ill-advised to try to explain (in Russian) that "sylvania" means "woods," and "transylvania" means "the land between the woods," whereas "Pennsylvania," means "Penn's Woods," and Penn was this fellow who owned woods...you can imagine how this went. Now I just point two fingers for fangs, hiss, and say "TRANsylvania." And they nod and smile.
And Philadelphia. Come on. It's got the Liberty Bell. Ben Franklin. The Declaration. The whole nine yards--it was in that movie, "National Treasure." No one's heard of it.
"Is is a large city?" my classmates ask.
"Yes," I smile innocently, not realizing they have never heard of Philadelphia.
"Does it have traffic lights?" they ask.
"It's south of New York," I sigh, and they all say, "Ah."

hang on, there!

2006-08-29T05:06:00.000-07:00

Hello! I'm alive! No one's killed me, the food's great, and I've got lots of pictures! Many of them of communist propaganda (did I say that out loud?) I'm not kidding. There are three Lenin statues. And that's not counting murals, paintings, sickles all over the place, the mysterious predominance of red...I love Russia.
I'm serious about the food, too--apart from the fact that someone is constantly trying to feed you, it's amazing. People are constantly asking me if I'm hungry. When I say, "no, thank you," they ask, curiously, "Why?" I don't get it.
The borsh is amazing. The tea is top notch, the coffee is to die for (freshly ground, milled, whatever, prepared in picturesque little coffee maker thingys on the stove) and the food--defies words. It's just delicious.
And to those who wondered if my host mother owns the city's Mexican restaurant--no. She does not. She owns the English Pub.
I'm afraid I haven't time to write more, but coming soon: PICTURES! RUSSIAN JOKES! WEIRD FACTS! I WENT TO A NIGHT CLUB, AND IT WAS THREE DEGREES ABOVE FREEZING! Just keeping you on your toes, there.

blazers and WINSTON CHURCHILL!

2006-08-14T21:25:00.000-07:00

I leave later (this) morning. I just can't sleep. Everything is packed, and weighed, and unpacked, and weighed again, and now it's all done. I feel better every time I take something out of the bags. They are heavy and unwieldy, and it will hurt if they run me over.
I also have my blazer ready for the airport. I'm not sure if it will make me safer ("look, she's a student, she doesn't have money!") or more at risk ("look, she must be blind if she's wearing that color, get her money!"). It's an amazing color. One of those eye-slashing plastic reds, with a big patch over the pocket. YES! No, actually I don't mind the blazer. I lived in a uniform for three and half years. This is nothing.
I've tried to get in touch with the last few people--some I've missed, I'm afraid, but there's only so much we can do (and only so many people are home when I call.) That's what the internet is for, though.
Well. I'm not feeling very clever, so I shall write little more. At the moment, I'm just gathering up some music to bring along--Chopin, Verdi, Bach and some (very) odd odds and ends. What shall the flight restrictions and/or angry customs people bring to tomorrow? Only the future can tell.
But I am reminded! In an uncharacteristic burst of world-events awareness, I heard this morning about that open letter delivered by Muslim leaders in Britain to Tony Blair, calling for changes in foreign policy on the grounds that support of the US in Iraq is giving extremists "ammunition." Is it just me or is that nuts? Of course it's prompting responses from terrorists, but Britain can't possibly fold in the face of terrorist threat (I hope.) This is Britain--Britain produced Winston Churchill. C.S. Lewis. Elizabeth I. Henry V. Boadicea. Does anyone know where I can read the original letter? I've been cruising around the web looking for one, but can't seem to find a copy.

the book of ruph

2006-08-11T07:22:00.000-07:00

I just got an elephant sized Bible with dual Russian and English (I have no idea how I'm going to fit this in my bag. But I suspect my extra socks are going to be quietly abandoned.) It's fairly easy to read--straightforward grammer, for the most part, and self-explanatory vocab. Plus, whenever I get stuck, there's the English sitting right there.
On the one hand, it's building fantastic vocabulary. Only today I learned baROta (gate), naROT (the people), spee (the imperative form of sleep), rodstvenneek (kinsman) svekrov (mother in law) and snokha (daughter in law). And all that from the book of Ruth. Except that Russian doesn't have the "th" sound, so it's the book of Ruph.
*Nerdy point: I think that both the "th" and "ph" sounds were originally in Russian, having been imported from Greek. You find thetas in old, old Russian typesets, but now all we have left are the phis. [sniffle.]
On the other hand (again, do we all remember that figure of speech from Greek class? Er...I actually don't. That's embarrassing...) on the other hand I'm learning a lot of vocabulary which may not have quite as much application. There's a lot about sirOtih (orphans) and vdOvih (widows.) And Vee-fle-ye-ma Ee-oo-dey-ska-va. (Bethelemjudea.) And how often will I really need to discuss the barley harvest? Or GOlad (famine)? Well. You never know.

Mosnews

2006-08-10T14:32:00.000-07:00

I've been reading some Russian newspapers online (the Mosnews, mostly) and I am impressed (except for the creepy dating ads. No, really.) The news is just better. I give you the following headlines: "The Da Vinci Code: Buy a Ticket, Sell Jesus," "Old Woman Bites in Candy Bar, Finds Diamond Ring," "Mayor of Remote Siberian Town Wants to Send Tourists to Gulag." We just don't get that stuff in America. And just so you know--the ring was that of a newlywed married for two weeks, and the old lady returned it.
Then there was the infamous wine shortage which has hit Russia--apparently officials are trying to crack down on illegal alcohol, and almost all the wine has been pulled from the shelves.
Kvetches our reporter, "It could be worse, of course. Our dear government could leave us without bare essentials. People are unlikely to panic over a wine shortage. In terms of social stability, the lack of bread, sugar or vodka is far more dangerous."
The gulag article was especially good. Apparently there's a pretty isolated town in Siberia which has suffered a relapse in the post Soviet economy, and to boost the tourist industry, the mayor wants to send tourists to a "real gulag experience" complete with dogs/guardtowers/gruel for three days. He'll build a five star hotel just across the way for them to recuperate at afterwards, a plan touted by American "adventure" travel agencies and Russians alike. Hm.

2006-08-09T13:37:00.000-07:00

There's something really strange about packing up your room. Not just pulling out essentials for a dorm room--really packing the place up. Everything's getting crated away, and it's a little unnerving. I'm packing up childhood toys and putting my shoes and clothes in boxes, and everything's starting to look bare.
Even my books (my books!) are going--most of them are staying, just to decorate the room, but a large majority are being moved out. I want Myrna (our coming exchange student) to be able to put her own things up, so even the books are getting put away.
It's my room, and my clutter has lived there for a great many years (I actually don't even know how many) and now it's all going. It's just strange. I'll come back from college, hop into a dorm room, and have to pull my belongings out of storage! It's just a little strange. It's as if I'll come home from Russia and be a whole different person, entirely cut off from the way my life had been. I think that may be a good thing--an opportunity to change.

I had a farm at the foot of the gong hills.

2006-08-09T12:58:00.000-07:00

I had a farm in Africa.
Actually, I didn't have a farm in Africa. But my sister is in Africa helping adorable children and learning about Kikuyu culture, and I am watching a movie with adorable children in order to learn about Kikuyu culture. I saw a lot more of Meryl Streep and Robert Redford than I did of Kikuyu culture, but you can't get everything.
Neither Meryl Streep nor Robert Redford are in Kenya right now. Just Angela. I got a very fuzzy phone call from her today. We talked about the adorable children, and she enthusiastically described watching several eye surgeries this afternoon. She said,"Isn't that cool?" I said, "How creepy." I don't really think it's creepy, I just can't stomach eyeballs and knives and things.
There is SO LITTLE HAPPENING RIGHT NOW. Two boxes are filled. My desk is empty. The chest of drawers is empty. My clothes are all neatly put away. My bag is almost packed. Most of the clothes I intended to pack have vanished in the wash cycle.
I can't verify it, but I think my dog hid one of my slippers under the coffee table. He's gotten feisty of late.
I've been debating what to pack for school days in Russia--what kind of clothes, that is--and opted for polo shirts. (don't judge me, Alex. I know where you shop.) I don't usually go for polos, but they're clean and a little dressier (just in case that's required.) I thought and realized that perhaps polo shirts don't have the same connotations in Russia as they do in America. I voiced my concerns to Ed, who calmed my worries with this--
"I don't know. Maybe polos actually read as skanky in Russia."
Oh dear.

That there's one big country

2006-08-06T13:18:00.000-07:00

The more I hear about Russia the more imposing it seems. It just keeps getting BIGGER (eleven times zones, and the biggest landmass in the world). Even the language looks tougher every time I look at it. I spoke this afternoon with a woman who lived in Russia for 14 years, and she was a fount of wisdom.
The first thing I noticed was her hospitality. I asked if we could get together for coffee sometime (ah, the church social networking!). Coffee is a reasonably impersonal common ground, with just enough warmth for people who don't know each other very well to converse over. She invited me over to her house for lunch, showed me her Russian winter wear, set out snacks and talked for over an hour. She said (no surprise) that one of the things she missed most about Russia was the community and hospitality. Both are becoming rarer and rarer in American culture (but still present!)
I asked her how long it would take to be fluent in Russian (I was thinking seven or eight months, tops.) She thought for a moment before deciding, "Three years." THREE YEARS? I'm eighteen! That's a sixth of my life! In three years, that will be a seventh of my life! "If you really want to be good at Russian," she added, "you'll spend a lifetime."
This deserved a ponder. A lifetime. Not a rotary trip, you say? My mother wisely put things in perspective (she'd noticed my pondering face.) "It all depends on what you think of as fluent," she reminded me. I find that somehow depressing.
Words of comfort arrived in the form of an e-mail from former Russian exchange student Angela, who said she was proficient in Russian within six months--admittedly a long time to wait, but worth it I should think. She says she was mistaken for a Ukrainian (speaking Russian well but with an accent.)
The more I learn about Russian culture--food, hospitality, slippers--the further away it seems. I think that's good, though--the rotary trip I'd envisioned would be difficult but manageable. The one I'm actually going on is going to need a lot of prayer...and then it will be manageable.

How do you spell Dzulia?

2006-08-05T10:58:00.000-07:00

This is how I'm feeling right now about packing. And to quote our own Winston--"Russia is a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma." I don't get it, but it doesn't bother me.
I don't know if anyone has seen "Russian Ark," but it's this great Russian movie available in Blockbuster. I didn't get that one either, and I thought I didn't understand it because I'm not a part of the culture. I asked Nadia, and she didn't understand it either. I think the real cultural difference is that I mind that I don't understand it.
So. I'm still not in Russia. So the title of my blog is ridiculous on a number of fronts--first of all, I'm not in Siberia yet. Second of all, it's not cold where I am. Third of all, it isn't cold in Siberia either. There's no truth in advertising anymore.
I just heard from a batch of exchange students. Some are still in the throes of visa negotiations (not to gloat, but mine just arrived in the mail) and others (Alyssa) are leaving today. Hoorah, Alyssa! Brava. Cyrillic doesn't have the letter "J," so their approximation of it is two letters stuck together--"deh," and "zheh." (for that last one, think of the "s" sound in "occasion.") My name is officially Dzulia Soper. I've got to hand it to the Russians though for distinguishing their z's. Kudos for having an (almost) perfectly regular phonetic system.
So. Back to the packing.

let's try this again...

2006-08-04T12:58:00.000-07:00

All right, so I just wrote a two page post about the differences between Russian and American culture. It had pictures. Lots of pretty pictures. And then I deleted it by mistake. It's really a mercy for everyone--I don't have the patience to right the whole thing out again, so you get the short version. But you still get the pictures. Goodness.
So. American and Russian culture. Let me give you some context--it was a talk with my Russian teacher about why Russians always find foreigners (in this case, Americans) so rude. So far as I can tell it boils down to two things--1.)differing ideals 2.)a misunderstanding of behavior.
Number one is a basic culture thing. (One) American ideal is the Individual. Someone who stands out, who is indepedent, who thinks differently, who succeeds, who works for his/herself. The Russian ideal explained to me was someone modest, who doesn't show off, who shares their ideas, who's more interested in the success and benefit of the whole than in his own. A basic conflict.
Number two is more about cultural miscommunication. Exhibit a--advertising. I never thought of advertising (i.e., presenting things in the most attractive, and often least accurate, light) as unique to the US, but apparently it's more predominant in the West than in, say, Russia. Remember, this is all from one source (which isn't me.) I'm not staking my first-born on this. Americans have a natural distrust of the mass media and advertising. Not so in Russia. Russians are apparently much more trusting of anything printed (after the Soviet era? hm.) and therefore find advertising genuinely deceptive. No wonder American culture comes off so badly.
Exhibit b--niceness. What's nice in America isn't nice in Russia. In America, you talk to your library ladies (or gentlemen) and ask them how they are, how their days were. If they mention kids, you ask how many they have and how old they are. Do they play soccer? How sweet. It's just polite. In Russia, it's considered intrusive. Often, Americans realize that to ask a Russian about their extended family on the first meeting would be rude, so they just ask the standard "how are you?" which requires the reply, "fine-thank-you-how-are-you," and then, "fine-thanks-for-asking." It's perfectly standard, and actually has nothing to do with personal questions. Russians don't get this. They actually think you're asking for information on their job/life/children/pets, etc. What's even worse is that the polite, enthusiastic, "It's SO GREAT to SEE YOU!" which is visited upon almost everyone we see is interpreted as a genuine show of affection and emotion, implying a deep friendship and care.
Um...no, that's not quite what it means in America. It's just polite. So now American's aren't just deceptive in their advertising, but misleading in their relationships. {Yes. This is the short version of this post.} I don't think it's that Americans are so despicable--we just miscommunicate.
Just another example of culture shock, I guess. It's at once exciting and depressing. And now...more pictures!
This is some bridge in Barnaul which has a whole section of the city's webpage devoted to it. I have no idea why.

PICTURES!...or not...

2006-08-03T06:26:00.000-07:00

Another day in the can--as it is the 3rd of August, I officially have 12 days until departure. 12 DAYS! I can't pack that quickly. I procrastinate too much. I've been snooping around on other blogs reading about adventures in Siberia--many of them seem to center on plumbing and the lack thereof, although there were also a number of posts about cheap vodka and 12 cent packs of cigarettes. Hm.
On the other hand, these are all from the far colder regions of Siberia like Irkutsk. Which reminds me! Out of pity for anyone who happens to read this (namely you, Alex), I have found PICTURES of Barnaul online. And now they aren't uploading. But...um...you can just imagine they're there. I made an effort. Oh, stop whining.
Dr. Traver told me to record how I feel...er...kind of thirsty, right now. It's very hot outside. No, really--mostly I'm just excited about going. I'm really excited about speaking Russian--the more I read (and watch Russian movies) the more I want to get there and starting talking, and meet my host family, of course. And that's about all the news that's fit to print, as they say.

Getting packed...

2006-07-31T20:20:00.000-07:00

All right, well, I'm going to Russia for a year with Rotary International (I'm deferring college for a year.) Oh, Swarthmore. I pine for you. However! I am very excited about staying in Siberia. I've been asked a number of questions--1.) Why on earth would you go there? 2.) Are you going to be staying in an igloo? 3.) Are you packing warm clothes? 4.) How long are you going to be there?
There answers are, 1.) Because I want to learn Russian and understand the culture, 2.) ha. ha. very funny. No, I'm staying in Barnaul, a city very far south. 3.) No, I've been told to buy them there. 4.) Probably 11 months. Anyone else who wants to ask amusing questions about whether or not I'll be hunting caribou can ask me themselves--I'm sure they wouldn't want to miss the reaction. Ha. Ha.
The plane for Siberia leaves on August 15th, so I have a good fat two weeks in which to box up everything in my room, pack my bag and hustle out of here. Not much time...and I'm not that experienced a packer. As cold as Siberia sounds, it's not THAT cold in Barnaul, the city where I'll be staying (she said with ignorant bravado). It's like North Dakota. I've never been to North Dakota.
So what more can I say? I have a lovely host family waiting for me (they sound just about perfect) and one of their former exchange students e-mailed me with pictures of her time in Barnaul, so things are really great. It's just started to hit me that I'm (really) leaving. Barnaul is 5,785 miles and a language away from Philadelphia. It's going to be something else.
All right, I know this a pretty pathetic post, but it's just about all that's going on right now--you don't want to hear about the packing. It's boring to me, too.