C Rozhdestvom Vas! (Merry Christmas to one and all!)
This week proved to be one of the more depressing of my past four months since I was raised believing it should be spent with family and those you love. Although there was a serious lack of blood relatives, I was surrounded by my ‘Moscow family’, whom I love dearly. My feelings of homesickness were complicated by the fact that it wasn’t even Christmas in Russia. The Orthodox Church celebrates the birth of Jesus Christ on the seventh of January, and in any event, this holiday is strictly religious, void of the majority of American associations with family, presents, friends and ‘that special time of year’. For Russians, the most similar holiday to ‘Catholic Christmas’ as they call it is New Years, traditionally spent with family at home with presents, at tree and well wishes for the future.
Christmas Eve Eve started with a midday trip to Gorky Park. Although there are many parks in Moscow, some charge entrance fees, Gorky Park being on of them. When you go to one of these parks, however, you’re not paying for (snow-covered) grass and trees; you’re paying for the attractions. These paying parks have rides for children and adults alike, numerous beer and treat stands as well as complete restaurants and pubs. This time of year, many parks ice over their sidewalks, allowing Muscovites to skate through their beloved cradles of ‘nature’ (not to mention give the proprietors another attraction to charge rental/use fees for). Since it was a chilly –10 C on Friday, Lindsey, Sara and I briefly enjoyed the sights and sounds of the unusually sunny day before deciding to seek shelter inside. We navigated our way to a pub that looked particularly warm without being taken out by ice or ice-skaters and warmed up with some borsch and chai. When we left an hour and a half later, the sun had for the most part retreated into the horizon (it was about 4:15pm) and we called it a day to spend the rest of the night in the warm comfort of our homes.
Christmas Eve was spent in true American fashion, desperately trying to finish that last minute shopping. The three of us went to Izmailovskii Park, which is not really a park, but a market of traditional crafts and souvenirs that’s only open on the weekends. Aside from the requisite matryoshkas, shot glass/decanter sets, and fur hats, Izmailovskii is also the best place in Moscow to buy pirated DVDs in English (they usually go for $3 a pop, but when buying in bulk, compromises can be made). Lindsey went wild and for 800 rubles (around $35) bought at least ten movies.
The sun wasn’t shinning as much as it had the day before and the temperature was even colder, so in the darkness of five o’clock, we called it a day and headed back to the dorms to warm up before our Christmas dinner, which we had planned to have at a nearby Uzbek restaurant. Uzbek food is not traditional yuletide fare for either Russia or the States; we just wanted to treat ourselves to a nice meal with friends. It was comforting to hear Christmas carols as we came into the restaurant and checked out coats in, although half of them were sung in Russian. It was a cozy atmosphere, decorated in the style of a near-Asian harem. This was quite confusing until after we placed our orders and the music took a dramatic change. After a Russian version of ‘Jingle Bells’, the DJ cranked up an Arab beat and belly dancers started gyrating their hips between the tables, tempting the restaurant’s customers for g-string tips. Although not the most traditional of Christmas entertainment, it was at least an interesting alternative.
Three belly dancing performances later, paced at thirty-minute intervals; we took our leave of the restaurant and went back to the dorms where the festivities continued. To lift our Christmas spirits, we sat down for a private viewing of “Elf”, which Lindsey had just bought at Izmailovskii. This was the first time I’d ever seen Will Ferrell’s masterpiece of Santaland comedy, and I enjoyed it immensely. By the end of the movie, we were all singing Christmas carols, smiling and making merry. It actually felt like Christmas and I was full-on Christmas happy for the first time that whole week.
More than family, Christmas at ‘home on the range’ and my grandmother’s cooking, I missed the atmosphere that the holidays create in the States. As soon as Thanksgiving’s over, everyone breaks out the Christmas trees, sales start and every city becomes somehow hypnotized by the holiday spirit. The world seems nicer somehow and everyone’s taken by the excitement of the season. While this is somewhat true for Russian New Years (the city is literally littered with fake trees, some as high as ten meters), the merriness, smiles and ‘goodwill toward man’ attitude is definitely lacking.
“Elf” renewed my sense of the holidays and I woke up on Christmas morning in the dorms, ran down to Lindsey and Sara’s room, jumping on the beds and yelling about opening presents. While polite, I don’t think my friends took this incarnation of the Christmas spirit as well as expected, so I went to the nearby Internet café to spread my holiday joy per email. This was a daunting enough task and occupied me until late afternoon when Adam and I met Chris at his apartment.
We planned a grand Christmas dinner with over fifteen people on the guest list. The problem was, we expected to cook everything in a two-hour period. As a result, we decided to keep things simple and just cook Russian food. We bought borsch in a box, rotisserie hen off the street, lots of wine and made mashed potatoes (without gravy, which is simply Russian potato purée). The only American traditional dish was Adam’s acorn squash, prepared with butter, cinnamon and sugar; it was quite tasty. Adam and I bought all the necessary ingredients and got back to Chris’s house to find the Russian guests had already arrived! We were understandably taken aback; when are Russians early for anything? In addition, I was quite embarrassed to have to unpack the groceries in front of them (in particular the borsch in a box); they were however polite of course and even offered to help peel the potatoes (Andrei ended up helping me, even teaching me the one Russian Christmas/New Years carol – Yolichka v lesu rastyot: The Little Christmas Tree grows in the Forest).
The rest of the guests arrived and we had ourselves quite the international gathering: Russians, Americans, a Venezuelan, two Belgians, a Pole…there was even a Byelorussian in the mix! What, you may ask, could unite such a diverse group? Charades, of course!! It was quite a fun and spirited game; my personal triumph was guessing Butros Butros Gali.
Around 9:30, the guests made their exits so that Chris could put a wound-up Nikita (his son) to sleep. On the way home, I bought some Baltika 8s (my favorite Russian beer) and settled down in my warm bed to wait for the requisite Christmas calls from the States. After hearing from family and friends (even Indiana, from Vienna), I went to the kitchen for some friendly conversation with Tatiana Nikolaevna. Seeing my half-empty bottle on the table seemed to throw her off.
“Oh, you’re having some beer. Right out of the bottle even.” I was confused at this comment as there aren’t any beer steins in the house and in general, I rather enjoy drinking out of glass bottles. Disregarding this comment, I began a conversation about the differences between Russian and American Christmas and New Years. As I mentioned before, New Years is the family holiday in Russia, but Tatiana cleared this up for me, explaining that this doesn’t necessarily mean that a single family sits at home all by themselves. Usually one family will invite others over as guests and everyone will celebrate together; the most important is that New Years is spent at a home, as opposed to in a restaurant or club.
I also asked Tatiana if Russians made New Years resolutions (a hard task as I don’t know the word for ‘resolution’ and had forgotten how to say ‘promise’). She corrected me, and said, “No, of course not, that’s stupid. Why would you make a promise you’re not going to keep anyway?”
Her response pleased me, as this is how I generally feel about New Years resolutions. She went on to describe a similar tradition when Russians make New Years wishes. At the stroke of midnight, you’re supposed to quickly write down a one or two word wish (‘love, happiness, mother’s health, etc.’ obviously thought of in advance) on a thin piece of paper (preferably unrolled cigarette paper) with a pencil, burn this wish with a match or candle (lighters are too unnatural) and drop the ashes into a shot of champagne. Before the clock tolls the twelfth hour, you should drink this mixture, and your wish will come true. Of course one is not allowed to share this wish with anyone. I have to admit, I really like this tradition. It’s non-committal and sounds like fun to do. Lindsey and I have resolved to do it this New Years, and I encourage one and all to try it out.
There’s still a couple days left until the official end of the Holiday Season (New Years), and I’d like to wish you all a (late) Merry Christmas and best wishes for joy, happiness and good times in the New Year.
A Trip to the Barber's
I woke up late on Thursday morning. Being officially done with my semester, I thought this would be a nice little treat to myself. Finally done with my academic semester in Russia, it was time to take care of the real business, namely getting a haircut. I have been scared of doing this since before I arrived in Moscow (I even tried growing my hair out last year so I wouldn’t have to deal with it). My first haircut was around Hallloween and was free, done by Chris and his electronic clippers. Needless to say, it’s gotten a little too cold in Moscow for the buzz cut, and when I woke up, I knew my time had come for a real trip to the parikmakhirskaia (barbershop, which literally means in Russian the person who makes wigs).
When Tatiana served me breakfast, the conversation did not center around my plans for the day as usual, but my earring. For those who don’t know, I have what’s called an Industrial piercing. It is a metal barbell that goes through the cartiladge of my left ear in two places. In the last four months, the subject of my (by Russian standards) unusual piercing has not been brought up by my hostess. I guess she finally worked up the courage to ask me about it.
“Does it hurt when you sleep?” she asked.
“Well, when I first got it, yes, but now I can sleep on it without discomfort.”
“Ah-ha. You know Mish, you really have to be careful when putting holes through your body, especially in a place like your ear. Have you ever heard of ‘akupunktsuariia’?”
I thought about the word…”Aaaah, accupuncture. Yeah, sure I’ve heard of it.”
“Well, you know all along your ear there are pressure points that all affect the rest of your body, different organs, etc. You really should be careful about that kind of stuff. Do you ever take it out?”
“No, it’s really not meant to be taken out. I would need a professional just to get it back in,” I responded. I had never really examined my thoughts on accupuncture. I have friends who swear by it, but having never experienced it myself, I would never base a decision to get a piercing on the ancient science. Tatiana Nikolaevna went on about a former boarder of hers (an Italian) who had her tongue and nose pierced, and how it was just horrible to mess around with your body like that. Luckily, my tongue ring was not in at the time (honestly, I’m not sure if her weathered eyes have ever really noticed it), so I politely nodded in agreement and changed the subject:
“You know, I think I’ll get my hair cut today. Do you know any places around here?”
She helpfully recommended a barbershop around the corner, assuring me that they specialize in men’s hair. I finished breakfast, took a shower, got dressed and was off to rid myself of the mane of hair that I had been unable to do anything with for months.
On my way to the salon, I practiced to myself what I would say to my stylist about how I wanted my hair to look. In the back of my mind, I was hoping they’d have those hairdo books available so I could just point something out.
When I arrived, I realized that I would have no such luck. An imposing man whose own haircut wasn’t what you would call a masterpiece quickly shuffled me into his seat.
“So, what do you want done?”
“I would like to keep my hair on top and make less the hair here,” I mumbled out with some body language to point out the hair under the level of my browline.
“Ok, yeah, yeah,” he said, filling in the gaps that my description left out. I let him know that my hair was clean and the experiment began.
During the course of the haircut, I studied how he did it, noticing that Russians have a very different way of cutting hair. I assumed that this was a result of different school of barbery between our two countries or that this man was just a ‘homeschooled’ barber. The majority of the cut continued in silence until he was almost done.
Having noticed my accent, he asked, “So, where are you from?” I responded and he started asking me the typical questions: what are you doing here? Why Russian? Etc., etc. He was quite kind and patient with my answers, and I started to feel comfortable making the small talk apparently required in all barbershops around the world. He started cleaning up the region around my ears (‘opening up my ears’ as he called it) and noticed my barbell.
“Wow, I’ve never seen one like that before. I hope a professional did that for you; you know, you really have to be careful with that kind of stuff what with all the nerve endings in your ears. You could really screw up the organs all over your body if it’s done wrong” It turns out most Russians are rather well acquainted with the dynamics and principles of accupuncture. Even barbers!
After a silence, I felt the need to hold up my end of the conversation:
“So, are you a Muscovite?” Like in New York, not everyone who lives in Moscow is actually a Muscovite, which is, in fact, a term reserved for those who grew up in the capital or have lived there for a considerable amount of time (judged usually by their acquisition of the Moscow accent).
“Well, I guess you could say that. I grew up in Yerevan,” he said, studying the look on my face to see if I knew where this was.
“Ahhh, Armenia?”
“Yeah. My Mom’s Russian and my Dad’s Armenian, so ya know. After institute, I moved here, married my wife. The usual.” I assumed that ‘institute’ isn’t a word used to describe beauty schools in Russian. His somewhat dishevled appearance was suddenly explained. The man must have been a scientist before, like many other citizens of the former Soviet Union, economic and political crises forced him to take up a more reliable profession. After all, people will always need haircuts, right?
“Interesting,” was the best response I could come up with.
“So, what kind of roots do you have?” my new friend Andrei asked. This is the second time a Russian has asked me about my ancestry while getting acquainted. During my first folklore lesson with Andrei Sergeevich, I was also asked to characterize my Northern European mutt descent. At the time, I assumed that this was a result of Andrei Sergeevich’s profession; as a folklorist, the man was obviously disposed to getting to know his roots as well as others’. Andrei, my barber, showed me that this interest might just be inherent in the culture, which for seventy years was extremely proud of their international character, much like America’s ‘big melting pot’ idea (indeed, the USSR national hymn was called ‘The International’).
“Well, northern-European. My family comes from Norway, Germany, etc.”
“Ah, so that’s both sides? Did they speak Norwegian in your house?”
“Well, no. We immigrated generations ago, and my Dad’s family is actually form Ireland and Scottland.”
“How many generations?” an odd question for most Americans. If I hadn’t done an ancestry project in fourth grade, I wouldn’t have been able to make even an educated guess to this answer:
“Oh, about three, four generation, I guess.”
“Ahh, I see. You know, there are a lot of famous Armenian-Americans; we had a pretty big diaspora. You know Andrei Agassi?” he asked. At first, I didn’t recognize this name, but then I put it through my Russian accent filter and recognized the famous tennis player.
“Oh really?”
“Yeah, his dad’s Armenian.”
“I had no idea!”
“Also Chear, the famous singer.” Again, I filtered the accent out of this name, whose vowel sound is particularly hard for Russians to pronounce.
“Cher?! No kidding!”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“I could see that, though. She has that beautiful dark hair, those eyes! Quite an Armenian face, really.” I thought, as a man was in the hair business, he’s appreciated this compliment to the beauty of his kinsmen’s follicles. I caught myself with the last comment though. In Russian, this ‘Armenian face’ expression is reminiscent of the expression ‘caucasian face’ which is a PC but nonetheless not polite way of talking about the face of terrorism in Russia. Luckily, he didn’t seem to take offense.
At this point, he was brushing the tiny bits of hair from the back of my neck and getting ready to style my new ‘do. I usually don’t like how other people style my hair, but it’s always fun to see how it all turns out. In any event, I usually enjoy getting to try out new hair products for free.
Before going to the reception to pay, Andrei slipped me his card:
“I also work at this other salon. It cheaper there, so if you’d ever like to come back, you should call me here. Go ahead,” he said, pantomiming and urging me to slip in indescreately into my pocket.
I paid my 650 rubles and went out into the chilly Moscow air a new man, slightly more Russian in appearance and happy to no longer be sporting the psuedo-mullet look.
You've been in Russia Too Long
Along with all the end-of-semester questionarres and evaluations, Chris also gave us some information on how to come back to Russia (to work, research, etc.) as well as some hand outs on reverse culture shock and the like. Below is a list he included in the papers; You know you’ve been in Russia too long when…I’ve put an asterix (*) next to those points I personally identify with.
You know you’ve been in Russia too long when….
*You carrya plastic shopping bag with you ‘just in case’.
*When crossing the street, you sprint.
*You are impressed with the new model Lada or Volga.
*You hear the radio say it is zero degrees outside and you think it is a nice day for a change.
*Your argue with a taxi driver about a fare of 150 rubles ($5) to go 10 kilometers in a blizzard
You actually know and CARE whether Spartka won last night
*You win a shoving match with an old babushka for a place in line, and you are proud of it.
*You are pleasantly surprised when there is toilet paper in the WC at work/school
*You give a 10% tip only if the waiter has been really exceptional.
You are relieved when the guy standing next to you on the bus actually uses a handkerchief.
*You discover a new love of beets.
You know seven people whose favorite novel is “The Master and Margarita”.
*You change into ‘tapki’ (slippers) and wash your hands as soon as you walk into your apartment.
*You start thinking of black bread as a good chaser for vodka.
*You drink the brine from empty pickle jars.
You begin refering to locals as ‘nashi’ (our’s).
Locals start refering to you as ‘nash’ (our).
*You know more than 20 Lenas, 30 Mashas and 60 Sashas.
*Purchasing a ticket on the first attempt feels like the triumph of a lifetime.
*You are rude to people at the airport for no reason.
You haven’t worn your sneakers for anything but offical exercise in months.
*‘Remont’, ‘Pivo’ and ‘nalivai’ (Renovation, beer and pour some more) become integral parts of your vocabulary.
*Cigarette smoke becomes ‘tolerable’, or, if you’re a smoker, you beginning smoking at least a pack a day more than you did before coming.
You think metal doors are a necessity.
A gallon of milk seems like a foreign concept.
The elevator aroma seems reassuring somehow.
You do not take off that silly sticker on the sunglasses that you just bought.
*You sister write to you about the best prime rib she’s ever had and you can’t remember what it looks or tastes like.
You sit in silence on your bags for a few moments before leaving on any long journey.
***You catch yourself whistling indoors and feel guilty.
*You never smile in public when you’re alone.
*You know the offical at the metro station/airport/border post/post office/raliway station, etc. etc. is going to say ‘nyet’, but you argue anyway.
*That strange pungent mix of odors of star sawdust, sweat and grime in the emtro makes you feel safe and at home.
*The word ‘salad’ ceases to have anything to do with lettuce.
Mayonnaise becomes your dression of choice.
*You can recite in Russian all the words to all of the tampon/beer/chewing gum/coke/cell phone commercials.
*You do not leave any room between you and person in front of you in line. Ever.
It seems normal to you that stores close for lunch.
*You voluntarily take a stroll in the park, Baltika beer in hand, on a sub-zero day.
*You are no longer surprised when your taxi drivers tells you that before Perestroika, he worked as a rocked scientist.
You dress up in your best outfits for work/school.
*You laugh at Russian jokes.
And when you get home…
You try to pay a traffic fine on the spot and get arrested for attempted bribery.
You try to get the waitress’s attention by shouting, “Hey! Girl!”
You look for ‘kvas’ and ‘kefir’ in the supermarket and ask to buy half a head of cabbage.
You see a car with flashing lights and think it’s a politician.
You forget to clear your own tray at fast food restaurants.
You are in awe that after three days at home, your shoes are still clean.
You get wildly offended when youa re asked to pay at the coat check.
You answer the phone with ‘Allo’?
You feel queasy when someone tries to shake your hand over a threshold.
Before getting in line at the grocery store, you ask ‘Kto poslednii?” (Who’s last?)
You continue to ‘cross’ the number 7.
You specify ‘no gas’ when asking for water.
You are dumbstruck when high school or college students wait on you with a smile and display complete knoledge of the contents of each menu item.
Dead Body
One of the most entertaining parts of Language School was Lindsey’s stories from her semester in St. Petersburg. They were full of crazy times in the land of the midnight sun, brushes with death and dead bodies. She explained to me that after even a semester in Russia, almost all students return to the States with at least one dead body story. She shared with me stories of ‘the dead body that lived under my bedroom window’ or ‘the dead body that was in the alley for a couple days before the paramedics came for him’. I envisioned my return to Middlebury’s campus and the wide eyes of my friends as I would tell similar stories of the corpses I became acquainted with in the Motherland. With less than two months left in Moscow, I was afraid that I would return empty handed…until last Thursday.
The past few months have been filled with limp bodies sprawled out on the street or in the Metro, but none of these unfortunate souls were ever confirmed as dead. More often than not, they were just incredibly drunk. I should have known that my dead body story would come unexpectedly, not in the wee hours of a weekend morning but exactly when I wasn’t expecting it.
Last Thursday, having finished all my finals and final presentations, Lindsey and I set out for the post office where we each had a package waiting for us. Being my first package here, I was overwhelmed with excitement and simultaneously terrified at my first experience with the Russian postal system (that day, I discovered that postal workers all over the world are generally disgruntle and hostile as a result of their thankless jobs). We left the university and made our way to Novoslabodskaia, the nearest metro station.
As usual, we got through the heavy doors into the markedly warmer air of the station and walked towards the entrance turnstiles where it was unusually crowded to get in. It was too early to be rush hour in the Metro yet, and I wondered what was keeping the masses of people from stamping their tickets and jumping on the mile-long escalators that carry passengers down to the eighth wonder of the modern world – the Moscow Metro.
After pushing my way through the last door to the turnstiles, I noticed a barrier in a place I had never before seen a barrier, right before the turnstiles. It was clogging the flow of traffic and making the trek to the escalators especially slow. At first glance, the only explanation for the out-of-place barrier was the policeman standing next to it. The Metro is often full of police on the weekends when there’s a football or hockey match, but three o’clock on a Thursday afternoon was quite a strange time to see one controlling traffic.
Then I looked down. Next to the barrier’s feet was a man lying on the ground. Seeing his unbuttoned shirt, untied tie and generally disheveled appearance, I assumed he was just drunk (while police are unusual for a Thursday afternoon, there is never an unusual time for drunkenness in Moscow). Then I noticed the sickly, green-grey color of his hand and the black plastic bag covering his face. I looked back to his hands and saw their stiffness. This man was not drunk; he was dead!
But what had happened? Was it a homicide? Had someone suffocated him while he was making his drunken way out of the metro that night/morning? He had obviously been there for a while as rigor mortus had already set in. So many questions filled my head as the crowds pushed me through the turnstiles and onto the escalator. I couldn’t believe it; how could they all just walk by and not realize that someone had died? Were they so concerned with their own lives, their own trajectories that they couldn’t be bothered to even notice, to give even one moment’s thought to the human being who was lying dead on the ground? I was shocked, shocked that I had just seen a dead body in the metro, that no on else but Lindsey and I seemed to care and that without realizing it, I finally had a dead body story!
While disappointed at my fellow passengers’ response to the dead man, I can’t say that my response was any better. In fact, it’s undoubtedly better to ignore a dead body than celebrate it as a great story that will freak out my friends at home. My classmates, who all went through that metro stop at some point during the day, had different responses to the corpse. Some, like me, were freaked out that Moscow once again surprised us is the most unusual of ways; others were devastated. My friend, Margalit, had a hard time that night celebrating her host-sister’s birthday because she couldn’t get the image of faceless body out of her mind.
All in all, Moscow is a tough city to live in, even without dead bodies to deal with. I think we all have our own ways of dealing with the never-ending emotional stress that Moscow presents us with. Personally, I try to laugh at it all (or, if you want to look at it a different way, make the best out of a dead body – turn it into a great story!); this obviously isn’t the most sensitive of methods, but it gets me by. I hope my last six weeks in Russia will be corpse-free.
DDT, Alexei and the Gang
Being the end of my semester here in Russia, I haven’t had much time to write posts, although recently my life in the Motherland has been quite exciting. Most of my time has been devoted to cramming for finals, writing essays and performing in a play put on by our phonetics class called “Little Red Riding Hood goes to RGGU” (RGGU is the name of our university here, I was the Lion, king of all animals. It really took me back to the good ol’ days of The Lion King). The title of my final essay for my grammar class was ‘Dangerous Russia?’ In it, I discussed the state of the world from an international student’s perspective; those countries know as very popular destinations for students studying abroad, Australia and France, have experienced much civil unrest this semester. To boot, natural disasters have plagued much of the world. As a result, Moscow, experiencing one of its warmest winters in recent memory, has turned out to be a wonderful place to study this semester. Who would’ve guessed?
That being said, I’d like to recount some highlights of my life since Thanksgiving. The weekend after Turkey Day, the American students were overcome by a sudden urge to have some Mexican cuisine (a rarity in Moscow). We found a restaurant, Panch Villa’s, not far from the Oktiabrskaia metro station, which advertised Margaritas and authentic Tex-Mex cooking/environment and quickly made our way there. It had been a long week, and we all just wanted to have a margarita and burrito before calling it a night. Unfortunately, Pancho Vil’ia (as it was called in Russian, apparently no one tolded them what a double ‘l’ sounds like in Spanish) was very popular that night and we were unable to get a table. The aroma of the chili con queso sauce already filled our noses, and the urge for tacos was too strong for us to turn back and find another restaurant, so we opted to sit at the bar. It was at that point that we fully understood what they meant by ‘Mexican atmosphere’. There were no barstools, but bar saddles! To sit at the bar, you had to straddle a saddle mounted on four wooden legs (Lindsey and Sara tried to eat side-saddle, but after about fifteen minutes, this proved too difficult). There was a James Dean western playing on the flatscreens behind the bar and I knew that if I just had a shotgun and Stedson hat, I would have fit right into the wild-west drama.
Sitting at the bar wasn’t very condusive to conversation, so we entertained ourselves with our closest neighbors and enjoyed our food. The margaritas were excellent; Marco even got a rum and coke (aka – Cuba Libre) with a high quality Venezuelian rum that he had been missing (for those not in the know, Marco is a native son of Caracas). After finishing our second margaritas (which were free; we got our orders in with five minutes left in Happy Hour) and burritos (somewhat-reasonably priced at 180 rubles or $6), we left.
After such a grand time at Pancho Villa, we weren’t quite ready to call it a night (it was, after all, only 8:30), so we decided to go to the Tatiana’s Day Bar (Tatiana’s Day is Students’ Day in Russia) near the dorms for a beer and friendly conversation. We all wanted a good night’s sleep that night, so we agreed to have just a beer (VERY reasonably priced at 50 rubles, or $1.66, for .5 L). Finallly sitting face-to-face, we got so carried away with conversation and movie trivia, that three beers later and before we knew it, the bar was closing. It was almost midnight and we were all quite tired, so we decided to finish our drinks and head home. With five minutes and 150 mL of beer left, we were approached by two Russians who asked us where we were from (we had given up on our language pledge around 10:30 and were conversing in English). We explained that we were from America and continued to shoot the shit with these friendly, if not a little tipsy, Russians. They invited us to come and help them finish their bottle of vodka and introduced us to the rest of their posse (in all, three guys, Alexei, Ilia, and Kiril and one girl, Alexei’s girlfriend, Natasha). Alexei was obviously the alpha male of the group; we decided that this was a result of his height (he was the tallest, I’d say around 6’2”) and the fact that he had a girlfriend. Our conversation, having moved on from introductory pleasentries, turned to the subject of Russian music (Ilia and Kiril were in a band, managed by Alexei, of course), how we liked Russia/Moscow, and what we thought of Russian Vodka. Kiril and Ilia proceeded to make moves on Sara and Lindsey, the only two available girls at the table, and in general, the Americans were enjoying themselve since we had actually met some Russians who were interested in hanging out with us! This continued until the bottles of vodka were empty and the management kicked us out.
On the street, the Americans found their second wind, realizing that randomly meeting outgoing Russians doesn’t happen every day, and agreed to continue the evening in truly Russian fashion with vodka in a deserted park. We made a quick run to the nearest 24-hour produce store, bought two more bottles of vodka, and made our way to a park not far from the dorms that’s connected to the old Dom Pioneerov (Pioneer House. The Pioneers were like co-ed communist boy scouts; every Soviet child was basically expected/required to take part in this society of endoctrination) and commenced drinking. The all the required toasts were made: to ‘novoe znakomstvo’ (new introductions/friends), ‘druzhbu’ (friendship), ‘mezhdunarodnuiu druzhbu (international friendship), ‘zhenshchiny’ (women), etc. We drank, took pictures and exchanged phone numbers until both bottles were empty and my watch told me it was already 2:15. I looked up to see that most of the Americans had already left, leaving only Lindsey and me in the cold, dimly lit park with our new Russian friends.
I couldn’t feel my toes. My ears were freezing (Lindsey gave me her earmuffs, but I had in turn given them to Alexei, who was absolutely fascinated by them! I think ear warmers are a completely foreign concept to Russians). I wasn’t the only one freezing in the Moscovite night; Ilia explained to me that he was freezing too (this was, however difficult to understand, since in his inebriation, his speech began to overflow with ‘mat’, the Russian swearing language which is so crude and rude, that the only reason foreigners learn anything about it is to be able to recognize when an ‘unsavory’ (and possibly dangerous) character is in one’s presence). Our drunken collective decided that it was time to go inside somewhere to warm up; the first thought that came to mind was, ‘Well, it’s pretty warm in my house, which is only a three minute walk away.’ I knew I couldn’t leave Lindsey alone, though. I didn’t find our companions dangerous in any way; they were actuallly quite ‘druzholiubivnie’ (friendly). I stayed mostly because there’s an unwritten rule (actually, it might actually be written in our study abroad handbook) that it’s always safest in general when you stay with your fellow students. In a foreign country, we are after all, our best protection, and at 2:30 in the morning, I wasn’t about to leave my beloved, fellow-Kansan to the proverbial ‘drunked wolves’ (there is a proverb about drunken wolves, right?).
We made our way to Tverskaia Street and found a tavern that was miraculously still open, order another round of beer and some fries and tried to warm up before the place closed in a half-hour. Alexei continued to declare his love for Natasha, something he had been doing about every five minutes since Lindsey told him that he had to make sure she knew by telling her every day (more on the pecularities of Russian relationship later). They asked us what we were studying and Lindsey explained her thesis topic as their eyes collectived glazed over. The five of them were all seventeen and only Alexei was currently studying in college (at the nearby Mendeleev Chemical Institute); needless to say, they were less than intrigued by the unknown dissident poet that Lindsey is currently researching.
After being kicked out of the night’s second bar, we still had a good hour before the metro opened again (not to mention the dorms. Lindsey was basically locked out of her house until 5 am). ‘Davai poguliaem!’ they all suggested (lets go for a stroll), and we took a leisurely walk on chilly Tverskaia. The boys continued to hit on Lindsey, seven years their senior, and I continued to do my best to cockblock them, holding Lindsey’s hand and pulling her into dark alleys every once and a while, pretending that I needed to taste her sweet lips. In reality, we were really planning our exit strategy. It was already six o’clock and our desired bedtime had come and gone hours ago. Coming full-circle, standing infront of the tavern we had warmed up in hours ago, Lindsey and I said our goodbyes. Everyone double checked their cell phones to make sure we all had each others’ numbers, and ten handshacks, kisses and hugs later, we made our escape.
At such an ungodly hour of the morning, neither Lindsey nor I wanted to go straight to bed, at least not on an empty stomach, so we made a quick stop by our favorite 24-hour Shuarma stand on our way home. I was in my bed by 6:30am; Tatiana Nikolaevna, who often has trouble sleeping, was up when I got home. Of course I didn’t pop my head into her room to great her but went straight to bed completely exhausted from my unexpected night of Russian fun. Before I went to bed, I checked off ‘Drinking in park’ from my list of things I wanted to do while in Russia and slept like a baby until 3pm the next day.
I got up and met Tatiana in the kitchen where breakfast was waiting for me. Being the sassy old lady she is, she asked me when I would have dinner, “In an hour maybe?” I ignored the sarcasm in her voice and explained that I wouldn’t be eating at home that night because I was going to a concert.
Chris, the man, had bought all the MiddKids tickets to the DDT concert that night. DDT is one of the biggest rock groups in Russia. This year, they came out with a new album and are celebrating it with their 25th anniversary world tour. That Sunday night was their last concert in Russian before touring abroad, and Chris convinced Middlebury to pay for our tickets, calling it a ‘cultural experience’ (as a side note, to justify this as a learning experience, he gave us all a history of the band and printed out lyrics to their most famous songs to learn so that we could sing along with the thousands of Russians in the stadium). Because of the mob-like crowd that would undoubtalby be at the concert that night, he advised us to come in small groups and to just meet up in our seats (our seats were in the nose-bleed section of the stadium, which of course were the cheapest, an important fact considering there were about ten of us all together. In the stadium, I was, however, quite relieved not to be infront of the stage with six hundred or so drunk Russians). Lindsey, Sara and Steve (grad students who all live close to me in the dorms) had all bought tickets as well, so we decided to go together. I met Lindsey at the same place I had said goodbye to her just twelve hours earlier, and we went to get some more Shuarma for dinner (this time, we got two each). We returned to the dorms and ate while pumping up to some DDT cds (Steve had just bought a MP3 CD with all their albums on it). Steve and Sara were pregaming with some vodka, but Lindsey and I were still a little drunk from the night before. I took one shot to help my hangover and we were off. (As a side note, 50 mL of vodka really does heal most stomach problems!)
We arrived at the Olympic Stadium, and much to my relief, it had a roof. This relief was short-lived when I saw the security check points we would have to go through to get into the stadium itself (in all there were about four). The first checkpoint was not so much a line as it was a mob of people, drunk and collectively singing their favorite songs (Rodina, Polednii Osen’) while pushing and shoving their way through two small entrances. I thought rush hour in the Metro was bad, but we were nearly crushed to death in this mob. I’m surprised we even made it in together, much less in one piece.
Russian security is quite peculiar. Woman are always let through with no problem unsless they have a bag or purse with them, in which case, they simply have to open it up and show the contents to the policemen. Sometimes, women are patted down, but only if there is another woman on hand to do it. Men, on the other hand, always get wanded and are often patted down by the imposing guards who resemble army troops more than police officers. This, of course, is the most ideal situation. At the concert, the guards seemed more interested in making the other three lines after the mob move quickly and mostly just let everyone pass through.
Inside the stadium, I was actually more scared that outside. People were running all over the place, pushing and shoving, not caring how hard their elbows dug into others’ ribs. Even in the hustle and bustle of Moscow, I’m not very frightened by large crowds of people, but waiting around for my companions to use the bathroom, I became very uneasy (although it was VERY interesting to watch all the people that came to the concert. It became clear that DDT attracts a very wide demographic of the Russian population. I saw elderly people, hippies and even goth/heavy metal types who were all united by their love of DDT). All I wanted to do was find my seat and relax, which I did do right as the concert began.
It was an amazing concert, allbeit hard to describe. DDT’s music is sometimes more intense than Metallica and sometimes as calm as Cat Stevens. There were back-up singers who sang in the style of Russian folklore (often wailing in accompianment to the lead singer), and in general, we all did our best to sing along with the thousands of Russians we were surrounded by, often with litte success. At one point in the concert, the lead singer made a comment on the tons of foreigners who are now coming to Russia and basically ruining everything. Needless to say, the crowd’s unanimous cheer made us feel a little uncomfortable, but all in all we enjoyed ourselves quite a lot.
When the group left the stage, I booked it. After my experience getting into the stadium, I wasn’t too keen on making my way through crowds of people in the fire hazard that would be exiting the place. In any event, I had to get up at 7am the next morning to teach English and after my long weekend, I knew I was overdue for a good night’s sleep. Unfortunately, it turned out that I missed a truly awesome encore where they played all the songs that I actually knew the words to. This disappointed me, but early the next morning, I was happy with my decision.
The following Tuesday, I woke up and couldn’t swallow. My neck was swollen and no matter how much I wanted to cough, my throat hurt too much to even think about it. For the next three/four days, I was paying the price for my amazing weekend. Luckily, I felt good enough to meet Alexei and the gang the next Friday night. This time I was sure to get home at a reasonable hour. They all quized me on the slag expression they taught me the last weekend (‘Gospada! Davai namandiachimcia!’ or ‘Ladies and Gentlemen! Let’s get shitty/drink until we pass out!’), we played some pool and had a great time. I even got home before one!
