This. Is. RUSSIA!

...Oh, Friday.

The night started with what just might be The World's Worst Opera.  I mean, I kid you not.  I had high hopes, given that it was the world premiere of a new show being performed at the Bolshoi Theater (Moscow's most famous theater, at least according to all of my textbook exercises).  I was...let down.  The performers walked on stage, with their music and lyrics in their hands, sang a bit about how sad they were that their family's cherry orchard was being sold, and walked back off.  Then another performer would come on and do the same thing.  Sometimes the choir standing behind them and fidgeting would sing.  Then they'd sing more.  For three hours.  And I'm no expert, but even to my uncultured ears, the orchestra music sounded like it was being performed by twelve year olds...who were given trash cans and plates for instruments...and had no hands.

Also, it was based on a story by Chekhov.  This reconfirmed that, really really really, I hate that guy.

So that was fun.  Needless to say, we needed a drink.

We headed to Kruzhka's, where the vodka is cheap and so is the atmosphere.  In other words, my kind of  place.  We hung out with ourselves a bit, but after a while, as is inevitable, drunk Russians wandered over to talk to the Americans.  Yesplz!  (I was a wee apprehensive, as men in these groups occasionally grab my face and kissbomb me.  Well, at least that once...)  We chatted with them for quite a while, during which time much beer was consumed, each other's languages were badly spoken, mafia deals were made (okay, I'm stereotyping on that one), and I was proposed to, on one knee.  What can I say?  I've got a great set of green cards on me.  

They kicked us out at about 4:30 a.m. because they had finally closed down the last room, so we wandered out into the Moscow December, wondering where to spend the hour and a half until the metro opened.  Our new friends offered to let us crash at their place, but they seemed a wee bit too insistent on it.  I was told enough times "No sex, only sleep, no danger!" that I really began to suspect the opposite.  So, we chose to escape being held as American sex slaves (or just miss out on an awesome afterparty), and found a 24/7 cafe, thanks to the help of... *trumpets*...The Russian Joaquin Phoenix.  Bold necessary.

He had been watching the group attempt to kidnap host us, and became concerned for our wellbeing.  So he showed us where a cafe was, and sat with us while we warmed up.  Upon the danger cloud clearing, it became perfectly clear that this guy looks EXACTLY like Joaquin Phoenix.  No joke; ginormous eyebrows and I-Kill-You-With-GreenBlue! eyes and everything.

Forget monsters.  Check under your bed for these.

It also became clear that he was freakin' awesome, when at one point he skipped down the street while singing "Let It Snow!"  Russians should ALWAYS sing Christmas songs in English.  It could be bottled and sold as a happy pill.

We chilled with Joaquin and his friend Dima (whose nickname is Tolsti, Russian for fat -- sensitivity training is something completely different here, and is usually conducted in secret), and finally it became 6 o'clock; time for the metro open.  They walked us to the building in the middle of a snowfall so goddamn perfect it deserved its own name, and we dragged our tired asses home.  At 7:30.  In the morning.

For all of you who asked why in the hell I chose Russia, I'd like to refer you to everything I just wrote.  

O Capital, my Fairest...

Our group recently took a trip to St. Petersburg; the fomer capital of Russia, the site of one of the longest and deadliest sieges of WWII, the window into Europe, and overall a freakin' beautiful city.
We got there by night train, which was a neat experience overall.  There were four beds contained in 10 x 6 room, so navigating any of it required synchronized cooperation from all four people.  We're pretty good at that already, though, because when in Russia, sidestepping is just part of the game. 

Also, it was my birthday at midnight, so, ya know...booze.

We arrived in the morning and had some hotel breakfast, then took a bus tour around the city.  It's a gorgeous place, to be sure, and I was super excited to be able to literally touch the Neva River (she's the feisty one who likes to drown the city every now and then). 

 

She was cool this time though.

This occasional murderous flood happens because St. Petersburg was built in the middle of a swamp at the polite request of Peter the Great.  He wanted greater contact with the West, a water port on the Baltic Sea, and presumably a kick-ass bachelor pad, so he pretty much stuck a (solid gold) stick in the mulch and said "I shall build here!"  What he meant by that, of course, was, "I shall force serfs and slaves to build and die here, and the streets will literally be paved with their bodies! Party!"

Thus was born St. Pete's.  Now, it's Russia's second biggest city, and is widely considered to be its cultural capital.

I mean, c'mon...there was a F*R*I*E*N*D*S (or Д*Р*У*З*Ь*Я) themed hotel right next to ours, with a painted car parked outside to match.  CULTURE!!

Anyway, back to the tour.  At one point the bus stopped to let us off at a souvenir shop, which I wasn't stoked about until our tour guide told us that there would be free fucking vodka inside.  Doubtful but still daring to hope, we ventured in and peeked around.  Sure enough, the cashier saw us, beckoned us over, and started pouring vodka shots.  What?!  YES. 

It was 1 o' clock in the afternoon, on my birthday, in St. Petersburg Fucking Russia, and some dude was pouring me free vodka in the middle of a store.  If there was a moment during this trip that would cause me to go expat, it was this one.

Over the next few days, we saw museums and cathedrals (and cathedrals and cathedrals...I swear, I'm common-law Orthodox at this point) and the Hermitage, which is basically Russia's answer to the Lourve, but housed in Catherine the Great's old castles.  (She had different rooms for each of her many "favorite men" hidden throughout the castles.  On a strictly unrelated note, she is my hero.) 

We also went to Beatles-themed pubs, shared cranberry  liquor with strangers, and ate pitas off the street.  My kind of city, St. Petersburg is.

I had a fantastic time and will definitely be back at some point in my life, but by the end of the trip I was kinda glad to get back.  St. Petersburg is a great escape, but I live in goddamn Moscow. 

Enough said.

UPDATE: I do want to be 18 again.

Ignore everything I said in the previous post.  I was completely wrong. 


Dorm life so totally rocks, dude!!

Well, okay, the pee thing still isn't cool.  Neither is the phlegm thing, and I really do miss having my own everything...

...okay, fine.  Dorm life still sucks.  BUT...

Every now and then an awesome day comes along, and it will change your life.  This day is filled with so little responsibility or movement of any sort that your bed actually asks for overtime.  By the end of it you feel too lazy to breathe, and will have looked at The Entire Internet.  For real.

This day was yesterday.  And it was glorious.

As happens, though, all that nothing caught up to us and eventually my roommate and I got hungry.  Going to the store was clearly 100% out of the question given its lack of proximity to the bed, so our options were limited.  We're creative girls, though, so we picked through the meager supplies of the room, and came up with a solution.

Pictured: The Solution

That, my friends, is Dorm Bisque.  Campbell's tomato soup, cheese, a Russian hot dog, and a can of goddamn corn. 

We made it.  We ate it.  We are proud.

Once I get back, I promise to be an adult again and pay electricity bills and "stop by the bank" and cook asparagus and whatnot, but damn...I'd forgotten about being 18.  You should try it.  It rocks.

Because who doesn't want to be 18 again?

Well, me. 

One of the aspects of this trip I was hesitant about was the housing situation: namely, a co-ed, double occupancy dorm.  It's great for your first steps outside of your hometown's apronstrings, but once you've done it, gotten used to apartment living, and said good riddance...well, good fucking riddance, please.

It's been overall a more pleasant experience than I'd geared up for, and I got super lucky in having a roommate who happens to rock (though I would of course never tell her that to her face).  There are Friday night group meals and always someone to go out with, and you can't beat the convenience of being literally two minutes away from the classroom.  

The drawbacks, of course, have come from sharing 1 bathroom with 15 people, 12 of whom are dudes.  No offense to that side of the population, but let's face it, you ARE the more likely of the genders to pee on the floor.

Allow me to repeat that for emphasis.  At least one of the people living here PEES ON THE FLOOR.  It's not a huge puddle, thankfully, but then again, IT'S PEE ON THE FLOOR.  Its small volume doesn't compensate for its general urinesque qualities.  It's gotten so common that our RA actually had to put up a sign to specifically address this issue.  I ask you, in what world do adult males need to be told not to pee on the floor?!!?  I always thought that was taught in Being a Human 101 (right alongside learning how not to audibly hack up a half quart of lung butter in, and therefore on, the same shower that ten more people still have to step on before the morning is out), but apparently the curriculum has changed a bit.

I realize this post has really nothing to do with Russia or Halley or Putin (who, as it happens, can pee directly into the toilet even if he's standing in the living room), and I promise to get to work immediately on a blog about St. Petersburg (which was by the way freakin' fantastic).  I just had to rant for a second.  Between the phlegm, the fun of fighting over one washing machine, and an ever-increasing inability to wash dishes or clean spaghetti out of the drain, I have officially severed any emotional ties I ever had to the concept of communal living.  I'm moving to an island where there are only monkeys.  THEY can at least be housebroken.

Puppies and Rainbows!!!

Based on the very supportive, but generally concerned, response I received after the last post, I've come to a couple of conclusions.

First, you guys rock.  Way to keep an eye out.

Second...whoops.  I accidentally made my life here sound desperate, difficult and sad.  It's absolutely not.  I assure you, I don't fear that Russians are going to beat me with reindeer sausage every time I step out my door.

It was a themed post dealing with why it can sometimes suck to be a foreigner, and so I focused on the negative things that happen a small percentage of the time.  I actually meant it to be much more lol fat strips Halley sucks lol, and much less oh no Russian Nair Halley's bald and sad and cold!  I'm not, I promise.

Not me.

So in that spirit, I shall make you a blog about happy things I love about Russia.  Prepare to be choked with joy.

First off, I'm walking around in pure history every day, everywhere.  This city has seen the best and the worst (and then some more of the worst) of just about everything the world can throw at a place, and it's still here in full force.  That's damn cool.  Living in America, and specifically southwestern America, I'm used to seeing "historical" sites that are maybe 150 years old (half of my Tucson apartments were older than that, I'm pretty sure).  When I walk around Moscow, I'm standing on some really goddamn old stuff.  Like, millenia and shit.  Awesome.

I was reminded of this when I was at Red Square the other day.  I was walking through the gate right in front of a group of Americans who hadn't been there yet.  Taking your first steps through that gate is a pretty surreal experience, and they were in full awe mode.

"It's like I'm walking through a history book.  Like, it doesn't feel like you should be allowed to be here," one of them said.

Yup.  Exactly.  But I am anyway.  NEAT.

Also, and very unrelated, a guy at a bar sang "If you are going to San Francisco..." to me when he found out that I was an American.  It was pretty sweet.  I hope the next random dude will sing that "Let's hear it for New Yo-o-o-ork" song, cuz that'd be pretty sweet too.

There's a brutal honesty that permeates the atmosphere here.  People don't seem to stand on too much ceremony, and it's refreshing in its own cold-water-to-the-face way once you learn to deal with it.  Yes, the first few times I got yelled at for whatever silly thing I was doing, I was a bit put out.  But then I saw other people get yelled at (public mockery is Russia's favorite form of social discipline), and they all made it through okay.  So now I just move on and stop doing the silly thing, or continue to do the silly thing anyway because fuck you, and I never have to wonder what anyone's really thinking because they're gonna say it.  Which kind of rocks.

Also, they blatantly drink booze on the metro.  All the time.  Admit it, you SO would if you could.

There's a flipside, though, to all this brutal honesty.  Sometimes, the truth is really awesome, and it gets told then, too.  When happiness or love or passion or pride or joy happen, they happen hard.  Everything just crackles and lives and adamantly refuses to be boring here.  YES.

So there's a small sampling of the fantastic that is this country.  It can be hard to live here, and yes, maybe sometimes I feel a littleteenybit sad and cold and bald... but even when I do, I remember that I'm in a place whose Prime Minister is this guy. 

You just can't argue with that.

(Inter)National Hug A Foreigner Day!

I am proposing a new holiday; one during which humanity, in mass, vows to go out and find the befuddled person roaming the aisles at the grocery store, or the lady who doesn't understand when or how to cross the street, or the sad hungry guy in line at a fast food place who just wants a damn hamburger but keeps getting asked about french fries in a language he doesn't know...AND GIVE THAT PERSON A HUG.  They need it, trust me.

I knew coming here that there would be things I wouldn't understand; signs I might not be able to read or customs I might inadvertently stomp upon...but I never assumed that I would have no idea whatsover how to shop.  Things are just different here in a way I wasn't quite expecting, and even the simplest things trip me up.  For starters, of course, I barely know the language.  I'm working on it, but I've only had two semesters (and three weeks) of classroom Russian and that doesn't help a hell of a lot when the cranky lady at the market is yelling at you to lay your bottle of wine down flat.  Also, these feisty Russians really strongly dislike making change, and will almost refuse to do so until you've gone through your entire purse and proven that no, in fact, you don't have 17 kopeks (which by the way is roughly no money whatsoever leave me alone about it why are you charging that stupid denomination anyway you suck OMG!). 

Then there's the fun of having to evaluate each new store you go into and trying to figure out what its particular idiosyncrasies are.  Some make you lock up your purse in a locker before you shop (because I am now oh-so-comfortable letting my valuables out of my sight and all...).  Some have absolutely everything behind a counter, necessitating a rather humorous conversation with the clerk that involves lots of pointing.  Some have a line in which you have to get your produce weighed and tagged before you go into the main checkout line, and believe me, the clerks have no problem simply tossing aside unmarked bananas and not selling them to you.

Of course, even after you've figured all of this out, you still have the products themselves to contend with.  Luckily for me, bread comes in clear packaging and the word vodka never changes.  But things get complicated after the essentials are met.  For example: are these lovely wet wipes for makeup removal, or for baby poo removal?  Will this pink mystery goo clean my dishes or soften my undies?  And my favorite thus far: the mystery meat.  I accidentally bought pure fat strips the other day (kinda like bacon, minus any pretense of meat), under the mistaken assumption that they were slices of peppered turkey.  Whoops.  After my "turkey" turned completely translucent in the frying pan and I watched 59 rubles go in the trash, I made a decision:  I'm bringing a dictionary with me when I shop.  I was hoping to not have to be That American who carries one around like that, but upon further consideration, I'd much rather be That American, than be That Girl Who Shampooed With Russian Nair.

Basically, I humiliate myself constantly.  At least once a day I get that deer-in-the-foreign-language look on my face and am often met with exasperation and/or blatant mockery.  Usually I laugh right with them, but sometimes I just want to scream I'M TRYING BUT YOUR STUPID LANGUAGE IS REALLY HARD!!!!!  (Of course, I can't yell that, since, well, I don't know how to say it.)  I've found myself, in my less adventurous moments, selecting food-gettin' places simply because they look simple to order in, or worse yet, resorting to American menus that are simply transliterated, which led to my McDonald's moment (anything on the menu you're used to just needs to be ordered with a Russian accent, and it's yours.  Beeg yend Tyestee?  Fehlyey uh feesh?  Yes please!).  I know this will go away with time, and soon I'll be able to answer the guy asking if I have an Ashan credit card, but for right now, it is a little intimidating.

Which leads me to my main point:  Be nice to foreign people.  They're just as bright and adept at the world as you are, but everything around them is probably brand new and very strange.  We Americans do weird things all the time; we just don't notice it because we're doing them.

Put yourself in their shoes.  Remember the first time you ever looked at a Starbucks menu?  Yeah, you had no idea what you were doing, admit it.  And that shit's in English!  (Well, okay, it's in Starbish.  But still.)  It's like that, times fifteen thousand and minus the nice baristas, every day. 

So, the next time you get frustrated at that foreign girl in line, just gently set her wine down for her and giggle to yourself at the blog she might be writing later that night, pondering why the hell every American everywhere wants to know how her day is going and keeps offering her a "doggie bag" if she hasn't finished her food. 

And one more thing:  English is hard too.  Really, really hard.  Be glad you know it, and don't be a dick to people who don't.  I'll bet they're trying.  And if they tell you they don't speak your language, for the love of God, don't keep rambling at them in that language!!  This is one of Russians' least helpful habits.  Just switch to short, simple words that a first year learner might know and use a gesture or two, and I'll bet you'll figure each other out.  You'll get a sale, they'll get bananas, and world peace will reign.

So there ya have it.  From now on, October 4th will be (Inter)National Hug A Foreigner Day!  Let's just hope that, for the sake of diplomatic relations, Glenn Beck at least leaves this holiday the fuck alone.

In the Aeroplane Over the Sea

At long last, here I sit in front of my own keyboard, the proud new owner of a cheapy Russian netbook, since my cheapy American laptop is now in the hands of... well, Putin knows, really.  The trip here was filled with delayed flights, rerouted itineraries, 40-second-but-nonetheless-$23 phone calls, missed airport pickups, lost luggage, and a Halley who made a lasting first impression on Moscow by crying on it.  A lot.

I even cried on the phone of a taxi driver who let me call the guy scheduled to pick me up, even though it meant that he was losing a fare.  Dear Nice Sir:  <3.

Shitastic though it all seemed, however, Dmitry showed back up within 10 mintues, carried my (now sparse) baggage to the most beautiful car I had ever seen (or maybe it just seemed so at the time), and took me home to my dorm.  The relief was indescribable.  I crashed out instantly, and woke up rested, optimistic, and IN GODDAMN RUSSIA.  That's when I quit my crying and remembered that everything is actually pretty flippin' fantasic.

And so far, just about everything has been.  I've been to Red Square (suuuuuuuuuuuuuuurreal!!!!!!!!), the Kremlin, the Tsar's palace, a honey fair, crazyawesome shopping spots, street markets with flowers and produce and druggies oh my!, and the occasional accidentally-found mafioso gathering (note to future Muscovites: In Russian, the words for "Open" and "Closed" look strikingly similar, and just because a door to a "Sportsbar" is unlocked doesn't mean it's something you have any business walking through...).

It's only been a week and some change, so I'll refrain from making sweeping cultural statements for at least a few more days, but I will share a few musings I've had so far:

1) Beauty fever is all over the place.  These women are glamour itself, and they're gonna pay to remain so no matter the cost.  Boots match purses match belts match coats everywhere you go, and that's just today's outfit.  And this shit ain't cheap, either.  Do cvedanaya, Soviet shortages; welcome to Moscow, rampant consumerism.  Mercedes symbols and Pepsi marquees dot the skyline, and yes (be still my caffeinated heart), there are Starbucks!  This is anything but your mother's Russia.

2) Of course, not everyone is so lucky as to be swathed in Burberry.  Poverty and general hardship are still pretty rampant, and the haves-and-haves-not thing is instantly evident from your average stroll in the metro marketplace.  To the left is one woman pondering a $300 coat, and to the right is another cleaning out the porta-potty that she rents out to passersby for 15 rubles (about $0.50) per use.  Also, heroin has taken over a lot of people's lives here.  It's an average walk to the metro for me to step over hundreds of discarded plastic baggies left in the park from the night before, and that nasty little AIDS epidemic ain't just sex's fault.  Mix that with police who are just as likely to screw you over as they are to save your life, and a mob that (as I recently discovered) hangs out, well, everywhere, and it's still a place you absolutely don't want to get careless in.

3) The contradictions in daily life provide endless hilarity.  Security guards are stationed at almost every store and I have to lock my bags in a locker before I can shop for groceries, but airline workers are left unattended long enough to steal a whole damn computer.  Tradition is so alive that opera houses are still filled to capacity every night and the hammer-and-sickle symbol is in the center of Aeroflot's wing pins (OH!  I just figured out the computer theft...wealth redistribution!), but teenagers walk around shopping malls with purses that read "Karl Who?"  And my personal favorite:  The cafeteria of my university employs a lovely gentleman as a coat check man for the lunching students' coats, but the bathroom in this very same cafeteria is completely without toilet seats, or toilet paper.  That's right; they'll pay for you to check your coat, but if you leave your personal supply of toilet paper in said coat, you're pretty much (yup, I'ma go there...oh just watch me...) shit out of luck.

4) Russians basically invented the culture of Fortune Favors the Bold.  There's no being polite, there's no saying sorry; you just shoulder your way through the masses to the finish line any way you can or you're waiting for the next train.  The rude side of me is having a blast.  The rest of me, of course, is shocked and offended.

Okay, fine.  I guess I'll make a few sweeping culutral statements.

Overall, though, it's been a great time.  I miss everyone back home so much that the saying-goodbye knot in my stomach still lurches every few hours or so, but that doesn't mean I'd take this back for a second.  I am desperately in love with this place, and I can't wait to meet more of it.

HELL YES.

Welcome to my story, friends!

I'm breaking out my long-packed wings and heading off to Russia in a few short days.  What seemed like a distant and only-in-concept adventure for so many months is now, suddenly, a very tangible reality.  And may I just say HELL YES. 

Since I decided on this, I've been switching emotional states every 17 minutes or so, from terrified to ambivalent to giddy, then definitely back to terrified, then cripplingly sad, then good-riddancelike, then giddy again. 

The last few days, though, I've been stuck on one -- HELL YES. 

I'm confident and ready, and frankly I'm about to jump out of my damn pants with excitement.  This in itself is a welcome change from the crazy that has been my brain lately, and it confirms beyond a doubt that I'm doing exactly what it is I want to be doing.

I will desperately miss so many people and places, and it's going to wrench my little screwball soul to say some of the goodbyes I have to say, but that's all part of the package.  I'm ready for that, now, too.

And so, stay tuned!  I'll be posting as often as possible with updates, local news, social musings (those Russians are batshit!), and personal tales filled with frozen vodka, oily borscht, and if I'm lucky, some down-n-dirty Putin lovin'.

HELL YES.