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.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Sunday, October 10, 2010
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.
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.
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.
Monday, October 4, 2010
(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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)