No hot water? No problem!

(sorry...more old posts to come at some point; I just got internet at home)

Showering in cold water, one of the many skills I acquired in Russia, was one I did not expect to put to use so soon. But, thanks to some cruel twist of fate, I came back from a run on a rather cold night (weather.com tells me it feels like 45ºF — too cold for shorts) only to discover that our hot water isn't working. I'm still unclear as to whether this is a result of the workmen installing solar panels on our roof, running the laundry on "warm", or just God punishing me...in any case, I am now hypothermic.

Reverse culture shock: Myth or reality?

Reality.

My trip back to America was as follows:
Depart St. Petersburg at 6:10 am. Arrive Frankfurt 7:35 am (or something like that).
Depart Frankfurt 10:30 am. Arrive JFK 12:50 pm.
Depart JFK 2:30 pm. Arrive Boston/Logan 4:30 pm.
Take Dartmouth Coach home.

I was miserable on the St. Petersburg to Frankfurt flight. Americans were all around me, more than I had seen at one time in months. I clung to the Russians, desperate for any bits of conversation I might overhear. In Frankfurt, I almost tried to get on a flight to Moscow but eventually lay down and watched Heroes, season 2. In Russian. Once I got to JFK, I was so overwhelmed by everything being in English that I had to sit in a corner and listen to Tchaikovsky so as to relax. I kept snapping my head to look at someone speaking English; it occurred to me that everyone was speaking English, but I was so accustomed to an English-speaker being an anomaly that I couldn't help it.

Since that miserable 24 hour commute (during which I slept a total of 2 hours out of 48), I have managed to readjust back to life in America, but some things still surprise me.

For example, my best friend and I went to the Farmer's Market, held on the Dartmouth Green, last Wednesday. I couldn't get over the absence of drunk people, the abundance of organic food, and that we were able to take our shoes off and sit on the grass without receiving any looks of dismay.

Yesterday, while walking home, I encountered construction on my street blocking my path. A friendly policeman said he would stop traffic for me so that I wouldn't have to (gasp!) cross the street and walk on the sidewalk. I responded, "that's ok, I live right up there," to which he nodded and resumed work (which, in this case, was watching the construction workers with a look of barely disguised glee). Such an ordinary exchange was, for me, extraordinary. To those who haven't spent considerable time abroad, it is difficult to explain just how easy things are in America. I can guess what would happen in Russia: there would be no cop supervising the construction workers and I would be almost run over by a car. Or someone would yell at me ("Devushka! DEVUSHKA! DEVUSHKA!!!") In any case, the mere simplicity of this exchange was astounding.

H-Town Lovin'

In my haste to get back to Cornell, I worked things out that I would only have two weeks in Hanover. These past two weeks have flown by, probably because I have done absolutely nothing of note except go to the DMV, and yesterday I found myself pondering the existence of this fascinating small town.

I've spent a good part of the past few years abhorring Hanover, mainly for its superficial beauty. But yesterday, several things happened that made me begin to appreciate my hometown.

1) I was standing in line at the post office and heard the following:
Appalachian Trail hiker #1: "This town is so weird. Everyone here is so attractive. How is this even possible?"
Appalachian Trail hiker #2: "You haven't showered in 4 months. They look attractive because they're clean."

Actually, the latter comment is not exactly true. The residents of Hanover have two very distinct looks: preppy and sporty casual. Preppy means J.Crew, Polo, or Vineyard Vines. Very conservative and neat. Sporty casual consists of running shorts, a tshirt, and flip flops (backpack optional; nalgene not). A ponytail (often with stretchy headband) is required for girls, meaning that this is the look of choice for anyone who has failed to shower recently. Sporty casual is one of my favorite looks, particularly during the summer, when I shower on average once every three days.

However, AT Hiker #1 was right on. Everyone in Hanover is attractive. By some miracle of genetics and success (and one that is almost as puzzling as that in Russia which makes all women 10's and all men 1's), only beautiful people are allowed to live in Hanover. This may be so as not to detract from the town's picturesque architecture and decor.**

2) I went running with my mom and dogs and ended up at a stream. On our way down to the stream, a car pulled up, the window rolled down, and a woman asked, "Do you know where _______ lives?" Yes, actually, I did. To the extent that I gave creepily detailed directions ("you know the hill after the Ray School? OK, well, it's at the top of that hill, probably right at the peak..."). I think this is what they mean by "small town."

3) I got to play in the stream with my dogs.

So after these events, I was a little chagrined at leaving this all behind. If only I knew then what I know now....

I had just started my drive to Ithaca and was on the highway in Vermont, when I felt a subtle change in the car. Nothing by any means drastic, and something that could have been due to a strong headwind. Except there wasn't a strong headwind, and my check oil light came on right as I felt that shift. I tried to accelerate, but there was no power behind the car; I could barely sustain 70 mph going up a small hill. I decided to call my stepdad.

As I was on the phone with him, I lost all power. Though I was steadily pushing down on the gas, the speed dropped from 70 to 60 to 50 to 40. I pulled over. Several hours later, my car was towed and is now patiently awaiting servicing. I have no idea what the problem is, except that I went through a ton of oil.

How far did I make it out of Hanover? 20 miles.

**Actually, nerdily enough, I do know of a plausible explanation for this phenomenon: attractive people tend to be more successful than unattractive ones, partially due to the fact that people respond better to attractive people.

Frank

Good news: still having adventures in America.

My best friend recently inherited a 1995 Chevy Caprice, whom we have christened "Frank." Frank is a classic, of a quality rarely seen these days, and is a firecracker under the pedal. Yesterday, we racked our brains for some way to improve Frank (assuming that was even possible), and came up with the perfect solution: car wash!

Two hours and several knuckles raw from hand washing Frank, he glows with a shine and is even better than new.

Frank

I'M HOME

But fear not: I have a backlog of posts that I've written but not yet managed to post, so expect updates over the next couple of days. Once these posts run out, I may keep writing, depending on whether I can come up with anything interesting to say. We'll see.

After sleeping for 2-3 hours out of 45, I was finally able to collapse in a real bed last night. The journey home had been a series of ups and downs; the ups peaked when, driving home, I was so out of it I'm fairly certain my brother thought I was drunk, then immediately crashed and almost fell asleep while eating dinner.

My question is, at what point in sleep deprivation do you start hallucinating?

One thing I’ll miss: the metro

While I haven’t become attached to public transportation per se, there is a special place in my heart reserved for the metro. St. Petersburg metro stations aren’t quite as intricate and beautiful as those in Moscow, but every stop has a certain character to it, be it the hideous walls of Площадь Мушества or the red tiles of Маяковская. Moreover, the metro is the ideal locale for people watching. I've had some truly horrible experiences on the crowded avtobusi (the first time I rode it, when I watched a small boy have a seizure, comes to mind), but not so for the metro, which provides unlimited opportunities for amusement. There is, for instance, the game I play when the metro is not too crowded and a cute boy happens to be sitting in the same car. I try to stick with him as long as is convenient for me and imagine that he is doing the same. I sneak glances at his reflection in the window and notice when he looks back. In the end, it's a game with very little disappointment and short bursts of excitement ("he's going to Chernishevskaya too!"). In retrospect, this game sounds pretty creepy.

Cute boys aside, the metro never fails to disappoint. For instance, yesterday I witnessed a drunk guy playing the banjo as he rode the escalator down…while everyone around him, including those who were clearly not with him, sang along. On that same escalator ride was a couple fighting: he held her wrists while she tried to hit him and push him away so she could run down the steps. This evening, a woman hopped on our car at Академическая and serenaded us with opera all the way to Озерки. I don't normally give money to beggars — there are simply too many of htem, but I couldn't let this woman go without my 50 rubles.

I think the next step is to get some kind of entertainment on the Tcats.

No, seriously, it's not a problem

I recently sent out an email to several of my enginerd friends begging for help with a project I have at work. I got several hilarious responses; most notably, "I'm sure someone in computer science would jump at the opportunity to do some extra programming for fun (not sarcasm). " What was also funny about this email was that another sender apologized for the "delayed" response: he replied 3 days after my original email. I often go for 3 days without any internet access and in fact only really check my email regularly because I procrastinate at work. I'm starting to have a sneaking suspicion that there is some kind of hole in the time-space continuum between Russia and western Europe (just as invisible as but no less real than the Iron Curtain). More on this to come as I continue to gather evidence.

Macho, macho man...

aka Bryan "Bion" Billings....

A few weeks ago, my former program director, Bryan ran a marathon. He signed up the day before and was participant #281, which means there were about 278 more runners than I had expected, given that in all my time here I've only seen two people jogging distances greater than 100 m. Anyway, Bryan recruited several of us to help him out by providing Gatorade and juice at strategic points around the course, so I had the opportunity to take some pretty fantastic pictures.Getting excited for the big start!



Participants of all ages


And just in case runners were unable to discern for themselves what the long tables full of food were...

The best part was that we got weird looks for standing on the sidelines with bottles of Gatorade and juice, yet it was somehow normal for marathon runners to stop and eat black bread with salt. Wouldn't be my first choice for nourishment during a marathon, but what do I know.

“We only have one night in St. Petersburg, so we decided to go to a Britney Spears concert.”

Note: pictures to come.

Meeting other native English speakers almost makes up for the inadequacy I feel when I meet other foreigners — while my Russian is nothing next to, say, that of the Polish girl I work with, at least I can get a full sentence out, which is more than I can say for most of the Americans I meet. Two cases in point:

The other day, I received a phone call from an unknown number. The conversation went something like this:
Him: “Allo? Sara? Allo?”
Me: “Da, da, eto Sara.”
Him: “Ah! Sara! Privet.”
Me: “Privet.”
Long silence.
Him: “Kevin.”
Me: “Kevin?”
Him: “Kevin.”
Long silence.

(at this point, I start getting excited — my friend Katie and I were recently drinking on the embankment of the Neva when a guy who supposedly neither drinks nor smokes (go figure why he wanted to talk to two devushki drinking at 5 pm on a Tuesday) tried to pick us up. I ended up giving him my number, mostly to get rid of him, and he’s been calling me every day since. Unfortunately, neither Katie nor I can remember his name, so we’ve named him Ruslan. Ruslan is kind of awkward and sometimes has trouble getting a full sentence out, so I figured maybe Kevin was actually his name — mystery solved!)

Me: “Ah! Privet!”
Him: “Privet.”
Long silence.

Him: “Uhh po-angliski?”
Me: “Uhh da…?”
Him: “Oh, ok, hi, is this Sarah the Canadian?”

What this kid, who can’t even say, “this is Kevin” (TWO words, one of which is his own name, in Russian: eto Kevin) is doing in Russia, God only knows.

Then on Sunday was one of the many highlights of the summer: the Britney Spears concert. I figure that, having been here 6 months and having gone to the ballet three times, the theatre, the symphony, a Duran Duran concert — I’m entitled to a guilty pleasure in the form of some good old fashioned American pop. This does not apply, however, to the Australian and South African guys I met at the concert.

How did I meet them? Katie and I were standing in the popcorn line (Britney’s theme is Circus so popcorn is obligatory) and heard someone say, “does anyone speak English?!?” These guys were looking around hopefully for someone willing to translate the beer menu. Turns out they were on a cruise and, rather than take advantage of being in Russia’s cultural capital, and one of the most culturally/artistically interesting cities in the world, they chose to go to a Britney concert. In retrospect, this may have been a cunning move on their parts: they were able to witness Russian women in a natural setting and saw a variety of outfits, ranging from prom dresses to a 7-year old and mother wearing matching leopard print outfits.

One quick note about the Circus theme: maybe her performers’ tricks are exciting in America, but this is Russia for crying out loud — the Russian circus is renowned for its dangerous acts including but not limited to no safety nets or cords, animal abuse, anti-Semitism, and so on. After a horrifying display in Moscow of chimps involved in a Jewish wedding, it’s tough to be impressed by Britney’s mediocre performers.

Mmm...kolbasa

I originally started working at Bellona translating texts from Russian to English and vice versa. This included the summaries for their quarterly journal, Environment and Rights. However, it was only in this most recent edition that my work was noted with “Translated by Sarah A. Kopper” directly under the following piece of text:

EKOLBASA: Myth or Reality?
Who here loves kolbasa? A sandwich with a thin slice of smoked kolbasa on the holiday table is beautiful and delicious. And although doctors never tire of repeating that kolbasa is not the healthiest of foods, the number of its fans is not decreasing….

I do my best to put things in a context English speakers can understand, but really — is there any way to make “a sandwich with a thin slice of smoked kolbasa on the holiday table is beautiful and delicious” sound sensible to an American? I can only hope that this is published on the website so that a google search of my name turns up the aforementioned summaries.

The best way to see St. Petersburg...

...is, without a doubt, from the back of a scooter, at sunset, sitting behind a guy who looks like he’s straight out of the Lizzie McGuire movie. Speeding along, I thought to myself, true, I’d rather not die young, but what a way to die.

Americans are weird.

Hmm, long time no post. Luckily, I have about seven posts to add, so get excited for some major blogging.

Part of this whole study abroad thing has made me realize that Russians aren’t the only ones who were weird. This was especially salient when I was trying to get Sasha, a guy I work with, to do the gallon challenge (incidentally, with a gallon of fresh, unpasteurized, super fatty milk he bought from a milk truck that stopped outside our work). Not only did Sasha not understand the point of the gallon challenge or why anyone would ever choose to do it, he didn’t even understand the point of a dare (“Wait, so neither of us gets anything if I do it? And neither of us gets anything if I don’t?”). I tried to explain that it’s about the Glory but he just didn’t believe that drinking a gallon of milk and vomiting was worth it.

A couple of days later, Katie was telling me who from her high school went to Cornell: “It’s, like, all Asians and JAPs,” and it occurred to me how redundant that sounded when (I’m making a gross and unfair generalization here) in acutality the two groups couldn’t be more different.

By the way, Felton, if you’re still reading this: after your very kind compliment regarding my blog, I seem to do my best to prove you wrong. I’m going to go out on a very shaky limb here and suggest that you are responsible for my increasing inability to write coherently.

My new archnemesis

Cockroaches, scuttle aside and make way for the mosquitoes.

Yes, it is true — the cockroaches I shared a kitchen with for 5 months have now been replaced by mosquitoes as my most hated living creatures. Why? Because I woke up yesterday morning with 28 bug bites spanning my legs and feet. (What kind of mosquito goes after feet that walk 6+ miles per day and haven't seen a shower in over 36 hours? St. Petersburg mosquitoes, that's what kind.)

As if these 28 reasons weren't enough, I give the mosquitoes full credit for my latest injury. I considered last night's shower to clean off my muddy legs a perfect opportunity to justify scrubbing the shit out of my bug bites but had forgotten my special banya scrubber in my bedroom. I dashed out of the shower, naked and dripping wet, and promptly wiped out, banging up my leg in the process. Were it not for these damn bites, I would have had little motivation to bother with the scrubber and my legs would be in fine shape. On the bright side, no one was home to witness my downfall.

Another event in contention for Low of the Day was when, on my walk home, I saw a man strolling around, holding a beer, and projectile vomiting. The lack of enforcement of open container laws is exhilirating at first but trust me: it gets old real quick.

Dear Grace and Elise,**

i actually kind of miss america. who would have thought?

this was brought on by my incredible sloppiness this morning. went to bed around 7 am, woke up at 9:30 and left for work. i bought coffee to go at mcdonald's and started drinking it on the subway. still wearing the clothes from last night but i had the foresight to bring my running clothes (which i theoretically could have slept in but instead chose to wander around sergei's apartment in my bathing suit bottom (more about that below) and cardigan). the shoes i'm wearing with my outfit aren't great for a lot of walking so i put on my running shoes while on the metro. as i'm sure you can guess, this is a big no-no, and i received several glares of disgust that someone would dare put on shoes while on the metro, sipping a coffee no less.

so then i get to the street my work is on and take off power walking, swinging my arms appropriately. i am now wearing a black dress and running shoes and am holding a cup of coffee. this is a look that i think is pretty chic in america, the connotation being that i have important meetings to look nice for, and so many of them that i need sensible shoes to run from one to the next. the coffee look ("so much to do i haven't even slept yet!") is also pretty mod.

not so in russia. i was intensely judged for the shoes, while the coffee cup brought on looks of curiosity and wonder ("we have that here?!?"). this made me miss america, where my grunginess would be mistaken for chic.

back to the bathing suit part. i haven't been home enough to do laundry and am out of clean underwear. so i'm wearing a bathing suit bottom in lieu. considering buying some underwear on my way to dinner tonight.

**I'm too lazy to actually write a post, so I'm just copying and pasting an email I sent my roommates. Apologies for the absence of the capitalization and eloquence that characterize my usual posts.

Nice, uh...sweater?

Today I saw an argyle tube top.

Here's the thing about Russian women: while some are very well dressed, and others very badly dressed, the majority of them have outfits that have potential. Except then they go wrong. Fatally wrong. Be it the leopard print dress with a zebra print belt, the blinged out jeans, or the fishnet stockings with an otherwise classy dress. Granted, these poor women don't have many options, Russian clothing being as overpriced, poorly made, and just, well, cheap-looking as it is. That said, some of these women could use a lesson in the beauty of simplicity.

Case in point: the owner of said argyle tube top was neatly dressed in a cute, flattering skirt, with a well-fitted button-down shirt. The two together would have been more than adequate. Instead, this girl looked at herself in the mirror, thought, "hmm, it's just missing that little something," and added the tube top.

Call me a purist, but if it's cold enough to wear wool around your torso, it's cold enough to wear sleeves.

Shoes...let's get some shoes!

After walking 12 miles to and from Peter and Paul Fortress and effectively ruining my final pair of non-sneakers walking shoes, I realized that it was, at long last, time to really invest in a pair of Sensible Shoes. I'd been putting this off for a while, because it seemed like a shame to spend so much on inevitably ugly shoes, but realized that failing to do so would significantly impede, well, everything (I walk a lot). If the pain in my feet hadn't convinced me, one look at my heel, which had turned into one big blister, would have done the trick.


So off I went. My roommate and I had found a mall that seemed to consist entirely of shoe stores, so this seemed like a good starting place. At the first store, I found some promising shoes but decided to use my free time to go to every single store in the mall in search of a better price. In the end, my enterprising capitalistic ways paid off: while it took almost two hours, I ultimately found the same shoes for 600 R less! Even better — when I looked the shoes up online, I discovered that I had saved $35!

R.I.P., MJ

I sincerely hope that “where were you when you learned of MJ’s death?” never joins “where were you when JFK was assassinated/we landed on the moon/on 9/11”** as the Questions of Our Time. However, should this not be the case, I have an answer ready: in a gypsy cab speeding down Bolshoi Prospect of Vasiliesvsky Island.

My internet ran out last night due to my excessive downloading. Given that I won’t have internet at home for the entire month of July, I didn’t add more money to my account, figuring that a couple of extra days wouldn’t make much difference. I was wrong.

Farrah Fawcett’s death hit headlines before midnight my time, so I read all about it before going to bed. But when I woke up this morning, my ethernet was turned off, so I had no access to the outside world. Such access finally came in the form of an Armenian cab driver:

“So…what do you think of Jackson’s death?”
“Who? Jackson? Who’s that?”
“Michael Jackson! You didn’t know? He died today of heart failure!”
“YOU’RE KIDDING.”

We proceeded to discuss at length whether all that MJ brought to the music world sufficiently outweighed all he took from human morality and concluded that it was.

RIP, MJ.




** Answers: not born, not born, in 8th grade gym class ("Roller Sports")

Reflections Part II - The Dorm

Yesterday morning, I was sitting in my bed reading the news when one of the cleaning women opened the door and looked around.
“When do you leave? And what is all this mess?!?”
I hadn’t realized that where I put my clothes (in this instance, on my former roommates’ now-vacated beds) was any of her concern, but that shows how much I know.
“Umm sorry….I’m leaving on Saturday and am in the middle of packing.”
“Well, clean this up. Two new girls are coming and I need somewhere to put their sheets.”

And thus ends my long relationship with the obshezhitiye (общежитие). Let me explain: when I first arrived here at the end of January, I discovered that I was not only living in the same building as I had when I was 9, but on a floor I had lived on previously. As I remarked to my brother, yes, it was weird living here again. Especially when I came home drunk. I somehow felt that the innocence of my childhood memories had been tainted by all the «grown up» things I did here now: drinking, cooking for myself, getting yelled at (rather than adored) by babushki….

But now those memories of my 9-year old self shouting to my brother to «HOLD ON» while, in our shared room (now Tess and Radhika's room), I tried deodorant for the first time; of watching spokoini nochi/спокойной ночи (good night) before bedtime in the room I shared with Elise and Grace; of painting my nails in that very room with a Dartmouth student I had especially looked up to — those memories now dim in comparison to my new memories.

I remember our first night in the dorm, when my roommates and I made big plans to set up our room and cook our first meal together after, of course, a quick nap. That nap turned into an 11-hour coma-like sleep. We soon discovered that pretending to nap was the best way to avoid people we didn't want to talk to, so for the first couple of weeks it seemed that all we did was sleep. We then so adjusted to living together that if one of us decided to take a nap, another person would get sleepy and follow suit, while the third tried to hold out as long as possible but finally gave into the temptation.

I had worried that living alone for a week would taint these memories as they had tainted my earlier ones. Instead, while those 4 months living with Grace and Elise feel more like a dream than reality — detailed, life-life, yet upon consideration not quite believable — it would be natural for me to come home after work to find them waiting, ready to tell me the latest Suite Drama.

All the same, I am ready to leave the общежитие: the Bard-Smolny chapter of my life has ended, while the American living in St. Petersburg one continues. I am ready to leave behind those memories, ready to put them in a distant corner of my mind and to focus on what's next.

So, Jay, to answer your question more fully: yes, it's weird being back in the dorm. But it's somehow fitting. This has been the site of significant periods in my life; it is where I have grown up, first as a child too young to remember, then as a 9-year old, and finally at 21.

2 more birthdays at work.

Man, I love this place. They also try to mix it up and do something different for each of the birthdays, no easy task given that there have been about seven in my time here. Today, the
special" present was signing a hot air balloon and sending it up into the sky. A little ironic coming from an environmental rights organization.

Any time I go for too long without another blog post, I worry that I no longer take notice of the weird things that go on in Russia. But then I get gems like these:



Guy taking a picture of his friend holding up a beer by the Neva, with fireworks in the background. Would be a prize-winning photo if it weren't so blurry.

Parents who think that Nevsky at 4 am on a holiday that involves mass public drunkenness is an acceptable time and place to walk around with their young child.

and I know that I'm still ok.

Well what do you know — Another prazdnik

...I bet no one saw that coming.

I'm fairly certain none of my faithful blog followers check weather.com for hours of daylight for various cities as compulsively as I do, so some of you might have missed the information that June 20 and 21 were the longest days of the year in the northern hemisphere. In St. Petersburg, this meant 18 hours and 51 minutes of "official" light, but no full darkness at any point in the night.

June 20 also happened to be the celebration for all the high school graduates. Not about to pass up any chance to party, the rest of the city joins in: the metro runs until 4, the bridges don't go up, Nevsky Prospect is closed to traffic, and the entire population drinks in the streets all night long.

As it turns out, this holiday, Алые Паруса,is somewhat like a Russian Mardi Gras in that literally everyone is out, drunk, and celebrating. It differs in its absence of flashing (too cold), religious base, and following 40 days of fasting/deprivation. Instead, the high school graduates party on Palace Square, while the rest of the city — old and young alike — celebrate the graduates' celebrating on bridges, parks, and side streets.

Gostinii Dvor at 4 am.

It's a Cruel, Cruel Summer....

Time to clear up another popular misconception: Unlike witches, Russians do not melt in direct sunlight. In fact, they love going to the beach (or tanning salon) and soaking up the cancerous rays. While some prefer to trek to Peter and Paul Fortress to snooze while standing upright against the Fortress's mighty stone walls, others stick close to home and stretch out in the middle of the industrial wasteland that I call "my neighborhood." However, patrons of Peter and Paul and the Gulf of Finland alike sport man thongs and other attire equally unsuitable for any occasion whatsoever.

Peter and Paul:

Gulf of Finland:

...and here you thought I was just making this up.

Sleep? No thanks, I'm good.

The White Nights are seriously screwing with my sleep schedule, as evidenced by the time stamps on this and the two previous posts. When it doesn't get dark, I don't get tired, despite the fact that (according to Gmaps Pedometer) I accidentally walked 12 miles and ran 4 today.

Recycle Shmecycle

Whoever said that Russians don't recycle clearly hasn't stopped by the Naval Museum recently. Russians don't waste their time with such insignificant waste as plastic bottles; they recycle BUSES.

Alexander probably would have destroyed Caesar

So the below analogy doesn't really apply anyway.

Update on the water situation: My roommate and I spent a lovely afternoon at Peter and Paul fortress lying on the beach and observing man thongs. As always seems to be the case when we go to Peter and Paul, we got caught in a rainstorm on our way back but decided to walk home, meaning that we were soaked, muddy, and sandy by the time we finally got back to the dorm. Normally, this wouldn't be an issue: that's what showers are for. On this fateful day, however, we learned that Russians aren't habitually late, they really just do whatever they can to screw with your plans.

Even the sailors ran for cover! They then got mad at me for repeatedly taking their picture, so we had to make a fast getaway and run down a side street.

Remember that post about hot water being turned off from June 15 to July 1? For no discernible reason, it was turned off two days in advance. I of course didn't realize this until I had already gone for an extra hard run, meaning that not showering was not an option.

"Whatever," I thought. "I'm tough. I've swum in the Norwich pool for chrissake! I'll just shower really quickly."

The icy cold water had barely reached my sunburnt back when I shrieked in pain and jumped out of reach of the faucet. After several more unsuccessful attempts, I gave up and took a sponge bath (pictures to come when I convince my roommate that photographing one of my sponge baths really is a good idea and not at all weird). On the bright side, I'll be well-prepared for sponge baths in my future retirement community.

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

When I was trying to decide whether I wanted to study here in the spring or summer, my mother warned me that summer was tourist season and the city just wouldn't be the same. I didn't quite believe her until yesterday, when I met more non-Bard-Smolny Americans in one day than I had in the entire semester. Museums are now crowded; Nevsky overflows with picture-snapping, slow-moving tour groups; and tour buses seem to outnumber public city buses. Looks like I'll be avoiding the center for a while.

When in Rome...

Yesterday, I came home to the following sign:


Loosely translated, it means, "No hot water from June 15 - July 1. You might as well give up all hope of proper hygiene now — embrace the Russian way."

As miserable as this two week stretch of cold showers will be, it couldn't have come at a more opportune time because
1) Russians don't really shower that much anyway, so smelling bad will just mean I blend in better.
2) It's supposed to rain for what feels like the next month. Worst case scenario, I'll just wash outside.

Age of Technology? Not yet.

Sometimes I feel like I'm living in a small, 20th century Russian village. On my way to the metro this morning, I passed a milk truck, to which clientele bring their own bottles, which are then filled by a tap that leads directly to the truck.


Even when I am reminded that it is indeed the 21st century, and I do live in Russia's 2nd largest city, I never quite escape that feeling of being in a country slightly behind the rest of the world. I just read an article in the New York Times about how sales of smartphones (iPhones, Blackberries, Palm Pilots) continue to rise, despite the recession. The timing of reading this article was extraordinary: later in the day, I went in to meet with someone, who, assuming I did not have internet at home, offered me use of their ethernet anytime I liked. This assumption was in no way presumptuous, as the majority of St. Petersburg residents do not have home internet access and are notoriously slow in their email responses. And to think that a Russian would be able to respond to your email instantaneously via his/her Blackberry is laughable — many cell phones don't have voicemail, let alone internet.

After the initial shock of going from a 24/7 connection to having to call people repeatedly if they didn't pick up their phones, I have come to prefer this way of life. A delay in response is seen as expected, rather than rude. Call didn't go through? No matter — try again in a few minutes. Call didn't go through again? Wait and see if you get a call back. It's remarkably stress-free, and I like it.

I hate goodbyes

The title of this post is obnoxiously inane because

a) does anyone actually like goodbyes?

b) I seem to bounce back from them remarkably well. Don't get me wrong — I met some incredible people on this program and made friends that I will miss desperately not just in the coming months in St. Petersburg, but when I am once again in Ithaca. That said, it didn't take me much time to move on from the initial sad realization that the program has truly come to an end. While the bus ride back to the city was spent moping, listening to such songs as "Time to Pretend" and "Separate Ways," I perked up as soon as I started walking and moved on to "Love Generation" and others.

In any case, I think I'll leave it.

Where did the time go? (part I of many)

Bellona

Before you roll your eyes and think, “Oh great, she’s at work again” – KEEP READING. This is not a post written while at Bellona but is rather about Bellona.

I translated a particularly complex one-pager today and felt it appropriate to describe what I do at Bellona, beyond the obvious translating duties.

My roommates can’t understand why I devote a full Monday to translating grant applications and articles about short-lived forcers…for no pay. I consider pay to be relative: I take advantage of the free wireless (we have to pay for internet in the dorm, and some days I spend as much as 120 rubles streaming videos; 30R=$1) and cookies and in return translate articles that are so intranslatable that they have me almost literally banging my head against the table. Don’t believe me? Try translating, “To achieve emissions reductions quickly, a sectoral approach is essential as a supplement to a comprehensive agreement” into Russian, or “Зеленые зоны предполагается перевести в эксплуатационные леса, основной целью ведения хозяйства в которых является заготовка древесины” eloquently into English, “eloquently” being the operative word here. Kudos to anyone who can make sense of that last sentence.

The almost weekly birthday parties are just an extra treat. If it’s a birthday day, I leave around 7; otherwise, I leave when I finish my projects. I then wander over to Nevsky, usually zigzagging so as to not have to wait at stoplights. I stroll along Nevsky, check out what Russians consider to be trendy, and stop by numerous stores: Mango, Puma, Zara to see if anything new has gone on sale. Occasionally, I’ll buy something, like the 30R cactus I bought from a babushka last week. If I’m really lucky, something interesting will be taking place on Nevsky; probably the best show yet was a troupe of tapdancers ranging from elementary-school girls to a greasy man and his friend who had a tap dance showdown over a rather unattractive tap dancing woman.



True, work at Bellona can be tedious, but when you consider the benefits — free internet, free cookies, free tapshows — it’s hard to turn down.

Just another typical day...

My roommate is leaving in a couple of days, and the city seems determined to swamp her with fully "Russian" experiences before she's gone for good.

The weather has regressed to something you'd expect in March – 45º and rainy – but even worse is the weather inside our room. We first arrived in January to a big hole in the window that had been taped shut, but were able to get this fixed. However, the windows were so poorly insulated that we had to tape them shut to keep some semblance of heat in the room. As it got warmer out, we took off the tape so we could open the windows. Apparently, in doing so we had overestimated the ability of St. Petersburg weather to remain warm and sunny, and our room is once again only slightly warmer than our miniscule fridge. It is so cold, in fact, that I slept comfortably last night in two pairs of long underwear (on the bottom) and a wool sweater and North Face fleece on top...all under two blankets.

But this is getting ahead of myself. Yesterday, I went with my roommate to the post office to mail one of her suitcases home (she's traveling around Europe for 5 weeks and doesn't want to have to deal with 4 months worth of clothes, etc.). We haven't even made it out of the building when the first obstacle presents itself: the security guard at the front thinks my roommate is leaving for good and wants to confiscate her dorm pass. We explain that she was just mailing the suitcase and would be back in a couple of hours, but the guard won't hear of it and repeatedly asks why my roommate hasn't given up her pass to the commandant. Eventually, we give up trying to explain and leave the pass, hoping that my roommate will actually be allowed back in.

We easily flag down a car, something I will greatly miss about Russia: hitchhiking is completely safe, wide-spread, and sometimes cheaper than taking public transportation. However, getting off our street proved trickier than we had anticipated. Several police officers were standing on corners up and down the street and prevented cars from passing. But why? I understand blockades on Nevsky, but on Korablestroiteley? (Side note: our ridiculously-looking street name means "ship-builders' street." The street itself runs all along the outer side of Vasilievsky Island and is therefore closest to the Gulf of Finland. It is not in any way central to any part of Petersburg, nor is it part of a route out of the city. Why it would need to be blocked off is beyond me.) Anyway, our driver gets out of the car and goes to talk to the person in front of us, then to the person in front of him, all the way up the line until he is chatting with the police officer in charge.

I get bored and start playing with my phone, then look up to see the driver sprinting back towards our car. He jumps in, slams the door shut, and we take off. We speed towards the metro, weaving in and out of other lanes of traffic, barely noticing the pedestrians who are forced to stop dead in their tracks, lest they be hit and killed, and who start yelling and gesturing wildly. At one point, we are mere inches away from being steamrolled by a truck, and I see my life in front of my eyes. I see our driver cross himself and hope that he has perhaps had a little sense scared into him. Then I realize we have just passed a church and cemetery and he probably didn't even see the truck that almost killed us.

We finally make it to the post office, where we wait for over an hour, and my roommate is told she can't ship a newspaper from 1905 that she bought at the rinok.

I can't wait to see what today will bring.

Coincidence? Probably not.

Interestingly, my post from Monday about drinking at work was well-timed. Moments after posting, I was pulled away from my computer by the promise of champagne and food for...guess what! Another birthday. Does the birthday of everyone in this office fall on a Monday this year? It sure feels like it.

I had planned on only having one glass of champagne, but the woman next to me brought out a bottle of brandy and proceeded to pour me some. Then the toasts began. The birthday girl started telling a story about some garden in France, and the woman to my right interrupted her to toast "to gardens!"

Meanwhile, the woman on my left kept refilling my glass and hers. Cake came out and was served, the man across from me salted a tomato, and utter pandemonium ensued.

My site meter tells me that a certain visitor has been coming to my blog after reading another one: supermanisbetterthanbatman.blogspot.com. I can't get onto that blog but am insatiably curious about it. Can that visitor please reveal to me a) who you are b) what this blog is about and c) why Superman is in fact better than Batman?

Thanks.

It's 5 o'clock somewhere

I've noticed that all of my posts are either from Mondays, when I work at Bellona, or when I have a paper due. Funny how that happens.

As usual, I can't remember whether I've written about Bellona and am of course too lazy to actually reread earlier posts, so I apologize for any potential repetition.

Bellona's the environmental protection agency where I translate various texts from Russian to English and vice versa. In the process of working here, I've picked up a lot of useful terms such as "short-lived forcers" and "toxic waste" and "carbon dioxide." It's actually a miracle I've picked up anything at all — my first day here happened to be the birthday of one of the office workers. Everyone worked hard all day until about 5 pm, at which point monitors were turned off, wine glasses were fetched, and we gathered around the table in the main room. The celebration consisted of various toasts to the birthday girl, followed by environmental jokes that I probably wouldn't understand in English and certainly did not understand in Russian. After an hour an a half of celebrating, we returned to work.

The next time week, a couple of old men showed up and we followed the same timetable as the previous week, though instad of champagne, we had wine, and instead of birthday cake, grapes and cookies. I'm still unclear on what, exactly, these old men do for Bellona, but they seemed nice enough.

I'd begun to settle into the routine of drinking at work, but the next several weeks passed without any sign of booze. I'd given up hope when my mom came to visit and the two of us made plans to meet up after work. That day turned out to be another birthday, complete with the usual cake and assorted alcohol. I didn't manage to make it out of Bellona until late that night and arrived at our meeting place drunk and full off of birthday cake.

Moral of the story? I thought the perks (weekly ice cream, free cheesecake, etc.) of the governor's office were good; not surprisingly, Russian offices do it better.

More procrastination

Like most of my pictures, the chihuahua one below is actually stolen from a Google Images search (I never seem to have my camera when I need it). Anyway, over the course of this search, I found a fabulously useful site for anyone who has dogs and lives in a cold climate.

I suggest you check it out.

Reflections Part I

I was going to title this post, "Only 10 pages 1.5 spaced stand between me and freedom," but that was too long.

Anyway, while my time in Russia is only about 2/3 of the way through, my time at FizKult is coming to an end — my membership expires on June 1st. I have thus decided to use my remaining time to consider what I have gained from this 10,000 ruble membership.

Apart from the physical benefits, I have gained invaluable cultural experience. I was able to interact daily with Russians in a way that even the most integrated of Americans are rarely able to. I discussed the shortage of towels, the lack of hot water in the showers, and other pertinent issues. FizKult was also the location of many firsts — you may remember that post oh-so-long-ago about my first time getting naked in a public, well-lit place. I also witnessed a new low for dog attire: a chihuahua outfitted in a camo hoodie, and twice walked in on a man changing (the first time was by mistake, I thought that my locker might be in the family changing room. The second time was on purpose: I had walked out so quickly after first walking in on him that I'd forgotten to check to see if my locker was there).

I'd also like to think that I taught the Russians something of American culture. Maybe those late-night gym goers will start wearing appropriate footwear to the gym. Maybe some women will start to wear shorts and old t-shirts. Maybe some of them will even put down their cell phones and run on the treadmill.

Finally are the unexpected benefits: the financial ones. Yes, FizKult cost me 10,000 rubles for 3 months. But over the course of those 4 months, I took full advantage of the unlimited access to drinkable water and smuggled out as much as I could carry. If you consider that I took out with me an average of 3 liters of water, not including the 1 I drank while working out, over the course of 100 trips to the gym (5 trips/week x 20 weeks), that's 400 liters of water. If you then consider that a 5 liter container of water costs about 50 rubles, that's 400/5 = 80 * 50 = 4000 rubles. Right now, the exchange rate is 30 rubles = $1, so that's 4000/30 = $133.33 I saved.* Given that my parents paid for the 10,000 ruble membership, whereas any food or drink I buy comes out of my own bank account, I actually made money from my gym membership. Not bad.

On Sunday, my last day at FizKult, I plan on arriving earlier than the usual 10 pm and taking my time to say goodbye to my favorite treadmill; the free weights; Yulia, the FizKult employee who hates me; and, of course, the sauna that provided such comfort over the long Petersburg weather. I'll miss you, FizKult.

*Most likely an overestimate, but I can confidently say the actual number is over $100.

Heaven in a box

Stolle should probably pay me a commission for all the advertising I do for them. I was first introduced to this magical pirog-maker on my second day at work. We usually have cookies and crackers lying around, but there was nothing this day, save for some mysterious cardboard boxes. I finally worked up the courage to peek inside and was confronted by mouth-watering smells of baked goods, meats, onions, and pretty much any delicious combination of food you can think of.

Since this first meeting, I have taught the ways of Stolle to no fewer than 5 others and have become close personal friends with the Stolle workers on Ul. Vosstaniya. Their pirogs are always fresh and seasoned (a rarity in Russian cooking), and they have several locations conveniently placed throughout St. Petersburg (and more in Moscow and Ekaterinburg).

Yesterday, we had our end-of-semester dinner, which consisted of a cruise on the canals and Neva, as well as about 45 Stolle pies. The leftovers went to the dorm people, so my 4 roommates and I now have a total of 8 large pies (fish, mushroom, and lemon) just for us. Yum!



Masha, one of the Ul. Vosstaniya Stolle workers — no, culinary masters. These people give Subway sandwich artists a run for their money.


P.S. For more information, check out stolle.ru

Bored at work

I've finished my projects for the moment and have tired of reading the NY Times, so now seems like a good time to give a little background for those of you who are wondering why I chose to come to Russia, of all places. It's somewhat more complicated than the simple fact that my parents teach Russian — I came in having spent considerable time here when I was younger, and having hated every minute of it. In an effort to shed some light on this, I've pasted my college essay below:

The Motherland is Calling*

I learned to crawl while living illegally with my mother and her friends in the former Soviet Union. This took me longer than most infants because the apartment floors were so filthy that my mother was afraid to set me down on them. She conceded after five months, realizing that it was the only way I could learn to crawl before my first birthday.

Ten years later, in 1998, I returned for my fifth stay with my parents and their students. My brother and I were enrolled at a local private school but had to be bribed to go. We refused to use the school’s restrooms, with their feces-smeared walls, and so had to race back to our dormitory every day to use the toilets there. Until the day we witnessed a SWAT team shoot down a man outside of our room, we thought it was better than our previous dorm in Moscow, which, built by World War II prisoners, was infested with cockroaches that crawled on the walls, on the tables, on our beds.

Our brief respite from Russia came in the form of a week-long trip to Estonia. On the overnight train ride, my family was rudely awakened as officials marched into our compartment demanded to see our passports, and lifted up the beds we were sleeping on to make sure no one was hiding beneath. Not surprisingly, when my family left St. Petersburg after those endless three months, I vowed never to return.

Once I had left, I began to forget the reasons I hated the country and started to understand why my parents kept going back. In Russia, I had learned to expect the unexpected. Only in Russia would a poverty-stricken woman buy expensive fabric to make me, a wealthy American, a fairy dress.

I knew that I would return to Russia, but it took me seven years to do so. Last summer, my mother was a guest lecturer on a cruise on the Baltic Sea; we stopped for two days in St. Petersburg. My family skipped the tour and visited familiar places. The once proudly Soviet city now masqueraded as a capitalist’s paradise. Nevsky Prospect was littered with tourist shops, restaurant menus were in both Russian and English, and the metro stop at our old dorm had turned into a Russian Las Vegas, complete with neon signs, casinos, and strip clubs.

Despite these changes, it was still Russia. We searched every grocery store on Nevsky for a popular Russian pastry, only to find it tucked away in a small deli. We tried to buy juice and candy bars at a kiosk, only to learn that although the items were featured in the window, they were not actually in stock.

When we sailed out of St. Petersburg the next day, I stood on the deck until the city had faded away, knowing that this was not my last visit. Though we have reached a temporary truce, Russian and I, it is not over between us. Years may pass before I return, but when I do, I know she will welcome me home to her grimy streets, her quirky customs, and her constant surprises.

*Slogan from the above Soviet-era propaganda poster. Incidentally, I received this poster as a gift two days ago.

Victory Day – not so victorious

День победы, or Victory Day, which commemorates Russia's "winning" WWII, is to some the biggest holiday of the year. I was particularly excited for it because it sounded exactly like 4th of July: parades all day, live music, and fireworks at night. The first parade started at 10 am on Nevsky. We had planned to go, but, what with buying beer and such, didn't actually make it out of the dorm until noon. No matter - someone who went said that it was kind of boring and you couldn't actually see anything.

Instead we went to Peter and Paul fortress and spent the day there, with the intent to head to Nevsky at 4 for the Veterans' Parade and then walk around until fireworks. We got distracted by Twister and missed the Veterans' parade. Luckily, Peter and Paul had some sights of its own:


Russians taking pictures of each other














men in thongs














and medieval warriors!





























Then we got caught in a rainstorm and went home to dry off/warm up and missed the fireworks.

It's the little things...

When my mom visited two weeks ago, she brought, at our request: 3 jars of peanut butter, a roll of cookie dough, cookie dough mix and brownie mix of the highest quality (Russians have neither mixes nor all the ingredients required for brownies/chocolate chip cookies), and hot sauce. The roll of pre-made cookie dough was consumed in a matter of about 10 minutes on the train to Moscow, and the peanut butter is almost gone. But the mixes have been patiently waiting for me to find an opportunity to visit some friends of my mom and use their oven, as we don't have one.

Let me rephrase that. The mixes were waiting patiently until last Friday, when I decided I wanted cookie dough. I made it, ate some, and decided to save the rest for Sunday, when I could use a real oven. Then Sunday came along. Having finished my book earlier that morning, I pondered my options: a) study for my two finals on Tuesday, b) read War and Peace, or c) find some other way of entertaining myself. I chose (c).

And this is when I stumbled upon my brilliant plan: why wait until the evening to use a real oven when we had a stove sitting in our kitchen? As you can see from the pictures below, it worked swimmingly.



Eli and Lizzi, eat your hearts out...

А теперь - перерыв

Ah, перерыв. How do I describe my love/hate relationship with this word? It brings a sigh of relief an hour and a half into a 3 hour Friday night class. It signals that it is time to race down the street to buy candy to make it through the next hour and a half. Alternatively, it brings a sigh of exasperation when, during an emergency ice cream run to the grocery store, you discover that the registers are closed for a 7 minute технологической перерыв between 23:54 and 00:01.

My mom came to visit a couple of weeks ago and I was charged with buying her a train ticket back to Moscow. As always in Russia, this was much easier said than done. First, I had to get her passport number then go to a ticket касса in person (why would you be able to buy tickets over the internet? that would be too easy). After stumbling around Nevsky for 20 minutes, I found the ticket seller I had in mind and searched around for the shortest line. The one I selected had only 3 people standing – what luck! – but I soon discovered that the seven people sitting around were also waiting. No matter, I had War and Peace with me, I had all the time in the world.

But the line progressed so slowly that I thought perhaps all the time in the world wouldn't be enough. Although there was a schedule posted nearby, every person had to find out the prices of every possible configuration of trains within a 4 day radius of their departure date. We had only gotten through two people when, 20 minutes after I had first gotten in line, the ticket seller decided that she too had had enough and put a sign in the window: "Break – be back in 15 minutes."

By this point, several more people had joined the line and so, with her seemingly random choice of break time, the ticket seller left waiting 10 patient Russians and one exasperated American.

An hour later, I magically made it to the front of the line and handed the seller my piece of paper with the information. In all, I had spent one hour and thirty-six minutes waiting, only to buy a ticket in under a minute.

April Showers Bring May...Showers

Spring has come at long last to St. Petersburg — the ice on the Neva has fully melted and shows no threat of return, the grass is slowly coming back to life, and the sun shines for a glorious 16.5 hours per day (and counting).

The dress of the locals, however, has not greatly changed. Given the climate — 6 months of freezing, windy weather — one would expect St. Petersburgers to shed their coats at the first hint of spring, to joyfully soak in the 3 above-freezing months of the year. This is not so. Russians have an odd fear of catching cold at the slightest hint of a breeze, meaning that they have yet to exchange their bulky winter coats for something a little more appropriate. Take, for example, the average St. Petersburg woman (age not important). In January, you could find her shivering in a short skirt with boots, stockings, and a long fur coat. In May, you find her sweating in a short skirt with flats, stockings, and long heavy coat. Any explanations of this phenomenon are greatly appreciated.

Документы, пожалуйста

A month or two ago, we received an email from our program director, Bryan, stating the following: "Smolny is instituting a new policy of electronic ID cards to enter the building. You MUST get your picture taken for these IDs THIS WEEK, otherwise you will not be able to get in."

After weeks of hearing nothing of these new IDs and assuming Smolny had given up on this new plan, I finally received my newest card. This brings the sum of documents I carry on me at all times up to about 12:

A copy of my passport, new 3-page multi-entry visa, migration card, and registered copy of my registration




My FizKult membership card, student ID, ID to get into the dorm, library card, international health insurance card




And the pièce de résistance: my newest ID, in which I exemplify the ideal Russian smile

The benefits of building a city on a swamp

As far as I can tell, there are none.

The negatives? Metro lines that have to be built deep down below swamp, giardia-infected water, and swarms of mosquitoes all summer long.

A second opinion...

...on the previous post:

"When I was in Russia years ago we went camping in what appeared to be a secluded and untouched area. It was when we finally sat down to eat that I saw that all of Russia is covered in a fine film of condoms and beer bottles."

-my roommate, Elise

It's finally gotten nice enough here for me to do something unprecedented: run outside. While the predominant colors of grass/nature are still brown and gray, the sun was shining and it was a balmy 60º. In other words, as close to perfect as it was going to get.

I chose to run along the Gulf of Finland, figuring it would afford scenic views and a break from the pavement. I was 3/4 right: instead of pavement, I ran on dirt, broken glass, and old trash. And the view was scenic as long as I looked out, at the Gulf, instead of down. I ran through a playground in no ways suitable for children (here, too, the broken glass persisted) and on a "path" along the Gulf. As I was running, I noticed that I was getting stares because I was a) a girl wearing a gross old tshirt (as opposed to a fashionable Nike tank top) b) I was a girl running and c) I was a girl wearing shorts (as opposed to fashionable leggings).** Notice a theme?

It made me think about sexism in Russia. After Turkey, which has one of the most sexist cultures I have ever observed, Russia seemed like a relief. But sexism and paternalism still persist. At the soup kitchen, we stop at various cafes to refill on food. I'm not allowed to help carry the new tubs of soup, or even the bread, out to the van; this job is reserved for the men. In my poli sci class of 6 students, the (male) professor adores the one boy in the class, while the 5 remaining girls all blend together as one.

(the average Russian woman)

I'd like to believe that, as in other male-dominated cultures, women have some hidden power. But is this really true here? Women for the most part dress like whores until the age of 50, and to what end? I guess feminism, like capitalism, has made its way to Russia, and it may even be further along than capitalism. But that doesn't mean its completely settled yet.

**only 2 or so of you will understand this, but as I was writing that last sentence, I considered how much easier it would have been to just say бегающая девушка, etc. Has Russian grammar really taken over my life so completely?

Another kind of Turkey

After 3 months in Russia, I have finally found a place to get turkey: Subway.

За Родину! (Тo the Мotherland)

The bus ride to Helsinki took about 7.5 hours. Had we not included the frequent cigarette breaks, it probably would have taken 6. And without the border crossing, 5.

The first sign of remiss was at Russian passport control. One of the girls in our group, Radhika, didn't look enough like her passport picture for the border guard. After 15 minutes of questioning, the guards finally decided that she was not in fact a Russian trying to sneak out under the guise of an American student going to Istanbul for "spring break" and let her through. We ambitiously decided to celebrate leaving behind the Motherland with a 100 ruble ($3) bottle of champagne purchased at the duty free store in no-man's-land and popped it immediately following the Finnish border crossing. This celebration turned out to be too ambitious.

After arriving in Helsinki at 5:30 am, we were too lazy and tired to actually see any of the city, so we sat in a cafe for several hours and took in as much as we could from there, most notably, a parade:

Sitting in the cafe also gave us the opportunity to enjoy civilization: clean bathrooms, polite waiters, real coffee, and sandwiches with two slices of bread rather than just one.

Next stop: Helsinki airport. It became apparent that our celebration was premature when our 1 pm flight was delayed until 5 for mechanical reasons. As the delay was lengthened and lengthened, we realized that there was only one explanation for this: we had angered Mother Russia in our celebration of leaving her. And the solution? More duty free alcohol. This time we drank за родину (to the Motherland) in an effort to reverse our luck and were able to depart a mere 12 hours behind schedule.

I lost my v-card, can I have yours?

In stereotypical communist fashion, our semester is 17 weeks long and doesn't include a spring break. So we decided to skip class for a week and take one anyway. The destination: Istanbul.

Flying out of Helsinki rather than St. P was much cheaper, and all we had to do was take an overnight bus from a hotel on Nevsky to the train station in Helsinki. I had been worried that it would be difficult to find the bus but had forgotten that in Russia, if anyone wants to sell something (tickets, food, used clothing), they will find out. Immediately upon leaving the metro station, we were mobbed by seven sellers, all thrusting their Helsinki signs in our face. So Obstacle 1: find the bus, was complete. This gave me some time to wander around, during which I went into a copy center to use the bathroom, and stumbled upon what I could only consider a good omen:








a V-card holder! I know just the person to give this to.