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.