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.

I need a new hobby.

We spent last weekend in Novgorod, a strangely cute town (ugly buildings, interesting layout). Upon our arrival, we were immediately carted off to begin a tour of the Kremlin, the center of the town. Our tour guide was long-winded and spoke slowly, but our boredom and disgust quickly turned to delight as we noticed the people around us: men and women dressed up in medieval clothing. After further examination, it became clear that these people were not hired by the town and were not dressed as such for money. Rather, they walked around the Kremlin, posed against statues and in various "medieval" positions, and took pictures of each other. Best. Hobby. Ever.

The above picture doesn't quite do their outfits justice, so here are some close-up images:























Note the medieval cell phone.

RIP кто-то (or is it кто-нибудь?)

Walking home from the gym several days ago, I almost literally stumbled across a rather horrifying sight: a huge puddle of blood, over which were strewn red and white carnations and two hats. Since then, I have been noting the daily changes made to this little monument.

The next day, it had rained, so the blood had streamed down the sidewalk onto the street. Although cars generally park all along this sidewalk, this spot had been left empty as a sort of testament to whatever massacre had occurred the day before.

The following day, someone had placed several rocks around the site. After that, more rocks were added and a full circle, complete with a cross in the middle, surrounded the area. The blood had almost completely disappeared, but the hats and carnations remained.

Most recently, people have begun to leave small trinkets, sort of as they do at the site of a highway accident. Instead of flowers and pictures, however, I saw the following when I passed by today: two small koala bears, three lighters, money, a cigarette, and a plastic cup full of beer. It's still unclear as to whether the beer was meant as a gift to the departed, or whether a drunk simply put it down in a convenient resting spot as he peed on a nearby car.

All fast food tastes better in Russia

I can't remember the last time I had fast food at home in the US, but since getting here, I have dined at both McDonald's and Pizza Hut, even before getting Indian or pretty much any other cuisine. The fast food really does seem better here, though maybe that's just because I'm starved for some kind of variety in my diet of chicken and vegetable stir fry. But while the food may be better, it's certainly not good enough to justify what I witnessed this morning:

After a long night out, my friend decided that what we really needed before going back to the dorm was McZavtrak (Mc breakfast). The subway was still closed, and we really just couldn't wait much longer, so we ended up taking a bus from Nevsky that left us right on the doorstep of McDonald's. Except even the express window wasn't open yet — McZavtrak is served at the
outside express window from 6-10 am and we had arrived at 5:55. Those remaining 5 minutes seemed interminable, but the worst part was that we weren't even the first ones there. And as we took our places in line, MORE people arrived...early...for McDonald's. When the express window finally opened, the line comprised a grand total of ten people. Ten. Waiting for McDonald's to open at 6 am on a Sunday morning. Oh Russia, how I judge thee....

Russia is not for the faint of heart

On my way home from the gym this evening, an enormous rat scuttled across my path, ran up through the courtyard in front of the dorm, and stopped to eat a piece of bread.

This also seems like a good place to mention that our kitchen has recently been overtaken by cockroaches. We bought bug spray, doused the kitchen one night, and escorted all roaches in sight out the door and down the hall. We awoke the next morning to find several carcasses on the floor, with even more littered across the hallway. Luckily, none of them are quite as big as my late pet cockroach, Steve Irwin.

One more side note

Nochlezhka is a great organization, but it is rather expensive to run. You can read more about it (and donate money) here (click on the British flag on the right for English).