Scene of the Crime

St. Petersburg has suddenly become a very depressing and dangerous place. Apparently, some young student (his last name begins with an "R", but I forgot what it is) just murdered a poor old pawn broker and her half-sister. Everyone's been talking about it, and nobody's really sure what the motive for the murder was. Anyway, they're sending Mr. R to Siberia. We'll see if that will teach him a lesson.

Whoops! Wrong Petersburg experience! However, I had the great opportunity yesterday to see the cozy apartment where this all began.

Dostoevsky's old abode is fairly near the center of town, and it's much larger than any other Russian apartment I've seen yet. Although I have always claimed to worship the ground on which Dostoevsky stands (stood), I can now say, without hesitation, that I literally have.

Another funny thing happened yesterday. No, this time it was not murder-related. I was walking around the neighborhood when I realized I didn't feel quite right. And then it hit me: for the first time during my stay in Russia, I was hungry. No, I haven't had any stomach difficulties while I've been here, and my appetite has been just fine. It simply occured to me that I had probably gone over an hour without anyone requesting that I eat heavy Russian cuisine. Hence the now-foreign feeling.

But I promise I'm thinking about my studies as much as Dostoevsky jokes and my stomach. For example, I was a smash hit in class the other day. During our grammar session, we students were taking turns "filling in the blanks" for sentences, choosing to use either an imperfective or perfective verb in the sentence. (Basically sort of kind of, an imperfective verb signals an incomplete or in-progress action, whereas a perfective verb represents a more finite activity or something that occurrs only once.) It was my turn, and I had to complete a sentence that was something like "They went back to their friend's house to watch a videocassette that night." My task was—besides laughing at "videocassette"—to choose the right verb for "watch", and I chose the imperfective verb, the incomplete action. My professor told me this was incorrect because it's likely that the group of friends finished the movie, but I argued that we have no way of knowing that this was possible.

"A videocassette, Dasha? I would think they'd watch the whole movie," she said.

"Okay, but let's say the movie is Gone with the Wind."

Worst joke flop of my entire life.

In my conversation class, I got a vocabulary quiz back. This quiz had also presented the fill-in-the-blank challenge, and one sentence I had to complete was "People need to use the comod in order to ____." I learned the hard way that comod is not, despite its striking resemblance to the English word "commode" (and, of course, its bathroomly connotation), the ceramic object I belived it to be. No, comod is a dresser. Therefore, my completed sentence was a major success. "People need to use the dresser in order to go toilet."

Ashamed of my mistake, I quickly tucked the quiz into a folder and decided instead to put the whole matter aside, attempting to rid of my frustration.

"But Dana/I'm-so-excited-because-I-get-to-stop-calling-you-that-stupid-Dasha-name-in-less-than-a-week Dasha," you say, entirely befuddled, "I really thought you have the sense of humor of a five-year-old. Didn't you laugh? Even a little bit?"

I'm angered by this assumption. "Of course not. Don't be ridiculous. I am a very mature young lady."

And by "Of course not. Don't be ridiculous. I am a very mature young lady", I mean "I sniveled so hard and so much in class that I started crying." It's a real shame that nobody in my class has as much of a sophisticated sense of humor as I do. I cackled alone, though my professor sincerely thought this mistake was very funny as well, thank goodness.

Tonight I'm going to see the final "Harry Potter" movie. I am going to watch this movie because 1) I can brag about how I saw it in Russian, 2) I can brag about how I saw it before everyone else because it comes out two days earlier here than in America, and 3) friends are going. I've only read through the fourth book and I'm really not a fan, but I assumed that since I would have no idea what was going on in the movie if I saw it in English, it would be fine to see it in Russian instead.

I don't know what happens in the final book--though I asked a friend for a "brief" summary--but if Harry ends up killing a pawn broker and her half-sister, I'll at least know that this is a special "St. Petersburg-dubbed" edition of the movie. He's a genius wizard, though, so I doubt he'll be punished for his actions.

From the Cupboard under the Soviet Union,

Даша/Dasha/Dana

Dickens in Russia: "Low Expectations"

HERMITAGE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

That pretty much sums it up.

The palace is filled with so much gold that it nearly blinds each visitor. I joked with a friend that if everyone in Russia took a nearly microscopic piece of gold from the Hermitage, every single one of the country's 139 million citizens would have constant access to hot water. My friend then reminded me that this was pretty much the basis on which communism was founded. I begrudgingly abandoned my dream of becoming a Russian Robin Hood and instead settled on heading to a gallery to see some of Leonardo da Vinci's greatest paintings.

After spending a lifetime at the museum (an amazing lifetime, too), I went with some friends who wanted to go to a small Belgian waffle restaurant near the city center. "The Wizard of Oz" was playing on a TV inside the restaurant. We ordered our food just before Dorothy hit her head, and my bite-sized waffle arrived as the Wizard awarded the Cowardly Lion his Medal of Courage. I'm not quite sure how this was possible since, if I'm correct, waffle-making is a nearly instantaneous process, but I'm not sure why my expectations were high or, rather, why I had any expectations at all.

I walked around a fair afterward and stepped inside The Literary Cafe, the joint where Pushkin ate his last meal after dying in a duel. Knowing history's tendency to repeat itself, I quickly cancelled my duel scheduled for later in the evening.

Apparently Pushkin dueled against a man he believed was sleeping with his wife. Turns out his wife was actually faithful. Still, had his wife been unfaithful, I'm not exactly certain a duel would have been the best way to settle things. It's hard to fathom that one of the world's greatest writers would have absolutely no common sense. But like the Waffle Incident, I'm not sure why my expectations were high or, rather, why I had any expectations at all.

As I mentioned, living in Russia has been pure ecstasy with a large dose of challenge. My "pure ecstasy" bubble will burst this evening, however, when Vasinka returns from his stay at the dacha, or summer cottage.

But if I have very low expectations, I know that our interactions will seem nothing but friendly.

Maybe is, of possibility to see you in land of Americanation next, week,

Даша/Dasha/Dana

I Love You, You Love Decent Utilities

Dobriy vecher,

I used to watch Barney and Friends on TV when I was little. Of course, singing songs with the purple and green dinosaur was always a blast. I distinctly remember a tune about running faucets. "I never let the water run. No! I never let the water run." While this song may do a nice job of encouraging young kids to be environmentally friendly, Russia seems to have taken the message a little too far.

So why am I awake now? Lesson learned: should you ever ask why Russia has overdone the Barney Approach, do not expect to go to bed any time soon.

After all, as Tanja put it, "It's Russia."

Signing off from Petersburg Desert,

Даша/Dasha/Dana

The Nose

Dobriy den',

Things here are same old, same old. For example, I was describing the street I live on to someone and was about to say, "It's the one where all the buildings look the same," then remembered that this description would be entirely unhelpful.

Well, okay, but for the architecture, everything is new and exciting. And frankly, I'm one of those weird people who thinks stepping into a Soviet apartment building is basically the coolest thing she's ever done. I get goosebumps every time the elevator doesn't work properly.

But seriously, "living" in Russia (yeah, only for a month) has been an incredible experience. I hate to say it, though I truly feel I'm lucky to be learning about Russia from afar as a student instead of as a citizen. Tanja changed nationalities and technically became a citizen of Russia yesterday, though. She lost her passport and received the new one, which is a passport for the Russian Federation instead of the Soviet Union, the one she had had since 1980. To quote the Shakes-master:

Q: "What's in a name?"

A: "That which we call political turmoil."

In other news, it's currently raining here and I'm seriously considering running outside with a bucket. Whatever's falling from the sky is surely cleaner than whatever comes out of Russian faucets.

Yesterday we went to the Russian Museum, which displayed some of the world's greatest art in some of the world's most poorly lit rooms. I saw some of my favorite Gonchorova works, an Anna Axhmatova portrait, folk art, icons and, most importantly, a small statue of Prokofiev.

I was thrilled to see this statue and, as we passed by it, two friends of mine—who are both Russian—touched the nose of the Prokofiev sculpture, which was shorter than eye-level. Being the bright young lady that I am, I assumed that touching Prokofiev's bronze nose was a necessity and perhaps a good luck charm, so I gave his nose a good pat as well. All was well until a minute or so later when our group had moved into the next room with our tour guide (a member of the Smolny faculty who conducts all our tours in Russian) when I was tapped rather harshly on the shoulder by the pudgy finger of a babushka.

For the record, I was tapped rather harshly on the shoulder by the pudgy finger of a BAH-boo-shkuh, not a buh-BOO-shkuh. If you told me you would like me to bring you back a buh-BOO-shkuh (or even BAH-boo-shkuh) from Russia, you would literally be telling me to bring you back a grandmother instead of the kerchief worn by half of Russia's population—a pluh-TOHK. BAH-boo-shkuh doesn't usually mean "grandmother", though. It is unfortunately a term used to describe any annoying elderly woman people most often find amusing, though the word has somewhat less of a negative connotation than it might in America. Russians don't mind using it in almost every sentence. For example, I went to St. Petersburg State University with some Americans as well as Russians to have a look around, and one of the Russian students said, "You'll need to have your student ID's ready before entering the building because there will surely be a babushka." Babushki (plural of babushka) serve as guards because they have a far more threatening presence in Russia than "typical" buff security personnel might. And, as I learned yesterday, they can even be terrifying.

In any event, once tapped on the shoulder I turned around only find a furious babushka yelling at me in Russian. The Smolny program staff had told us at orientation that, should we ever get arrested or have trouble with the Russian police, we should never speak Russian and instead demand an English translator or remain silent. I understood every word the babushka said but pretended I didn't speak any Russian for fear that I would be exiled to Siberia if I did. Instead, I directed her to the Smolny staff member/our tour guide, who spoke with her. I learned that if I ever want to grab the attention of an entire gallery, all I need to do is engage a babushka in conversation and perhaps rub a few statue noses.

In the end, I decided that my exile to Siberia wouldn't be so terrible since it would be a very convenient way to extend my stay in the country. Whenever I have a discussion with other students and they find out I'm not staying another month or even another semester, they say, "Oh, wow. That sucks." As you might imagine, I neither find these words comforting nor believe that going back to America will "suck", but I'll admit that I couldn't agree more with the rest of their reassuring words: indeed, leaving Russia will suck. Heck, I haven't even officially been here a month yet due to the fact that I spent at least two full weeks getting completely lost. And I know for sure that I'll be coming back to the Motherland for a longer period of time and will try as hard as I can to set up my apartment in the middle of the Russian icons exhibit at the Russian Museum.

And again from old to new. I was walking around a shopping area yesterday when I heard Simon and Garfunkel's "Sound of Silence" on the loud speaker. Although there wasn't anything particularly strange about a store playing this song, it's a little surreal to walk into a store on the other side of the Earth and hear your favorite music.

Tomorrow is the Hermitage. You're going to the Hermitage tomorrow too, right? Wait, you're not? Oh, wow. That sucks.

Somebody please tell Russian restauranteurs how to make ice cream cones properly,

Даша/Dasha/Dana

In Soviet Russiacountry, America Independence Find You!

Peoples of Americacountry,

First of all, I hope you all had a wonderful 4th of July. In this country it’s called, as a friend put it, “Russian Day of Annoyance.” I would make some cheesy comment about pride in red, white and blue, though that might accidentally come off as pro-Russian instead of pro-American.

To celebrate the holiday yesterday, Smolny served us “American” food at lunch, including cherry strudel and veggie burgers that were comprised of a bun, slice of cheese, slice of cucumber, and no patty.

It’s hard to believe I’m now typing on the Internetmachine—complaining about shared flag colors and nonexistent burger patties—when I was literally on a dirt road in middle-of-nowhere Russia a couple days ago. I probably won’t have time tonight to write all about the weekend trip and the last two days, but here’s a brief summary:

We left early Saturday morning for Pskov, toured the town for the day and spent the night there, then went to Izborsk on Sunday, returning home very late Sunday night/Monday morning. What an unbelievable trip.

Yesterday! Yesterday we were all exhausted from the trip, and after classes I played a game of Russian Scrabble and won all by myself against…Russians. Heck, I can’t even win Scrabble when I play in English. The last three years spent slogging through Russian grammar were, honestly, worth it just for this one victory. Also, a shopkeeper told me today that I speak Russian very well, and I’m going to pretend that she made this comment because it’s entirely true and not because she wanted me to buy a garish and overpriced skirt.

As for the rest of today, I went with a friend/excellent figure skater to a big rink at the other end of town where the St. Petersburg hockey team practices. I was hoping to appreciate every second of slipping along the breeding ground for Russian skaters who have been cheating since the beginning of time while, obviously, clinging to the wall of the rink for dear life. Unfortunately, the rink was closed for today and probably will be for a while. Also unfortunately, buildings in Russia often close without warning. I suppose this is because the idea of a world that even mildly caters to the consumer’s needs is pretty new in Russia, so nobody really cares if you walk across Siberia only to find that a skating rink is closed for no apparent reason. And now I’m sitting in Café Dubai again, which is a wi-fi oasis. Pun intended?

More to come soon--just thought I'd give a brief update to let you know I haven't been shipped off to Siberia yet, especially since there aren't even open skating rinks there. Miss you all and, of course, hope you enjoyed the holiday.

Love from Leningrad,

Даша/Dasha/Dana

Curtain Call and Cream for Cat

When I predicted that I would be in heaven after seeing Eugene Onegin at the Mariinsky Theatre last night, I grossly underestimated the quality of the performance. I know I’m into the whole “it was the most beautiful ___ I’ve ever ___” lately, but if you had heard the velvety voice of the Russian bass who played the role of Prince Gremin, I truly doubt you would have felt differently.

Because I failed to frown at any point during the opera, I had to compensate for my un-Russianly demeanor in other ways. The classy snack area sold very cheap tarts of red caviar. I bought one, of course, and it was delicious, though I told myself I couldn’t really start nibbling on it until the performance began again if I truly desired to blend into the crowd.

Opera houses in Russia function more like ballparks than other modern opera houses I’ve seen. You are welcome to bring in all kinds of food and alcohol, take as many pictures and videos of the performance as you like, whisper loudly to your neighbor whenever you feel the need (or even just for fun), and text on your glowing cell phone in the middle of the dimly lit room. I had expected that the Mariinsky Theatre would feel a thousand times more extravagant than the Metropolitan Opera in New York, but it was just the opposite. You can dress fairly informally if you like. We had the “nose bleed” seats but still a great view, and our tickets were just about as cheap as it costs to watch a live HD movie theater broadcast of a Met opera. And at the Mariinsky Theatre! I’m dying to go again considering the tickets are dirt cheap compared to the average American opera ticket. The Mariinsky felt so much more accessible to the masses and less of a high-society activity. No, you don’t need to wear diamonds and fur to feel at home at the Mariinsky or to justify the need to speak loudly to your neighbor in the middle of an emotional aria. All are welcome. That is, as long as you buy inexpensive caviar tartlets.

I was fortunate enough to see Eugene Onegin about two and a half years ago with the Amherst Russian Department. It was absolutely incredible, and I’m thrilled to say I’ve probably seen two of the world’s greatest productions of one of my favorite operas. But this production had a really special quality. It seemed more like a story than a piece of music. The choreography, costumes and sets in particular were stunning. More importantly, the voices were...well, you already know how I feel about the voices. The Russian pronunciation and feel for the music was incredible. My hypothesis is that this is because Russian music was sung in Russian by native Russians, though I could be completely wrong.

And what I loved about the chorus was that the group was a very large one, and the choir members blended so well together.  What bugs me about opera sometimes is that several people with operatic voices and obnoxious vibrati are thrown together and clash as a result, but this felt like a very cohesive chorus.

My favorite part of the opera was definitely the opera, though there was a real highlight. At the end of the highly dramatic scene when Onegin cradles Lensky’s dead body (after shooting him in a pointless duel, by the way), the music beautifully cadenced and the curtains began to draw, signaling the end of the act. Unfortunately, Lensky and Onegin were accidentally too far upstage, and it was clear the two characters were going to meet their curtainly fate. As the curtains closed in on them, some doofus behind the stage tried to push the curtain over Onegin’s head but failed miserably, so the curtains puffed out and Lensky and Onegin still ended up getting caught in a mess of fabric. The audience roared.

Naturally, I thought this was the funniest thing I’ve ever seen. A friend sitting next to me had to calm me down. Thank goodness an intermission followed the act.

Today in my Afrikaans (stale joke) conversation class, my professor asked us how the opera was last night. The first comment most of the students in the class made—and there are only five of us—was about the whole curtain shebang.

I came home very late from the opera last night and ate dinner because I had not yet eaten that evening. I sat down to have a bowl of soup, and Tanja insisted I eat it with smetana, or sour cream. If you’ve never tried this culinary combination, you’re missing out.

Vasinka sauntered into the room, and Tanja told him what a good cat he was. He looked up at her with kitty eyes, so she said, “Oh, Vasinka! Would you like some sour cream too?” She then put a large scoop of sour cream on a large spoon and fed it to Vasinka. I have less than 30 seconds of training in veterinary sciences, though I was correct in assuming that this sour cream splurge would lead to some kind of feline abdominal distention.

About two minutes later, as Tanja and I were eating, I heard loud meowing coming from the bathroom. I asked Tanja if everything was okay, so we went inside the water closet and found Vasinka howling by the toilet. She said he was fine and that he would use his litter box next to the pot if he needed to go to the bathroom. We sat back down, and then I heard several loud noises again. I asked Tanja, a second time, if everything was alright. “He’s just going to the bathroom,” she said. “He’s just going to the bathroom” in Russian translates almost directly into English as, “going toilet, just going toilet.”

If you’ve never tried not to giggly spew mushroom soup while eating mushroom soup, you’re missing out.

My relationship with Vasinka continues to worsen. Never in my life have I met a cat who is so jealous, brainless, sly, brilliant and needy. He wants me to pet him whenever Tanja’s looking, and literally as soon as she turns away or leaves the room, he bites me. Pouncing has happened a couple times now. He was resting on the small balcony attached to my room yesterday and, not yet knowing he was there, I pulled back the curtain to go onto the balcony. He snarled at me, baring his fangs. I thought I was imagining things and that maybe he was angry about something else, so I foolishly closed the curtain and reopened it a few times to see if I would get the same reaction. Sure enough, I did. I guess I know more about veterinary sciences than I thought, and I could probably write a dissertation on cat snarls.

I was discussing my house pet misfortunes with a friend over an apple-filled pastry and (you guessed it!) a glass of milk the other day at a ridiculously overpriced café near Nevsky Prospect. She told me that it’s funny I’m staying with a cat named Vasinka; she knows a student who was also on the Bard-Smolny program a couple years ago who was upset because he was a rising senior in college and had excellent language skills but had to change his Russian name, Vasya, because he was staying with a cat named Vasya/Vasinka. When I got home that day, I asked Tanja if this student had stayed with her. Lo and behold, the student had lived here. She absolutely raved about him. I asked her if he liked Vasinka, and she said that he certainly did because he just loved everything. I eventually brought up the Vasinka issue with Tanja yesterday, but she reassured me that he’s loving and can just get snippy sometimes. Tattle tailing wasn't worth it.

Misery loves company, even if you’ve never met the company.

“But Dana/I-think-it’s-cute-you-want-me-to-call-you-Dasha Dasha,” you say, “I didn’t agree to read your stupid blog so I could hear about some cat every day.”

“But Boredfrustratedperson,” I reply. “Every American in history has had some sort of Russian foe. Mine just has green glowing eyes and a sensitive stomach.”

If my biggest enemy in Russia is a queasy cat, maybe life here isn’t so bad after all.

As for everything else, I’m really enjoying myself. A couple days ago was the first time I understood every ad in the metro station. (They’re not always the same ads, so I totally demand that you not think this was easily done.) I’m initiating conversation with natives and, yes, I’m still terrified to speak at times. My Russian skills feel like a muscle. I exhaust it every day and it’s sore every night. I then ice it with some blogging, talking, or e-mailing in English, the safety net that is my native tongue. The muscle continues to strengthen, and soon I’ll hopefully be able to actually construct half of a grammatically correct sentence. 

I still can't believe I'm here. I've been infatuated with this stupid landmass for years, and now I finally get to meander around Peter the Great's masterpiece every day. Being in Russia is a tremendous thrill.

This is probably my last blog post until at least Monday. Tomorrow night I’m going to an Italian restaurant with other students and then to the Gogol Bordello concert, and I’ll be in Novgorod and Pskov all weekend. Boohoo. Sounds awful, no?

It’s nighttime but very light outside. I know I’ve mentioned it before, but the view of the Gulf of Finland from my window is stunning. For years my friends have joked that, due to the overwhelmingly pre-professional nature of my majors in music and Russian, I will be singing on a Russian cruise ship for the rest of my life. Given that several of these large boats are visible from the balcony, I’m positive the apartment's location on this side of the building—or at least the apartment view—is some kind of cruel joke. 

An American (Lounge Lizard) in St. Petersburg,

Даша/Dasha/Dana

We All Live in a Yellow Marshrutka

If you’ve seen the movie “Little Miss Sunshine”, you might recall an ancient, crumbling, sunshine-yellow van a loving and somewhat dysfunctional family piled into every day. With every few feet the van drove, the family members held their breaths and prayed it wouldn’t collapse in the middle of the street. The average American parent, upon seeing the outside of this van alone, might advise his or her child to stay far away.

For the past two days, I have taken such a vehicle to Smolny. It’s called a marshrutka, and it’s one of the most popular and effective means of transportation in St. Petersburg, if not in Russia or even Eastern Europe.

Marshrutki (plural of marshrutka) operate like buses, sans even remotely sanitary conditions or any concept of personal space. Here’s how it works: you stand by a bus stop (or, frankly, anywhere you like) and flag down the marshrutka you would like to take, which will have a sign with a “K” followed by a specific number. You then slide open the rusting door of the van so that you can quickly hop inside and find upwards of fifteen complete strangers staring directly at you. You find the nearest seat available and, if there are no seats left, you crouch by the door of the van, extend your arm, and grab onto a handle near the roof of the van, allowing everyone in the vehicle to smell your armpit. If you’re said passenger and traveling to work/school earlier in the day, this shouldn’t be too much of a problem. If you’re taking the marshrutka on the way home, everyone will hate you.

And if you’re thirsting for a good Soviet experience to and from work or school, the marshrutka is surely for you. Instead of depositing money into a meter or even handing a fee to a single person as usual on a bus, you give your 30 rubles to someone who is sitting near you but also closer to the driver than you, and then tell them, in polite Russian, to pass on the money. They will then keep handing the money off until it reaches the driver. In the event that you provide more than 30 rubles, the driver will then pass your change back to people, who will pass on the money back to you. Kind of like a game of Soviet monetary “telephone”. You can always cool down the 21^st century Russia with a little marshrutka teamwork. 

When you want the marshrutka to stop, you yell “STOP, PLEASE!” at the top of your I’m-American-but-desperately-trying-to-speak-Russian lungs, and then the marshrutka pulls over as soon as possible, allowing you to relieve the van of your armpit scent and depart. If you’re having trouble getting out of the van, this is a good thing; you’re supposed to have the sensation that you and the billion others crammed into the car are going to be smuggled into Belarus. I’m not sure why Russians would want to be smuggled into Belarus, but that’s the feeling I got.

A native Russian I know inquired about my rash yesterday. I had discussed with her and several others my experience on the marshrutka earlier that day, and she said it’s possible I was having an allergic reaction because people from Azerbaijan make the marshrutki very dirty.

Besides enjoying an exhilarating commute to school, struggling to diffuse tension between myself and a certain cat (whose name begins with a “V” and ends with an “asinka”) and inadvertently inhaling massive amounts of secondhand smoke, I’ve been doing a few other things in St. Petersburg. One of these is not getting lost again.

Yesterday we went to St. Isaac’s Cathedral, which is also one of the most beautiful buildings I’ve ever seen. If you spend a lifetime hiking up the cathedral’s stairs, you’ll see a gorgeous view of the city. The church is more in the Western European style than the Russian style, so it will be really interesting to see Russian-style churches on some of our other excursions.

I made a giant list of activities I’m really dying to do before I leave the city. I accomplished three of these activities today. After school, I went to Dom Knigi, Teremok, and to a grocery store I had heard was great but apparently no longer exists. Dom Knigi, or The House of the Book, is St. Petersburg’s best and biggest bookstore. 

It’s a must. But Dostoevsky begs to differ.

I went to the bookstore to look around for a few hours, but the ultimate goal was to buy a collection of Anna Axhmatova poetry and Dostoevsky’s The Double, both of which I would like to put myself through the pain of struggling to read in Russian. The Double is one of my Russian literature favorites, and my inner (and outer) nerd got more and more excited at the prospect of finding it at the store. There were plenty of Anna Axhmatova collections, but The Double was nowhere to be found. I was concerned I wasn’t reading the Cyrillic correctly or that it was buried somewhere under all the Crime and Punishments. I asked a saleswoman to help me who, after scanning the shelf I had been staring at for a good long time, said, “No, I don’t think we have it. It looks like The Double is in this big book of other books if you want to buy that, but it’s kind of heavy and expensive.”

Meanwhile, in the bookstore basement I found an entire section on gastroenterology.

Russia excels at making life far more difficult than necessary. Want to buy your favorite Russian book ever in Russian by Russia’s greatest literary hero of all time at one of Russia’s greatest bookstores? Absolutely not! Expecting water to come out of that sink faucet anytime soon? Fat chance! So you don’t want the elevator to stop at several completely random floors on your way down to the first? No way! Looking for the non-smoking section in the restaurant? I don’t even know what that is…

Russia is great at some things, though. For example, the emergency system is spot on. Just dial one number for fire, another for ambulance, another for police, and another for gas leak.

Whoops! How could I forget? The most important emergency number is for…”suspected” наркоман or, as it both translates and transliterates directly into English, ”suspected” narcoman. No, I’m not making this up. Yes, it is what you think it is, and you may do your research if you like.

I imagine the following conversation happening (heaven forbid):

Man (after dialing narcoman emergency): Please help! There’s a fire!

Woman: Allyo? Who’s calling?

Man: Please send fire trucks immediately!

Woman:  Firetrucks? Pauses, then giggles. Oh, silly! I think you have the wrong number! By the way, any narcomen around? If so, send ‘em on over! 

I finished the day with amazing honey bliniy from Teremok, which is like a fast-food Russian crepe stand. Well, I guess the day's not finished yet. I have to finish preparing a presentation/monologue for my conversation class on shopping and consumerism. Looking forward to ranting about The Double at Dom Knigi.

Oh, sorry. I almost forgot. This week promises to be incredibly dull.

The lineup: Eugene Onegin at the Mariinsky Theatre on Wednesday, snazzy Italian dinner and Gogol Bordello in concert on Friday, and trip to Novgorod and Pskov on Saturday and Sunday.    

If there’s a heaven, this is it.

Let’s keep this on the hush-hush and not tell Dost'y,

Даша/Dasha/Dana

Lost in Navigation

Hello from Novosmolenskaya Street,

The Ghost of American Consumerism is making me pay for my nasty blog posts. For example, two of three public bathrooms I entered the other day offered absolutely no toilet paper. It was an exceptionally high paper-less percentage. Going anywhere in Russia requires much preparation.

And as for the “Gilligan’s Island” reference a while ago? A three hour tour, yes. But on a school day?

Believe it or not, I got lost the other day on the way to Smolny.  Horribly lost. Hopelessly lost. I left the apartment at around 9:10 and finally arrived at Smolny just under three hours later.

As I mentioned, I live on Vasilyevsky Island which, yes, is an island attached to mainland St. Petersburg by several bridges. As I also mentioned, I somehow accidentally ended up on the opposite side of the island. Frantic, I called the Smolny office and spoke with a staff member, in English, who was very reassuring but then pointed me in the wrong direction. I’m not even sure how it’s possible to get lost in Petersburg for three hours. It probably would have been much better to spend those three hours walking the span of Monaco/Highland Park at least a dozen times.

To further complicate things, I was approached by a babushka who seemed very unwell and who, as they sometimes rather unfortunately and bluntly say in Russia, probably has schizophreniya. I was then approached by a man who stood on a street corner taking long swigs out of a large bottle of beer at 11 a.m. Finally, an angry pit bull approached and snarled at me. (This is not a cute detail—it actually happened.) Fortunately, all these interactions greatly increased my walking/running speed.  Unfortunately, I sprinted away in the wrong direction. Now I have Arnold Schwarzenegger calves.

Feeling more than slightly dejected, I did what any perfectly normal human being would do in this situation and ducked into the nearest grocery store to purchase a small carton of milk. Cold, bright milk.

When lost in St. Petersburg, revert to childhood.

I finally arrived at Smolny and had missed most of class. After class was an optional “movie hour,” and I thought I should, perhaps selfishly, take the opportunity to rest a bit. I sat down to watch a Soviet slapstick movie with another student and a couple Russian tutors when I noticed I was breaking out in a rash. Luckily the other student watching the film had some Benadryl. I have no idea why the rash occurred, but I took two tablets and it started to clear up.

After the film hour was Russian choir rehearsal, something I have been looking forward to for months. I had fantasized about writing an ecstatic blog post detailing every second of practice. But having taken two Benadryl it was hard to stay awake even while singing, as you can imagine, so I’m not really sure how it went.

Finally, I was greeted by a friendly face after rehearsal—a student with whom I had spoken only once or twice. And by “a friendly face,” I mean “a very unpleasant conversation.” I soon sprinted away, though not quite as fast as I had when confronted by the angry pit bull.

When I was little, I used to like the children’s book “Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day”. In the story, Alexander resolves to escape his troubles by moving to Australia. I consider myself lucky to be closer to Australia in Russia now than I was in the United States.

I slept a lot that night and hoped that the next day would be better. Even earlier in the week, I had explained in my Russian conversation class my foolish devotion to the Chicago Cubs. I thought to myself, “It’s difficult enough to explain in English why I continue to love the Cubs. So if I can explain my continued hope for a World Series victory in the next 100 years in Russian, then I have the potential to at least make tomorrow a decent day.”

Saccharine. My apologies for the contrived statement.

Oh, Dasha. Silly Dasha! Dasha, Dasha, Dasha. How naïve of you to assume that the next day would be better than the previous!

The next morning I was so pleasantly awakened by Highly Unpleasant Conversation Number Two with two other peers who purposely left without me for school even though they knew I had been lost in the city for three hours the day before. I later asked one of them, rather immaturely in somewhat heated Russian, what happened, who said the other student had wanted to go to the local grocery store before school and that they thought I didn’t want to come. 

The rash reappeared in my class that day. I left in the middle of my Russian political history class to go to a nearby pharmacy with the Smolny program director. As a result, my vocabulary has greatly increased. I now know how to say, “I’m sorry, professor, please forgive me. I had an allergic reaction yesterday, and I think I’m having the same one today. May I go downstairs to the Smolny office and perhaps take an antihistamine?” 

So! So. I’m just having the quintessential study abroad experience. It’s only the first week, and the staff at Smolny have continued to remind me that getting rashes and losing my way in St. Petersburg are all part of the experience. This is all supposed to happen and frankly, if it didn't happen, I’d be some sort of American study abroad freak.

Am I lost in navigation? Absolutely. But lost in translation? Thankfully, not nearly as much.

Two days ago I met up with Liza, a friend of mine who is from Petersburg and a Russian graduate of Smolny. She was at Amherst this past year assisting the Russian Department. It was wonderful getting to spend time with her and see a familiar face in the city, and we’re hopefully going to meet up again soon. One of her friends was with her as well, and the three of us went to see “The Tree of Life.”

“But Dana/I-can’t-believe-you-want-me-to-call-you-Dasha-but-whatever-okay-Dasha,” you say. “You must be mistaken. Isn’t that an American movie starring Brad Pitt and Sean Penn?”

“Why, yes,” I respond. “It is, it is. In Russian it’s called Drevo Zhizni. And I saw it in Russian.”

You chuckle. “Well, then. The subtitles in English must have helped your elementary language skills, right?”

“Yes, they helped a lot. Oh. Wait. That’s right. There were no subtitles. I watched the whole thing in Russian. And understood. Epic win.”

I bet myself $100 that I wouldn’t be able to tell the difference if the film was actually paired with the audio from “The Tree of Life” or “SpongeBob SquarePants” dubbed in Russian and was concerned that the couple hours in the theater would be pointless. And now, well, dammit, I owe myself $100. If you care at all about not entirely ruining your day, do not go see this film. In case my opinion isn’t enough, I just want to let you know that the guy sitting next to me ran out of the theater crying.  

As for the rest of my social (and linguistic) life, each day means new progress. A couple days ago, for example, a Russian Smolny student (with whom I thought I was becoming friendly) announced that she would be hosting Scrabble and Monopoly games in Russian during the homework help session hour. A few minutes later I was by the main Smolny office to pick up some paperwork when the student emerged from the room carrying the Russian versions of these two games. (For the record, Smolny students are never allowed to speak English with us.) I said excitedly, “Oooh, I want to play Scrabble!” She looked back at me. “Yeah, well, I don’t want to play Scrabble, okay?” She marched away in a huff.

I was highly pleased with this exchange for two reasons. First of all, the student clearly thought I was competent enough in Russian to be slightly offended by her words. Second of all, I realized that I am now able to pick up social cues and develop relationships, whether positive or negative, in a language other than English. A milestone.

I’m essentially a parrot. I listen carefully to what I hear and then imitate it, praying that this imitated speech comes out in the right context. I doubt parrots care more about context than crackers, so I consider myself a unique parrot. 

When I’m not a parrot, I feel like a toddler. I read everything to myself in my head and take great pride in the fact that the ads in the subway make increasingly more sense each day, that I’m taking linguistic risks I couldn’t have taken even the day before, and that I even started dreaming in Russian a few days after I arrived in the country. It’s definitely a surprise, but I do feel I’m catching on very quickly. Honestly, I felt like my speaking speed had doubled a couple days after I arrived—and that’s the beauty of immersion. Yesterday I went to a pharmacy by myself and, entirely in Afrikaans (ha! Got you again! In Russian), explained my allergic reaction and how the last antihistamine I took was not effective, and answered several questions posed by the pharmacist. I got to employ my knowledge of complex phrases such as, “No, I don’t think I’m allergic to the poplar trees,” “The last antihistamine I took did not work well,” and “I have map of credits for to pay so I think does not need that number because of debit this is not.” I then purchased a cream she recommended and, lo and behold, my rash is already getting better. Besides the fact that I do not exactly find the sight of blood appetizing, the Russian government might as well grant me the highest position in the country’s best hospital now.

I talk constantly, probably because I was apparently quite a talkative child and now I feel the subconscious need to adopt the same characteristic in a language I can't speak yet. It’s a joy, in an obnoxious way, to flaunt newly acquired language. For example, one of the Russian tutors with whom I’m becoming friendly (okay, I swear this time I think we’re becoming friendly) bought some ice cream and asked if I wanted some. I thanked her but told her I couldn’t have any since I had a stomach ache. Of course, I didn’t actually have a stomach ache. I just wanted people to know that I have the potential to say I do. 

Well, congratulations on finishing an entire novel today! I would write more but, unlike showing off in Russian, boring you to tears is not something I desire. My hope is that I will be able to write almost every day, although it’s getting harder to find the time so often. Thanks to all of you for reading! (And by “all of you,” I mean “my four grandparents.”)

In a post-breakfast blintzes coma (but sans a stomach ache),

Даша/Dasha/Dana

Bloggedy blog blog blog

Greetings from the Gulf of Finland,

Well, okay. Near the Gulf of Finland. Close enough.

I know it's been a while since my last post. Just wanted to let you know that I'm alive and well despite the sudden drop off in my comments about nose-picking and sly cats. I'm also not missing out on the quintessential study abroad experience in both the positive and negative sense. As you might have guessed, the positive stuff is great. As for the negative stuff, it's all pretty normal--nothing unexpected. I mean, I'm not sure accidentally ending up on the other side of Vasilievskiy Island, where I live, is truly unexpected (or frankly even possible), but there's been nothing completely out of the ordinary for a naive American devushka.

More to come. Stay tuned...if you so choose.

I can see Finland from my house,

Даша/Dasha/Dana

Ya tuchka, tuchka, tuchka!

Privyet, moi amerikanskiye lyudi (hey, my American people),

I’ve never felt luckier to be an American in my entire life.  This is not so much because the Constitution grants me certain rights and freedoms which Russian law would not, but rather because I’ve learned that any given Russian bathroom is far more likely to produce a steaming hot bowl of borscht and sour cream than a roll of decent toilet paper. It’s a real issue. In the women’s bathrooms at Smolny, for example, there are no rolls of toilet paper in the individual stalls. Yes, you read that correctly. There are NO rolls of toilet paper in the individual stalls. Instead, the only available roll is outside the two stalls that make up the bathroom. It’s a lose-lose situation: if you’re standing in a line to use a stall, people will snicker if you take too much paper and then make assumptions about your intentions during your stay on the pot. If you forget to take paper and there’s a line, you’re then forced to leave the stall (your choice—pants-less or face the consequences) so you can hoard truly uncomfortable paper and THEN have people snicker at you. I know campaigns for human rights can take a long time, but I would think that the pursuit of good toilet paper would be a much more reasonable task for now. My dearest Medvedev, where’s the Charmin?

Today I saw a woman picking her nose at a bus stop, confirming my hypothesis that nose-picking is an international epidemic instead of an inherent part of the American human condition. Except here, each booger is the same size, gets picked in the same manner, lives in identical nasal passages and, on occasion, will land on a tissue in the shape of a hammer and sickle. My dearest Medvedev, where’s the Kleenex?

(I sincerely apologize if you just ate or are about to eat. And also for bearing with me and the second grade humor.)

Speaking of eating, last night I watched TV again with Tanja during dinner. We saw a show that advertised specific people as not being available for a date, but rather immediately for marriage. The program provided contact information for each featured person as well as a very brief description of him or her. For a country that actively encourages mail order bride websites, this seems like a fairly conservative approach.

On another note, would you believe me if I told you that Vasinka and I were now cuddled up together on my bed? Madness! Felis catus and Homo sapien co-existing on the same piece of furniture? Russian history has always been extraordinarily eventful, and I assume that trend won’t end today.

A tuchka is like a little rain cloud. When Vinnie–Puch, or the Russian Winnie the Pooh, wants to float up high in the sky with his balloon so he can fool the bees and get the honey he so desires, he says, “Ya tuchka, tuchka, tuchka!” Today it rained on and off. A Smolny professor asked me if my family lives in Russia, and I'm concerned that my phony-sad expression is now plastered on my face. I hope my frowning wasn’t the tuchka.

Ask of sign petitions for, need, free Russian people Charmin people cozy,

Даша/Dasha/Dana

Never fully dressed without a scowl

Hello evil capitalists,

This morning I was eating heart-healthy fried berry blintzes (bliniy) in the kitchen with Tatjana (who goes by Tanja for short) while Vasya looked on. Tanja joked around. “Oh, yes, I am Vasya The Cat. I have a housewife all to myself, my own room, a stuffed animal mouse to play with, and I am quite happy.” She continued, “Yes, Vasinka [nickname for Vasya], you are such a krasavitz. A beauty.” As soon as Tanja left the room, I took the opportunity to seek sweet revenge. Using my newly acquired vocabulary from Disney’s “Beauty and the Beast” dubbed in Russian, I leaned over, looked Vasinka in the eye, and hissed as maliciously as I could in his black velvet ears. “Nyet, Vasinka. Eto nee pravda. Tiy chudovishye.” No, Vasinka. That’s not true. You are the beast.

As for other news, a fairly gruesome story: the other night I was watching TV in the kitchen with Tatjana. I saw what seemed to be a Russian soap opera. On the program, there was a red-nosed man, with tattoos all the way up his arms, sitting in front of a table covered in shot glasses full of vodka. He and his rather plump wife were yelling at each other. A few minutes later, a woman discovered the body of said plump wife in a heap—and a pool of blood—in a stairwell. Of course, this makes me feel really really great about Russia and does not, in any way, feed into stereotypes.

Also a couple nights ago was the more uplifting Aliye Parusa, or Scarlet Sails, which are a sign of hope in Russia. It’s a massive annual celebration for Russian youth who are graduating from high school, complete with a live pop concert, fireworks, and actual boats with scarlet sails cruising along the canals. We had something similar for my high school graduation. After the ceremony itself, the high school seniors had an all-night “lock-in” to prevent all 450 of us from getting rip-roaring drunk. (Just to clarify, wasn’t an issue.) It was just like Aliye Parusa—we went to an arcade about an hour away with a fortune-teller and broken bumper cars and later froze our butts off at a beach along the lake until about 6 a.m.  Wouldn’t it be awesome to blow public school funds on a giant Scarlet Sails soiree? Makes me want to graduate high school all over again.

On a completely different note, just want to mention that Russians can easily spot Americans. The director of my program said, “Look, guys. You look American. I look American. They all know we’re American. I’ve tried to look Russian. Trust me, it doesn’t work.”

Before I left for Russia, a friend of mine bet that the Russians would never know I’m a foreigner. Right on.

Russians have approached me on the street and asked me questions in Russian. In stores, they talk to me as if I’m a native (until they hear my accent and broken sentences). A woman turned around to ask me something on the metro escalator this afternoon. A man initiated conversation while I was waiting for the creepy elevator in the apartment building today. An American on my program even asked if I’m Ukrainian. Gal Eastern Europskiy, maybe from is status, popular, Dasha of.

In the metro station a couple nights ago, there were some—I hate to say—pretty obnoxious American students from another study abroad program. I made the particularly foolish mistake of joking around with a friend from my program, in Russian, about one of these students whose behavior would also have been entirely inappropriate in any subway around the world. Immediately, another student from the other program, who overheard our remarks and giggles, turned to me and snapped, in Russian, “You know, we speak Russian too.” So I said, also in Russian, “Yes, we speak Russian too.” And then in English, “And we’re American.” It’s none of my business, but I get angry seeing other American students making fools of themselves in Russia, mainly because there’s already a lot of stigma attached to being a foreigner.  And I feel like that behavior makes me look bad, too.

Point is that I don’t appear to be, as my high school piano teacher once said to describe my playing, “like a neon sign in the middle of a church.” My secret? (Or, rather, the Russian secret?) Never, ever smile. Ever. Points for an extra pained expression, as if you’re going to a funeral. I’m not at all unhappy, I guess I’m just good at pretending I am. Not that I frown in America, but maybe I just have “the look.” There’s definitely a distinct Russia face, and it’s quite different from America face. In America, we call it “Jewish.” In Russia, they call it “Russian.” I don’t know why I’m so proud of myself for blending in, but maybe it’s because, like I said, it’s not so desirable for foreigners to stand out. Yeah, my friends were right. Yeah, I’m big in Russia.

Today I had the opportunity to frown all the way to Smolny during the hour-long commute for the first day of school. I’ve never had such a beautiful walk to school—we passed a wharf, gorgeous old buildings, Orthodox churches, bridges, everything. Class was pretty good. Our professors are full-time faculty members from Smolny. We have an hour and a half of grammar, an hour and a half of conversation, and then 45 minutes of Russkiy Stol’, or Russian Table, where we eat with faculty and program directors and speak Afrikaans. Ha! Got you for a moment! Surprisingly, we actually speak Russian. Then we have a homework session supervised by a hilarious Russian professor and usually an awesome excursion in the city, theater practice (if you want) or Russian choir practice (if you want). Today we got a fantastic tour of the Peter and Paul Fortress. I thought it was really rude of them to exclude Mary.

I saw the graves of the Romanovs, a famous prison, a stunning cathedral, and German tourists. An amazing way to end the day.

Oh, and one more thing. Tonight, I finally decided that I needed to initiate a good talk with Vasinka. He was sitting on a small chair in the hallway, so I sat next to him. Extending the olive branch, I began to stroke his neck and rub his belly, which he really seemed to like. In return, he started licking my arm. And then, I swear, he turned and looked me in the eye this time with—I hate to admit—adorable kitty eyes. “Vasinka, miy druz’ya. Miy druz’ya seichas.” Vasinka, we are friends. We are friends now.

So. Such is the nature of war and peace in Russia. How fitting.

Off to bed. Class in the morning. And then Russian Table, where I will hopefully eat something other than the soup I was fed tonight for, yes, the fourth night in a row. Actually, the conversation at dinner tonight was literally as follows:

Tatjana (after I had eaten): Eat, eat! Do you want dumplings now?

Me: Oh, no. Thank you so much. This was really delicious. I’m very full.

Tatjana: Well, I have blintzes. You would like some blintzes?

Me: No, no. Really, thank you. I’m not hungry anymore.

Tatjana: Okay. I’ll put out cucumbers and tomatoes. Also, I bought cake with sour cream at the market today for you to eat. Do you want two or three spoonfuls of sugar in your chai?

Believe it or not, Tolstoy in Russian means “fat”--the adjective. Maybe, at the end of the trip, I'll truly believe that “War and Peace” is meant for me after all.

With a loving and insincere frown,

Даша/Dasha/Dana

For Папа, aka Dad

Okay, I PROMISE this is my last post for today. Don't want to bore you to tears.

Just wanted to wish all you fathers a Happy Fathers Day! And to my father: love you, Dad. You're the best.

Я обещаю что я буду спать сейчас (I promise I'm going to sleep now),

Даша/Dasha/Dana

Someone let the cat out of the bathroom

It's about 3:45 a.m., and I just woke up after sleeping a couple hours. This is very expected since all of us American students are very jet-lagged, and we've all been waking up in the middle of the night around 3 or 4 a.m. I'll be able to go back to sleep soon. Major points for double-blogging today?

I accidentally just walked in on Vasya going potty. He gave me a very angry look and then immediately ran into Tatjana, Big Sergei and Little Sergei's room, probably to tell on me. And hiss. Vasya and I originally signed a cat-human peace treaty but, like other famous non-aggression pacts from the region, this one didn't work out so well.

Dammit, I'm giving this cat way too much power.

Sleepless in St. Petersburg,

Даша/Dasha/Dana

To fish, to fish, l'fishim!

Dear private diary/Big Brother,

I’m already beginning to cross things off my Russia “to do” list. For example, last night I got my first lecture, delivered by Tatjana, on how life in Soviet Russia is better than life in Today Russia. Her argument was logical. She complained about her pension now and the effects of inflation in Russia. She also said that things were super cheap in the Soviet Union. According to Tatjana a potato, for example, cost roughly $0.001. Now, a potato costs about $1. The truth is that the average Russian salary today is way, way, WAY less than the average American salary. As Tatjana described, even though things may cost the same in Russia and America, it’s much easier to buy them on an American salary. It’s almost as if everyone lives below the poverty line here, but that’s unfortunately the norm.

Russia’s awesome in many ways, but don’t ever move here. Life sucks. Sue me, Putin.

As for crossing other things off the list, today we (yes, finally) got a tour of The Church of Our Savior on Spilled Blood. As expected, it was an absolutely incredible building. There were mosaics all over the walls, icons, beautiful bold colors, everything. After years of studying and learning about icons, Russian music, and Orthodox Christianity/religion in Russia, here it all was. I wanted to bring a giant loudspeaker into the church and play Rachmaninoff’s “Bogoroditse Devo”, one of my favorite pieces, and the art decorating the walls reminded me so much of the piece. 

The church was constructed in memory of Alexander the II, who was assassinated. Tragic story. Apparently Alexander II was in his carriage when a rebel threw a bomb at the carriage. Alexander II was not harmed. So, of course, he got out of the carriage to take a stroll. His exact words were, "Yo, dude! What the heck is this? What's up with this bomb crap?" And then another guy threw a bomb at him, blowing his legs off. Our friend Alex died a few days later. Seriously, what an idiot.

As for Peterburg's Jewish history, I’ve met some Jewish students in my program who, like myself, are getting in touch with their roots, and we’re hoping to go to several synagogues and maybe attend a few services.

After touring the church, I walked around Nevsky Prospect, the “5^th Avenue” or “Michigan Avenue” of St. Petersburg, with both Russians and Americans, and then we went to a popular Russian restaurant chain that serves both sushi and Italian food. Reminds me of Yummy Bowl in Highland Park, a Chinese restaurant that had neon “HAMBURGER” and “FRESH SMOOTHIES” signs in the window. We waited two hours for our food, and our waiter still didn’t bring me anything. Apparently this isn’t exactly an uncommon occurrence in Russian restaurants. We told the waiter to forget about my lunch and then left. Of course, Tatjana fed me lots when I returned to the apartment, including a bowl of the same soup I’ve been eating for dinner the last three days. The one with the chunks of beef. I also had pelmeniy, or Russian dumplings. She tried to put a huge chunk of butter on top of the pelmeniy, but I quickly told her that it was way too much. Generally, the most important question Russians ask everybody who eats Russian food is, “Would you like fat or oil on top of that grease?”

Speaking of Russian cooking, Big Sergei—who, by the way, is very kind (Little Sergei is also very kind)—went fishing yesterday in the Neva and caught some pretty big grub. I assumed the fish would be eaten, thrown out, or even served to Vasya. What a silly guess, Dasha, you naïve American dyevushka! Tonight I was told that instead they would be dried, salted, and then turned into beer. I did a Russian language double-take and asked if the fish were actually going to be transformed into beer. “Riyba i piva?” “Da, da. Piva,” Big Sergei responded. Beer. Usually I have beer in my beer, but fish should be an awfully good substitute, no?

Fish beer might be an alternative to some other drinks, though. Someone once told me that the reason I despise vodka is because I’ve never had really, really good Russian vodka. Nope, vodka still sucks.  Other than liquor and chai, Russians never drink anything, even with meals. It’s often an issue for Americans, who are used to ice-cold glasses of water. After each uber-salty meal, I secretly head to my room and chug a giant bottle of water in private.

But regarding water, that’s almost a non-issue. Today I accidentally ran my toothbrush under tap water. I haven’t died yet, so that’s good. As for my other tap water adventures, I was about to take a shower today standing in the tub, which is next to the washing machine. I had barely noticed a pile of black towels on top of the machine until, all of the sudden, they started to move. Turns out it wasn’t a pile of towels but rather my best feline friend in the whole wide world, Vasya. Upon noticing me, he craned his neck, which I took as a sign to scratch and rub his head. He enjoyed the little massage and then proceeded to gnaw on thick wire on top of the washing machine. Vasya speaks Russian very well, so I told him, in his native tongue, to stop. Naturally, he rolled over and tried to bite me. But seriously, I promise our relationship is getting better.

Also about the washing machine—Tatjana told me she would like to do my laundry because the machine is very old. I repeat: Tatjana wants to do my laundry. Can I stay here forever?

I have class in the morning at 10. Russian language ahoy! I feel like I’m already starting to think in Russian, and I’m really surprised given that my language skills are fairly elementary. Immersion is such a thrill, and I’m enjoying every minute of my Russian conversations.

Of missing you hope, is, all good Americaland, well in.

With love from the Neva,

Даша/Dasha/Dana

Velcome to space uff liffink

Greetings, comrades.

When my eight-year-old cousin (who gave me a fantastic Google Maps tutorial) and I looked last week at a Google picture of the apartment building I would be staying in in Petersburg, it appeared to be a plain but very nice structure. Turns out we had accidentally looked at the building across the street.

I arrived at my “host home” yesterday, which is on the 20^th floor of a building covered in (Cyrillic!) graffiti and has handwritten numbers marking each floor in one of the scariest elevators I have ever been in. Consequently, it took me a good 10 minutes to figure out how to get to the ground level last night.

But I was immediately welcomed into my host family’s home and I began to feel comfortable very quickly. My host mom, Tatjana, is hilarious, awesome, eccentric, and has endless amounts of energy. Her husband, whom she calls “Big Sergei,” works at night for a news station, so I have yet to meet him (he’s sleeping now.) Her son, whom she calls “Little Sergei,” is just graduating from high school and is about 18 years old. I didn’t get to meet him right away last night either because, as Tatjana described, he is a silly, angsty teenager who goes out with friends every night during the summer. She told me a story about how he had an informatics exam this year at 10 a.m. one day and came back from partying at 5 a.m. the night before (technically that morning), slept for a few hours and then woke up and rushed to his exam completely unprepared. Tatjana doesn’t really sleep at night because Big Sergei gets home early in the morning and she usually gets nervous and likes to stay up until Little Sergei comes home.

Finally, the fourth member of the house is a black cat named Vasya who angrily awoke from his nap yesterday to glare at me, a bizarre stranger infringing on his territory, when Tatjana introduced us. A few minutes later, he decided to nap on my bed and show me who’s boss. So far he’s bitten me twice. I think we’re becoming good friends.

I sat down to eat dinner late last night while Tatjana talked with me at the table. She served a typical Russian soup of dill and potatoes and highly questionable-looking beef chunks which turned out to be ridiculously delicious. Eating in Russia is a little like eating with grandparents. With the consumption of every crumb, you are bombarded with questions about the food and then you give very succinct responses such as, “No, no, no more. Thank you. Yes, delicious. Mmm…delicious. No, thank you, I ate. No. Yes. No, no, thank you. I’m quite full. Very delicious. Thank you.”

The apartment is comprised of three rooms. There’s a small kitchen, a bedroom which Big Sergei, Little Sergei and Tatjana all share, and then my room. There’s also a small bathroom which is separate from the toilet, a space which takes the “closet” in “water closet” a little too literally. Also, the cat’s potty is directly next to the human potty in that space. Tatjana compliments Vasya every time he goes potty. I’m a little jealous I don’t get the same kind of support.

Nobody in my family speaks any English. Tatjana joked that she took English in elementary school and that literally all she knows now is “von, two, tree, four, fife” and “Vat ees your nehm?” She also complained that Little Sergei was supposed to learn some English in school but that he’s not a very good student and can’t speak well at all. Hoping that I might have even a little bit of a linguistic ally in the house, I asked him if he speaks any. He shook his head and didn’t bother trying to talk. Tatjana said that Big Sergei studied German in school, which will be tremendously helpful considering my entire arsenal of German vocabulary is a poem about ducks in water and text from Beethoven’s 9^th.

But seriously, I’d like to take a moment to brag about myself a little. I’m doing way better with the language thing than I expected. Tatjana likes to talk. And talk. And talk a lot. And I understand and can respond pretty well. She told me that she was talking with her friends Lena and Tatjana (she told me she has three friends named Tatjana in the same apartment building) who are also hosting students, and she said they complained that their students can’t understand anything or speak. “But you,” she cried, “you speak well! You understand! We understand each other!” To brag a bit more, Tatjana doesn’t slow down with the speech at all. She talks quite quickly. There’s a bit of necessary charades-playing and gesturing from both of us in our conversations, but I’m pretty happy with myself. My proudest moment so far? We were talking about Palin today (for the first time ever, I can actually see Russia from my house) and I gave a somewhat detailed description of the conservative Tea Party as well as the Boston Tea Party. We also jump from topic to topic pretty quickly. Last night, for example, Tatjana poured me chai, then discussed economics in Russia, then talked about how her mother had died of heart disease but the hospital had sent her home because they told her she could get more rest there and then she didn't want to cremate her body, then she said I have beautiful black eyes and that I’m a good girl.  

Later last night I walked around the area with two other students from the program. We went to a grocery store, drank cold chai and ate crab-flavored Lays potato chips. When in Rome, eat tacky foods.

Architecturally, Russia feels like a giant déjà vu. I walk a few feet and see exactly the same building I just passed a couple seconds ago. Then I remember that it’s not a déjà vu, it’s just Soviet-chic. A real déjà vu? I’m sitting right now at the internet café closest to the apartment--it's called Café Dubai. Wow. Plus the apartment offers a beautiful view of other crumbling, gray Soviet buildings as well as a few bridges and the Gulf of Finland. Gulf of Arabia in January, Gulf of Finland in June. Got my gulfs covered.

I was wrong about the Church on Spilled Blood yesterday. Apparently that’s tomorrow. Yesterday we had orientation, which was quite orienting, and it was nice getting to learn about the classes we’re taking and also have the opportunity to socialize with the group more at lunch.

Internet access is hard to find right now, but I’m hoping to buy a modem card thing which will allow me to have some access at the apartment. Got my phone yesterday, though. Please feel free to call me at +7 921 849 16 83. Incoming calls to me are free on my end, though the person on the other end (lucky you!) will have to pay according to an international calling plan. The easiest way to call would probably be to add money to a Skype account and dial from there. I’d love to talk.

I wasn’t ever intending to write a blog post the length of “Crime and Punishment,” but that ship has sailed. Oh well. Makin' old Fyodor D. proud.

From Russia with love,

Даша/Dasha/Dana

Day One/Первый день

Privyet, druz'ya!

Alive and well and exhausted in St. Petersburg. Both flights, the first to Helsinki and the second to Petersburg, were very uneventful, though Finnair seems to be strongly opposed to the concept of legroom.

We were greeted by a series of gift shops at the squeaky clean Helsinki airport, one of which sold reindeer hides for 98 euros each. Welcome to Finland, I guess.

What was really cool was being truly "forced" to speak Russian for the first time ever today. I sat next to a couple from Kazakhstan on the plane from Finland to Russia and I think I managed to not completely butcher my grammar. I also gave myself a huge pat on the back after the flight for refraining from asking them if they'd seen "Borat" and whether Kazakhstan is, in fact, the number one exporter of potassium.

After we arrived at the smoky airport in Russia, we waited for a bus to pick us up and take us to our hotel. A dilapidated truck chugged along the road, and somebody joked that that would be our bus. After a good laugh, we were surprised to learn that this truck would be taking our luggage to the hotel while we rode a bus that leaked due to holes in the roof. Welcome to Russia, I guess.

We checked into our hotel, went to a yummy cafe for lunch, took a 3-hour tour ("Gilligan's Island", anyone?) of the city by bus, ate dinner at a Humphrey Bogart-themed cafe, took the metro to the hotel, and now I'm here typing. The students in the program are so nice, and it's fun to be with people who are also ridiculously nerdy and passionate about Russian studies.

The city is absolutely incredible. I can't believe I'm here, and it's been amazing even just getting to practice my Russian for a few hours today. When we walked to lunch, we passed by the Church on Spilled Blood which, despite its gruesome name, is definitely one of the most beautiful buildings I have ever seen. St. Petersburg also has pretty much preserved every Soviet structure, so there are lots of remnants of the era all over the city.

Tomorrow we get an actual tour of the Church on Spilled Blood (yesssss), more tours and other really awesome stuff, and then we move in with our host families! Ah! Very excited. Saturday's a free day, Sunday's more awesome stuff, and classes begin on Monday at Smolny College.

It's about 9:45 p.m. here, and it looks like it's mid-afternoon outside. Bedtime.

Hugs from the Old Country,

Даша/Dasha/Dana

Stalin, Beef Stroganoff, and Undrinkable Tap Water

Hi everyone!

I'll be living in St. Petersburg, Russia for a month on a short study abroad program, and I thought I'd keep a blog with updates from the Motherland.  During my stay there, I'll be living with a host family and taking classes at Smolny College, not to mention roaming around the city and (hopefully) spending lots of time at the Hermitage. I'm not sure how much Internet access I'll have once I'm there, but I'll do my best to update this blog frequently.

Пока, and thanks for reading!

Даша, aka Dasha, aka Dana