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