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
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