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