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