tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28999102412823835472024-02-19T16:33:16.378-08:00On attempting to survive a year in RussiaUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger29125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2899910241282383547.post-69904379283101776502012-05-16T02:23:00.000-07:002012-05-16T02:29:50.068-07:00On having survived a year in Russia<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdKkqCxfQwQUjRyawWn1g7QI08GD3PGMNp3D_c7kSPtsOMNnnIaae3PMD5TkkPkcYGy4CaCiPolQCQiFKuyVQpC_QDAXyFB3kzPqkHpkOJVwnNP809G9M05C245xbF72B_v1b6oFcyaN4/s1600/end.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdKkqCxfQwQUjRyawWn1g7QI08GD3PGMNp3D_c7kSPtsOMNnnIaae3PMD5TkkPkcYGy4CaCiPolQCQiFKuyVQpC_QDAXyFB3kzPqkHpkOJVwnNP809G9M05C245xbF72B_v1b6oFcyaN4/s320/end.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br /><br /><br />It is almost 1am on the 16th May. I'm leaving to go back to (not so) sunny old England later today. My flight leaves at 4.55pm and Viktor has booked me a taxi at 2pm. He said he would come with me to help with the cases (I had to buy another in the end to fit it all in) and check me in, but I told him that was far too much effort and I would be fine on my own. I'm all packed but not quite emotionally ready to say goodbye to St Petersburg and the people here. I would never have believed it when I was in Yaroslavl, but you do become so attached to the place in the end that it's hard to leave. The weather has transformed recently and it's so much easier to appreciate the parks and buildings, going outside is infinitely easier (and quicker) since the ice has melted away and I have enjoyed standing on the embankment of the Fontanka outside my house in the evenings in progressively lighter night skies. I'm going to just miss the best of the white nights but at least I've seen them before.<br />
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I can't quite believe that my year abroad is over. I'm so glad I kept this blog because I've been looking back at my early posts from before I'd even got to Yaroslavl and contrasting where I was to where I am now. Ok, I still can't speak brilliantly, but my listening and comprehension skills have rocketed, as has my confidence in so many new situations. At one point in Yaroslavl, Hannah and I were too scared to buy cake from the counter because of needing to talk and not having quite the right vocabulary. We did it once, and that was it, easy. Kind of regretted it in the end, given the amount of cake we subsequently got through, but now the same kind of situation doesn't phase me. I can work my way around situations without specific vocabulary knowledge without panicking and be understood. I can function in society, that's good enough for me. I do occasionally mess up- at TGIs I asked for a large coke and ended up with a pitcher and 4 glasses, for example, but you learn to not be scared about checking your orders and being up front with your mistakes. <br />
I need to come back to work on the fear of making a complete idiot of myself in front of several Russians, for example in queues, but I am leaps and bounds ahead of where I started back in August. <br />
<br />
There have been some serious ups and downs throughout this year, some situations in which I was kicked violently out of my comfort zone and others in which I wish I had been bolder.<br />
I should have made more conversation with Firdaus, but I took an easy option out much of the time, partly because of lack of confidence and partly because of the situation and Russian Step Dad scaring me, but I know I would perform better after this term. Probably also should have gone to more of the cultural events she put on, but a definite highlight of my memories (although one I still can't quite fathom) is the trip to Uglich with the children we thought were future teen mums but turned out to be a dance group acting out some kind of story with goats, being attacked by frogs, interviewed (and failing at being interviewed) by Russian tv, the insane open air lunch with drunk Russians and fish heads in soup, and the (then stressful, now funny) journey home, not really knowing where we lived. <br />
Frequent trips to Globus for decent spaghetti bolognaise, factoring in time to de-dill the food, insane babushki on the shuttle buses there and back, our Moscow trip, the Indian restaurant and my panic over seeing a doctor all stand out to me.<br />
In St Petersburg I suppose the obvious memory is Loony Lyudmila, George and the cockroaches. Yes, this whole episode was...unpleasant, but I was so fortunate to have met some great people out of the experience that the negative side is overshadowed by the good. I obviously came to Petersburg alone, and initially yes I was nervous, but it turned out to be the absolute best thing I could have done. I've made great friends because I've been forced to be more sociable and haven't taken the easy option of sticking with what I know. I have laugh out loud memories of movie nights in the hostel, staying up until 4am and standing on a chair outside the bathroom waiting to scare someone who when they came out, and especially fond memories of Danny jumping into the corridor, brandishing a limp baguette and yelling <em>'</em>Avada <em>Kedavra' </em>at me.<br />
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I have even finally met someone in person who I have been talking to and who has been an enormous help to me for many years, which may well not have happened if it were not for me being here.<br />
My health was always a concern to everyone involved in sending me to Russia-justified, clearly, but I am certain that, despite the last minute panic and hospitalisation, I have done better in this regard thanks to being happy here than I ever would have if I'd gone along with recommendations to go to Moscow instead. I did briefly consider switching to Moscow for the second semester because of fears of being alone here, but that would have been a huge mistake. I have wanted to spend my year abroad in Piter since I spent a weekend here back in the first year-I fell in love with everything about the place, despite the extreme case of blistered feet and exhaustion from touring the city (again, I'd spent a week in hospital just prior to this!) and it's been great to be able to do that.<br />
<br />
Viktor, Larissa and Aleksey have been amazing hosts, even if the lamp routine became a little trying after a while, and the location of my flat is equally amazing -the location so close to school, the metro, a 20 minute walk to Nevsky along the river-it has been perfect. This family genuinely care about the well being of their students, which isn't always easy to find in homestays, and the satisfaction of their many guests is all recorded in guest books with hundreds of messages from past visitors, my own just added too.<br />
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I can't believe how quickly it's gone. Arriving in Yaroslavl, the overnight train from Moscow when I couldn't get over the fact that I was in Russia, on a sleeper train, by myself...<em>in Russia</em>, the final arrival at Firdaus' place-that seems like it never even happened. The arrival here, after a plane journey during which I sat hunched against the window cursing Russia and everything about it, convinced I'd hate the experience and walking up to and introducing myself to a random group of girls in the airport with our group, who turned out to be truly lovely - it all seems like forever ago. Everything was so stressful and scary at the time, but the dynamic slipped and shifted so quickly I didn't even realise I was having fun. Dare I even say it, I think this year abroad has made me grow up-not that you'd ever know it from observing my behaviour and that of those I spend time with, but I think it has. I think I feel more mature...or...independent....or something. How strange.<br />
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I could just go on and on. But it seems that I have actually survived my year in Russia, and that would suggest that this blog has run its course, which is a little sad for me. I find writing therapeutic and generally it comes so easily that I enjoy logging my experiences for future review and nostalgic purposes. It helps me order my own current thoughts too. I remember deciding to start it up at some silly time in the early hours, thinking it was unlikely I'd continue with it. Lucky I did, every entry brings back floods of memories and emotions and has, on occasion, helped me through some tough moments. It would be sad to abandon it. Plus I'm not all that mature <em>just </em>yet. Perhaps I'll have to come back to Russia and fill it up some more.<br />
<br />
That is, of course, if airport security let me out in the first place without a migration card. 3 months of keeping it safe and the day before I fly I lose it. Well done me. Fingers crossed. Need to be let out to be let back in.<br />
<br />
До встречи!</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2899910241282383547.post-32994467915262358232012-05-15T15:50:00.000-07:002012-05-15T15:50:18.017-07:00A trip to The Idiot, a nice chat and a bit of a ramble. Also I still do not like dill<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
My last few days in St Petersburg have been lovely. The weather is gorgeous and I am feeling significantly better than I was a week ago - slightly out of it, but I dare not skip even one tablet before I fly home, so the effects are tolerable. <br />
I feel like St Petersburg and especially my frequented parts- Sennaya, Fontanka and Nevsky, are a home now. I never felt like that in Yaroslavl. I have made friends and know where is good to go for food, which shops to go to for slightly more obscure items, can avoid rush times at the checkouts, have options outside of the school set up in which to socialise and can, if I so wish, relax at someone else's flat, free of the babushka reign of terror. It's a nice, content kind of a feeling for someone who spends their life inwardly stressing and silently talking themself into jittery insanity. <br />
<br />Recently, someone who I have had indirect contact with for quite some years now, came to St Petersburg. It's their home turf, so it was nice to be able to spend time with them here. We went to a famous vegetarian restaurant, The Idiot, which is a gem if ever there was one. It's Dostoyevskian in theme and just like an apartment inside, with old furniture and book shelves and a deep, multi layered kind of atmosphere. I loved it. The food was amazing too, vegetarian options in Russia are not amazingly common, so this place is popular, but regardless of your diet, you would be pleased at the sight of the menu. What wonders can be made out of tvorog! My obsession with cottage cheese is no secret, but these 'Syrniki' - fried tvorog blini with raisins, honey and, of course, smetana, were delicious. Everything is served with smetana here-soup is rarely complete without it- its essentially creme fraiche, so it is fortunate that I do not view it with the same disgust which I reserve for that most Russian of flavourings, dill (укроп/ukrop). I still can not fathom the point of this inane weed, nor the apparent compulsion demonstrated by Russians of all ages to suffocate their food in it. Honestly, it's more like they flavour their dill with an insignificant side of pelmeni or drizzle it with a dressing of solyanka or borscht than the other way round. <br /><br />*Sorry, getting a bit sidetracked here. Dill winds me up. Quite a bit. I was informed at the restaurant that the actual reasoning behind it is that it is full of goodness, and, to summarise, there wasn't a great deal of that going around for many years in Russia, which is fair enough I guess. But seriously, guys, move with the times. I don't want it on chips. I want you to learn the greatness of vinegar. And maybe even start stocking salt and vinegar crisps, instead of dill and pickle. Thanks*<br /><br />So. Where was I? <br />Right. The food was amazing. I even had a pot of earl grey tea with lemon - I have neglected to mention my progress in the tea challenge, in which I was set to become suave and sophisticated by slowly working my way through liking tea and then coffee, so that when next invited out 'for coffee', I would actually drink some, rather than a pink and white foamy strawberry and cream iced drink. My discovery is that lemon makes all things better, and earl grey is rather palatable, so there I sat with my little teapot, cup and saucer, inwardly beaming and congratulating myself on something most achieve aged around 3. But you know, each to their own, at their own pace.<br />
The vodka shot was good also, smooth and went down well. I felt particularly cultured and Russian that day as my kind host toasted to our health. I may not have spoken a word of Russian at the best opportunity I had to do so, but I did eat and drink very well.<br /><br />It was nice to be able to chat about things which I've been unable to since being here and there is something reassuring in discussing domestic matters with someone you know speaks sense, as opposed to attempting to figure things out entirely on your own or with people who are just as clueless as you are. It also made a pleasant change to my routine, to go somewhere new and to speak of different things and switch into a different mode, if you will. Having been released from hospital the day before it was nice and gentle too. <br />Although I am starting to think that every Russian is infinitely smarter than I will ever be when it comes to matters of culture, history and religions. Some of the conversations are impressive! I need to read a book or something. (She says, as she downloads another Harry Potter edition on to her kindle to be read to her).<br /><br />Going home on Wednesday. I'm glad I managed to meet finally, it was a nice way to round off the week and my stay here. A bit of familiarity and home in a foreign place which is also starting to feel like home. I wish I'd been to The Idiot sooner, but as with most things close by, you never get around to them, and at least I have been now. <br />Do I count as being cultured yet?</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2899910241282383547.post-63012222768001844962012-05-13T18:16:00.000-07:002012-05-13T18:33:36.251-07:00A busy week, Part two: В больнице<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Onwards and upwards.<br />
Continuing from the last post, my busy week continued, or at least seemed very hectic. Thinking on it, I didn't really do a great deal but I did have a lot happen to me. <br />
I've mentioned with increasing frequency my unreliable state of health over my year abroad, and recently I think migraines have featured in most of my posts. Well, this one is going to focus on that because A. it is taking up a large chunk of my life at the moment and B. I get a lot of site views based on migraine and neuro search words. Plus it's therapeutic. Feel free to ignore the rest if you are healthy, it's likely to bore/depress the hell out of you.<br />
<br />
My prediction of an approaching migraine on my return from Peterhof proved accurate. I think motion sickness is connected somehow and it took its opportunity to blast into action the moment I lay down, complete with obligatory 'scintillating scotoma'-flashing, moving blind spots and psychodelic zigzags and vibrations in vision. Who needs drugs?<br />
<br />
It hurt, a lot. The next day the same thing happened. And the next. Each time the aura became more widespread and the pain would kick in quicker and stay longer and honest to God it was making me unstable. My sleep patterns were ruined and I felt constantly nauseous and exhausted, my eyes couldn't focus and I developed vertigo. The effects of a migraine, in my case, are generally felt up to a week before and a week after the actual episode, and they were just piling on top of eachother. I spent most of the week close to tears from the frustration of not even being able to lie still and the rest of it in tears from the bulldozers hammering around in my head. The heating in the flat was still on at this point despite it being close to 20 degrees outside and I couldn't keep the window open because Russia is noisy beyond belief, and every little sound was thundering through my head bringing me closer to being sick from the further rolling around in pain. I could only crawl, not walk, and my eyes were doing their own thing. Consequently when I did try to stand, I fell over and was left with a very swollen ankle which just added to the strain. In short, it was torture.<br />
It felt like eternity during episodes and I began to hate being in Russia with a passion. I was prewarned about the climate here being bad for those of us with neurological problems, and even the pressure changes in the most moderate of climates has a palpable effect on my joints and head. Ocassionally I can actually feel the change in the size of the vessels in my brain, which is commonly thought to be the key cause of migraines. But I wanted to come here so I shouldn't complain too much.<br />
<br />
Speaking Russian became an even greater labour than normal. As a result of the mix of regular medications I take I suffer from varying degrees of aphasia-impairment of language and processing ability. Sometimes I simply have trouble with words 'on the tip of my tongue', often reading is a slog, other times I can't speak at all and occasionally I am unable to write. That's in english. I all but gave up attempting to communicate with Viktor and Larissa and only ventured out of my room in search of water (praying for lack of contact with a scantily clad Aleksey) when I was truly desperate. <br />
<br />
Thursday came and I was just about stable enough to be able to listen to Harry Potter on my kindle. The Prisoner of Azkaban is not exactly the most taxing of literature, but it's sufficiently interesting to be a distraction when the pain dies down enough. In a moment of lapsed concentration, I rolled over on to my stomach and before I'd realised, raised my head ever so slightly. That was it, I could feel the pulsing in my head, hear the whooshing of blood constricted through my neck and the intense pressure. The scotoma started within 45 seconds, my vision was doubled and parts of my hands appeared to be missing. Alice in Wonderland symptoms made their entrance and everything started shrinking at an alarming rate, just to shoot up by giant proportions a few moments later. My arms were shrinking, I felt totally out of proportion and disoriented. <br />
<br />
The head pain, when it hit, was unusally sudden and incredibly intense. The visual aura was spread across both eyes and was adding to the chaos of the pain. I lay there for hours digging my head in to the mattress in (futile) attempts to relieve the pain, writhing around and generally sobbing to myself, interspaced with brief tourettes-esque swearing episodes to vent the frustration. It took maybe 4 hours before the nausea passed enough to switch positions. Very, very long hours. The visual issues had all but disappeared, just leaving the drilling into my skull to contend with. I decided to get up to splash water on my face but as I lifted my head, the aura was back. I couldn't even process what was going on by this point, I just knew the pain had suddenly tripled. <br />
I don't really remember a great deal past this point, although I am aware I was very much in what my doctors refer to as 'crisis'. Truth be told I had probably been hovering around it for the past week. It had by this point been around 10 hours in constant, extreme pain, which is definitely not normal. I usually have some let up or at least weakening of symptoms.<br />
I hauled myself down the hallway to Viktor to request a doctor, and exceedingly kindly, he rang the hospital for me and Aleksey drove us there. Can't imagine Lyudmila or George doing that.<br />
<br />
In one of my early posts, about a month after I arrived in Yaroslavl, I commented on the miracle that was me avoiding hospital for so long. Well, a week to go and it was clearly time to rectify the situation. Just about time to cram in a medical emergency before I left!<br />
<br />
Some time within the next hour I had been practically carried through the hospital for assessment, to find my blood pressure was an alarming 175/130. Considering that it's usually on the low side of healthy, it was a little worrying, as was my temperature which was edging towards 39 (although in Russia, once it hits 37 there is a definite problem according to doctors). My eyes were showing uncontrollable independent movements and I lost my spacial awareness. Essentially, my body was having a massive and slightly dangerous freak out.<br />
<br />
<br />
Treatment at this hospital was, without doubt, outstanding, and I have been in a fair few hospitals. I have never been so happy for nurses to attack my poor veins with multiple cannulas. Unlike a previous experience in a Russian state hospital, which left me with nerve damage, they identified my difficult veins just by looking and an intensive care nurse was called to deal with the cannula. It did eventually have to be changed a couple of times, because my veins ruptured, but the initial IV medication was bliss and I now have a terrific bruise to admire as my badge of honour for a while.<br />
I've had every single test possible run on me, nearly all I've had before but this time with a slant to identify meningitis, apparently. Had someone asked me if Id been vaccinated, I could probably have saved some time, but whatever. <br />
<br />
The dopplerography, annoyingly, showed nothing wrong with the vessels in my neck, despite a previous showing there was. I'm not consistent enough, it's hugely frustrating when you're trying to prove a point to your doctor in your quest to recieve a definitive diagnosis. But the chiropractor, amazingly lovely woman that she is, after warning me not to try to get up from the bench because she'd 'heard about me' (randomly collapsed in the middle of a chest x ray, apparently a massive shock to all involved) explained that there is something wrong with my neck, and 'most likely, the rest of you, looking at the list of your injuries and fractures'. Oops. It can't be a good sign if someone used to dealing with injured people thinks you have too many to focus on. <br />
The MRI showed a weird tangle of vessels on the side I get Trigeminal Neuralgia, which I already knew about and no sign of aneurysm, which I had expected. I've had so many scans that I'm very complacent about the results-it will come as a massive shock if anything does ever show up. I had to be transferred by ambulance to another hospital for these scans, and a nurse called Gleb accompanied me, setting Russia to rights on the way and telling me where to go for the best Russian book shops. Helpfully, he also told me not to be scared and not to faint, just before I went in for the scan. lols. <br />
<br /><br />
So, eventually, with mountains of medication, 'manual manipulation' to the neck and head, a few incredibly welcome visits from the outside world and a lot of the BBC news international channel (I swear I put it on one morning and Prince Charles was presenting the weather-can't confirm I wasn't hallucinating, but fairly sure I wasn't) , I finally got rid of the lingering pain and sickness. <br />
Turns out that I have a curved top spine (kyphosis) and scoliosis, but I'm told that regular courses of chiropractitioner care will help significantly and hopefully help to reduce general body pain and fatigue. <br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">King of the Hill (царь горы- tsar gori) in Russian helped to whittle away the hours, despite <br />only understanding all of about 1/16th of it</td></tr>
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<br />
<br />
Three days after being admitted I was let out, expecting to have a horrific bill placed in front of me. The hospital hadn't been clear about the insurance when I first got there-or at least, I was in no state to understand and didn't know what I'd signed-so it was a massive relief to find that the (estimated from prices online) £8k bill did not materialise. Private hospitals are lovely, and I definitely recovered far quicker in a private ensuite with personal nurse than I did in the 6 to a room the same size as my private one hospital a few years back, but oh.my.life. are they expensive. Also I have to observe that there is significantly less standing around in your underwear to be examined in other hospitals. Maybe there's just less time to get you undressed in state hospitals. Oh well. I honestly don't think I have a scrap of shame left anymore. <br />
NHS, I love you.<br />
<br />
And so off I went home, this time to actually sleep. <br />
Nearly made it through my year abroad, so close! Whatever will my year abroad tutor say?! 'I told you so' springs to mind...<br />
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0St Petersburg, Russia60.0762383 30.121382959.5693143 28.8579554 60.5831623 31.3848104tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2899910241282383547.post-88429033111885308252012-05-13T14:14:00.000-07:002012-05-13T14:14:06.605-07:00A busy week, Part One: Петергоф<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Well. What a week. I do like to leave things to the last minute and I have definitely crammed a lot in during the past seven days. I'll have to split it across two posts because they are fairly different turns of events.<br /><br />Kicking off on the positive, I finally got to visit Петергоф (Peterhof), which is actually a series of palaces and seriously beautiful gardens on the outskirts of the city. This place is famous for its fountains, and although the pictures give you an idea, when you see it for yourself you can see how it earned the nickname of 'Russian Versailles', it's stunning. The fountains are turned on annually in May, so I had been holding off visiting until then. <em>So</em> worth it. We stood in line for ages to get the hydrofoil to cross the Gulf of Finland for the 30 minute journey there, and irritated the French and Spanish tourists standing in front of us (deserved, when Harriet sneezed, as I'm pretty sure most animals have a tendency to, one of the women glared at her and snatched her friend away as if the source of the Black Death itself was stood behind them, and proceeded to bitch, assuming that we couldn't understand. Both of us can understand French and Harriet also does Spanish at uni. Fail evil women....possibly fail on our part also, since, naturally, they both also spoke English. Oh well, nothing like a bit of....good natured....xenophobia. And who likes the French anyway? Psh.)<br /><br />We were extremely fortunate to have chosen a rare sunny day to visit, and the view that greeted us as we walked off from the Hydrofoil pier was stunning. My internet is not playing ball so unfortunately I can't upload my own photos yet, but a long 'Sea Canal' led up from the sea to the Lower Gardens, in which are the most amazing fountains I've ever seen. The photos really don't do it justice.<br />
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<br /> The amazing thing about the fountains is that none of them are powered by pump, it's all done through elevation pressure and special reservoirs and aqueducts. There is so much gold around too, it all glistens through the sun and the water, and at one point when we were standing up by the main palace looking down at the massive fountain in the picture above, the Samson fountain, there was a rainbow stretching through it. Lovely to watch. <br />We had a wander through the chapel, to which we gained free entry with our student cards despite there being a clear '150roubles for students' notice, and marvelled at even more gold. The place was gorgeous and intricate religious art covered the walls and ceilings. I think it has recently been reopened after having work done to it, and they have definitely been polishing the floors-lethally slippy, especially in the fetching blue plastic shoe covers you have to wear to look around.<br /><br /> We also had a nose inside the main palace, choosing not to have a tour guide. The problem was that there had to be at least seven tours going on while we were wandering, and because the palace is relatively small, we kept getting stuck in them. First, we hit the Spanish tour. Harriet speaks Spanish. Then we hit an English tour-obviously we both understood. Getting quickly fed up of the Yorkshire woman who kept repeating 'Ooooh, in't that nice o'er there?!' to her husband, we squeezed past and hit the next tour-French. Another one we could both understand. Whilst the changing contrasts between languages made me realise how infinitely sexier French sounds than English, we were more intent on pointing out what pretty shades of wallpaper and what amazingly comfy and luxurious looking pieces of furniture we would furnish our own homes with, (well, we can dream) and shuffled on past another few tours, picking bits up in all of our languages, including Russian.<br />Needless to say, when we finished our own tour around the house and got over the marvels of some of its contents, we felt pretty smug. Check us. We're linguists. :D<br /><br />I'd had all of two hours sleep the previous night and the long day was starting to wear, so when we decided to go I was content. In true Russian style, however, the queuing system for the Hydrofoils back was beyond confusing and it didn't seem possible to catch one for another two hours or so. We headed round to the back of the palace to catch a marshrutka (mini van type bus) instead, and realised we'd missed out the whole of the Upper Gardens. These reminded me of Alice in Wonderland, again beautiful and I'll add photos when I have the chance, so I was glad to have the chance to wander round before we left. <br /><br />The marshrutka ride back did not agree with me. They rarely do. We didn't really know which one we should be taking so missed a lot of buses before deciding to jump on whichever one came along next, and it turned out to be a very long journey to the metro in a very confined space, with a very dubious driver. I had started to get the signs of a migraine by the time we decided to stop off for blini in Chaynaya Lozhka but the chocolate pancake seemed to bring me round a bit. Arriving back to Sennaya Metro we decided to leave further tourist escapades until Friday, planning to go to the Church on Spilled Blood and the tourist market behind.<br />And so off home I went to attempt to sleep.<br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2899910241282383547.post-70971167691745821432012-05-06T08:58:00.000-07:002012-05-06T08:58:12.419-07:00Going home early. Again.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It's 3am and I can't sleep. Faced with the option of watching a dvd or writing a blog post, the dvd seemed the more appealing of the two, however it then occurred to me that each of the almost daily migraines I've had in the last week have started during badly dubbed Russian films, so here I am being minutely more productive.<br />
Clearly, I beat the odds and did not pop my clogs after swallowing my suspicious looking Russian chewing gum, so I suppose I am doing quite well, all things considered. Still getting bizarre visual migraines every time I lie on my front, giving me a 20 minute kaleidoscopic beauty of a show in my left eye before many hours of excruciating pain on the opposite side of my head. My neurologist at home, when first questioned about this, responded with the sage advice of 'well don't do it then' but I feel it's probably time to hassle him about it. Is my brain <em>supposed</em> to throw a tantrum every time I lie down and put my head up? Am I <em>meant </em>to almost black out when I get up from lying down? I'm going take a stab in the dark and say no. So it's just as well that my flight is now changed for me to leave early and get it looked at.<br />
After the desperate hiding behind an escalator by the BMI office and the frantic attempts to figure out what we needed to say in Russian to get our flights changed in Moscow last year, I was a little more prepared this time round. I had a pre-prepared script to get me a pass for the security turnstiles and find the BA office, because my brain has a tendency to enter a rapid onset coma when it comes to recalling anything useful at the appropriate time. It being British Airways I wasn't overly worried about a language barrier but would have been able to cope, just about if there was. What I hadn't really anticipated was the 3 hour trek to find the place. Especially when the office was, in fact, only 20minutes walk away from my flat. I had looked it up on google maps and I'd written down detailed directions, but I clearly lack an internal compass, and got hopelessly lost. Story of my life. Someone needs to invent some kind of human gps gadget. <br />
<br />
Fortunately for me, I did eventually find the BA office and in the space of 15 minutes I was on the flight leaving St Petersburg LED (the airport is still called Leningrad, strangely) on the 16th May. It's still a shame to leave early, but I am pretty eager to get back to somewhere I can communicate easily. I'm back to the stage where I'm seriously looking forward to wandering around decent sized supermarkets, picking up anything I want and knowing I'm not in for any nasty surprises. Cashiers won't bitch at me for not handing over the correct change, although I am infinitely better with numbers now (surprising difficult in Russian) and there are far fewer awkward silences at the tills these days. <br />
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It will also be quite nice to know that I won't be wandering down the hallway in the middle of the night for water to be greeted by the sight of a very drunk and very naked Aleksey, Viktor's youngest son who, on occasion, comes in a little the worse for wear after an evening of drinking and seems to lose his clothes and direction on the way to sitting in the bath under a cold shower for several hours to recover. There is always an awkward few seconds of averting eyes as we attempt to get past eachother but he doesn't seem to remember by the next day, which is just as well. It's funny but I've kind of had enough of living in someone else's flat now. Just what happens in homestays.<br />
<br />Lastly it will be great not to come or go from where I live in fear of what the cats are plotting. They silently sneak out on you from across the courtyard and jump down from windows into your path and just stare at you. There has to be at least 50 of them. It's creepy.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">They dart out of holes in the wall and just hang around staring at you. It's unnatural.</td></tr>
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<br /><br /><br /> </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2899910241282383547.post-20193901037001459242012-04-29T05:57:00.001-07:002012-04-29T06:18:25.343-07:00The return of Victor, Migraines and my impending return to England<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Victor has returned. I heard the doorbell ring but thought nothing of it initially and continued watching Charlie the Unicorn in my pjs. 10 minutes later, in he bursts to my room. 'Loren!' Oh dear. I had a glance round in hope that the lamp was in sight, looking like it was in regular use as he asked to see my arm. It was down the side of the bed, underneath a pile of Harry Potter dvds. This did not seem to bother Victor as he made all kinds of surprised and gleeful noises at the sight of my (now irritation free) scar. Naturally, it was all 'pochti ne vidno' and 'mne ochen' nravitsya!'. 2 weeks with this miracle technology twice a day is now, to him, a miracle cure for ailments of every kind. I obviously agreed with what he said, making grateful sounds and nodding vigorously at the appropriate moment, slightly uncomfortable that I haven't touched either the lamp or cream since he left. His trust in me to do things properly is very much misplaced. Fortunately the subject was quickly changed as he decided I was looking unwell, a nice cover for the reason as to why I was dressed in Family Guy pj bottoms and spongebob top at 2pm, and told me to go to bed. <br />
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Unfortunately, it turns out that I really was unwell, and subsequently developed a migraine. I should have realised I was due for this earlier, because I'd been picking up 'phantom' smells for days, which is always a good warning sign, but the first indication I got of this, was the feeling that my eyes weren't working together. Then the vague sensation that I wasn't seeing quite everything out of the left eye. And then the prisms , which start in the corner and meander their way across to the other side, flashing and blotting out part of the vision inconveniently. It's a bit like looking through swiss cheese, only the holes keep moving too quickly to ever focus. Generally, this will last 20 minutes and then I will get the head pain, so it's a convenient warning sign. This time round it went, and then a different type of aura struck up, called hemiplegic. A weird combination of pins and needles and numbness started in my hand and then moved to the left side of my face, starting in the corner of my lips and spreading throughout, including in my teeth, which is possibly the strangest sensation I've ever experienced and really scared me the first time I had it, but now I just sit around and ride it out, mainly because it usually paralyses me down one side so I can't exactly go anywhere. The pain didn't materialise straight away. After 15 minutes I was convinced I'd got away with it and decided to paint my nails in a smug shade of purple. <br />
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The smugness was premature. 10 minutes and it hit, leaving me writhing in pain, attempting to bury my head in the mattress and feeling immensely sick. Eventually I fell asleep and when I woke 6 hours later the bulk of the pain had gone. Unfortunately it was almost midnight. And unfortunately, it appeared that my bed sheets were covered in purple nail varnish. <br />
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The visual aura is kind of similar to this. Everyone's is different, but this is the closest in terms of distorted vision I can find to mine.<br />
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So, I'm getting a lot of these migraines here, and they're ever increasing in severity. The neuralgia has spread too and is causing unpredicatable bother. I've talked to uni and decided it's better to go home early before they get out of hand. I'm hoping that when I get back I can sort out the issues which are stressing me out so much and they'll die down, otherwise I will be going home in June, facing said issues and needing to take exams during a massive episode. It's disappointing but there's not much I can do about it, it's just what happens. Migraines enjoy putting a dampener on things. When I was little, I always desperately wanted a Toblerone - they just looked so cool. When I finally got round to trying one, I enjoyed its honey and nougaty goodness for all of about 2 minutes before it floored me with a migraine which had me crying for hours. Sadistic.<br />
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<br />
I have just accidentally swallowed my gum, and according to the age old and 100% accurate playground legend, it will soon be twisting it's way round my intestines and I will surely be dead by the morning. It's probably time to go and eat some cottage cheese to counter it.<br />
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Poka.<br />
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<br />
PS<br />
<br />
If anyone has any ideas for how to remove nail varnish from bed sheets, please do let me know. So far I have discovered that dousing them in nail varnish remover does not work, but does cause a vaguely alcoholic smell to linger on your pyjamas.<br />
Answers on a postcard please, to: <br />
Lauren,<br />
Russia</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0St Petersburg, Russia60.0762383 30.121382959.5693143 28.8579554 60.5831623 31.3848104tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2899910241282383547.post-29595546772384825642012-04-18T12:08:00.000-07:002012-04-18T12:08:12.428-07:00Generic blog post title about stuff I've done recently<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Spoke too soon about the weather. The rivers are all flowing still, but they're on the rise because it's been raining for the last three days. Lovely. The temperature has dropped a fair bit too, but now that I've been out without my polar gear, I refuse to go back. As such, I am getting death looks from the babushki and stares from the general Russian population for being under dressed. Thankfully, however, Victor is in Voronezh for two weeks, so I'm getting away with going out dressed normally without being told that I'll catch my death without a hat, scarf and boots.<br />
I don't know why he's in Voronezh, but I'm enjoying the break. Victor is lovely, but I'm not used to being mothered and I'm getting a bit fed up of being told that I'm not eating when actually I am, and getting told off for sitting against a wall because my back will suffer. And, of course, I've now been entrusted to complete the lamp routine by myself. Naturally, this means I've been completely neglecting it.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The all powerful lamp</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Victor means well. The problem is that he thinks everything can be solved with his bloody lamp. The scar healing technology he so worships originates in China (and I am suspicious over the reliability of their results) and his lamp is Russian. It has nothing to do with the medical 'technology' from China, and I'd happily put money on it being completely ineffectual, although I suspect there's an element of the placebo effect at work. My flatmate here has experienced the lamp, and agrees it's bull. Victor also likes to place a stone between his ribs every so often and smack down on it, because it 'makes him strong'...somehow. Like me, the strongest protest he's been able to summon is 'bolno, Victor....bolno' - ie, that hurts. The thing is, with me, it really really really hurts. When I tell Victor that maybe we should forget the 'Chinese face massage' because the neuralgia is playing up, he takes that as cue to get the lamp out and press into the side of my face afflicted with what is fondly known as 'the suicide disease'. It's not doing me any good, as attested by the dentist, who I visited for the 2nd time today.<br />
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<br />
<br />
The accordion trance which so accosted my ear when I rang for the original appointment was definitely not an indication of poor care. I went to the top private clinic in St Petersburg, opposite Kazan Cathedral in one direction and the Church on Spilled Blood in the other. Prime location. A little thrown by the claim of being an 'international clinic' when nobody seemed to speak English initially, the cleanliness of the place and the unusal friendliness of the staff calmed me down. We muddled through the actual examination in ruglish blend of languages and I was given medication and a wonderfully small bill. Today's appointment revealed that, surprise of surprises, I need to visit a neurologist. I don't really get what's going on with my body at the moment, but my feet are, well, vibrating- or it feels like they are, and I'm dropping everything and tripping all the time in addition to having weird sensations like water trickling down my arms and face. Declined the offer to make an appointment with the neuro there in the hope that my email to my own doctor will shed some light first. If I can actually make it through a term without ending up in hospital over something, it will be a miracle. My year abroad tutor will be so proud of me.<br />
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In lighter news, my friend had a birthday last week, and we all went to TGIs to celebrate. It was nommy. I had decided that it was completely necessary for him to receive a balloon on his 21st, and so earlier that day I wandered around looking for something appropriate.<br />
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Once I'd seen it, I knew it was perfect. Passed up the usual Happy Birthday round balloons for this beauty:<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Introducing Jerry the Cow</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I have previously talked about the need to blend in when in Russia. Carrying this around the city did not help. But I love him. Apparently, his name is Jerry. <br />
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Then, on Sunday, it was Russian Easter. I think this is just Orthodox Easter, because it's also when the Greeks celebrate, but whatever. Over here, there are no chocolate eggs. It's purely a religious holiday, rather than the Festival of Chocolate which it really is at home. Certain supermarkets in England, so I'm told from someone behind the scenes, have had chocolate eggs in since Boxing day, which is absurd in every way. Here, you wouldn't have known it was Easter other than the abundance of specially baked 'Kulich'- a type of cake with fruit in and some kind of topping. It's really pretty good, although I quite enjoy the packaging of Easter eggs at home...I'm easily taken in by advertising, clearly. Fortunately the supermarkets here play such intensely awful music, similar to that you'll hear on the sims, that I don't stick around long enough to be taken in by anything.</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Easter cake - 'кулич'</td></tr>
</tbody></table>It's staying light until almost 10pm at the moment, a sign that Summer is indeed coming, not that anyone really seems to believe me that it will get really hot, because the weather has shown zero sign that it's capable of anything over 15degrees. When I was here in first year it was at least 30 by 8am and the night just didn't come - it's strange, but something most people are excited to experience. I have 61 days left until I go home, and it's going much quicker than it did in Yaroslavl. Possibly because I'm not being reminded of how many days I have left by other people this time round, but also because it's just more enjoyable here. I should also seriously get on with my year abroad project, which is rapidly starting to induce 'The Fear' in me.<br />
Where is the time going? Probably to the same place as Sir Rolf, my beloved koala, who is lost somewhere in Russia alone. Sad times. <br />
<br />
On a final note, I have been drinking tea. A lot of tea. And it's still utterly disgusting. I don't know who came up with the idea that you grow to like a taste, but I can't say I agree. I even tried coffee, but to no avail. <br />
I will never be the pretentious hipster type sitting in Starbucks with a mac and a tall froppamochalattechino now.<br />
Kak zhal. </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2899910241282383547.post-1324898224831863492012-04-11T15:22:00.001-07:002012-04-11T15:29:42.377-07:00Victor and his lamp<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Not very good at updating this regularly, am I?<br />
<br />
First thing's first: Today it hit DOUBLE figures. For the first time I went out without my down coat. Spring is here! :D<br />
Still very happy with my new homestay, it's very clean and the bedding has already been changed twice (although they have Russian style covers, meaning the opening is right in the middle and consequently I wake up every morning trapped inside, which is a little disconcerting, and trying to get the duvet in in the first place is a task which has seen me swear and stamp my feet a fair amount) which is a marked improvement on Loony Lyudmila's place. Funnily enough, these people actually seem to <em>care</em> about me too, which is just a bit odd given that my experience of homestay tends to be one in which you are given your meals, exchange some niceties and then are left to do whatever the mood takes you. <br />
Victor is a chiropractor. He likes alternative options. The family is also mormon, which is extremely unusual here and consequently have a lot of missionaries and the like to stay. The guest books which people write in after coming to visit are full of entries singing the praises of a family in whose home 'the holy spirit is felt throughout', both in Russian and English. I am somewhat sceptical of a religion which has so many different branches varying so wildly from one another, but they are nice enough people. It is a mix of this kind heartedness and the opportunity to have a live-in guinea pig to experiment on that I think makes Victor constantly check up on me.<br />
<br />
He works for a Chinese medical company and is using their products to try to reduce the scars on my arm which I've had for about 7 years now (horse riding, incidentally, 3 operations later having had metal plates in and out and my arm probably looks a bit of a mess to most people I suppose.) He also has this lamp thing, I think it works with red light to break up scar tissue, so every morning and night we have this ritual where he chats away to me in Russian while treating the scars with cream and light.<br />
Now, every so often I get this nasty red patch of irritation on the scar on the inside of my arm, right next to part of it which has healed perfectly and is barely noticeable. It's partly due to my neglecting the skin but always fades eventually. Victor, however, is taking it's disappearance as a sign of the miracle technological advances of his company. I'm not going to rain on his parade by saying that, actually, no I don't think it's amazing because any wound is going to improve in appearance with regular moisturising and massage. Every time he comes into my room with a bowl of fruit and jug of water (because apparently I don't eat and he's going to have to tell my mother if I don't start - a. I eat when I'm out and b. HA.) he takes a look at my arm. This is where it becomes <em>extremely</em> predictable.<br />
His observations are as follows:<br />
1. Oh ty! Mne OCHEN nravitsya! - translation: wow! I really like it!<br />
2. Kak zdorovo! translation: how great!<br />
3. I like it! translation: um...yeah he speaks english<br />
4. A zdes...pochti ne vidno! translation: And here...almost can't see it! (that would be down to <br />
the 7 years of healing...and that's the bit that was already healed)<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">5. Mne ochen ochen nravitsya! ....you get the idea.<br />
<br />
I'm a little peeved that the credit for this healing is being handed over to a sodding lamp, when in reality it's years of hard work by my body with a dodgy immune system, but whatever, it's amazing language practice. Plus now I seem to have been entrusted with the lamp by myself, which means that I don't always do it and get out on time in the mornings. Tellingly, Victor is still seeing progress in the scars despite the lack of treatment. Hmm.<br />
<br />
So anyway, I currently am in less than great health and have been having migraines all over the place while my trigeminal neuralgia is conveniently changing its pattern, which is extremely bad news and difficult to manage over here. On top of that I've had serious pain in one of my teeth and the surrounding area plus eyes, neck and ears. My wisdom teeth never quite came through. But Victor doesn't seem to understand that I'm likely to need neurosurgery at some point which will include a bit of a stay in intensive care in order to deal with some of this, and he is insistent on using his lamp, which has actually made it worse because he uses a lot of pressure. My tooth has been screaming at me for this and tomorrow I am off to the dentist. Less than appealing prospect. But I did ring them up and book it in Russian! Ura for me! (after 10 minutes being put on hold and suffering the trauma of a uniquely Russian kind of 'on hold' music which can only be described as accordion trance. As if the dentist isn't bad enough.)<br />
<br />
I should probably go to bed now. I am hoping next week will be more successful than this. I have broken my kindle and cover, iphone charger and had my debit card stopped because some nonce in Liverpool has used my details to buy a bunch of crap online. What a dipstick.<br />
<br />
I promise to write something more interesting, less whingy and more happy next time. <br />
Like, I just washed my hair and it's given itself a zigzag parting all by itself. What a clever head I have.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Spokoinoi Nochi.</div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2899910241282383547.post-30309782992853215802012-03-29T04:23:00.000-07:002012-03-29T04:23:30.799-07:00Moving again!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Much has happened since I last posted. To summarise the remainder of our time living at Lyudmila's, we spent about 12 hours at a time out of the house and crashed Marc's place quite frequently in order to avoid mental breakdowns and food poisoning. (Thank you Marc). After finding the cockroach in my bed this was pushed to the limit and I turned into a quivering wreck, getting no sleep and experiencing various degrees of exhaustion, depression and mood swings. A Russia low point without a doubt, but I have experienced enough of Russia not to automatically hate all things Russian from this, even though I did start swearing at everyone who dared to get in my way on the street and in the supermarket, cursing their (probably very mixed and un Russian, actually) roots. When we went into school the next Monday, addresses were still not ready, but we couldn't wait any longer, and so skived off the rest of the day to go home and pack and wait to be taken to the hostel.<br />
<br />
Now, convinced as we were that Lyudmila didn't know we were leaving, the nutjob had apparently been informed by the school in no uncertain terms that we would be. This left us confused, given the conversations about us staying and the next excursions, but whatever, we accept the woman is insane. George realised we were packing to leave (because he was, of course, still in the house (fully dressed at least) doing nothing with his life) and turned up every television to max and played some awful dubsteb-esque music loudly, to prove some kind of point unknown. We then stole Lyudmila's cheese in revenge. Because we are hardcore. And were hungry. And know there were no cockroaches in the fridge.<br />
<br />
Thus I have had about 10 very lovely days living in the hostel with very lovely people, in my own room, eating food that is certified bug free by me and staying up til 6am watching films with everyone. It is somewhat reminiscent of school, except I don't think we ever stayed up quite that late and the food was ocassionally a little suspicious...apart from the curry, the curry was always amazing. <br />
But now, as I write, I am in my new flat on Fontanka. I was told yesterday that I'd be moving, so got myself packed, and fell out of bed today to a text saying the driver would be there in 20 minutes. Russian time keeping is a bit off, so when they said 'between 12-2pm', I should have suspected that could include 10am. <br />
<br />
I think I've said it before, but there's something very evacuee like with the waiting for and meeting of your new host for the first time. The very first time I came to Russia, we pulled up in the train, exhausted, to see a hoarde of scary looking Russians standing round on the platform, piled off one after another, and stood sheepishly in a group opposite, waiting for our names to be called. Despite the problem of speaking practically no Russian at this point, it wasn't as bad as I had expected, but then, nothing ever is, and is always over and done with too quickly to really worry too much. Since then, my understanding of Russian and Russia has improved considerably, but I still feel as if I should have a tag round my neck as my host comes to pick me up. Obviously in Yaroslavl' I had Firdaus embrace me in the courtyard in the middle of the night, her dressed in an animal print dressing gown, which somewhat defused any tension, and knew Hannah was upstairs as my English speaking ally. Lyudmila had made things massively easier by speaking in English from the start, although I feel the filth, her son and her craziness outweighed that in the end. So today was not a nervous time for me.<br />
<br />
The flat is very big. Sprawling. You keep turning corners expecting it to end, and it just keeps going. Fortunately for me, my room is the very last on the right, so I shouldn't get lost. I have just as much storage as when I was with Lyudmila but the room is much bigger, with a proper desk and chair still, old style soviet windows and high ceilings. Fontanka is a region of Petersburg that used to house all of the old noble families, so the places are nice here. It's on the Fontanka Embankment, a branch of the Neva, although my room overlooks a road and not the river, and is pretty central to everything. <br />
Viktor greeted me, speaking clear Russian (I'm told the St Petersburg accent is the nicest of Russia) although he does speak English. I can essentially understand him, but as always, replying is not easy. He's a chiropractor and his wife, Larissa, is a teacher of English and Russian but currently in Helsinki. <br />
They have a son who lives here (I think) and there's an English student too, who may or may not be on my course...I don't know. So unobservant. <br />
<br />
I have possibly already made myself look a bit of an idiot by trying to do an impression of a cockroach when I couldn't think of the word, but the soon they know, the better, I suppose!<br />
<br />
The wifi appears to be locked, which is a shame. It was amazing that we got to use Lyudmila's for free, even though it often broke, because skype worked perfectly and video calls were easy. I did buy a dongle during the week when I was at the hostel, because I can't go 2 days without internet, but the connection is often a bit dodgy. The good thing is, though, that unlike other times when you arrive at a new homestay, I'm already able to get online and google map where I am, figure out what's around me and how to get to places. An essential part of settling down, for me, is feeling like I know what I'm doing. That's why, in general, the first few days are difficult, not knowing people, or where you are, or what to do, having no routine and no internet to idly browse for hours on end and settling for playing marathon solitaire/chess tournaments against the laptop gets boring and allows you to dwell on how awful it's all going to be. (It's not). I've learnt to always take the sims3 and some movies with me to get me through those first few days. A bit of Simmish is always a welcome distraction.<br />
<br />
Anyway. Viktor has assured me that if I have any problems they will sort them out, that I can come and go as I please, sleep in the morning, afternoon or night and even eat breakfast whenever I feel like it. It is a promising start, and it's nice to be unpacked after not bothering in the hostel, so let's hope it stays that way. I might have to go and make myself look less like I've just rolled out of bed in order to go out and find the nearest produkti, because I am A. starving and B. needing to buy a kinder egg for my friend's birthday...(Because I'm cheap....no but really, she wants one..)<br />
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2899910241282383547.post-47464922748698077522012-03-17T17:51:00.001-07:002012-03-29T02:29:43.051-07:00Another insane Bab: a story of vindictiveness, filth, and poor pest control<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div style="text-align: left;"><b>WARNING</b>: After this post was written, a cockroach was found in my bed. This, coupled with recent ingestion of highly potent neurological drugs, led to angry and hysterical writings of an insomniac made a victim in her own room for fear of further bug invasion. These were further aided by obsessive replaying of Beatles' songs, specifically Lucy in the sky with diamonds, Hey Jude and Yellow Submarine. Apologies for bad language and incoherent, rambling rants. It is also very long. Russia is hard work right now, just roll with it.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Alright. So, we didn't have words with the reps like I said, but we spoke to the school directly. About George. About the filth. About the cockroaches. We said we'd like to stay there still, if Lyudmila would just clean up and give us new sheets. Both of us are covered in bites and I'm wheezing my way through the night from the dust but, you know, Lyudmila seemed nice. So the school rang her straight away.<br />
We stayed out for a long time before braving going home, just in case her and George had gone crazy from the complaint. However, we got home and she wasn't in. Just as I was wondering if she was ever returning after us complaining, she came back and gave us new sheets. No anger, no resentment, just lovely new sheets, as I excitedly documented earlier. What a lovely old lady, we thought!<br />
<br />
WRONG.<br />
Bitch is craaaazy. Next morning, I spring out of bed, gazelle like and excited to start a new day after I had finally had myself a good night of sleep. Ipod goes on, boogie on into the bathroom and have a spectacular disco of a time cleaning my teeth, oblivious of the happenings at breakfast in the next room. It was, in hindsight, a poor decision to have headphones blaring, because I have already been privy to Lyudmila bitching about me not eating her breakfasts through the grate between the bathroom and kitchen, and of all days for her to bitch, it would have been today. And I'd left Tania to her evil ways alone.<br />
<br />
Sure enough, Lyudmila came out with 'I know I normally give you eggs for breakfast, but when I heard all the horrible things you said about me and my family, I didn't feel like buying them'.<br />
This might just seem petty, but in actual fact anyone who has had to endure any length of time under bab rule in Russia will realise that eggs are, as Hannah so accurately put it, '<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "lucida grande", tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; line-height: 14px;"><span style="background-color: #edeff4;">the only thing we get up for in the morning!'. </span></span>Yes, life is that desperate. So, split between laughing in her face and disbelief, Tania attempts to explain that we said nothing horrible, just the truth, ie, that George is a lazy, arrogant arsehole who makes it awkward for us when the pair of them are screaming at eachother, and that her home is a shit hole. (Fortunately, Tania is more diplomatic than I am, and gently paraphrased). To which Lyudmila angrily responded 'You think my home is dirty? You say it is dirty!? Show me the dirt, show me!'. So...she was shown the dirt...because she forced Tania to do so. Except that, apparently, Lyudmila is blind, and 'Maybe I can not see it' was her response to the festering shit in the bathroom. That's some pretty poor eyesight you've got there, Mila. Might want to get that checked. God. And then she got further pissed off that I was not making sandwiches to take with me for lunch. Interestingly, although we know the school mentioned the cockroaches, she hadn't said anything about them in her aggressive rant. Clearly she was concerned that my intake of crunchy cockroach protein was low that day. What a caring little soul.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
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<br />
Go to school and find out they have had problem after problem with Lyudmila, and, essentially, she's a psychotic bitch who they only keep because her location is so good. But we're being moved, because the school believe us 100%. Turns out that Lyudmila says it's me causing all the problems and promised that she would clean instantly, despite claiming her home is squeaky clean and pristine (the bugs must be that OCD kind who only take up habitation in the most hygienic of places) because she was threatened with them moving us. And she's money obsessed, so that would be a disaster for her - when our flatmate moved out she told Tania to find her a new student because she needs the money (lie) and 'you will ask people but Lauren...Lauren will not'. Well, fair enough, she's right. I wouldn't.<br />
<br />
The day finishes. Place is still filthy. I decide it is time to investigate exactly where these cockroaches are living. Into the kitchen I ventured at 2am, camera in hand, expecting to find a few of the giants which I have caught wandering over the plates. No. There are <i>hundreds </i>of bugs of all kinds, all sizes and all over the place, including in the rice. The rice which bitchbab has been feeding us. For weeks. In the bottles of oil and boxes of eggs and tea, stuck to the worktops through sheer filth and neglect. Try to move something and a foul smell shoots up your nose while several insects dart from inside and down the sides and backs of the cupboard. The mountains of rubbish stuck down on this side of the work surface meant I couldn't/didn't want to risk moving anything to film all of the bugs, but could hear the tap tapping of masses scattering from the light. I felt unclean just looking. And later came up in masses of tiny bites. The bastards.<br />
Messaged Tania to warn her not to eat the food at breakfast. Fortunately, she got it before eating, and accordingly told Lyudmila that she felt ill and so would be skipping breakfast. And of course, accordingly, Lyudmila angrily told her that she should have said last night that she didn't want breakfast (um...) and she'd wasted so much time and energy now....(again, um...). Then some kind of 'first Lauren, now you' remark. Then the cow left. In her stupid fur coat. To her stupid job where she speaks English badly.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
So then we left. And showed school the video. Who showed it to the director. And we were promised that we'd be out by Monday. Great.<br />
This made it all the more bearable when, one evening, having been left alone with Lyudmila 'to help with English pronunciation', she started bitching about Tania to me. If she wanted to leave, it didn't matter because I would find her a new student, so I shouldn't be worried if Tania is annoyed (no idea where this came from) but really she should stay here, in this flat. What was wrong with her anyway? I should find out. Oh and so should I stay here, because it is so close to school and we can go everywhere by foot - and everyone makes mistakes. so just because she'd forgotten 3 weeks had passed and it was already time to change the sheets (4 weeks) doesn't reflect badly on her. Oh and she tells George he has a very loud voice and to keep it down but he doesn't so what can you do? That's life!'<br />
<br />
I wish my Russian was stronger. The number of times I repeated 'esli ona hotchet, ona hotchet' -if she wants to, then she wants to, in order to cut her off mid bitch about Tania leaving and the number of 'ne soglasna's - I don't agree, I came out with, were frustrating. I so wanted to tell her to f off, but had to satisfy myself with taking perverse pleasure in hearing about how hard it is for her to organise the excursion for us for the next weekend, when clearly we would be long gone, and in assuring her that the correct way to pronounce 'sheet music' for her boss' birthday spectacle, is, in fact, Shit Music. <br />
<br />
Hah. She thinks she's won and we're staying. It's Sunday morning and Lyudmila still does not know we are leaving. We need to pack in secret and get the hell out of here. This woman is so weirdly vindictive in talking about each of us to the other, yet is so fake and sweet when we are together that it makes us uneasy.<br />
<br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglBB7cxJPT7AcKxlWiAYPoWwWymY0AU33nEPM-JN9590Xn3-dZwS-Z3zwYhg1aMLEphcbq_4zQN306k8A7lcdtzqJuPtON4UCX1vLEVAMAt1xXgaJNw8zMWI_A2XiBteSmTYsZstZwhOY/s1600/edgar.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglBB7cxJPT7AcKxlWiAYPoWwWymY0AU33nEPM-JN9590Xn3-dZwS-Z3zwYhg1aMLEphcbq_4zQN306k8A7lcdtzqJuPtON4UCX1vLEVAMAt1xXgaJNw8zMWI_A2XiBteSmTYsZstZwhOY/s320/edgar.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHuhZNMdHjdr5zZsyEpFMz-DUB3bG4dvEa07SuuxHqIekv-dOYUUoHCZTfv8kYvx3KOFAUViKK0KD2-i3k6eHqtTNrbOE1_fH55S92FtptnduK-dCGI3dBOtZAIRiJur9fuYCIHqXdMsU/s1600/edgar.jpeg+bug.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHuhZNMdHjdr5zZsyEpFMz-DUB3bG4dvEa07SuuxHqIekv-dOYUUoHCZTfv8kYvx3KOFAUViKK0KD2-i3k6eHqtTNrbOE1_fH55S92FtptnduK-dCGI3dBOtZAIRiJur9fuYCIHqXdMsU/s320/edgar.jpeg+bug.png" width="320" /></a><br />
<div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
<br />
Why does she remind me of Edgar from Men in Black? </div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2899910241282383547.post-19271512251864815142012-03-16T15:24:00.000-07:002012-03-16T15:24:48.833-07:00Tea challenge<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I do not like hot drinks. This is a shame, since I am 1.English and 2.living in Russia, and tea features a great deal in both of these places. I would really like to be able to put all my woes to bed by 'sticking the kettle on', or meeting up for coffee and actually drinking coffee, not a mango/starfruit/peach froppamochalottoiceachino. (I don't go into starbucks much).<br />
<br />
As such, I have resolved to drink tea at every opportunity in the hope that the taste will grow on me.<br />
I feel like a fraud when I tell people I'm English but refuse tea. My life is empty and confused. The tea challenge will solve this. I shall be a connoisseur of tea. It's going to be amazing.<br />
Starting tomorrow.<br />
Wish me luck!<br />
<br />
<br />
PS. Crazy filthy bab is crazier, filthier and more vindictive than ever. Babushki. Just keep away from them.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2899910241282383547.post-56577785592380406082012-03-12T12:22:00.000-07:002012-03-12T12:22:44.462-07:00NEW BEDDING!!!!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">We had a whinge to the school today, and lo, I have been given new linen for my bed! A month is just way too long without it. There is much that needs to improve before I am satisfied that I can stay here, (George seems to be present still, although judging by the school's reaction to him being here, possibly not too much longer, cockroaches also yet to be evicted) but look! Check out the crazy yellow crispy clean warmth! No more wheezing through the night for meeeee :-)<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiSZr6bBas61q-eBZyrD3FSZXVy9B6rQtSf38GE9PNjXMKqKDoss8IoPNAuW0mtd1Gvj9jqJKq0RszKqYtqGt1aBzWWmiJmnli7Ik2uAbs8vb-NR2suUbQTTPJ2AJelufDamgOLWt9wRM/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiSZr6bBas61q-eBZyrD3FSZXVy9B6rQtSf38GE9PNjXMKqKDoss8IoPNAuW0mtd1Gvj9jqJKq0RszKqYtqGt1aBzWWmiJmnli7Ik2uAbs8vb-NR2suUbQTTPJ2AJelufDamgOLWt9wRM/s400/photo.JPG" width="400" /></a><br />
<br />
<br />
Also, yes, that is a rug on the wall. Russian decor. Gotta have a rug on the wall.<br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">And so off to bed I now go, in my equally yellow and sparkly clean Spongebob pjs, ready to read my kindle in peace with Sir Rolf the musical koala by my side. He has even sung a celebratory verse of Waltzing Matilda. I have never been so excited to go to bed. Well. You know. In context.<br />
<br />
Спокойной Ночи!<br />
<br />
</div><br />
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/w-7BT2CFYNU?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br />
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</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2899910241282383547.post-19844114049780410532012-03-10T12:54:00.001-08:002012-05-08T17:12:34.865-07:00The niceties of life in St Petersburg. And George<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It takes a few weeks to figure out what is exactly what in Russia. So, I've worked out who I need to do the homework for and who is still going to heap praise on me regardless of what semi comprehensible toddler babble I make up on the spot. I've worked out that copious amounts of fanta will get me through 2 out of 3 90 minute lessons, but will almost certainly result in a visual migraine and nothing will keep me awake for the 3rd lesson, so best save the roubles, submit to snoozing and avoid the prisms and pain. I've worked out that I can stay in bed until 9 and still be in at 10, but not to risk showering in a hurry because it will result in trips to the аптека (apteka, chemist -about 97 on every street, generally located next door to the 24 hour flower shop-ready for your midnight carnations craving) for burns gel. So yeah, pretty much all sorted on the routine front.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLBctK_vrwcYhWdAPRRFRnUmTDaZBXyrMZudDUq5sCgfww7m5Ihv0C3yF_Xf5yINXMdc9zR8wHAltXw-xk6GWvJLAZS-RBEhFxuOLKImiTRW-3bUAzha5eoLknEmjwYOLCZIqKSoibulU/s1600/24hour+flowers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLBctK_vrwcYhWdAPRRFRnUmTDaZBXyrMZudDUq5sCgfww7m5Ihv0C3yF_Xf5yINXMdc9zR8wHAltXw-xk6GWvJLAZS-RBEhFxuOLKImiTRW-3bUAzha5eoLknEmjwYOLCZIqKSoibulU/s1600/24hour+flowers.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">24 hour flower shop. Everywhere in Russia. I can only assume Russian men are constantly getting thrown out/staying out too late drinking, and these shops exist to make a killing on their attempts to redeem themselves</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<br />
What I am still confused about, however, is the living situation. When I arrived, it was me, Tania and the two American guys, Marc and Jim. Jim left to go home last week, Marc moved to his own flat a little before, leaving me and Tania with Lyudmila. And George.<br />
George is Lyudmila's older son. She has two. I estimate that he is somewhere in his late 30s, but as he spends his life sitting round the flat in, at most, a vest and boxers which are too small to deal with his pot belly, my judgement may be a little distorted - I don't want to risk looking for too long. I gather that he once had a job, but lost it. Lyudmila kicked George out when Jim got fed up of sharing a room with Marc when they were both paying full price. So Jim had what is essentially the lounge (Russian sleeping arrangements are flexible to say the least-Lyudmila regularly adopts the kitchen as her bedroom) and George went 'to the suburbs'.<br />
I enjoyed this arrangement, as George's scantily-clad omnipresence made me uncomfortable. However, Jim left, and George was back like a shot. 'The suburbs' must be some kind of gangster wielding ghetto, judging by the lightning speed at which he reappeared, shouting at Lyudmila over the amount of time we spend chatting at the breakfast table. To my mind, he's a fairly intolerable, lazy bastard and I truly can not comprehend the affection with which Lyudmila talks about him, even when he is clearly ignoring her calls when he failed to honour his promise to pick her up in his car. Of course 'the electricity to his phone' is working, Lyudmila, he's just a waste of space and can't be bothered. Saying that, I can think of other mothers who are, to lesser degrees, similar with their own male offspring. But anyway. Now his bed/sofa/table/general hovel is directly next to my own bed in the next room, so I am left pondering the reasons as to why he can't use all his excess tv watching, loud phone call making energy at 3am for something more productive during the daytime, such as cleaning or purchasing some new clothes.<br />
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He makes us feel very uncomfortable. You can't go into the kitchen if George is there. Walking past his room while the door is open will generally get it slammed shut on you. He bitches about us in between arguing with his mother and prancing about in his boxers, cooking buckwheat and not clearing up. Which might go some way to explaining the cockroaches living in the kitchen, a discovery I made the other night looking for some clean drinking water. I have not touched the food or drink since. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXQTLjeNzlZyHJ0W2yRxDHVaXz59nHsla95cPTmWYqsuZrun_TgUwiX5xx_EFdWDd91QtuKqEfdRYwPwfV_XEFFEcDf3v48okKOGtUokmJHsi3zL5BmN8F6e_MV5d9lDLc-Xh16QrPmbE/s1600/putin+cockroach.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXQTLjeNzlZyHJ0W2yRxDHVaXz59nHsla95cPTmWYqsuZrun_TgUwiX5xx_EFdWDd91QtuKqEfdRYwPwfV_XEFFEcDf3v48okKOGtUokmJHsi3zL5BmN8F6e_MV5d9lDLc-Xh16QrPmbE/s320/putin+cockroach.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">HAH. I googled 'cockroach' in Russian and it gave me this. How topical, given the current post election riots :D</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's pretty!</td></tr>
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I shall be having words with the reps on Monday. I don't particularly want to move, as it's a good location and the flat is decent- it just needs to be cleaned. And de-cockroached. And de-Georged. And it would be nice if Lyudmila would knock rather than just walk into your room unannounced as you're hopping all over the place trying to pull on your tights, just to announce that 'we are going to drink tea (no we aren't) and eat the soup with the fish (also no, Lyudmila).<br />
Aside from all of this, I like Petersburg. There's infinitely more to do, more possibility in every sense and a really rather good pizza place nearby that I seem to be spending a disproportionate amount of time in.<br />
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There's already been two national holidays since I've been here. Coming from the country with the fewest of these, I'm thinking Russia have got it seriously right, especially considering that one was Women's Day. I had two days off school for this-it was on Thursday but we got Friday off too-and happened to be on Nevsky Prospekt during the day. This is the main street in St. Petersburg, setting for many of the most famous of the Russian novels, notably Gogol's 'Nevsky Prospekt' (imaginative title, I know) and Dostoevsky's 'Crime and Punishment' ...As an aside, classic Russian literature is amazing. Read it. And then do what I did and live in the most historic part of Piter where you can retrace your protagonist's steps through the haymarket. Or, you know, don't. Whatever.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kazan Cathedral, Nevsky Prospekt</td></tr>
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On Women's Day, wandering down the Prospekt outside Kazan Cathedral and past Dom Knigi (the bookshop in which I'll happily spend 3 hours), I was given flowers by three separate men and nearly accepted a heart shaped balloon, only I realised that I had to take a bus back home by myself and regularly get completely lost, so I'd look a bit of an idiot standing at a random bus stop in the suburbs with my pink balloon, all alone. The gangsters who drove George away will probably know who I am, given that he is, more than likely given his svelte spy like physique, a top espionage expert and thus at the top of their most wanted list. I felt a pink floating heart would not aid my quest for inconspicuousness. So, balloonless, I marvelled at the number of restaurants offering free champagne for women all day and carried on about my business with my 3 flowers. Handy Tip: Odd numbers of flowers only, in Russia, unless they're for a funeral. Don't get it confused. That would be awkward.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-hRTjzxkKIYb_gNteK1WRWmh515tACqL_T9fXh3HLH5wZX2yAgOB2nqLBo7s2_M4HMu9C1bQcBsd3Wup2Nhw0c3k6kjObtaxHNED_-arGfWyqK3Famb6m_X52tSz1V9MZaa0Y3cWtU9c/s1600/hermitagechar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-hRTjzxkKIYb_gNteK1WRWmh515tACqL_T9fXh3HLH5wZX2yAgOB2nqLBo7s2_M4HMu9C1bQcBsd3Wup2Nhw0c3k6kjObtaxHNED_-arGfWyqK3Famb6m_X52tSz1V9MZaa0Y3cWtU9c/s320/hermitagechar.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Outside the Winter Palace and the Hermitage, period characters wander nonchalantly around on the ice</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Church of the Saviour on spilled blood - where Alexander II was killed</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 19px;">Some lovely soldiers on men's day, or, officially День защитника Отечества (Den zaschitnika Otechestva) Defender of the Fatherland day.</span></span></td></tr>
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I've been doing some touristy things and wandering round impossibly large galleries pretending to appreciate the technicalities of the art on display, taking crappy pictures on my phone because the one thing I forgot is the wire to connect my camera to the laptop, and ridiculously, there's no card reader on here. I could still take decent photos and then upload them all to marvel at forgotten memories once I'm done here, but I need fairly instant gratification because I have the attention span and perseverance of a turnip, so that's that out of the question. I've taken some spectacular falls in the ice but my marshmallow coat has provided decent protection and my fur hat has shielded me from almost certain brain damage when a spiky chunk of ice descended from the roof to connect with my head. Such love for my hat. Oh and occasionally I stop to watch people wandering all over the frozen rivers which separate Saint Petersburg into islands whilst eating a pirog.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On the bank of the Neva, outside Peter and Paul Fortress....that's a river behind us. We could have walked across, but chose the safer, firmer option of the road.</td></tr>
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So yes. It's a fairly decent existence here so far. I've discovered it takes no more than 2 Russian beers for me to feel thoroughly drunk, but I can counter that with a brisk walk in -13 night air. I'm having some nasty spikes of neuralgia and seem to be getting exhausted pretty quickly, but there's already a doctor's visit on the cards, so that will be another little adventure! Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some malteasers I must attend to while watching Russia's eurovision entry. Flights to Azerbaijan are looking pretty damned tempting just now...<br />
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<h1 id="watch-headline-title" style="background-color: #ebebeb; border-image: initial; border-width: 0px; color: #333333; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 1.83em; height: 1.13em; line-height: 1.13em; margin: 0px 0px 5px; max-height: 1.13em; overflow-x: hidden; overflow-y: hidden; padding: 0px;">
<span class="long-title" dir="ltr" id="eow-title" style="background-color: transparent; border-image: initial; border-width: 0px; font-size: 0.91em; letter-spacing: -0.5px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" title="EUROVISION 2012 - RUSSIA - Бурановские Бабушки - Party For Everybody">Бурановские Бабушки</span></h1>
(Buranovskie Babushki! Singing in Udmurt to raise money for a church in their village and now in eurovision )<br />
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And if that has whetted your appetite.....<br />
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and for the Eagles fans out there:<br />
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<br /></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2899910241282383547.post-86905685400400954172012-03-02T12:08:00.000-08:002012-03-02T12:08:56.277-08:00Saint Petersburg: The arrival<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
So, skimming over the true trauma that was home, a week or so before I was due to come to Saint Petersburg, I decided it was probably time to get my visa properly sorted. No excuse this time for being so late, I just didn't want to come back to Russia. Not because I like home, you understand, but because Russia is hard work and I just didn't have it in me to be bothered with it all. Except of course, I didn't have a choice. So I paid for next day processing on my visa and collected my roubles, packed everything up smarter than last time - learnt what I need and what I don't, mostly - and on the 18th of February, after a pretty decent night's sleep this time round, my lovely Padre drove me to Heathrow. <br />
I don't like Terminal 5. It's poorly signposted and I spent a ridiculous amount of time frantically looking for my friend who had disappeared in the swarming mass that was security as our gate was closing the first time I flew to Russia from there. Note: No matter how well hidden your multipack of capri suns and oversized mosquito repellent are in your hand luggage, you are NOT going to get through Heathrow's security. I was panicking that I wouldn't get through security because of the size of my hand luggage or that I'd left liquids in there, because no way would that rucksack close again once it was opened. However, no such trauma took place, and I was simply left snivelling to myself as I left my Dad to go through the barriers back to misery for 5 months. I think I was feeling a little bit on the vulnerable side...<br />
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BA is infinitely better than BMI. Plus I get frequent flyer miles on them, so the incredibly fast 2hours and 50 minutes it took to get to Saint Petersburg were quite comfortable. I listened to the Hitchhikers guide to the galaxy on my kindle. I do love Marvin.<br />
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Now, when we landed, I knew what to expect. LED is not a particularly comfortable or modern airport. 3 flights arrive together and everyone is herded into a too small hall where the English attempt to form orderly queues to reach the few immigration boxes everyone needs to pass through to get to their bags, while the Russians snigger at said orderly queues and proceed to push through and crowd to the front. The English, assuming everyone in Russia is a KGB agent or otherwise possess the power to pack them off to the gulag, are too scared to inform them of their obvious mistake, and thus take an abnormal amount of time to actually enter Russia.<br />
So, I take a trip to the bathroom to attempt to freshen up a bit before dealing with the masses in the next room. At this point, maybe 5 minutes from stepping off the plane, something immensely embarrassing happened to me. In fact, having just relived the experience in my mind, I am now chickening out of writing about it. But at the time, it simply added weight to my being convinced Russia was going to be an absolute disaster. And I cringed. A lot. I still cringe. I can't believe these things happen to me. But rest assured it was a fairly horrendous start to Russia, which shall forever be kept to myself. Unless I happen to drink a little too much baltika, which does tend to loosen my mouth ever so slightly.<br />
As an aside, LED have seriously got to make their bathrooms bigger. They seem to assume people travel with no luggage and/or are the size of leprachauns. Which they are not. Unless of course they are actual leprachauns. Still. Get with it Russia.<br />
Luggage carousels aren't up to much there and I had several cases randomly fall on my toes whilst waiting for mine, no surprise given that the first time I landed in Petersburg the sight greeting me was a whole truck load of luggage spilling over onto the runway by the plane. Skilled baggage handlers here. Then there was quite a lot of waiting around for everyone to get through immigration. Was handed an info pack, told 'see you at 10 at school on monday', and promptly packed into a minibus with others to be delivered to respective accommodation.<br />
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Most people here seem to be living in a hostel near the school. I do not do sharing bathrooms. Not in Russia. My decision has been confirmed as the right one, incidentally, judging by the recent placement of posters in the hostel loos stating that standing on the toilet seat is forbidden. It's a Russian thing. I don't get it either.<br />
So yeah, my host Ludmila collected me at the bottom of her road, let me settle into my room (much better that in Yaro) and said we were waiting for another girl to come, who was on a different flight to me, at which point we'd then eat and drink champagne. Tania came, we ate and drank. It was pretty sweet, and my expectation for Ludmila's english to end abruptly wasn't realised- she can speak pretty decent english, which is handy when you get stuck in Russian. We knew she had some American guys living with her too, doing a tefl course, but would meet tomorrow.<br />
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So, skipping details other than I forced myself to eat salmon (blergh) and drank copious cups of tea (also blergh) we had food, made many toasts and drank really good champagne. I then marvelled at actually having room to store my things, as opposed to the one cupboard and a closet shared with Firdaus' many fur coats and often the stinking cat, and put everything away. I was more comfortable in my room here within an hour than I ever was in Yaroslavl.<br />
There are many differences between the two places, which I'll probably go into at some point, but as a whole, I'm much happier here than I was in Yaroslavl. Everyone seems to think I sounded miserable as hell there too, which I hadn't really considered, but perhaps they were right.<br />
<br />
PMainly because I am lazy but partly because it's late and I have to get up early tomorrow, I am going to split this into 2 or 3 posts. I have actually been here 15 days now and done a fair amount (no tv interviews or frog attacks though, I'm glad to report), so I'll stick some photos up too, with my non apocalypse prone internet. Ura for wireless!<br />
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</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2899910241282383547.post-73125732141132572432012-02-29T07:16:00.000-08:002012-02-29T07:16:27.827-08:00Token February post<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Not wanting to neglect February, this is a quick one to say I'm in St Petersburg now and it's pretty cool. In more than one way. I go to school Monday-Thursday and do whatever I feel like on the other 3 days.<br />
My host is not forcing refried blini down my throat. There is no psychologically upset cat. I live with one other girl from a different uni and 2 American guys who have just completed a tefl. The cashiers in shops don't scream at me for not having the right change. I've wandered round the hermitage for 3 hours, fallen over twice on the ice, misplaced my keys countless times and been interviewed for tv on a total of zero occassions. Tis going well.<br />
And I'll write properly when I can be bothered :)</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2899910241282383547.post-74876605246782171452012-01-31T14:49:00.000-08:002012-01-31T15:01:05.455-08:00The price of fish<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I went to Tesco to get my photos for the visa application earlier. FIVE quid. Disgusting. They used to be £2.50. And those mini cans of soft drinks that used to be 10p? Sodding 30 now! Don't even get me started on freddos, you can assess the state of the entire economy based on the price of those. Psh. Anyway, it only took two attempts to get a version I was satisfied with, which makes a nice change. Only 10 minutes later did I notice that my hair had cast a grey shadow on my neck which makes me look a bit on the grubby side. Oh well. It would be hypocritical of Russia if they were to refuse me entry for looking like a hobo in my visa picture, judging by the number of semi conscious men splayed over the pavements with a bottle of cheap vodka in hand I encountered, most smelling less than fair. <br />
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Aparently it is -21 in St. Petersburg. It is about -1 here, and I am freezing. There will need to be some re-adapting when I get back. Roast like a potato indoors and dodge balconies to avoid an icy, stabby icicle-related death outside. Accordingly, I have ordered a new coat (with hand warmer pouches in the pockets, oooh) online, which is extremely unfashionable and likely entirely the wrong size, but I was relying on fast delivery to get it sent back to change if that is the case. However, on closer inspection, my unfashionable, sensible and practical coat appears to originate from a distinctly middle aged wesbite, using distinctly dark-aged delivery methods and thus far it has been four whole days and it hasn't been dispatched. I am impatient. The last thing I ordered online was dispatched the same day and received the next. Alternatively, I could have not been cheap and bought something from a semi fashionable, age appropriate place which has moved on from carrier pigeons. I was just expecting a degree of efficiency, as one does.<br />
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I am in for a shock when I touch back down in Russia.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsvSRHL9F6LkQFHR5CnnP_1A_PwhTlQFlWdhomXwzPIJ97A4l8eqw8sfL2YB6MaZt6g9um-i9YtMOI9qF34tlHzS6xI2lun52kPXvt4dqmvc0wW9dVu7XyN7Q49_9hUwoeC2hIqcVN6KA/s1600/carrier+pigeon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsvSRHL9F6LkQFHR5CnnP_1A_PwhTlQFlWdhomXwzPIJ97A4l8eqw8sfL2YB6MaZt6g9um-i9YtMOI9qF34tlHzS6xI2lun52kPXvt4dqmvc0wW9dVu7XyN7Q49_9hUwoeC2hIqcVN6KA/s320/carrier+pigeon.jpg" width="312" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I have a feeling this may be why my coat has not been sent out. </td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
EDIT. On reflection, and bearing in mind that it is my birthday tomorrow, this post has a distinctly grumpy old woman vibe about it.<br />
One step closer to becoming a bab. SCORE. </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2899910241282383547.post-30626324571440684662012-01-26T16:59:00.000-08:002012-01-26T16:59:45.076-08:00Here we go again<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">A couple of days ago I forced myself back to the hospital to endure the excavation of my arms to find a vein willing to give up its blood, just so I can prove, once again, that I am HIV free and qualify to return to Russia. On a tourist visa, this isn't necessary but on my visa it is. I can only assume that any HIV infected people are, upon obtaining a tourist visa, rendered physically incapable of spreading it for up to 30 days and so are declared safe to enter by the ever-logical Russian immigration services. Any other type of traveller, however, is clearly far more likely to go around spreading their disease from day 1 to the natives. Must be the type of ink they use. I might add here that it is estimated that the rate of HIV in Russia is at 1.5 million and its prevalence has increased by 250% since 2001. Makes zero sense whatsoever, but I have heard that there is talk of dropping the HIV test requirement in an attempt to make the country more accessible and appealing to businesses, amongst other things such as restrictions and fees on moving belongings into the country. They need to do something, my veins are not cooperative when it comes to blood tests and I less than relish the prospect of having several people dig around in my skin with sharp objects. However, it was done eventually and I'm now waiting for the call to collect my certificate so I can trundle up to the visa centre and get things sorted. <br />
I do hope my favourite security guard will be there. I have missed him.<br />
So here I am again, 22 days to go until I fly off to St Petersburg. I hate to say it but I'm less than excited right now. It will all be fine once I'm actually there, but I'm nervous and when I'm nervous I tend to hate what I'm nervous about. I'm back to checking the temperatures and they are generally -18, feels like -25, which is just lovely. The cold wasn't actually half as bad as you'd think in Yaroslavl, kind of unpleasant when it's snowing hard and driving into your face, but the cold is physically very bearable if you're dressed well...but I have become accustomed to being able to go outside without the 15 minute prep time to get dressed!<br />
This is made slightly worse because on tv there is an Australian tourist board advert-'There's nothing like Australia', and it looks freaking AMAZING. And hot. And sunny. And my friend is going there for a year. And I'm jealous.<br />
I mean, there's nowhere like Russia, either, but in terms of appeal right now, the snow, evil babushki and impossible language are being overshadowed by the fact that I haven't seen the sun for over a year (thanks english non existent summer) and would quite like to go to the beach. <br />
<br />
<br />
I do miss my fur hat though. And my valenki. And I have new purple flowery thermal leggings and stripey rainbow socks....<br />
But if someone could tell me how to pack for 'feels like -26' as well as the +30 it will reach come June, I'd appreciate it. I have 3 extra kilos allowance this time round. Shoes or text books? <br />
Dilemma.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2899910241282383547.post-85719509667802188972011-12-31T15:55:00.001-08:002012-01-02T17:36:52.207-08:00С Новым Годом! Happy New Year!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">It's 2012, year of the dragon. Russians do New Year rather than Christmas (hangover from Soviet times, I believe), and it's a strange fusion of East meets West. Go into any supermarket and you'll find inflatable santas, overpriced trees and the usual array of decorations, except in addition there are bloody <em>dragons</em> everywhere, on boxes of sweets, on baubles and above the bold English words 'Merry Christmas' on doormats. Russia clearly has something of an identity crisis going on. The semi festive atmosphere did, however, make me pretty eager to get home, and come the 17th of December I was packed and more organised to go than I ever have been. Typically this is when Firdaus decided to be a really awesome host again, and cooked the best dinner of the entire stay, forced wine down our throats and gave us 'Russkii balsam'- a blend of herbs, spices and fruits, apparently. Pretty potent herbs it seems, judging by the 42% alcohol content label printed on the side. She, rather awkwardly, told me RSD was in disbelief at the amount of destruction I could cause (the mirror, incidentally, was sent to be recut and is now a nice wavy pattern), insisted on trawling through <em>every </em>photo on my facebook, telling me off for looking healthy in some of them and not now (ta, Firdaus) and gave something of an opinion on the election results - No, she didn't vote for Edinaya Rossiya, but what alternative is there to Putin? Cue extreme confusion over her having had 20 odd Edinaya Rossiya calendars in the kitchen a while back.<br />
Going home was a lengthy process. Up at 5ish, train at 7.15, in Moscow at 11.15, tube to another station, station to the airport. Then about 4 hours waiting just for check in to open and another 3 or 4 to get on the plane. Just after having passports stamped and visas checked, getting ready to scan everything, we freaked. A Russian man in uniform and hat approached us. 'Devushki'. Crap. Convinced we were about to be thrown out of the airport to stay in Russia over Christmas (they know it's more of a punishment than being kicked out), I panicked. Scary official guy starts talking, mentions a journey on the train to Yaroslavl, and we realise that it's the same man we met on the train back from Moscow when I went to the hospital. Awesome. My suspicions at his checking my passport on the train to see 'if he had stamped it' were clearly unfounded. He was rather pleased to see us, and we were rather relieved to be allowed through security. Was a bit odd he actually recognised us, but hey, being English makes you a celebrity there. It was a nice end to the trip, especially the not geting arrested bit.<br />
<br />
So, after a 4 hour flight on which the best meal I'd had in 4 months (no joke-beef lasagne ftw) was served, I was back in England. Tip- If you are ever delayed and circling Heathrow on the way back from Yarosavl (as you often are), spotting football pitches and marvelling at real motorways will fascinate you. We had to stop for salt and vinegar crisps on the way back-Russia hasn't caught on to the wonder that is them, nor prawn cocktail, then I made a massive fuss over seeing my dog, who has managed to lose her sight and hearing since I've been away. Then I vaguely said hello to my Mum, who, as she still possesses all her senses (arguably), was not as interesting.<br />
In quick succession followed:<br />
Drinking from the tap<br />
LOOK TV IS IN ENGLISH!!!!<br />
Running (once) up the stairs to prove that my house actually had them<br />
Eating real cottage cheese<br />
The best shower ever<br />
A real bed with a real mattress<br />
Being told off for not saying please and being too abrupt. Russia has had its effects.<br />
Blackout and sleeping the night through for the first time in months.<br />
<br />
Anyway, I did have somewhere I was going with this, but honestly, I got distracted by flashmob videos on youtube. I'm sorry...<br />
The gist is, that it's good to be back home. And it's good to be able to understand everything that people say to you. And it's good not to feel like a bit of a burden all the time. But Russia is still fairly cool. In small doses. And I will be going back besides Petersburg. Good times.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2899910241282383547.post-64814403400914723922011-12-04T00:35:00.000-08:002011-12-04T00:35:47.103-08:00The rise of the Babushki, a sprinkling of снег and 14 days left<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">2 weeks til I go hoooooome! I haven't been counting until now, because I haven't been particularly desperate to get home, but seriously, it's time.<br />
I have spent most of the last two weeks in bed. Every so often my body goes into complete meltdown and refuses to work, (more so than usual) and so I have been passing the time in a blur of neuralgia, exhaustion, weird burning and numb patches and insomnia. One day, my doctors might figure out what is going on, but until then, Russia or not, I take regular breaks from functioning. Normally I just get on<br />
with it, but Firdaus is being a bit...babish. That is, she's nagging and being annoying in the manner of a babushka. I've lost count of how many times she's been told I need to be left alone to sleep and that I'm fine, but she doesn't listen and continues to annoy Hannah asking about me and lying about how she's being phoned by uni every day to ask where I am. Weirdly, she then said I don't like her partner (or possibly that he doesn't like me, Hannah was confused with the grammar)...which is true either way, but it's definitely him scowling and refusing to speak to me which has led to me disliking him. He makes me feel distinctly uncomfortable. Noob. It's ok, soon I'll be in England, where I can understand everything and sleep in my own bed and eat food that isn't fried or covered in dill. Steamed brocolli. Parnsips. Chive cottage cheese. This is my current craving. Mm.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdj_ENlHKiJ-ck98TSVFY2nQ9BvVDEgW-sV0mYzKSunAogpjK9K7AKnkNoVbtwz5j-BWaLR59UGWVAX7A4gNVQrgWm5PazQvkNjVYo1JggJ9aQ5IGWQnoAq9RdScKwWTwJczEcSrEsFuQ/s1600/dill.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="181" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdj_ENlHKiJ-ck98TSVFY2nQ9BvVDEgW-sV0mYzKSunAogpjK9K7AKnkNoVbtwz5j-BWaLR59UGWVAX7A4gNVQrgWm5PazQvkNjVYo1JggJ9aQ5IGWQnoAq9RdScKwWTwJczEcSrEsFuQ/s320/dill.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dill. Ketchup for Russians.</td></tr>
</tbody></table> <br />
On the subject of food, Firdaus is currently doing her head in over the fact I refuse to eat her's. The compromise she came up with was that she'd just cook lots of veg for me, but when I eat vegetables, I prefer them as the main component rather than as a side to 10 gallons of oil. There is nothing her frying pan can't tackle. Pancakes for breakfast one morning? Leftover gets made into blinochki s tvorogom (tvorog wrapped in blini) and refried the next morning! Whenever she proudly announces that something is 'tatarskii!' you know there's going to be something of an oil waterfall going on when you pick it up. Pizza for breakfast is an interesting one too, but I have yet to work out the reason for smearing mayo all over the base. There's been cake for breakfast too, but Russian cake often seems to be a block of cream with a few biscuity/spongey things poked in at random. <br />
There is also a bizarre amount of corriander used in soup, especially in solyanka, which is a mix of every kind of meat you can fit in the pot, mixed with cabbage. Except that Firdaus uses 5 kinds of kolbasa and, according to my analysis of the wikipedia picture, about 10 times too much corriander. And then there is dill. If a meal is to be complete, there must be liberal <strike>sprinklings</strike> mountains of the stuff all over everything, and in everything. Who wouldn't be ecstatic to find secret dill pockets in their extra dill topped pizza base?! However we have found that the hypermarket Globus serves amazing spaghetti bolognaise, so long as you factor in the time spent de dilling it. Totes worth it though. <br />
<br />
<br />
Ok I'll stop whinging about the food, RSD and health now.<br />
On to Babushki!<br />
Firstly, can I just make it <em>abundantly</em> clear that this should be pronounced <em><u><strong>ba</strong></u></em>bushki. Screw you Kate Bush for spending 10 weeks in the charts slaughtering the pronunciation for everyone.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnnT_-7hxJFZ5qk6jkQmqaFRK-XNdFpOyzS7P18elClEPYzcoLXyAvWiecFSegZ1gkXvLSgaNzLEMipPBQhWTJbsZWFtwJNZDD6OY_F4JWPEGkNPMllZ3peSb0vahYl1Kkdeqc4EPIkjM/s1600/bab.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnnT_-7hxJFZ5qk6jkQmqaFRK-XNdFpOyzS7P18elClEPYzcoLXyAvWiecFSegZ1gkXvLSgaNzLEMipPBQhWTJbsZWFtwJNZDD6OY_F4JWPEGkNPMllZ3peSb0vahYl1Kkdeqc4EPIkjM/s320/bab.png" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An informative definition, including a lovely illustration<br />
for your comprehension benefit. Note that I <br />
am referring to definition 2.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Russian Babushki are an interesting breed. Described as the 'Russian national treasure' by several Russians I know, they are simultaneously acknowledged to be terrors. These old women (the word Бабушка/babushka means grandmother) are a force to be reckoned with. I've had a few run ins with babushki, most revolving around public transport. Most recently one launched an attack on my arm because I refused to let go of the rail on the bus when she wanted to get through. Aside from the fact that you could have got a small herd of elephants through the gap at which she was protesting, I have a suspicion that the bus driver had bribed someone for his license, and I refuse to risk another Russian hospital visit because of broken limbs just to appease some insane bab. I would have let go when the bus stopped, it's not as if it the half a metre to the door which she had to traverse would have been overly taxing for her, but the swearing and attempts to de-arm me awoke my stubborn streak, so I just looked at her a little amused...or bemused..I'm not sure which it was. You are supposed to ask if people are getting off at the next stop on transport here (as the much younger woman did to me afterwards, well done her)so there's no pushing through, but babs are immune it seems. <br />
<br />
I've observed them legging it down a road to catch the bus faster than I ever could, push their way through the crowd to get on first and on discovering all the seats to be full, develop some hyper onset crippling disease which severely limits their ability to walk or stand (someone should really look into this disease, I suspect a diagnosis of lyingcowovitis). Then they stand in front of you, staring as you feebly tighten your grip on whatever heavy shopping your visibly exhausted self has sitting on your lap, eyes desperately searching the ground to avoid theirs which you can feel boring their way into your brain, locating the bit responsible for guilt, and twisting it until you haul yourself up and squeeze past so they can take your seat. Lyingcowovitis is often characterised by a relay effect, in which the original affected bab gets off after only one stop and another gets on only to be immediately struck by the disease. Effects on those who surround the afflicted include extreme rage and expletive filled muttering whilst struggling to keep the smetana from being jolted out of the shopping as the bus/trolleybus/marshrutka collides through the streets. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhQZ4jVNibK1-1pTXoOoUwOJ-3HtTmr0wQfJbI5uWHc8HkxTiP4aicU27mpYDL2LXLyE22jyrdXEjmQ3R1fQ1jzdQumkZm6qyAOXeCpUeoOzKqZxbtPpArCF_OUOKzgg-JwPx3YFtOC7E/s1600/bab+bus.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="196" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhQZ4jVNibK1-1pTXoOoUwOJ-3HtTmr0wQfJbI5uWHc8HkxTiP4aicU27mpYDL2LXLyE22jyrdXEjmQ3R1fQ1jzdQumkZm6qyAOXeCpUeoOzKqZxbtPpArCF_OUOKzgg-JwPx3YFtOC7E/s320/bab+bus.gif" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Your typical babushka. I doubt I <em>need</em> to translate, but:<br />
'Parasite, give babushka your seat!'<br />
Note the emty seats all around<br />
And the running shoes<br />
And the grievous bodily harm.<br />
Yeah, Babushki. -_-<br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
I swear I'm not bitter.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong><br />
And after that massive whinge...CНЕГ! </strong><br />
I shall leave you with the snow. It's mild here (-4ish generally, sometimes drops but always seems to pick up again) and the snow hasn't really settled, but when it does, it is fun to play in it :)<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiocimB1i1OCikxjiG-pgBm88KHBZvngJKMwQ9l1rnUBDzz8-be2pl9P4aFqVXCt2dDe_tfMa4X8KavVJRDX5fUpEHNemjorEhO0ur9KA8q2wqBUXFdECrAObVE7JqYYFtORO9ay3zFkFY/s1600/389510_10150399507912077_612672076_8950974_100318327_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiocimB1i1OCikxjiG-pgBm88KHBZvngJKMwQ9l1rnUBDzz8-be2pl9P4aFqVXCt2dDe_tfMa4X8KavVJRDX5fUpEHNemjorEhO0ur9KA8q2wqBUXFdECrAObVE7JqYYFtORO9ay3zFkFY/s320/389510_10150399507912077_612672076_8950974_100318327_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nice and calm, making footprints in fresh snow</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw0xrxxKiqBE0nrBvXCb7tLK655bcsJfGIWNj8YRMzsMSleLCSMz-2VN0kTIQU_rgXWkZPxBdG3VVTqN3jcCs7on7Ic8tiAQ1zH2CVo3w3mYkA_W6-s6Hue-5inBdCF5_AXbNvgkArCp0/s1600/389907_10150399510222077_612672076_8950997_2024123405_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw0xrxxKiqBE0nrBvXCb7tLK655bcsJfGIWNj8YRMzsMSleLCSMz-2VN0kTIQU_rgXWkZPxBdG3VVTqN3jcCs7on7Ic8tiAQ1zH2CVo3w3mYkA_W6-s6Hue-5inBdCF5_AXbNvgkArCp0/s320/389907_10150399510222077_612672076_8950997_2024123405_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hannah, less calm, more yetti, also making footprints </td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;"></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitLHPYBqJs8c1gBOqhsKj3Q0Xg1sVXTIOu4KaKYroAE3qLX-aVL6HDUQQLj3kp9U93aELNOphVXgneyWsdPtFdHrQDeFMP62bOT3tGlM4p9FzxlyebhPc4o2_EoIe_F2zG3Vqizj-IaIk/s1600/378152_10150399510002077_612672076_8950995_821925620_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitLHPYBqJs8c1gBOqhsKj3Q0Xg1sVXTIOu4KaKYroAE3qLX-aVL6HDUQQLj3kp9U93aELNOphVXgneyWsdPtFdHrQDeFMP62bOT3tGlM4p9FzxlyebhPc4o2_EoIe_F2zG3Vqizj-IaIk/s320/378152_10150399510002077_612672076_8950995_821925620_n.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Being Masha, the Yaro Bear</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZtwE1EUknLraNLjDk0vtWQYvH9rkhbgBNs5EptKB0oj-_elTBSuQAWleRJh3eJh8WjHByTb7JReOKJSjiJbI1GGN9Wc6yQe9wYEAfLUe7azGOfznhv_ZHS0Zw2wG8BHBAeuJzraXwfXQ/s1600/385105_10150399508362077_612672076_8950979_716624968_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZtwE1EUknLraNLjDk0vtWQYvH9rkhbgBNs5EptKB0oj-_elTBSuQAWleRJh3eJh8WjHByTb7JReOKJSjiJbI1GGN9Wc6yQe9wYEAfLUe7azGOfznhv_ZHS0Zw2wG8BHBAeuJzraXwfXQ/s320/385105_10150399508362077_612672076_8950979_716624968_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One minute I was happily standing on my snow mountain</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCRhWXUnaUGqeFeFfVUs1A_KU5x69gCY6FHP-dO2Y5_BdzhCr4Csrh8jBYTKV7l2sbeSIF0iFTMjF2NTHMebaH1vrR3gFd96hEjN2V70gm-NpK7ya-IRCXC9McfpQKtaxuW7QfyCdeNV4/s1600/379508_10150399508537077_612672076_8950982_1399044208_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCRhWXUnaUGqeFeFfVUs1A_KU5x69gCY6FHP-dO2Y5_BdzhCr4Csrh8jBYTKV7l2sbeSIF0iFTMjF2NTHMebaH1vrR3gFd96hEjN2V70gm-NpK7ya-IRCXC9McfpQKtaxuW7QfyCdeNV4/s320/379508_10150399508537077_612672076_8950982_1399044208_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The next I was a bit stuck.<br />
<br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div align="left" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2899910241282383547.post-65828327856136734062011-11-19T15:47:00.000-08:002011-11-19T15:47:09.495-08:00Looking in looking out<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I've never felt particularly at ease in the early hours. I jump at shadows, I create monsters out of dark shapes and I door watch. I know what I'm watching for and I know it won't come, but I still watch. Utterly exhausted and suffering from excruciating sears of pain through my body, it would be appreciated if my brain would stop working overtime and let me sleep, but it doesn't relent often. I stand at the window most nights, looking out over the yard and observing the occasional car pull in, its occupant dragging himself out and trudging through the ice towards the block. Nobody looks happy here. There just seems to be, within so many people, some kind of deep melancholy which I can't quite place. Not the stereotypical 'Russians don't smile', but something that runs a little deeper.<br />
Everything is grey. Everything is hard work. There's little pay off. <br />
<br />
Walking along streets, through corridors of old women selling their recent picks of grubby vegetables, sat on ever softening old cardboard on pavements becoming increasingly slushy from ice and snow, I feel uncomfortable sometimes. There is an old woman who sits on a chair in the same spot every day, outside a market, an ancient weighing scale at her feet, and sometimes a few pairs of knitted mittens to offer. There are more who sit in their spots holding out tins with signs next to them. In Moscow people sit on the metro steps, filthy in the below freezing temperatures with their hands feebly stretched out, blending into the walls as more fortunate people stride by on their business. In Uglich, a small, wrinkled woman followed our group around showing us 'postcards' she had cut from a pack, selling them for 5 roubles each.<br />
<br />
Everything is so pretty in the sunlight, imposing Soviet grey buildings look grand and full of historical interest, mildy painted pastel town halls are pretty and babushkas offering up their jars of pickles seems sweet and almost whimsical. But now it's grey and cold, everything is starting to assume an oppressive tint. I hurry through streets to the warmth of home and ignore the babushki and the old woman with her tin, still in their places, unable to move. I resent the bland buildings blending into the snow filled sky, creating a bleak scene as far as the trudge home stretches. My legs protest from the cold and seize up once I'm indoors as punishment for attempting to live here.<br />
It's not even December. This is not a forgiving country. I knew that. But standing here now, it appears worse looking out than it did looking in.<br />
<br />
I think it will be quite nice to go home after all. </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2899910241282383547.post-48783413219997837072011-11-13T02:37:00.000-08:002011-11-13T08:46:28.501-08:00Procrastination. It follows me like the plague. (Maybe I should drink some tea...)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: red;">*Apologies for lack of photos. With the impending internet apocalypse nothing wants to upload*</span></div><br />
You know what's really rubbish about living here? Once you've got past the initial 'WOOOO I'M IN RUSSIA EVERYTHING'S REALLY EXCITING' phase, everything becomes normal. And that is why I am sat here writing this when I have a list of things to do that just keeps growing. As hopeful as I was that cold weather would put it off, (no pun intended) procrastination follows me wherever I go. I can't quite accept that I should be getting stressed over work here, it doesn't feel right. However, I have masses of a year abroad project to write, 2 (newly announced as assessed) pieces from 'СМИ' (Some utterly useless subject on which I refuse to write any more for fear of getting too angry and smashing something) and a test in grammar on everything up to reading week.<br />
<br />
I also need to reply to an email from a Russian, <em>in Russian</em>-and that means I actually have to attempt to write correctly, as opposed to, 'let's put a 'ski' or an 'ov' on the end of that English word, that'll make it sound more Russian, sure they'll get my drift' . And wash my hair. And, most likely within the next few hours, buy a new modem, because my internet is due to die today, and I will be devastated. I don't like to dwell too much on what will happen if it does and I don't get new internet today, but I imagine it will be somewhat akin to life in the dark ages. Admittedly, I think of the dark ages and conjure up apocalyptic images of horsemen and lava (I may have my historical events mixed up a wee bit here, one being based in the 10th century, and one being a biblical nonsense of what is to come), but I think it's quite clear that without internet (read: google translate) I am likely to fall into some sort of major depression. I envision myself rocking slowly back and forth in a corner of the room, spattering out Russian cases, interspersed with the odd frantic (incorrect), recitation of verbs of motion. Behind the tv, most likely. That's about the only spot the frickin cat has not messed all over. God I hate Rizhik.<br />
<br />
Righto.<br />
Firdaus' daughter is home at the moment. She came home from uni early, and is now staying past the end of her holiday. Firdaus is clearly incredibly fed up of her. As is Russian Step Dad. And Hannah. But she's going soon. Next week for definite. Probably.<br />
<br />
I should probably explain the family.<br />
<br />
<strong>Exhibit A</strong>: Firdaus. Head of some cultural whatsit group, constantly rushing around as if she's late for something, almost always on the phone, has road rage. Has a partner: Russian Step Dad/Mogamed. Enjoys frying things and talking at the speed of light. Nice. Thinks every health issue is caused by open windows or drinking яд (yad- poison) ie Coke. Our influence for now referring to every fizzy drink as 'yad' or, if we are feeling healthy, 'yad light'. Has the audacity to preach this whilst wearing a top on which a pepsi bottle is printed.<br />
<br />
<strong>Exhibit B</strong>: Mogamed. I only knew of him as Russian Step Dad (RSD) until Hannah told me his real name. This doesn't stop me from calling him RSD (not to his face, obvs, although he wouldn't understand anyway, and doesn't talk to me, either). Asked Hannah to get me to bring hearing aid batteries from home for his brother. Visits at awkward times, has a strange accent (this from the foreigner who can barely string a sentence together in Russian) loves Hannah and ignores me. Redeeming feature: Fixes the light bulbs in my room on the many occassions Russian electricity kills them. Also fixed the curtains when I managed to break the rail.<br />
<br />
<strong>Exhibit C</strong>: Nadia. Firdaus' daughter, at uni in Kazan (apart from now). Apparently shares a room with 2 or 3 other girls at uni and generally doesn't get a great deal of privacy by the sound of it, so is taking full advantage of being home and Firdaus doing everything for her. Plays her music very loudly and irritates Hannah, being in the next room to her. Enjoys 'House'. Especially enjoys that Firdaus does not like this 'foreign series'. Is actually very nice apart from this. <br />
<br />
<strong>Exhibit D</strong>: Rizhik. Depressed cat. Ginger. Makes unnatural meowing sounds. Scratches at my door and jumps on my bed, scratches and meows obnoxiously when I kick him out. Known as a 'hooligan' by Firdaus, who thinks that despite his unpleasant behaviour, everyone loves him. (She's wrong).<br />
<br />
As host families go, I think it's a pretty decent situation. It would be nice if Firdaus didn't try to force tea down my throat at every little sniffle (cure for everything here - London wouldn't have suffered half as much if Firdaus had been there with a samovar during the plague) and if there wasn't something going on that we can't quite figure out, but which upsets Firdaus massively. Her and RSD sometimes have <em>massive </em>fights and usually she ends up crying her eyes out. Hasn't really happened since Nadia has been home, probably because there have been arguments between her and Firdaus/RSD instead, but I'm sure they'll resume. Nay mind, it occupies us when attempting to guess what is going on at any rate.<br />
<br />
Firdaus was most excited to hear that we were going to Uglich yesterday (yes, <em>again, </em>but this was a trip with uni. We were assured there would definitely be several churches and no reporters this time). We were all cultured up and somehow I managed to recall first year history and know exactly what was going on in most of the paintings we saw in churches and museums. The guide even had a sense of humour, adding at one point that, 'we do, after all, live in a <em>relatively</em> free country'. It was a fairly amusing tour anyway, given that much of it centred around Ivan the Terrible, who did some pretty unbelievable things, but the sometimes slightly awkward english of the guide helped, when, for instance, she talked about how he had a 'mentally insane son, if it is ok to say so'...well, no, it isn't really, but you're lols Irina so do go ahead.<br />
<br />
<span style="color: magenta;"></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: magenta;">*Please imagine photos of pretty church like things here. An iconastasis is always nice.*</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>There are 40 days until I go home. Might change it to a few days earlier, just because of practicalities - things aren't easy to organise when you land on the evening of the 23rd, and I have no idea how my Father is going to buy any presents without me there, but that is yet to be seen, and might require a trip to Moscow just to check if there are any seats on planes which are in the right category, which is a bit of an effort. It would have been so much easier to have booked the flight myself in hindsight; cheaper and easier to change flights, but meh. We'll see.<br />
<br />
Also, the year abroad tutor is coming to see us on Thursday. This means I have less than a week in which I must avoid falling ill/injuring myself. If it doesn't snow again, I stand a good chance. Somehow I fell over last week, and I swear there wasn't even any ice. The Russians looked at me with disgust. Score. So, despite my ever protesting nervous system protesting more than ever (woo word play!), I feel I deserve to be smug at this upcoming meeting, so long as I can avoid any medical catastrophes. Ura!<br />
<br />
<br />
I am going to wash my hair now. Slowly working up the things to do list, least important first.<br />
Oh dear.<br />
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2899910241282383547.post-38680682577422268582011-10-27T06:32:00.000-07:002011-10-27T06:32:41.492-07:00Москва (Moskva)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">First of all: Apologies for whatever the hell I am actually writing, I don't check it. My new medication is making me a little...woozy. I am incapable of condensing anything also, excuse the length. My brain extends its sincere thanks to you for your understanding.</div><br />
<br />
Whilst I can't be certain that my Russian is improving, my procrastination skills are surely of Masters level at least by now. The year abroad project is on my mind. 6000 words on Soviet cartoons seems kind of slightly impossible and scary at the moment, so I have been keeping busy doing anything to avoid it. Ill most of the week, I managed to legitimately sleep away most of the worry, but yesterday I needed to get a little more creative. So, I bought a Toy Story 3 drawing pad. And some felt tips. This is to accompany my Winnie the Pooh jigsaw puzzle and Sims 3. I actually bought the puzzle quite a while ago, but I forgot that being colour blind hinders me somewhat and it's proving a little difficult to get all the pieces with straight edges grouped...<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
We also visited a church, mainly to get in from the cold, but it was pretty all the same. Lots of gold sparkly things. And a coffin. With somebody in it. Having seen the gold casket shaped thing with the lid open from the other side of the room, I probably should have known better than to go and look, but there you go. Was in such a rush to back off that I didn't even glance at the sign next to it to decipher who this poor person was. Unpleasant. Thankfully, you can swear without people understanding, so I wasn't kicked out for insulting the Russian Orthodoxy people. I'd made the effort to bundle my hair into my hat, even it made me resemble an egg, so I would have been a bit put out if I had been thrown out for being a bit taken aback by the corpse just chilling in the corner.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinxUe7hr1gS9JpDwhg4usESmhDSRV40vrR-RvOZQMSVWlAPh8HsKV-OEuXosyn8d-F49v8mYAED0QTtr1RxYOgF6EcV3pflvw-kQ_5puY-lK4GxjVrumYyOCsi3eIV98OFcFqC3i6FsI0/s1600/P1010034.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinxUe7hr1gS9JpDwhg4usESmhDSRV40vrR-RvOZQMSVWlAPh8HsKV-OEuXosyn8d-F49v8mYAED0QTtr1RxYOgF6EcV3pflvw-kQ_5puY-lK4GxjVrumYyOCsi3eIV98OFcFqC3i6FsI0/s320/P1010034.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looks more like a casket now...</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpcplaDo_q1RiRKkcCfpbMfCi-LAfLUPfoSkYtk2P2uu1BmIkeQzq0sMeOM135enB7rMQ7E5v2o8DCu0JgqfP0p_Wbkkiiv6-4cC9XsE1KUThRbVWcrfuoXZi0kZizriYRUOhmQO4D1iY/s1600/P1010038.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpcplaDo_q1RiRKkcCfpbMfCi-LAfLUPfoSkYtk2P2uu1BmIkeQzq0sMeOM135enB7rMQ7E5v2o8DCu0JgqfP0p_Wbkkiiv6-4cC9XsE1KUThRbVWcrfuoXZi0kZizriYRUOhmQO4D1iY/s320/P1010038.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Assumption Cathedral (New)<br />
Originally built in the 17th century, destroyed <br />
by the Soviets in the 1930s (what noobs). Apparently<br />
12 metres higher than the previous building.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><br />
Yaroslavl has felt much smaller since we got back from Moscow. Admittedly, the place is fairly gargantuan, everywhere feels massive regardless of where you are there, so it is a poor comparison, but the weekend of everything being so Western spoiled us. <br />
This weekend was rather impromptu, due to a sudden doctor's appointment being needed at an American hospital there (thanks very much drug addicts of Russia for landing my medication on the illegal list) and the train I needed to get being the next day. Deciding to make an outing of it, Hannah joined me and Firdaus walked us to the bus stop to get to the station the next morning. Just after making a comment over me being the reason Hannah wasn't taking part in the competition (again), the bus came. Fortunate timing.<br />
<br />
Boarded the train and found ourselves sitting in the same section as a lovely gentleman still in his pyjamas from the overnight journey, eating a hunk of tuna directly from the tin. With his hands. Thank god it wasn't as hot as the train last year in Petersburg, would have been disgusting. He turned out to be quite nice, in fairness, and gave us both the bottom benches for the entire journey, while taking the upper for himself. <br />
<br />
4 and a half hours of listening to small children singing the Krokodil Gena song 'Goloboy Vagon' later (not grating on the ears at all, in fact that one tone deaf boy's yelling really added to the <strike>pure torture</strike> cultural experience), we found our way to the metro. This is massive (I think most things in Moscow are) and took some navigation thanks to the many perekhodi (like station interchanges you walk) but the stations are ornate, so the trip wasn't too bad. Needed a sleep but after a couple of hours in the hostel I dragged myself out with Hannah to meet up with our friend from uni who is currently in Moscow, who said she'd show us the big touristy spots in central Moscow.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhaMpkg0PhN29-A0eLp5WeyNoI6fjhhkAyOGknU_N9AJmzaSdpPI-KHcFlFSRUf2LGatvsg-6FuYwYzCIX03Q_zCkqDDaCVTXb5gE32VUNL40EkyzDcT0Su2Qow2Ho7DtKNiMRCC-uvm8/s1600/P1000861.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhaMpkg0PhN29-A0eLp5WeyNoI6fjhhkAyOGknU_N9AJmzaSdpPI-KHcFlFSRUf2LGatvsg-6FuYwYzCIX03Q_zCkqDDaCVTXb5gE32VUNL40EkyzDcT0Su2Qow2Ho7DtKNiMRCC-uvm8/s320/P1000861.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bolshoi Theatre. Before we realised what it was.</td></tr>
</tbody></table> We managed to accidentally find the Bolshoi Theatre on our quest to get to the right metro. Standing by a very big white building, I commented on the ticket office for the theatre. Then wondered aloud where the theatre could possibly be. Had Hannah take a picture of me outside the pretty white building. Saw the metro stop was 'Teatralnaya'. Realised I am quite blonde. Sad times. <br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEcyaruHxOK5d3_pORIHxXUZp6FTuYO6rDGAHH7e1U2LT6a1fPo6ZpVGibgsEfztBlxuY2ExLBQ6noTc1DEQc_L_ZR62QzvGjr1SbCblObQ8OW43Z3yPrJRqsi__l9PxGfox_ABEEawMU/s1600/P1000828.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEcyaruHxOK5d3_pORIHxXUZp6FTuYO6rDGAHH7e1U2LT6a1fPo6ZpVGibgsEfztBlxuY2ExLBQ6noTc1DEQc_L_ZR62QzvGjr1SbCblObQ8OW43Z3yPrJRqsi__l9PxGfox_ABEEawMU/s320/P1000828.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Down the train wagon</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6BJwxX8TVk1qItwrU8M6Ls40LOkND-7rP2qT2ZiaxQI6_0OikZx_pzqLg5wDMo-HU5U0Yrz0of8pZFt_OAy60RIxCFsRIdiQn30DZrzr7lXU1nW057JojdykGpx7fzBglBY_dK3tGE5I/s1600/P1000987.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6BJwxX8TVk1qItwrU8M6Ls40LOkND-7rP2qT2ZiaxQI6_0OikZx_pzqLg5wDMo-HU5U0Yrz0of8pZFt_OAy60RIxCFsRIdiQn30DZrzr7lXU1nW057JojdykGpx7fzBglBY_dK3tGE5I/s320/P1000987.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We saw Stalin and Lenin and wandering around in the metro...</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div> Turns out that our friend doesn't know Moscow too well. But it was ok, detours only served as opportunities for weird Russians to ask for photos with her. Am quite sure that, in the eyes of Russians, all black people have just been washed up on their shores in their hollowed out canoes, ready to perform native tribal dances and be amazed at the advanced and great nation that is Russia. Drunks holding philosophical Dostoyevsky centred conversations with statues of clowns (I wish I'd taken a photo), electricity <u>outside</u> and even their own special form of democracy...ish-elections and all.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju9k3_yOKsx3JsBkWI85Xsbnta0insNc8TnTN_9sTHMyhZ8fqVxmHnRPSSSZYpjeG6AU1LWfXRQLB5qakBx5sZUrQvtgvFXssHqD2wTcGyPryMe4KVperNyy7cXf7GWSgIW8sibo1BboA/s1600/P1010025.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju9k3_yOKsx3JsBkWI85Xsbnta0insNc8TnTN_9sTHMyhZ8fqVxmHnRPSSSZYpjeG6AU1LWfXRQLB5qakBx5sZUrQvtgvFXssHqD2wTcGyPryMe4KVperNyy7cXf7GWSgIW8sibo1BboA/s200/P1010025.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What happens when it rains?</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<br />
She takes it very well. I don't know anybody else who would turn the semi racist attention into a lucrative business opportunity. Although apparently she hasn't been asked for photos since Petrozavodsk, when I spent much time dragging her away from abusive drunks, in the short time we were there, twice people approached asking for photos. And twice, she attempted to charge for them. Made somewhat less successful due to actually asking 'skolko stoit?', which actually means 'how much does it cost?', but did lead to entertainingly confused Russians. The gap in the market is most definitely there. 70 roubles per photo seemed a potentially extremely profitable gap, from last year's experience.<br />
It's ok so long as the interest is genuine. Russians are curious people, asking more questions than perhaps would be deemed polite at home, but there is, without a doubt, much genuinely racist feeling here too, from observing people's reactions. Dear Russia, there are <strong>other countries</strong> in the world that are not you, with people who are <strong>foreign</strong>. Sometimes these foreigners are even quite educated. Go learn. I don't get abuse for walking down the road. Only when I open my mouth at the supermarket... (Massive generalisation. ish. Most young people are pretty open to us being there...so long as you're skin tone matches theirs...)<br />
<br />
Standard trip around GUM (Massive and very expensive shopping mall in Red Square), grumbling over the masses of scaffolding and barriers around the Kremlin and St Basils Cathedral which ruined photo opportunities. All this followe by a trip to Burger King. We're so cultured. <br />
Slightly ironical that Lenin is lying by a rather extreme form of capitalism*, McDonalds, anyone? GUM had nothing in it during Soviet shortages. Doesn't have that issue now...<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZY32e4kbMyTgHF-2sszodTzkFB4EIJoKRqqH6ZV2WJMLaiNtgUyy9IKbanZTfwyZZt80AIjMMoM8gGCtZfRhZfcFOcfrm7bc7f4RAVVbZ1JI9rUhvH0493b7MHmmf_gPPRCIHL1G3QSI/s1600/P1000875.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZY32e4kbMyTgHF-2sszodTzkFB4EIJoKRqqH6ZV2WJMLaiNtgUyy9IKbanZTfwyZZt80AIjMMoM8gGCtZfRhZfcFOcfrm7bc7f4RAVVbZ1JI9rUhvH0493b7MHmmf_gPPRCIHL1G3QSI/s320/P1000875.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Just by the Kremlin</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjecPa5-Upw-qaKXwHM-KUIx0BUKPVbbGEycuyBxJokD3mwGLX3MWUYfgfsIS69HcFNf8fbh5iqP49XjB4wYhX1oFmNZP7jU8Iw9eSFWhjJVL-mUHDd2EfVAqDjgx_f7a1wXNebt0amA2E/s1600/P1000868.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjecPa5-Upw-qaKXwHM-KUIx0BUKPVbbGEycuyBxJokD3mwGLX3MWUYfgfsIS69HcFNf8fbh5iqP49XjB4wYhX1oFmNZP7jU8Iw9eSFWhjJVL-mUHDd2EfVAqDjgx_f7a1wXNebt0amA2E/s320/P1000868.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">GUM</td></tr>
</tbody></table> <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
*He's still in his mausoleum...not like, just having a little lie down amongst the tourists on Red Square. Poor guy wanted to be buried next to his Mother. What a smack in the face.<br />
<br />
<br />
It should maybe have seemed a little stranger that we were all meeting up in Russia after not seeing eachother for at least 6 weeks (and since the end of last term for me), but nope. Sat around discussing our respective hosts and their bizarre habits, felt grateful to Firdaus for not presenting me with a cheese sandwich and exactly 8 pieces of pelmeni every morning. It feels a bit like they're our pets our something.<br />
<br />
We found ourselves wandering round looking for shampoo that night at about 11, and had to settle on an apteka (chemist) which, while open at night, required you to knock at the little hatch window and explain what you want. Pre-conversation briefing to figure out what to say naturally went to pot when the chemist asked something unexpected, but got the shampoo in the end. I have now conquered the scary windows. Success! And it meant I wasn't too manky for the hospital the next day. People who pay stupid money for an appointment do not have greasy hair.<br />
<br />
Skimming over the apointment (which lasted over 2 hours, thanks very much extreme stress and initial blood pressure over 185/130-surely I should have been dead?), we went to Park Pobedy and found an awesome war museum which had free entry for students. Score. Totally recommend this place, the monument outside was huuuuuge, the park has to be beautiful in Summer (we were freezing so I'm not sure I appreciated it quite so much-first snow that day) and the museum is full of lovely old babs who actually want you to be there and don't bark at you when ask where the toilets are. (Don't use them though. I'm not entirely sure why they were asian style...).<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiizXnKovA0cQxQqTkXAOlGxsP9tpVqQo7BLOoV2yi0mSOsG_kmIwVB4blRUlcANOj2InV_Lc4xQ8cEATQTlcLsLPA5JVJeSrijxJRkcoaAj_l4lsyt6d3Um5VOksNyPmh13ZlvMhL804Y/s1600/P1000886.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiizXnKovA0cQxQqTkXAOlGxsP9tpVqQo7BLOoV2yi0mSOsG_kmIwVB4blRUlcANOj2InV_Lc4xQ8cEATQTlcLsLPA5JVJeSrijxJRkcoaAj_l4lsyt6d3Um5VOksNyPmh13ZlvMhL804Y/s200/P1000886.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Archway by park Pobedy</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkIibtJejryNjFNr78P0Ea3kpoNijV4yn6uWbupON8ZNBebam4Jz4aR-u50TRpjFqbvHqfeRtQ9XFF4mtJg9K-BgA6bnCV7G512_d2bCoZ2IWDk6PUndwcfYicuRBQO4iG27CaCa0zO9w/s1600/P1000887.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkIibtJejryNjFNr78P0Ea3kpoNijV4yn6uWbupON8ZNBebam4Jz4aR-u50TRpjFqbvHqfeRtQ9XFF4mtJg9K-BgA6bnCV7G512_d2bCoZ2IWDk6PUndwcfYicuRBQO4iG27CaCa0zO9w/s320/P1000887.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Museum of the Great Patriotic War</td></tr>
</tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSgnNA2KWaptPcLIkTCo0mksh0cHDC6Xwgfo0aonBmsbw2jjTim6AYlEOWtDGxZtEgDOH9dY8L9OzMDyYmqN6DSQ0y6DaCbF7m00UrAUJTXHwqHsiVAeugc0N5kpuNcx2OIEg6es5lon4/s1600/P1000956.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSgnNA2KWaptPcLIkTCo0mksh0cHDC6Xwgfo0aonBmsbw2jjTim6AYlEOWtDGxZtEgDOH9dY8L9OzMDyYmqN6DSQ0y6DaCbF7m00UrAUJTXHwqHsiVAeugc0N5kpuNcx2OIEg6es5lon4/s320/P1000956.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hall of glory, with names of Russia's war heroes.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtesPF4mip34xIoAQM5_fOw3lAU9XQ7_G-ohwqwhTyiRzemyJYsHNH_x5z8Vck9YhksiPYpoDbjn9D8Yq4eW2u-cH-UxH22-bTYdcAlUWeMLa5KF6ZCf95hc7V4z4klFVsKN9RTts9rT0/s1600/P1000914.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtesPF4mip34xIoAQM5_fOw3lAU9XQ7_G-ohwqwhTyiRzemyJYsHNH_x5z8Vck9YhksiPYpoDbjn9D8Yq4eW2u-cH-UxH22-bTYdcAlUWeMLa5KF6ZCf95hc7V4z4klFVsKN9RTts9rT0/s200/P1000914.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The usual eternally burning flame<br />
<br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>We found an ad for an Indian restaurant in the Moscow Times. No metro stop info though, just a vague area and 'opposite the Belarussian embassy'. We wanted curry. Quite a lot. Therefore, we decided to just roll on up at Kitai-Gorod metro stop and wander around, in the dark, until we found it.<br />
It took some time, but we got our curry. <br />
Slightly bizarre being greeted in Russian and switching between English and Russian to order and speak to the waiters, but the food was <em><u>amazing</u></em>. Full of expats, very expensive, totally worth it.<br />
I have considered that it might be a little wrong that an Indian restaurant can feel so much like England. But then I dismissed it, because I freaking LOVE curry.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEYJU2URtASaMhumk-AjaV1b6ijrWdV_NFo8Q5-qP34xGZpwd82kLlNzD2N5gJoBTNRH404_Q5GT8jMe5nQOWbU6uP9sP-CgruMM5_a3DK0o1STnjjjcivb3PNNpyN29vGESZGCm9aNfg/s1600/P1000993.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEYJU2URtASaMhumk-AjaV1b6ijrWdV_NFo8Q5-qP34xGZpwd82kLlNzD2N5gJoBTNRH404_Q5GT8jMe5nQOWbU6uP9sP-CgruMM5_a3DK0o1STnjjjcivb3PNNpyN29vGESZGCm9aNfg/s320/P1000993.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">There were a couple of blokes from Scotland behind us and <br />
a table full of Americans and English to the right. <br />
At least one token Russian family, too.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<br />
Oh, and they had real hot towels at the end. I needed a flannel. I normally 'borrow' a glass from restaurants. I borrowed the towel this time. Score.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtZQwGEkdFwMGERf-RUicIMvHMnQ797AF7e93G08FTx-nnCWOKZaOwZ5LVCHilvgAQVo5OAE_3c3536_DbfMgpL6FSKxFeZpLs1Z1jDhuy7oxV69M1t-6bqvqfp47-wKOrkACG5jRY0PU/s1600/P1010003.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtZQwGEkdFwMGERf-RUicIMvHMnQ797AF7e93G08FTx-nnCWOKZaOwZ5LVCHilvgAQVo5OAE_3c3536_DbfMgpL6FSKxFeZpLs1Z1jDhuy7oxV69M1t-6bqvqfp47-wKOrkACG5jRY0PU/s320/P1010003.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ura!!!</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
Kleptomaniac tendencies satisfied and it being the last day, we went to a shopping mall called MEGA. The name might give it away-it was big. And Western! M&S, anybody? We spent all day there - I will never buy leggings from anywhere but Berska, now; new discovery - until it was time to get the train back (where we were total celebrities just for being English), arrived back at Yaroslavl Glavniy Station, waited for a bus that never came and got a taxi home by midnight.<br />
<br />
<br />
I should explain that I am not yearning to go home, at all (but I wouldn't say no to a Sunday Roast). However, Russia is very....Russian. And sometimes, it's nice to take a break from it. Which takes us right back to the start of this iliad of an entry. Moscow is great for a break, but I'm not sure what the value of the constant Westernisation would be to me. Waitresses tend to practise their English on us here in Yaro, but otherwise, nobody speaks it. We are forced into the culture. Moscow just seems too vast for me, I wouldn't know where to start with it and it would be oh so very easy to opt out of Russian entirely. The year abroad tutor likes Moscow <em>a lot</em>, but I'm glad I didn't listen to her. Yaroslavl was definitely the right choice for me.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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<div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2899910241282383547.post-28698002622733306482011-10-19T06:21:00.000-07:002011-10-26T14:08:51.605-07:00Bin ballet, talent shows and depressed bears.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<br />
Ok, I feel I should write in more detail about what has happened this past month, however, I am ill, on some wonderfully exhausting new pills and I just can't be arsed. So.<br />
<br />
<strong><u>Weather</u></strong><strong></strong><br />
The first thing people seem to ask when they talk to me, is not how I am, how I'm coping or how I've remained out of hospital for this long, but what the weather is like. Being English, I can accept this, but really people, a full 5 weeks with no hospital, some acknowledgement please!<br />
<br />
The heating came on a few weeks ago, when we were still easily into double figures temperature wise. Russia is keen to show off it's heating capability, clearly, only we can't control the radiators, so we boiled for a while. Sleeping with one window open as a precaution to avoid death by roasting was not approved of by my host. Firdaus now attributes every little cough and sneeze to the fact that, in 17 degree heat, with radiators on of a higher temperature, I dared to let in a bit of a breeze. <br />
Russia is a nation of hypochondriacs-there's a chemist on every corner to deal with all of their non existent ailments. For example, if one happens to sit on a concrete floor, you will become infertile. If, in 30degree heat, a drink stored in the fridge seems appealing, think again, because you'll promptly be struck down by pneumonia if you fall for that one. Of course, everything can be fixed with tea. So my host was not exactly pleased when I failed to give in to her constant pressure to drink tea and close the window. She even seemed to take pleasure in the fact that I was having nightly battles with mosquitoes that had got in. One night I swatted one, and MY blood exploded from the bloody thing. God I hate them so much. However, the insect guards have been removed from the windows now and replaced with very thick nets and curtains, so I guess they've all been killed off in the cold.<br />
<br />
Good.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Anyway, it's cold enough for me to have the window closed at least 50% of the time now. It's generally around 4degrees during the day, which is fine so long as there's no wind, in which case I don't fare too well. The nerves in my face dislike cold wind. Must buy a balaclava. I rarely go anywhere without a massive scarf and hat anyway, just in case. The first snow fell on Saturday, although I missed it, being in Moscow freezing in Park Pobedi instead. Apparently the snow might not settle until mid December, if that. So there you have it people, Russia is not just one big blizzard all year round. Sorry.<br />
<br />
<strong><u>Classes</u></strong><br />
<br />
The topic that crops up after the disappointment following the revelation that I'm not frolicking around in Christmas card scenes and making snow angels 24/7 (like I ever frolic anywhere), is class. I started out getting up at 7am, and we'd be out at 8.30. Nowadays, I tend to set the alarm for 7.30, skip breakfast and roll out of bed somewhere around the 7.50 mark. Still manage to get out for<em> about </em>8.30...ish...only it does mean that mornings are turned into something of an obstacle course attempting to dodge Firdaus when she yells at me for not eating again. Then there is the daily bin run on the walk in. Russian flats don't seem to have bins. It's an issue when your room is full of pepsi cans, crisp packets and (in my case) several 5litre water bottles. So in the mornings we cross onto the long island which runs in the middle of the road-just has trees and benches, a couple of bins, and in a beautifully synchronised display, we each branch off to either side and place our bags into the bins. We do have to be a bit careful because, although we're doing nothing wrong, we <em>are </em>doing nothing wrong in front of a police station. <br />
Howevs. One day last week, there was a woman with a face like a duck watching us. I was not in a good mood. So we did our olympic standard synchronised bin ballet and rejoined in the middle, and she decides it's her place to whinge at us. Waited until we were a little closer of course, so as not to strain her duck bill, and then launches into an aggressive rant about why we couldn't just have done that in our own houses and blah blah blah. I could have responded by telling her that we'd done nothing wrong. Bins are bins, we'd only put in small bags, even in Russian law she'd have a hard time finding something against us. But I didn't. I responded in English, and kept it very short and to the point. Shan't repeat, but I think she understood. <br />
<br />
On to the walk in, we pass a jail, and that's the only road we don't dare to cross without the nice little green man telling us we can. Then eventually we reach uni. It's generally tropically heated, so it is necessary to strip your layers off as soon as you've tackled the masses of stairs, and then classes start at 9.10. Or they would do if, tragically, the teachers gained a better sense of timekeeping. I'm not complaining. 4 lessons of 50 minutes, some double. Translation is dire, Russian Media (SMI) is just bleh, Analytical reading is ok, so is grammar and Speaking is awesome. The teacher is pretty much the definition of cool and I think I may have a girl crush on her, as do many people apparently. She looked a bit like Peter Pan the other day, and that's all I see now, but still. I like the blue in her fringe. <br />
Translation teacher longs for a return to the Soviet Union and will go off on one for most of the lesson if you ask the right questions, hates supermarkets and loves fish. Did you know you can tell a good fish from the colouring under its....well....that bit under its head...like, the chin bit? <br />
No, neither did I. And you can only possibly know that if you lived in Soviet times because there was no other meat and ingredients were extremely limited (and obvs that's a great selling point)But I can't stand fish, so clearly I wouldn't have done well in the good old USSR. <br />
<br />
I spend quite a lot of my time in class doodling. The workbooks here are all checked rather than lined, and they're just screaming to be coloured in. But I get by. I'm certain I haven't made any progress at all, and my memory is akin to a sieve, which makes it difficult to retain any new vocab, but the class here is so much nicer than my class in Birmingham and the teaching is different, which does seem to sit well with me.<br />
It is, of course, all in Russian, too. Depending on the day, lesson and my mood, this is both a good and bad thing. Overall, it's all good.<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong><u>The talent show</u></strong><br />
<br />
You'd have thought, after Uglich, we'd learn. However when Firdaus burst in to tell Hannah that she had an invitation for her to take part in a 'festival' in which she'd dress up as a 'traditional english girl' (fake burberry and pregnancy stomach sprang to mind), Hannah did not say No. She said maybe, which, with a personality as strong as Firdaus', is a yes. It started off that she'd just stand there in a pretty dress which we'd find in the theatre. Then it progressed to cooking a dish from your country. Then there was talk of writing about your home. We had a little talk with Firdaus, who convinced Hannah that it was worth trying, and she'd be there the whole time.<br />
So we went along to some offices where possibly the most beautiful women outside of the airbrushed magazine type we'd ever seen, were gathered to have their pictures taken, representing their individual countries. Naturally, Firdaus left us. She said she'd be with us. Such lies.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg_Y72hWaAal6a13AijNzyTFdL-yjP-IPC-069UbAKiVUDUzsG8JT7xsv9zhtO0cia3t6-RPdHq6ZJwKa7KVHwEaLBS4zRdEF1K1wEljJcEt5PLyZjfqp_EGdybmNPRWmYKPxKf_LAUQg/s1600/P1000789.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg_Y72hWaAal6a13AijNzyTFdL-yjP-IPC-069UbAKiVUDUzsG8JT7xsv9zhtO0cia3t6-RPdHq6ZJwKa7KVHwEaLBS4zRdEF1K1wEljJcEt5PLyZjfqp_EGdybmNPRWmYKPxKf_LAUQg/s200/P1000789.JPG" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">She isn't even from London...</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<br />
So we take a look at the form that was shoved under our noses for Hannah to fill out. Education, achievements....talent....we looked at the top of the form, and there it was. The word 'Competition'. Not only that, the words 'Miss International Russia' were above the word 'competition'. Nice one Firdaus. <br />
No choice but to go along with it, Hannah filled in the form as best she could, and we waited forever to have her pictures taken. Everyone else was seeeriously dressed up, and it didn't help that the Russians are the biggest posers ever-they seem to have an inherent ability for it. But finally we were called outside, and dragged around the estate we were on, Hannah made to pose ridiculously and throw leaves over herself because, apparently, that's what makes a good photo.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9twHtInXbSm15T8SaWCr4dTyr7QUqZtvXeO7Jb8dslVr9MB1KYMsv8K4vnaU-LNxJLBdDh2CK6pYgGhZ_M5Zbo8xI2p91DYYcMS-1ibDx1FteVD2wwLAP6vx26SAyK9AKYYeSs7bvrrs/s1600/P1000794.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9twHtInXbSm15T8SaWCr4dTyr7QUqZtvXeO7Jb8dslVr9MB1KYMsv8K4vnaU-LNxJLBdDh2CK6pYgGhZ_M5Zbo8xI2p91DYYcMS-1ibDx1FteVD2wwLAP6vx26SAyK9AKYYeSs7bvrrs/s200/P1000794.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chucking leaves at her face</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
When it was finished, we ran away and went to McDonalds. Lols.<br />
A second little talk with Firdaus resulted in her lecturing us on 'the lessons of life' and how we musn't be scared to do these things. Plus, it was ok for Hannah to do it because last year's winner wasn't even pretty, she only won because she put lots of international flags in her cake! <br />
Of course. She even asked if I wanted to do it. I indicated that I would rather not, thanks all the same...<br />
So we agreed she would try and if she really didn't want to do it, that would be it, no questions asked<br />
Firdaus is a MASSIVE liar.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
We went to a rehearsal one night with all the other girls. Firdaus stayed this time. I sat there loling to myself whilst watching everyone being assigned positions and reading out their pieces (Hannah didn't have one-Firdaus hadn't told her this) and practising their walks and god knows what else. At the end of this, we were introduced to the man in charge of everything. Somewhat bizarrely, he said, 'Oh, you are english?! You speak english?! Let's undress!' and proceeded to pull at his collar as if he was going to strip.<br />
Russians. Who knows.<br />
<br />
That night, Hannah had resolutely decided there was no way she would be doing this competition. There are many reasons behind this, but fear was not really one. She simply didn't want to. So, with carefully rehearsed speech, she went to Firdaus. Who laughed. And said that she hadn't tried. Then blamed me for Hannah not wanting to, and asked what I'd said to her, and told me it was between Hannah and herself when I pointed out that actually, Hannah just didn't want to do it.<br />
I may not have the best Russian, but it doesn't stop me getting massively pissed off at people and showing it. Hannah eventually left the room practically crying, while I stayed to deliver evil looks and tell Firdaus that she wasn't scared, and well done because she'd made her upset.<br />
Hannah and I then ate cake. Quite a lot of cake.<br />
<br />
It was unfortunate timing that Firdaus decided to offer something of an apology as I was sat with my roll cake, knife and fork in hand to cut a slice, looking like I was about to nom down the entire thing.<br />
But she did say that if Hannah really didn't want to, she didn't have to (adding in some things about how disappointed her family would be blah blah) and that was that.<br />
Except she does fully blame me, apparently. <br />
<br />
Then Hannah and I went to Moscow for the weekend so I could see a horribly expensive private doctor. But it's too much effort to write about that right now. Maybe next time.<br />
<br />
Must make my room resemble less of a tip now.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Here are some pictures from a depressing zoo I went to. Just to make up the picture count.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg40nJtAhQhyZoRmJMAfdqAFedejCWBkpSOVWKMVWNl9YNWuwQ2j4Z1Jv8fGp-8Snn99xGulg1fEcp7ur5Osf8MC0DP9qzEWVnDA9QUGFw-W9mGfL9mmShOekkjipZUjktngXxmzNnTa0/s1600/P1000727.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg40nJtAhQhyZoRmJMAfdqAFedejCWBkpSOVWKMVWNl9YNWuwQ2j4Z1Jv8fGp-8Snn99xGulg1fEcp7ur5Osf8MC0DP9qzEWVnDA9QUGFw-W9mGfL9mmShOekkjipZUjktngXxmzNnTa0/s320/P1000727.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Depressed bear.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSWAsUDjv-tk-ghuTghqVSK2x47FdhIPLQ6oL3z5Ewooyg00TfmsdOBmSjI-buUbfkJF6m5U7yxw62WmW977h5PT71HszQyhfdETJJsflYVcbuggKyiFh8ThJdfANxsZ4Mpd4bJbTq4zA/s1600/P1000722.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSWAsUDjv-tk-ghuTghqVSK2x47FdhIPLQ6oL3z5Ewooyg00TfmsdOBmSjI-buUbfkJF6m5U7yxw62WmW977h5PT71HszQyhfdETJJsflYVcbuggKyiFh8ThJdfANxsZ4Mpd4bJbTq4zA/s320/P1000722.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Don't do it.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg95FIwl3YdU4Af5Dk6Eb_imoDsxEuhypcMtG9prof-EogDdRaJq8EVpMOj9ldGirFu7mGWy4vSt9kmb-ZDo-J0NkFWkx_n75dAsjYLrNjSTw4Hm5BKrI8jjdENfHuXPckppNShE31owlo/s1600/P1000714.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg95FIwl3YdU4Af5Dk6Eb_imoDsxEuhypcMtG9prof-EogDdRaJq8EVpMOj9ldGirFu7mGWy4vSt9kmb-ZDo-J0NkFWkx_n75dAsjYLrNjSTw4Hm5BKrI8jjdENfHuXPckppNShE31owlo/s320/P1000714.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
So not a fan of zoos. </td></tr>
</tbody></table></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2899910241282383547.post-65308774423138141042011-09-22T13:53:00.000-07:002011-09-22T13:53:08.643-07:00A series of unfortunate Uglich related events<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Uglich. Google it and you'll find such descriptions as 'quaint', 'undiscovered gem' and 'full of medieval charm', presumably referring to its many churches and history dating back to the time of Ivan the Terrible. So when my host asked (read: guilt tripped) us to go with her on Saturday, we agreed. Since there was mention of the broken mirror it seemed only right. We brought forward a trip to Vernisazh, the shopping mall we were due to visit (and so got the massive excitement of finding an Accessorize -there was jumping and squealing with joy- and the lols of a 'papa potatoes' in the food court, early) and dealt with the news we'd have to get up at 6am in a less than dignified way, dragging our exhausted selves from bed on the day devoted to lying in bed until some time in the pm. </div><br />
Reliably informed by Firdaus that the coach would be large and comfortable enough to sleep on, we tried to keep up on the longer than we were told walk to where we'd be picked up. Nobody else was about and we fully expected to be boarding some kind of babushka day trip coach to see some orthodox churches. They would have bags full of dill, pickles and tomatoes. Hannah had even brought a scarf to cover her head just in case. At least it would be easy to sleep.<br />
<br />
We heard the school kids before we saw them. A marauding group of 12 year olds came trooping towards us just as an empty coach pulled up. We decided that this was some kind of cultural school outing which we'd been roped into in order to make up numbers of adults. Firdaus seemed to be in charge at any rate, and proudly announced to the coach that 'These girls are ENGLISH!'.<br />
Now, survival tactic number one for Russia, is to blend in as much as possible. Don't speak loudly in English, look as grumpy as everyone else and attempt to adopt their air of general cynicism and despair, resulting, one presumes, from the centuries of despotism, regular famines and corruption.<br />
Firdaus blew this for us. Massively. So, headphones in, ignoring the yells of 'really?!' and random Russian children leaning over to get a better look at us (Clearly they were expecting extra limbs or something, God knows what they teach them in these schools), we sunk into our seats ready to sleep for the next two hours.<br />
10 minutes later, ten 8 year old girls get on. All with mobiles loaded with remixes of pop songs. So we sat there, increasingly aware that Firdaus' definition of 'comfortable' did not match our own, listening to the techno remix of Alejandro on repeat, disdainfully discussing the amount of make up with which this mass of miniature humanity was adorned. <br />
<br />
On we travelled, with what we presumed was Yaroslavl's population of delinquents and future teen parents in addition to the adults we made another stop for. Honestly, I struggle to think of a time when I have been quite that confused. Neither of us had any idea of what was happening. This was not helped when, 2 1/2 odd hours later, we saw signs for Uglich and everyone started excitedly screaming out 'UGLICH!', only for us to drive right on through and out. This is where the confusion reached new levels. People were clearly expecting to go to Uglich. Russian people, who understand Russian, so we hadn't majorly messed up on the understanding part (this does happen- Hannah misused the 'laugh at the appropriate sounding moment' tactic when Firdaus announced it was the 10 year anniversary of her husband's death. Awkward.). The scenery began to look familiar. Maybe school trips in Russia consisted of going, looking, and coming back, never once leaving the coach. There <em>were</em> lots of school buses around driving through, For a good 15 minutes, we wondered aloud what the hell we were doing with our lives and wore the bemused look of confused foreigners world over.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>And then there was the sign. We were going to a festival of cultures. Hurrah! We pulled up at a bleak looking field, surrounded by even bleaker looking woods. There was a little stall with a samovar and a shaslick stand, a stage and several rows of logs to sit on in front of it. Hurrah retracted, Hannah put her scarf for church visits round her neck and we sulkily shivered away, me glancing around for the wolf which was blatantly going to storm out of the forest at any moment to put an abrupt end to the weirdness that is my life. Prokofiev would be playing and all. (Go look up the Peter and the Wolf reference. I was terrified of wolves thanks to that throughout my childhood)<br />
<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/7/77/Uglich_kremlin.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/7/77/Uglich_kremlin.JPG" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wikipedia's Uglich</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh17qZlhMs_UnfCvdHxE5brgEZDAZ3gyT97VLZgORqyw8-7UNf7W9lwxHSwvwX-bs-DnFotv2YAZTlcAMpRRCLWApFKNwSpAr7qb7juJZgYItJnHX9jB5hbGOjsPkXpEG_lX2aFilhG2ho/s1600/P1000535.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh17qZlhMs_UnfCvdHxE5brgEZDAZ3gyT97VLZgORqyw8-7UNf7W9lwxHSwvwX-bs-DnFotv2YAZTlcAMpRRCLWApFKNwSpAr7qb7juJZgYItJnHX9jB5hbGOjsPkXpEG_lX2aFilhG2ho/s200/P1000535.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our Uglich. Note the lack of *anything* except the lada.</td></tr>
</tbody></table> <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Turns out that our host had practically organised and was taking part in this cultural dancing and performing festival, and the future teen parents were actually a dance group. Oops. The show was none too bad, although I should think that English health and safety would have something to say about the decibel level emitting from the speakers. In between acts, our host was being her usual awesome self, dancing away, grabbing the photographer and tv camera people to film her friends. I noted this camera from a distance with some apprehension, making a mental note to keep my distance.</div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihTMa1Vro0Kph3UckUB9wqoB8MS4WV_kA63tSUjUdgELkIGQhYFTRrQDflK3h83ITkeucNhsIJ1E6yhEESnzrGD-4cj3snXL019J_CYFaXrGWGYDzk1KPw5SkSooCW7kEqCtWFoOQ5IAU/s1600/P1000514.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihTMa1Vro0Kph3UckUB9wqoB8MS4WV_kA63tSUjUdgELkIGQhYFTRrQDflK3h83ITkeucNhsIJ1E6yhEESnzrGD-4cj3snXL019J_CYFaXrGWGYDzk1KPw5SkSooCW7kEqCtWFoOQ5IAU/s200/P1000514.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Axe-brandishing performer</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE9YcwcwJGKUlGhZcpxBmQHDqp94uV1QAIiUW8IP9EW9-btnuoX7q4aLSWsU_7Kt9CeIJeBIP7tvM_e6rutqpF6eApW8DkphdwXocFPStgmYD2KhFeI5yD-ofaPGlrDhSQTuvTqqtERnI/s1600/P1000539.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE9YcwcwJGKUlGhZcpxBmQHDqp94uV1QAIiUW8IP9EW9-btnuoX7q4aLSWsU_7Kt9CeIJeBIP7tvM_e6rutqpF6eApW8DkphdwXocFPStgmYD2KhFeI5yD-ofaPGlrDhSQTuvTqqtERnI/s200/P1000539.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Traditional Russian people, doing traditional Russian stuff</td></tr>
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<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmgbXnY8mdOSqBKbRQSvEywbe2WBDRL0XSt2U8Pv_NZIivM68G37L9_rVVEReppwcc1Rd5ljg8Kk7aPMOgjMiNo99m_dSwlP2hO2BZ-7MSDBc6DVCCIlq3TeLaj8C3dE7fJF2Hd_aFNjM/s1600/P1000485.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmgbXnY8mdOSqBKbRQSvEywbe2WBDRL0XSt2U8Pv_NZIivM68G37L9_rVVEReppwcc1Rd5ljg8Kk7aPMOgjMiNo99m_dSwlP2hO2BZ-7MSDBc6DVCCIlq3TeLaj8C3dE7fJF2Hd_aFNjM/s320/P1000485.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Random Priest wandering around. Closest we got to any church </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS1NMRZ-SHM9SNSvEXFO-yGVauPcnUSTXhjLzPAzn_-tPPBbIfv1APorHcyDfHQFt9syrYESU3PqHmn1w7npiSPA2Y-mw8j21mnePfrDO2Zwbb5HrIMEPQRegnZdu3A5xciH1HCfB0dPA/s1600/P1000491.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS1NMRZ-SHM9SNSvEXFO-yGVauPcnUSTXhjLzPAzn_-tPPBbIfv1APorHcyDfHQFt9syrYESU3PqHmn1w7npiSPA2Y-mw8j21mnePfrDO2Zwbb5HrIMEPQRegnZdu3A5xciH1HCfB0dPA/s320/P1000491.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">See everyone's coats? That's because it was COLD. And the logs were so comfortable -_-</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Firdaus is something of a mystery at times. She manages to move huge distances without anybody realising she's even gone, and the fact that her ringtone is from Harry Potter only supports my theory that she is, in fact, a licensed apparator. Dumbledore did say that skilled wizards can apparate "so suddenly and silently" that they seem to have "popped out of the ground". So there you have it, Dumbledore said it, Firdaus fits it, it must be so. <br />
Must buy Harry Potter on dvd in Russian. (Incidentally, despite the fact they have a letter similar to 'H', Russia decided Harry was to be called 'Garry'. Disgraceful.)<br />
This decidely supernatural ability was to our detriment when, out of nowhere, I spotted Firdaus marching purposefully towards us, tv camera and presenter hovering somewhere in the background. Grabbing Hannah, I start power walking desperately in the other direction. It was no good. Engaging her super speed mode, Firdaus caught up with us and dragged us towards the camera. My cries of 'Ya ne hochu' (I don't want to) were ignored, and we were pushed in front of the camera. Trying my luck at escaping, I pulled out of the picture, but was only shoved back in to the insistence of the camera man saying 'Together!!' <br />
<br />
WHY nobody would listen to my repeated 'Mi ne govorim po russkii' (we don't speak Russian), is beyond me. I was once told that if the police approach you, you should, as a foreigner, say 'ya ne ponedilnik', meaning, I am not Monday, rather than 'ya ne ponimayu': I don't understand, in an attempt to make the policeman decide the effort of creating a charge on which to fine you isn't worth the effort.<br />
With hindsight, perhaps this is what I should have done. It's all well and good having certain phrases off to an art, clumsily stumbling your way through an oral lesson about a man who thinks he is ill but is actually just in love (Props to our wonderful oral teacher, Jelena) but when you have a microphone shoved in front of your face, speaking spontaneously is a completely different matter.<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong> <u>The Interview</u></strong><br />
<br />
The 'interview' went something like this:<br />
<br />
Scene: Mid field, very cold, bit soggy<br />
Atmosphere: General air of desperation and impending failure. Disbelief that our lives have come to this.<br />
<br />
<strong>Hannah and me</strong>: *Exchanging awkward glances, uncomfortable shuffling* <br />
<strong><span style="color: red;">Presenter</span></strong>: Ok, so what are your names? *Mic to Hannah*<br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: magenta;"><strong>Hannah</strong></span>: Hannah Vard (When in Russia, pronounce your name the German way, apparently)<br />
<strong><span style="color: blue;">Me</span></strong>: *Proudly says name in the most English accent possible* <br />
<span style="color: red;"><strong>Presenter</strong></span>: Ok, and you are both studying here? *Mic to both of us*<br />
<strong>Hannah and me</strong>: Mmhmm... <br />
<span style="color: red;"><strong>Presenter</strong></span>: *Pause to see if we were going to expand on that. Tense couple of seconds. Awkwardly retracts mic* Ok...and...what is your favourite part of this event (or words to that effect...or, something...) *Mic to Hannah*<br />
<strong><span style="color: magenta;">Hannah</span></strong>: Umm....... *spark of genius*...*ish* Well we don't understand all the words, but we really like the singing! *smiley face*<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><strong>Me</strong></span>: *Frantic nodding to signify my agreement and thus lack of need to ask me the same question*<br />
<strong><span style="color: red;">Presenter</span></strong>: Uh huh, *Sticks mic under my nose* <br />
<span style="color: blue;"><strong>Me</strong></span>: *Eyes glaze over in panic*<br />
<span style="color: red;"><strong>Presenter</strong></span>: And what do you like best of all about it?<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><strong>Me</strong></span>: *Brain develops a gaping hole from which the entirety of my Russian promptly gushes out into the distance. Desperate look to Hannah* Erm. *Brain enters comatose state* Um. We like it, erm....when um...*Realisation I'm about to fail massively on Russian tv dawns* when the children dance. yes. especially.<br />
<span style="color: red;"><strong>Presenter</strong></span>: Right, I understand, you liked the children's dancing?<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><strong>Me</strong></span>: *Closes eyes on hearing the correct conjugation of the verb* Da.<br />
<span style="color: red;"><strong>Presenter</strong></span>: Ok well thank you very much! *Says something else which my brain has blocked out*<br />
<br />
We literally ran away. On reaching a safe distance, we stood. We looked at eachother. There was a combination of desperate laughter and near sobbing. Hannah asked WHY I chose a verb we couldn't conjugate? I pathetically explained that I couldn't think of anything that I did actually like best of all, we were <em>supposed</em> to be looking at churches!<br />
Deciding that Firdaus had now lost awesome points, and that keeping as far from the tv at home as is possible was an absolute necessity, we moped a little more. Likelihood is that we'll be appearing on tv bloopers or some Russian equivalent in years to come. What in the hell had happened in our lives that we found ourselves in the middle of a field, giving a tv interview in Russia? What was it about us? We were interviewed last year in Russia too.<br />
<br />
We like the children dancing.<br />
<br />
What is my life?<br />
<br />
We take a walk in an adjoining field to ponder on the disaster and cringe in peace, only to be attacked by an army of frogs. You don't realise quite how high they can jump until you're under siege from them. We scream. We run. We vow never to go near that field again and cringe some more. <br />
Heart rates gradually returning to normal, we eye up the shaslick. It looks good and smells even better. Just as we start to walk over, Firdaus pops up from nowhere to tell us that it was time to eat, and to follow her. Straight through the frog battalion base.<br />
The day was just one trauma after another, but bravely on we strode, because there was little else that could go wrong, really. Until we realised that the long table seating about 50 Russians, all in varying states of intoxication, was serving up fish soup. And by fish soup, I mean water with half a fish in it. Fortunately for me, who won't touch anything that has been in the sea/river/whatever body of water (unless it is prawn cocktail, in which case the prawns must not either look nor taste like prawns), I wasn't expected to endure this traditional delicacy. Hannah however, was handed a bowl. We sit down at the end of the table and examinine the contents. There it was. The head half of a silver fish, floating, its beady little fish eye staring blankly up at us.<br />
<br />
She told me I would be eating it with her. I politely informed her that I would be doing no such thing, and cheerily settled down to observe. Hannah's year abroad project is Russian cuisine, what a perfect opportunity for some personal first hand observation!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvel7dMOSY1mg0JEIgdIJtCLABou3db0eHGqyxdey0qX6_8l9qaEBz_7rjZzvOM8um52L0io1PMs9bZYqOCuDreZqunWG0mCFpL6Yf48ke-MMac-y4tql1LvteZugj-6lknnVfinQ9al0/s1600/P1000550.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvel7dMOSY1mg0JEIgdIJtCLABou3db0eHGqyxdey0qX6_8l9qaEBz_7rjZzvOM8um52L0io1PMs9bZYqOCuDreZqunWG0mCFpL6Yf48ke-MMac-y4tql1LvteZugj-6lknnVfinQ9al0/s200/P1000550.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gutted I had to miss out on this delicacy</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>Hannah is clearly not very devoted to her project. 2 spoonfuls of the 'soup' and she hid the bowl behind someone else's, who had happily chomped it all down. Not even a tiny bite was taken from the sad little fish who had given its life to make an appearance in her bowl. Poor form, Hannah, poor form.<br />
We did get some pictures, though, just to make it look like we'd made an effort. I happily munched away on the masses of tvorog and kolbasa while Hannah turned an unusual shade of green.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNimVgrn-nXxFLdhvDw67hCjSCbYqLLdZCmjqpTTAOUYQUdKlbJOk44a_MBWyvU7AkNATcx6_-z4Nj_xeFvHm6KsuhD3JxYYuDz4hbsfynprxuKRqy_Ye227TiR3apcuEA0Zv4SMmqm1Q/s1600/P1000553.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNimVgrn-nXxFLdhvDw67hCjSCbYqLLdZCmjqpTTAOUYQUdKlbJOk44a_MBWyvU7AkNATcx6_-z4Nj_xeFvHm6KsuhD3JxYYuDz4hbsfynprxuKRqy_Ye227TiR3apcuEA0Zv4SMmqm1Q/s200/P1000553.JPG" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Toast no. 283</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4__Ap0JpYTPhT1L7jDQm4IDWeVlfrdBuHZIy4JU8ihu7SLe4UKcRE9Uiy1vvdSlOFTUHRUAFBf5xcyaJ61zvFPJp5KO1lEvkNCkoGrJk5hSdGBnxHa5Nxsf8ZvgR87WV4Oo-Awnn3g-E/s1600/P1000554.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4__Ap0JpYTPhT1L7jDQm4IDWeVlfrdBuHZIy4JU8ihu7SLe4UKcRE9Uiy1vvdSlOFTUHRUAFBf5xcyaJ61zvFPJp5KO1lEvkNCkoGrJk5hSdGBnxHa5Nxsf8ZvgR87WV4Oo-Awnn3g-E/s200/P1000554.JPG" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I love him.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>More people joined our end of the table, including a particularly tipsy performer from earlier who kept berating us for not drinking more vodka. I liked his outfit. I especially liked the axe he was randonly brandishing on stage. We could use it when the wolf inevitably emerged from the trees looking for his supper. Toast after toast was made, even one which mentioned us as their 'foreign guests'-and the man seemed to have more understanding that we weren't going to quite get everything he was saying than did the earlier tv people, thankfully, so we got away with just grinning madly whenever he looked in our direction. <br />
<br />
It started to get a little awkward being surrounded by so many Russians when we couldn't really join in, especially when one person said we didn't understand them and I, rather insistently, said that we did. <br />
Whenever anyone asks if you understand, you say yes. This, whether you do or do not understand, is generally because you know the words to this question well, and are answering the immediate question of if you understand that phrase. We did not understand what was going on, but it did at least mean that there was no way they would talk about us while we were there.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE0vavHhFu9go1MZoIQd1PquOyCls8QzvGLFeHO47cXSVeooTM373jAo-MVuDnWJ7fBnDjcOYdndYfRPdVCOoswJrgfcAkagB5I4618e7wyyGG7sHbSFr_u9GvsVD-694Xz-ErfBPKar0/s1600/P1000555.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE0vavHhFu9go1MZoIQd1PquOyCls8QzvGLFeHO47cXSVeooTM373jAo-MVuDnWJ7fBnDjcOYdndYfRPdVCOoswJrgfcAkagB5I4618e7wyyGG7sHbSFr_u9GvsVD-694Xz-ErfBPKar0/s200/P1000555.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Didn't want to get too close to it</td></tr>
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There was more fish handed around. This time it was whole and quite blackened. We were given little napkins before as if we were going to get some birthday cake or something nommy, so it was major lols (for me) when this was presented----------------------><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">More fish!</td></tr>
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The next 45 minutes consisted of keeping eyes to the floor, Hannah pretending to eat the fish to avoid being told off by the Russians and muffled muttering to one another over the question of whether it was acceptable to leave the table. It was only when Firdaus announced everyone should go to watch the last act that we could make a run for it.<br />
We ran past games that had been set up near the frog field, including the Russian version of welly throwing, which is the same, except with valenki- traditional felt boots. I particularly liked this, as I am not leaving the country without buying a pair. I have my eye on some with flowers embroidered on them.<br />
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Finally on to the bus. Ready to go home and take a bath, we were happy that the day was finally ending. Except that Firdaus announced that she would be staying to clear up and would meet us at home. Great. Ta Firdaus. But it was ok, we (Hannah) had a vague idea of how to get home from where we were picked up. <br />
But that is not where we were dropped off. Last on the coach and pulling up outside the train station, we began to panic. A lady was asking us something and we weren't understanding. We <em>think </em>it may have been directions to where we wanted to go. There was something about the centre of town said. The driver refused. She got angry and shouted at him. We didn't know the directions to where we lived. Eventually we got off, simply because it seemed like the lady was saying we'd arrived where we said we wanted to be. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>It's so full of highs and lows here that it's all a bit exhausting. On this particular day, though, it was driven home to me how vulnerable we are here and how little Russian we actually have. We did get home after a mile or so of walking, collapsing on the floor when we saw that Firdaus had, somehow, beaten us to it. Apparated again, most likely. Equally though it was simultaneously the most bizarre and best day I can remember. Russians are something to behold, their traditions are both insane and brilliant and the people outwardly are cold and impenetrable, much as the country is seen, yet persist a little and they are the warmest, most welcoming hosts you can imagine. Yes it's a little odd that babushkas randomly rummage through all the rubbish bins on their way down the streets, that there are soviet monuments and statues of Lenin placed next to modern building advertising the latest Western brands all over the place, that my translation teacher still yearns for a return to that era and there are politicians who promise free vodka and underwear for all if they are elected (Zhirinovsky, if you're interested), but that is the appeal of the place for me. It's totally politically incorrect and a law unto itself, and it really does need to be experienced.<br />
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I will still be staying away from the tv, though.<br />
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I like it when the children dance.<br />
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fml.<br />
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<span style="color: #cc0000;"></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2899910241282383547.post-56166416824778804962011-09-18T04:04:00.000-07:002011-09-18T04:04:22.037-07:00Russia: The arrival<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I don't even know where to start. I've been in Russia since Sunday, so 6 days, and it feels like I've been here months. I suppose the trip over would be a logical point from which to begin this post, but Russia is anything but logical and chaotic at the best of times. Nevertheless,<em> </em>I shall remain logical and split it into separate parts.<br />
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I had maybe 50 minutes sleep Sunday morning, and got up at 4am to leave at 5. My plane was delayed an hour, so I watched repeated images of planes plowing through the towers in New York on the news whilst waiting for my flight. We did eventually go, and the flight passed unremarkably. I watched Kung Fu Panda twice whilst everyone else was watching some kind of documentary, being the mature adult that I am. Arriving at Moscow, first impressions were based on the speed at which I got through security; about an hour faster than in Petersburg, and the utterly lovely Moscow RLUS rep who met me with her friend, who was equally lovely. There had been torrential rain for the past few days and it was no exception when I arrived- we got on a bus to the station and sat in heavy rush hour traffic, chatting away and watching the tops of buildings disappear into the oppressive grey sky. Vic had decided a cheeseburger was very necessary so we dragged my massive cases through the lakes that were forming in the roads filled with aggressive drivers who held little regard for traffic lights.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>We sat in McDonalds for quite a long time, Adrian being entertaining in the most endearing way possible. My shoes had actually dried by the time we left, heading straight back into the monsoon and down into the metro.<br />
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This was my first experience of the Moscow metro, and even in my horrendously sleep deprived state, it was easy to appreciate it. People talk about how ornate the stations are, and there were a few mosaics of Lenin to be found in the ceilings, but being a frequenter of the London underground system, I was more appreciative of the wide turnstiles and platforms. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kupe (kupay) class</td></tr>
</tbody></table>My train to Yaroslavl left at 9.15pm. Back out into the monsoon and running up the platform to wagon 10 whilst pulling out my passport and ticket, I regretted the sleep I had lost in favour of washing my hair. Turns out that I had a particularly nice cabin, essentially second class but practically first all things considered, so despite being soaked through the journey was comfortable. An elderly man sat opposite, quietly taking in the ridiculous soggy and flustered foreigner who had invaded his previously calm space. Abba was playing, as it always seems to be in Russia, and there was, much to my surprise, a flat screen tv. Another lady and a younger guy joined us, and the three eventually made up their beds and went to sleep.<br />
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The train was headed for Cherepovets, and would arrive at 4am, whereas Yaroslavl was the first stop in 4 hours time, so I couldn't really sleep. Bizarrely, it seemed entirely normal that I was lounging in a Russian sleeper train, in the middle of the night, on my own, surrounded by Russians. In fact even when I was met at the other end and bundled into a taxi driven by a man who was coughing up the contents of his tobacco stained lungs in my face, to my flat, I was totally calm. The Russian wasn't really an issue, I understood everything, which is a marked improvement on last year. It did of course help that I knew what I was going into, and my friend had already been there for a week, so I had English speaking back up, but I have been very lucky with my hozyaika (landlady). <br />
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Firdaus is not Russian, as far as we can tell. She may have been born here, but her roots we think are Turkish. This makes her <em>very</em> laid back on top of the fact that she is just completely amazingly cool and lovely anyway. She has a cat called Rizhik, which is essentially 'Ginger', who she described to me as a 'hooligan', which he proved today by marking my suitcase. Bloody cats. But she wandered in to Hannah's room with him on her neck the other day and said 'Look! He's on my neck!!' and wandered out again. She is lols. The flat is not typically Russian, which is a good thing. The hallway is BIG, the furniture is new, the kitchen is fitted and everything matches. There isn't a rug on the wall in sight, and there's no corner for icons since she's muslim, though doesn't seem to be practising. Russian flats are a mismatch of everything, and the bathrooms are often a strange sight. Whilst I do find it endearing in a way, I like my comfort, so this place is perfect. I'll add pictures when the internet is feeling more cooperative.<br />
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I got out of the taxi and Firdaus came towards me, wearing a leopard print dressing gown with open arms and grabbed me with a loud 'HELLO!'. I instantly knew I'd hit the jackpot. I was fed mashed potato and sausage and tomato, and quickly got in that I don't like fish, which has saved me from a fishy dinner fate a few times already. Hannah had waited up but since it was 2am we only talked briefly before she went to bed and I collapsed in an exhausted heap into mine, not to wake again until almost 3pm.<br />
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Bit of a miracle I actually made it, but extremely glad to have survived to this point. <br />
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</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0