On having survived a year in Russia

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.

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.
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.

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.
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.
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.
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 'Avada Kedavra' at me.

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.
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.

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.

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...in Russia, 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.

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 just yet. Perhaps I'll have to come back to Russia and fill it up some more.

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.

До встречи!

The niceties of life in St Petersburg. And George

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.

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

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.
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'.
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.

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.

HAH. I googled 'cockroach' in Russian and it gave me this. How topical, given the current post election riots :D

It's pretty!

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).
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.



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.

Kazan Cathedral, Nevsky Prospekt

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.

Outside the Winter Palace and the Hermitage, period characters wander nonchalantly  around on the ice

Church of the Saviour on spilled blood - where Alexander II was killed

  

Some lovely soldiers on men's day, or, officially День защитника  Отечества (Den zaschitnika Otechestva) Defender of the Fatherland day.

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.

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.

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...

Бурановские Бабушки

 (Buranovskie Babushki! Singing in Udmurt to raise money for a church in their village and now in eurovision )

And if that has whetted your appetite.....

and for the Eagles fans out there:

Saint Petersburg: The arrival

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.
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...

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.

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.
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.
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.
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.

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.
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.

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.
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.

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!