A trip to The Idiot, a nice chat and a bit of a ramble. Also I still do not like dill

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.
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.

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.

*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*

So. Where was I?
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.
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.

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.
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).

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.
Do I count as being cultured yet?

Another insane Bab: a story of vindictiveness, filth, and poor pest control

WARNING: 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.





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.
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!

WRONG.
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.

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'.
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, 'the only thing we get up for in the morning!'.  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.

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.

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 hundreds 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.
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.



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.
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!'

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.

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.

Why does she remind me of Edgar from Men in Black? 

Москва (Moskva)

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.

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...



 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.

Looks more like a casket now...

The Assumption Cathedral (New)
Originally built in the 17th century, destroyed
by the Soviets in the 1930s (what noobs). Apparently
12 metres higher than the previous building.

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.
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.

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.

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 pure torture 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.

Bolshoi Theatre. Before we realised what it was.

 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.

Down the train wagon

We saw Stalin and Lenin and wandering around in the metro...

 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 outside and even their own special form of democracy...ish-elections and all.

What happens when it rains?

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.
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 other countries in the world that are not you, with people who are foreign. 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...)

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.
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...

Just by the Kremlin

GUM

 



*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.


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.

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.

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...).

Archway by park Pobedy

Museum of the Great Patriotic War

Hall of glory, with names of Russia's war heroes.

The usual eternally burning flame

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.
It took some time, but we got our curry.
Slightly bizarre being greeted in Russian and switching between English and Russian to order and speak to the waiters, but the food was amazing. Full of expats, very expensive, totally worth it.
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.

There were a couple of blokes from Scotland behind us and
a table full of Americans and English to the right.
At least one token Russian family, too.

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.

Ura!!!

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.


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 a lot, but I'm glad I didn't listen to her. Yaroslavl was definitely the right choice for me.

A series of unfortunate Uglich related events

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.

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.

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!'.
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.
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.
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.

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 were 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.

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)

Wikipedia's Uglich

Our Uglich. Note the lack of *anything* except the lada.

                                                              

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.

Axe-brandishing performer

Traditional Russian people, doing traditional Russian stuff

Random Priest wandering around. Closest we got to any church  

See everyone's coats? That's because it was COLD. And the logs were so comfortable -_-

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.
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.)
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!!'

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.
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.


                                                                     The Interview

The 'interview' went something like this:

Scene: Mid field, very cold, bit soggy
Atmosphere: General air of desperation and impending failure. Disbelief that our lives have come to this.

Hannah and me: *Exchanging awkward glances, uncomfortable shuffling*
Presenter: Ok, so what are your names? *Mic to Hannah*
Hannah: Hannah Vard (When in Russia, pronounce your name the German way, apparently)
Me: *Proudly says name in the most English accent possible*
Presenter: Ok, and you are both studying here? *Mic to both of us*
Hannah and me:  Mmhmm...
Presenter: *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*
Hannah: Umm....... *spark of genius*...*ish* Well we don't understand all the words, but we really like the singing! *smiley face*
Me: *Frantic nodding to signify my agreement and thus lack of need to ask me the same question*
Presenter: Uh huh, *Sticks mic under my nose*
Me: *Eyes glaze over in panic*
Presenter: And what do you like best of all about it?
Me: *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.
Presenter: Right, I understand, you liked the children's dancing?
Me: *Closes eyes on hearing the correct conjugation of the verb* Da.
Presenter: Ok well thank you very much! *Says something else which my brain has blocked out*

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 supposed to be looking at churches!
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.

We like the children dancing.

What is my life?

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.
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.
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.

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!

Gutted I had to miss out on this delicacy

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.
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.

Toast no. 283

I love him.

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.

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.
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.

Didn't want to get too close to it

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---------------------->


 

More fish!

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.
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.

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.
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 think 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.

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.


I will still be staying away from the tv, though.

I like it when the children dance.





fml.