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!

Going home early. Again.

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.
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 supposed to throw a tantrum every time I lie down and put my head up? Am I meant 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.
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.

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.

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.

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.

They dart out of holes in the wall and just hang around staring at you. It's unnatural.

 

The return of Victor, Migraines and my impending return to England

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.

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.

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.

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.


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.


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.

Poka.


PS

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.
Answers on a postcard please, to:
Lauren,
Russia

The rise of the Babushki, a sprinkling of снег and 14 days left

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.
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
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.

Dill. Ketchup for Russians.

                                                
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.
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 sprinklings 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.


Ok I'll stop whinging about the food, RSD and health now.
On to Babushki!
Firstly, can I just make it abundantly clear that this should be pronounced babushki. Screw you Kate Bush for spending 10 weeks in the charts slaughtering the pronunciation for everyone.

An informative definition, including a lovely illustration
 for your comprehension benefit. Note that I
am referring to definition 2.

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.

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.

Your typical babushka. I doubt I need to translate, but:
'Parasite, give babushka your seat!'
Note the emty seats all around
And the running shoes
And the grievous bodily harm.
Yeah, Babushki. -_-

I swear I'm not bitter.




And after that massive whinge...CНЕГ! 
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 :)

Nice and calm, making footprints in fresh snow

Hannah, less calm, more yetti, also making footprints 

Being Masha, the Yaro Bear

One minute I was happily standing on my snow mountain

The next I was a bit stuck.