Livers and fires and poems, oh my.

There was a fire in the dumpster in the courtyard outside my apartment. Fire truck came, only after it was quite completely ablaze. By the time I went out to eat and came back, the firemen were still standing by the extinguished dumpster smoking cigarettes and THROWING THE BUTTS IN THE DUMPSTER........ seems counterproductive.

My host mom fed me what I, wrongly... so wrongly, thought was beef stroganoff. The texture was off... and the flavor slightly different. But I didn't think much of it, because frankly all food tastes a little off in Russia, if not completely different. Anyway, WRONG. CHICKEN LIVERS. FUCK. Also, that chicken noodle soup you ate last week? Chicken hearts. Since then I've implemented a don't ask, don't tell policy when it comes to dinner. Also religion. And sexual orientation... And country of origin, fuck it I don't want to know anything.

It turns out I like poetry. Russian poetry, anyhow. Anna Akhmatova is like the Russian Emily Dickinson, except I don't want to curb stomp her for being so fucking whiny. Instead of being afraid of people and then complaining about always being alone, Anna Akhmatova takes everything with a rather gigantic grain of salt, which is, really, the Russian way. Them bitches pickle everything. I shouldn't have said anything about Emily Dickinson, I get so infuriated thinking about her. What, you're sad because you were ill for most of your young life? You've caught the melancholy, have you? Don't like going to parties, because you'd rather sit around thinking about our fruitless struggle against mortality? Fuck you! Anna Akhmatova survived war, revolution, and a totalitarian regime, you feeble little shit! Her first husband was executed by the secret police, and her second husband and son were sent to the gulag to die! Jesus. Americans. The lace rips on their petticoat and the whole world has gone to shit. Lord...

I saw an advertisement on a street sign about someone who called himself a "touché master." I can't tell you how interested I am to know what that means, but I can tell you I'm not interested to call and find out in case he really meant "rape master."

Russia has a very cash-based economy. It makes things difficult sometimes because cashiers rarely have change. And then they yell at you because YOU didn't have the foresight to find some. And then you try to tell them that you don't really need exact change, I could do with 40 instead of 45, or maybe even thirty if you have it. I don't have anything, don't bring me those big bills, this is a nice store, you come and make trouble and ask for more money, I don't have money, you need pay smaller bills! I'm not trying to make trouble, and I don't want MORE money, I said LESS money, give me LESS money! NO YOU GIVE ME LESS MONEY! I CAN'T GIVE YOU LESS MONEY! THEN WHY YOU MAKE TROUBLE! FUCK IT I DON'T EVEN WANT THE GODDAMN TRAIL MIX ANYMORE.

Everyday it's a constant battle trying to convince my host dad that I actually WANT to hang out with the cat. You know he scratches? Yes, but only if you make him angry. He's always angry, he gets under your feet and what to do, you fall, why you like this? I like cats, I have cats at home. CATS? Two cats, okay, maybe they are friends and leave you alone. No I have four cats. FOUR CATS? That is not your home, that is their home, where do you live? I... what? You cannot live with four cats, they sit on everything and eat your food. I can control where they sit and eat. No, you must have dogs, you cannot control cats. Well, either way, I want Rizhik in the room. Well, either way, he will make you sad, and just know I told you this.

One last thing, vodka has GOT to be stronger in Russia. It's almost been a week, and I am still firmly resolved in never drinking again. Well. Maybe vodka goodbye forever. 

Funtitled.

Bought two opera tickets last week: one for La Boheme, the other for Don Juan. La Boheme took place in a small, SMALL opera house, where the acoustics were confusingly terrible, and the second act was set in a pizza place, within which the "waitresses" were wearing neon rabbit ears and sequined mini skirts (something you might expect to see at the Neon Cactus, but less so at the opera house). I have been led to believe the show we saw might have been the rehearsal for Saturday's show... I have a different theory. I've convinced myself it was all a dream; a whimsical Freudian interpretation of the real thing which my wine soaked mind conjured to protect myself from the mental rage boner that popped at what a waste of money it turned out to be... Russia is teaching me that run on sentences are okay to use. And if you're a fan of Vampire Weekend, and have all this time been wondering just who doesn't give a fuck about an oxford comma, its the Russians. They have no fucks to give for that shit. Anyway, Don Juan was tonight, but I was too swept away in the Maslenitsa holiday spirit to be bothered to attend. (It was supposed to be in the same theater, and presumably the same cast... fuck why.)

Wikipedia can help clarify the holiday for you. But, essentially it's about blini (thin, some might say inferior, pancakes), singing, dancing, drinking, organized fist fights, and setting things on fire. I don't think I need to say more. Except I've never seen so many Russians so happy at the same time. I stepped on someone's foot on accident and they SMILED at me. That is WEIRD and frankly unnerving after my past experiences with that. Once on the metro, I stepped on a babushka's foot and she wailed like a fucking banshee for like two minutes. Oh, babushka means grandmother, but also refers to very old women who seem slight, but have the balls and the low center of gravity to bowl you over if, so help you god, you get in their way.

They are wily little fuckers and are not your friends. 

hehehehehe

Das Racist.

Made some friends at a bar last night. Three Navy Seals from Nicaragua...!!!! Let me tell you. You never feel quite as invincible as you do when you're slightly (...maybe definitely) tipsy and in the company of three Navy Seals. Two of them were black, the other Latino, and I only say this to underline the attention we were receiving from literally everyone else in the bar. A bunch of American girls hanging out with OHSHIT! members of a different race?! Who the fuck do they think they are?!! Not in THIS country. Fuck. But, as drunk Alexa reasoned, they're Navy Seals, what the fuck are YOU gonna do about it, IVAN, you racist douche? Anyway, they didn't know English, only Russian and Spanish, so between my broken, drunken Russian and me repeatedly singing the only Shakira song I know in Spanish, a great time was had by all. There was a table next to us of three men and a lady who kept trying to get us to join their table to "save us," but after one of them tried to kiss me (unfortunately not the lady) and propositioned a threesome, I thought it best to return to the safety of my new bodyguards.

ANYWAY.

Here's a small thing: on the metro you are ordered by a pre-recorded message that replays at every stop to give up your seat (if you are lucky enough to have one) to older women and people with children. Sure. However. I seem to have trouble judging when women are old enough to WANT my seat, because I've done a damn good job of offending possibly all the 50? year old women in St. Petersburg. And god forbid you try to insist that they take it once you're already standing. I learned some new obscenities. One lady just pushed me back down into the seat and shook her finger in my face. Last time I try to be polite, I swear...

A friend of mine came up with a new slogan for Russia, which I thought I would share with you, because it is painfully accurate. Credit: Seth King.

Come to Russia if you want to see:
Fashion from the 90s,
Music from the 80s,
Infrastructure from the 70s,
Health advice from the 60s,
Racism from the 50s,
Poverty from the 40s,
And dust from the 30s.

Beautiful.

Also.

God love 'im.

I'm supposed to be on a tour of the Russian museum with a large number of my classmates, but I decided I would rather not spoil my good mood and visit it myself at a later date. Double doses of anti-depressants seem to be doing the trick.

Also, I can't believe I haven't said this yet: DON'T DRINK THE WATER. Or these little critters, pictured here, will eat your soul. Or your intestines. Or something. Not really clear on the whole process, but it's something you don't want to consume, and I get that much. Much like shverma (so called in Russia, shawarma in normal places). Don't eat it. You's probably eating rat. Or dog. One kid in the program last year ate it like twice a day and ended up with a parasite that only exists in dogs. So. There ya go.









Rat shawarma. Beautiful.













New friends!

Over and out ;) 

Two Jews walk into a Russian bar. The bartender says, get the fuck out, you Jewish fucks.

Finally got to interact with some Russians. It was at a bar. I was with a group. They were polite, and did not sexually harass any of us, I call that a win. However. One of my favorite comedians, Eugene Mirman, a Russian, put it best: "What we as Americans think of as political correctness, Russians see as false manners and lies." Errybody racist. The way two of my teachers have put it is that "we all have prejudices. Some people just say them out loud." So... I don't... hm. One of the men at the bar said he didn't like Jewish people. I said why. He said why do you have to ask me, you don't like them either, you just haven't realized it yet. He must have heard about the housing market crisis on Wall Street. Damned if every one of those bastards ain't a Jew. Oh God, they're getting to me... 

But mostly I've been sitting in a cave of illness, unable to do anything fun, even missing out on Margarita Monday. If my life had a soundtrack, Mozart's Requiem would be suiting to sound my misery. There are activities I could potentially participate in at school... tonight is game night. But if there is one thing I'm not interested in doing, it's sitting around for an even longer amount of time with the juvenile douche b's I'm stuck in class with all day just so I can watch them become so uber competitive that the only way they can settle a disputed scrabble score is to see how far they can launch their seed while they beat each other off. 

I could REALLY have used Margarita Monday. 

Anyway. Sorry so short. When life gets more interesting and less sickly, there will be stories to be told, I'm sure. 

Swan Flake

Last night I saw a production of Swan Lake in the Mikhalovsky Theater.

Luckily, before I left for Russia, I bought an awesome camera.

CHECK OUT THAT ZOOM!

Unluckily, however, there was a hawk of a women patrolling the aisles making sure no one took pictures or videos during the show, which was just as well because it... was... pretty disappointing. Now, I'm no critic, but I'm going to pretend that I am. I've seen a fair amount of ballets in myyyy day, and these fuckers ain't got no soul. It seemed like they were just playing parts. Which they were. But I was more moved watching the Black Swan (movie) than at any point throughout this ballet. Also, I rented those little snazzy little binoculars. Big mistake. This is essentially what I saw.

Barf. Zilla. 

So, in their defense, it's probably hard to pretend you're a perdy bird when your leg could snap in half at any moment because you think salad is too caloric. I'm so torn between feeling sorry for them and wanting to demand entertainment from them. I can do both? 

Anyway, then the WORST THING happened. The ballet abruptly ENDED. And the white swan DIDN'T KILL HERSELF. Everyone gets up and heads to coat check, while all of us Amuricans are like "wait... what?" Then we notice that on the pamphlet it says it's an interpretation of the ballet by some asshole, doesn't matter who, he ruined it, that's all I care about. Happy endings are not Russian. If you don't leave crying, something isn't right. Although there was one dude crying in the hallway all over his date. He was probably also upset about how outrageously the thing ended. 

And then everyone left to drown their sorrows in beer, while I went home because I'm afraid of being raped in a bar bathroom, also, sick. 

Additionally, here are a few facts I left out of my previous list about eccentricities in Russia: 

During orientation we were told that last year "only 8 people" died from falling icicles in St. Petersburg last year. Thank god. If it was 10 I would be worried. Essentially, there are workers whose job it is to shovel all the snow off the edge of the buildings. Most of the time, they do not care who is on the sidewalk below. Wonderful. 

1/3 of all the deaths in Russia are caused by some alcohol related incident. 1/3. Thats... 1/3. I don't think I need to say more. 

Also, my pee smells. All the time. And my hair and nails are growing like fucking crazy. I don't really know what's going on.

Here are some pictures.

Some armor on some horses at der Hermitage. 

A church thing in Novgorod.

I have too much breasts to be ballerina. 

Aaaaaand... Rizhik :)

Who let the sun go down on me?

After about two weeks I'm starting to feel the effects of little to no sunlight. The only upside is that I'm not the only one who is pale as shit anymore, which is nice. Not many Russians go tanning. And the ones that do seem to be trying to tan themselves out of the visible spectrum.

Beautiful. Anyway, it took me awhile to realize that, yeah it's Russia and everything is terrible, but probably not as terrible as it seems at the moment. But I brought my happy light , so we're spending a lot of time together before I decide to throw myself in front of a train. Also, I started to listen to music on my way to class. Initially I was afraid that if someone saw me with headphones they would c**t-punt me and steal my iPod, but it would be a small price to pay for a few moments of happiness in the mornings. And it helps, as well, to think of the crowd on the metro as if you're being hugged by a thousand people instead of squeezed and pushed and prodded by a million elbows and bags and you start getting tunnel vision and panicking and the room seems smaller and the air is stifling and oh my god why is the fill power in this coat so goddamn high I can't stop sweating do you think they're noticing that I'm breathing harder if I don't get out of here I might literally have a heart attack. No... hugging is a much better alternative.

I've also had a lot of down time to myself, so I've been reading a lot. Sci-fi/fantasy lit might be a new interest of mine. HG Wells is god.

Also, a $60 pair of pants from the Gap costs $100 here. And they flip you off at the register and call your mother a cow.

ALSO also, I am not one for physical affection. In any way. Gross. But goddamnit do I want someone to hold my hand every once in awhile. Until then, it's just me and Pepe.

What you may not know about Russia...

In my very short time here, I've made some observances that I'm sure are 100% accurate in analysis. They are as follows:

1. Most Russian women wear heels. Initially I thought it was for the same reason everyone else wears heels: lift that booty! Wrong. I believe the real reason is that they work as pick axes to stab a hole through the two inches of ice that usually cover the sidewalks. Stylish AND functional!

2. If you're not eating it with sour cream, why are you eating it at all?

3. Now, I haven't spent a lot of time in American cities with metros, so this may just be universal, but the metro is no place for personal space. In order to get out, you HAVE to push. And be pushed. And looking incredulously at everyone around you will get you nowhere, except possibly noticed as a foreigner, which leads me to number...

4. Don't make eye contact with anyone, and for god's sake, don't smile at them, because they take that as a sign of sexual interest. Even if it's a dear looking old man who may remind you of your grandfather. If you smile at him, he will ruin your grandfather for you forever.

5. The weather is not an appropriate topic to discuss with anyone. It's fucking cold, we all get it.

6. If you don't eat carbs, you do now. Between all the rice and potatoes and pastries and cheese to hold it all together, you'll be ready to take the shit of your life, and yet, sadly, won't be able to.

7. If you're with a group of Americans speaking English loudly, which is the only way we do it, I'm pretty sure, everyone will hate you, but at the same time be fascinated with you. Also, they will assume you are from Santa Barbara. I don't know what it is with Russians and Santa Barbara, but it's just easier to tell them you're from there, and yes, I see famous people on my way to work every day! Whatever.

8. Don't get excited about beer. Corona is king in most of the restaurants. And I don't know about you, but if a beer needs fruit it in to be passable, it's not worth the calories/being seen drinking it.


Part two: MEDEM

I was lucky enough to get to experience the Russian medical system (Clinic MEDEM) within my first few days! It was a lady problem, don't worry about it, whatever. First, cheap. Cheap as balls. Services that would have cost me $250 in the US cost me around $85. Second, no wait, whatsoever. And I didn't speak with a nurse, I met immediately with the doctor. Whoa. And third, first rate entertainment. I was told my doctor spoke English, but she spoke about as much English as my cats. "Have with your periods come how much?" "When you has periods at first day how old you are?" And then when she was telling me my diagnosis, she invited my program head in to translate. Only slightly embarrassing. She is now well acquainted with the goings-on with my vag, and now every time I see her when she says "How are things?" I am well aware that she is asking "How that cooch?" Ugh.

And now some pictures! (Also, I just turned to TV to disney channel and they're talking to a Furby. Russia is about 15 years behind us in most things.)

Cheese pie. Ohhhhh my god. Oh my god. Yeah. 

Smolny Cathedral at my school. 

Kind fuzzy, but that last word sounds like "Blookher," as in Frau... neigh. ;)