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 ;)