Swan Song....

Honestly, I've been dreading this post. Our time in Kazan' has come to an end. It's been 14 days since I last posted, which, I know, is a long time. However, these past two weeks have been filled with such a sense of urgency that I can barely think right now. I've tried to spend my time here as wisely as possible. I've learned so much. My Russian has progressed immensely. I've seen and called home a unique part of the world in which eastern and western cultures coexist harmoniously and, in turn, create a cultural dynamic that is like nothing I've ever encountered. I've lived a way of life that at first was absolutely foreign. And yet, over the course of the past 70 days, this life has crept into my bones and dare I say into my soul, snatching them piece by piece and transforming me, in the end, into a cultural-hybrid, a griffin.

I look back at my time spent here and my heart is heavy. The people. The people I've come to know in this place have taken a piece of me as well. Words cannot express the gratitude I feel to all those who made my time here what it was. My professors, my colleagues, KGU administration, those affiliated with the US State Department and Bureau of Education, etc. I know that without them, this adventure wouldn't have been what it was. My hozyaika. My hozyaika is awesome. Having lived together these past months in a small apartment on Avaizovskova street, we've become family. I'm thankful that I have a place to call home in this city. Irina has worked very hard to make this my home and for that I am indebted. She and Sasha have been so hospitable. My dear friends from Kazan', Masha, Natasha, Natasha(2), Rustam and Aigul...thank you. Because of you all, Kazan' will always be a shining star in my not-so-distant past and I will always have a yearning to return. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. The help, the hospitality, the friendship, the planning, the answers to questions, the finding me when I'm lost, the correcting grammar mistakes with a smile, the care, the understanding, the fun, the Cuba Libre, the teploxod, the walks along Bauman, the Alla Nash, the banya, the late nights at the dacha, the listening to me play guitar, the listening to me in general, the beach, the Tinkoff, the ice-skating, the vecherinkas, the Russian songs, the Russian movies, the excursions, the Tatar culture, the Meat House, the dancing, the sun-burns, the long talks about religion, the long talks about politics, the long talks about the extraordinary histories of our cities and our countries, the long talks about the past, the long talks about the future, the all too short talks about our job prospects, the linguistics arguments, the Esperanto, the patience, the patience, the patience, the camping trip, the long bus rides, feminism, the getting rained on, the Volga, that long walk into the forest and that long walk out, together. You see, the most valuable gift I've been given, one that is far too big to fit in a suitcase, and yet easily transported across oceans, continents and even time, has been the gift of your friendship. Without it, I'm sure I'd have an easier time leaving, and yet, under all of my sadness, I can appreciate the difficulty endured in walking away. Without a doubt, this has been one of the most fulfilling experiences of my life. I take my leave with the friendship of the best people in the world.

I spent my last night in Kazan' exactly the way I should have...sitting at the dacha, under the stars, singing songs and playing my guitar with my friends. It really just doesn't get any better. Thanks.

PS: I'm not signing off just yet. We still have three days in Petersburg with all the State Department people. I'll be posting on that adventure, as well as on anything I've overlooked here.

Sailing the mighty Volga...and some extreme camping

I've had two wonderful experiences that I would like to share with you all. I suppose you could call these "breakthrough" experiences, in the sense that I've gained new and deepened perspectives on two major literary themes winding through 19th and 20th century Russian literature. The first of these archetypal images is the Volga. I suppose the reason the Volga is so prominent in Russian literature is because of the incalculable role it plays in the Russian landscape and way of life. The Volga, first and foremost, is a river. Imagine the role the Mississippi played in American culture, economics, infrastructure, etc. during the time of Mark Twain. The Volga is very similar. Often called the Mother Volga, it is Europe's largest river and even today carries half of Russia's river freight. I saw it for the first time a little over a week ago. It is mighty. It is powerful. Having grown up along the Mississippi, I respect the strength of a river, but this was something immense. It was peaceful and frightening all at the same time. We boarded a steam ship for a three day trip north to a small town called Nizhniy Novgorod. We were only able to spend a few hours actually on foot in Nizhniy, but, all things considered, this was a trip to get to know the Volga. And we did. The steam ship was absolutely fantastic. There was always something going on, something to do. There were pre-planned concerts. Three hot meals a day. A number of bars and lounges. Games on deck and below. Each of us split off into pairs and were given a room with air conditioning, private shower, refrigerator and personal stewardess. It was heavenly. Basically, the trip was a three day party. Everyone walked around and mingled. At night, there was a discotheque on the top deck. And at night especially, the view was majestic. We were blessed with a full moon that shimmered off the water and danced around like a glowing fairy. I spent my time socializing, playing guitar, reading Solzhenitsyn, sunbathing, partying with friends and colleagues, singing songs (Russian songs, of course), etc. It was the perfect midpoint trip and, frankly, exactly what I needed.

A number of times I went to the top deck to look out at the moon and the stars, or during the day, at the shoreline. You could just see the mythology developing all around you. It might as well have had magical powers ascribed to it yesterday, much less in the 16th c. The river had so much power. The people that lived along it, and yes, there were people living along it, seem to have adapted rather well to life along such a beast. They were out in one-man boats, working together to catch fish and cast nets. The occasional freight barge would come slowly creeping by and blow its horn. We would all wave. The seagulls knew the deal. They followed us the whole way north, picking up scraps here and there, swooping and diving into the water for fish and even stopping to rest on the extreme top of the ship near the captain's quarters. The smells of the river brought to mind my own mighty Mississippi and awaked a new appreciation within me for the natural landscape that Twain so loved. Maybe someday I'll build myself a little house along a river and spend my days catching fish and casting nets from my own small boat. I can totally dig. Nonetheless, it was a very important experience for me. To smell that smells, see the sights, hear the crashing of the waves and just feel the immense strength and power of that river was not only very humbling, but brought me so much closer to an understanding of what so many artists throughout Russian cultural history have tried to depict. The Volga is mother. It is indeed mighty.

Only two days after returning to Kazan' from Nizhniy Novgorod, myself, Liz, Masha, Natasha, Nastya, Misha, Sergej and a number of other Physics and Geology students from KGU set out on another adventure. My adventure along the Volga was about relaxation, the sights and sounds of the river and, above all, contemplation of the role of the river in Russian culture. What would become my second major adventure in as many days would require a physical endurance I had not yet experienced. Don't get me wrong, I had plenty of time to contemplate, but my contemplations were less about literary archetypes and more along the lines of, "How lost are we actually? When exactly can I expect to be eaten by a bear? Was that map written in this century?" and finally, "Honestly, I thought you were joking when you said we were going to walk twelve miles into the dense Russian forest at midnight." My second adventure, and one of the best I've ever had, all had to do with "the road". The road is another immensely important image in Russian culture. In a country of this size, to travel from place to place even in a car is a daunting task. However, I'd venture to say that those famous writers who depicted the Russian road, did so out of experiences on foot. I couldn't help but to imagine forced marches, Napoleon's trek across the frozen wasteland, Hitler's retreat, the transport of political prisoners on foot out into Siberia. While our march was not to a camp or to death (actually we found a small corner of heaven in the end), it was nonetheless a march. A long one.

Our night started on a train. A packed train. A week earlier, Liz and I decided we would go camping, something we both love to do. We gathered some friends and were all eventually invited on what I would call a camping "expedition". Please keep in mind the differences in shades of meaning between "camping" and "camping expedition". After our courses on Friday, we set off for the train station to board at 6:00pm. Something every traveler by train in Russia should know: Friday nights and Sunday nights aren't exactly the best times to set out on any type of long journey. Why? Because everyone, seriously everyone, goes to the dacha. If you aren't there at the station ready to rush onto the train as soon as the doors open, the are absolutely no seats. Well, needless to say, there were no seats. It wasn't until after we boarded the train that we became acquainted with our fellow travelers. They were all friends of friends of friends, etc. It was during these first "Hello, How are you"'s that Liz and I realized three important things. One, we would be standing for 90% of this train ride. Two, this train ride would last 3 hours. And three, after this three hour, standing room only train ride, we were going to pack up and trek 11 miles into the forest in search of a lake. I'll admit it was a bit alarming at first, but I have never been one to back down from situations such as these. In fact, I found the danger and audacity involved rather exciting.

We stood. We stood. We shuffled. We stood. We stood. We shuffled. We sang. We stood. And so it went on that hot, sticky train. The trees and small wooden towns rumbled by. The air was getting colder and signs of life fewer and fewer. A quick aside: We were about two hours into the journey and as the train churned along we happened upon a small town with a store, one street, several babushkas carrying large bails of hay on their backs, dogs roaming about, etc. It was simply a page from 1876. I couldn't help but shake my head in shame as we passed a small wooden barn, there in the middle of central Russia, along an all but forgotten train route, on whose broad side was spray painted in letters vaguely resembling Latin script the phrase all too well know to white suburban kids everywhere back in the states. It wasn't "Hello!" It wasn't even the F-word, which I could have lived with. It was "G-Unit". Seriously. How is this possible? Is the stink of Hollywood really so potent that it has managed to waft over, infiltrate and rot the last bastions of pristine foreign culture? God help us all. Anyway, we chugged along. After a long, tiring journey, we made it to our destination, got off the train and said farewell to civilization. Now, it was time to walk. And we did.

I've never run a marathon. I've never walked a marathon. I didn't know, until that evening, what walking eleven miles in a row felt like. It was 9:30pm. We set off. First we followed a long road past a couple small towns and some logging routes. At one point, a little girl looked at us like we were aliens and then ran to her grandma and with worry in her voice, said "Grandma, they're all wearing tennis shoes!". Yes, is that a problem? Yes, it is a problem. Soon the nice, flat, heavenly paved road ended and it was onto the not nice, not flat, not heavenly sand road. And its difficult even to say that this was a road. We were already making our way deeper into the forest. I think these were all old logging paths. We followed the paths. Rested. Looked at the map. Argued about the map. Sang. Talked about life. Found ourselves. Lost ourselves. Kicked ourselves for not bringing water. (That was just me. I'm an idiot.) And still we were a long way off. There was a point when I thought to myself, "Okay, come on...yeah I know eleven miles is a long way, but this godforsaken lake has to be coming up soon." Nope. 11 miles with a thirty pound pack on your back and mosquitoes sucking your soul from the back of your calves (because you wore shorts) is a long way. Too long to envision, and too long to get too hopeful about. We came to a couple forks in the road. We argued about which way to turn. We turned nonetheless, worried about our decision. And yet, we trekked on into the darkness. It was ten. It was eleven. It was twelve. It was late. It was dark. And then. Off in the distance. We heard something. Techno music. It might as well have been seven choirs of God's angels, beckoning the return of the Savior. This glorious techno music meant one extraordinary thing. People. There were people there listening to that techno music and they were listening to it because they were drunk and they were partying. They were drunk and they were parting because they were camped next to the finest lake I had ever laid eyes on. It was like we were detectives, hot on a trail. Our ears perked up, the inner lion-hunter awoke in all of us, adrenaline pumped and we stalked through the woods, abandoning our maps, abandoning our compasses, hunting down that techno music like fresh meat. We communicated with hand signals like recon marines. Our goal was not to disturb our fellow expeditioners, but to simply slip past them in the silky darkness in search of our own spot. That almost worked, but we slipped past them a little too far and decided it was be best to head back and ask them if they might be able to recommend a spot, as nothing was immediately apparent in the surrounding area. They did. We left. We made it.

The construction of our camp was an exercise in human instinct. The language barrier was no longer existent. We knew what we had to do. The women constructed shelters. Tents. The men created that which is so important to human experience in the wilderness. Fire. There were axes. We set off in various directions to collect dried, rotting wood. We started with kindling and before long, our masterpiece was glowing and dancing under the trees. Finally, a chance to sit. I never wanted to sit like I wanted to sit then. I sat for a bit, and soon noticed the shimmering waves through the trees. Oh yeah, the lake. I walked across the bog on the small wooden bridge and there I saw the cleanest, most pristine body of water I have ever seen. I'd venture to say that this area of the world has not yet been touched by humanity. It was amazing. After a box of wine, a few songs sung and played on a few guitars, some strange Russian alcohol, and the arrived-at decision that we were all "brothers", we went swimming in that wonderful lake. Under the moon, it was like a painting. And so went the night, until the sun came up, and we swam, and we swam. After the sunrise, we set off for the tents and awoke a few hours later for hot tea, kasha and more swimming. I'll never ever forget that place. It's a secret that not many know.

The long walk back was, well, just as damn long as the walk there. But this time, time seemed to move faster. We were all satisfied that we had accomplished our task and had lived to tell the story, enjoying ourselves along the way. On the trip back, I did contemplate the role of the road in the Russian national psyche. It's true. On a journey like that, you do find a bit more of yourself. Surrounded by so much sheer distance, you come to realize the human body is capable of so much more than we give it credit for. Not only did I feel connected with all those throughout Russian literature who made the long journey, but I felt connected with something wild. Something unbridled. Out there in that dark forest, we all reverted back to an instinctual understanding of the world. It was nice to be the lion-hunter for a while. I felt at home.

Now where did I put those leather chaps?

First and foremost, my apologies for such a long hiatus. We have indeed had an incredible past ten days or so. I am alive. I am well. I have so many emotions running through my head that if I don't get some Prozac soon, I could suffer an aneurism. Believe it or not, we have less than three weeks left in this delightfully strange place. I think about leaving and my heart is heavy. I've made a little life here, complete with great friends, intelligent colleagues, a nice home and a steady stream of "where the hell am I?" experiences that have been burned into my memory. Kazan has indeed seared my brain with its brand.

I have many stories to tell, so I'm going to split them up into a series of posts over the next day or two. The first dates back 8 days to that grand American holiday that we statesmen, no matter creed or color, celebrate with pride, beer, bbq, bottle-rockets and a float trip if we're lucky. The 4th of July. The 4th of July here was a time for all of us to get together, share in some laughs and some drinks and get back to the roots of our stars and stripes. However, as usual, I like to spicen things up a bit and see just how weird I can make my life at any given moment. Therefore, I decided to head out a bit early with a colleague to attend a Metal fest. I have never been to a Metal fest. Metal fests are....peculiar. First and foremost, I did not have the proper attire for a Metal fest. This I realized even before we walked in the door. I'm wearing khaki shorts, my white Adidas running shoes and a nice, pressed blue polo, complete with a collar, backpack strapped over both shoulders and a brown belt that still emits that distinct leather smell. I'm still not sure what I was thinking. Perhaps I got "Metal fest" mixed up with "first day of seventh grade". All I needed was a sack lunch and a snack for recess. I walk in to meet my colleague Will. Will is from Seattle. I'd say he's probably the smartest person I've even met. This makes him very interesting. Will does Metal fests. While I can get down on shredding guitar solos, galloping rhythms and ultra fast baroque classical scales, Will gets down on the whole atmosphere. Yours truly, the seventh grade school boy, walks into the lobby to see Will who is wearing all black leather. There are chains. A mohawk. A giant bottle of whiskey. Cigarette in hand. Based strictly on looks, if I was the seventh grade school boy, Will was the creepy 18 year old kid across the playground that just got his GED and while not working nights as a rock club doorman, enjoyed hunting and killing seventh graders. I thought to myself, "You know, Sam, you probably should have worn a t-shirt." So, in short, if I didn't already stand out enough in the middle of Russia, I pretty much solidified my position as the "who the hell is that guy" guy with my wardrobe selection.

We go in. There is so much smoke. This is not a concert hall, or even a club. This is someone's apartment. They just stuck a neon sign over their door and charged people five dollars a piece to get in. It's actually a pretty ingenious idea. Oh wait. I did that all through college. It becomes immediately apparent that I am the second oldest person in the building. The first oldest is Will who could care less. All he kept saying was, "This is great! Finally some normal people in Russia! You want a beer?" We wind our way down the dark hallway. On the right is the equipment room, complete with a bed, dresser and more than a handful of guitars and amps strewn about. There are 17yr olds making out everywhere. Like I said in a previous post, 17yr olds in this country love to make out. In public. Hardcore. I suppose, however, if they don't mind, I don't mind. I'll chalk it up to young love. All of them, however, did stop making out to give me and Will the stink-eye. Thanks guys. Appreciate that. We finally make it through the slippery slobber gauntlet to get to the "stage". This is not a stage. This is three or four old wooden platforms placed together in a square and called a stage. It was actually a pretty ingenious idea. Oh wait. I did that all through college too. At last, the first band fires up their amps. I was excited at this point. I thought, "Okay I made it. I can finally hear some thrash metal and imagine myself at a Pantera show in Tenessee on the 4th. Rockin." Nope, not gonna happen. The first band was not a band. It was three 17yr olds wearing makeup and doing what I would call a mixture of wailing, whining, crying and playing off rhythm and out of key. It was so cool. Seriously, so cool. So cool, in fact, that the whole crowd of 17yr old face suckers loved them. They cheered and asked for more. They lit lighters and waved them across the air. They lit cell phones and waved them across the air. They were all so happy that they even made out while waiving lighters across the air. Then the bass players bass broke, so we had the pleasure of listening to the second set with no low end. To compensate for this, the guitarist just turned his guitar all the way up. Needless to say, it wasn't the most spectacular show I'd ever been to. I decided to head off and meet up with the group for our dinner at a local restaurant. I told Will I'd be back later.

I walked over to meet the group at a local pub. We like to eat there, or no, we say we like to eat there because they have a micro-brew, but we've actually only eaten there once. It was a nice dinner. I had a chance to hang out with some folks I don't normally see that often. We all just talked and reminisced about the states, in Russian of course and enjoyed some good beer and traditional tatar / russian appetizers. Then we got a call to go to a party. Wait what? Yes, a party. A real party. What's more, it was at an American's apartment. Wait what? Yes, at an American's apartment in Kazan. Turns out, he literally lives just down the street from me. I was stoked. I like parties and that day, especially, I really liked Americans. We walked in and immediately I recognized some familiar faces. There was Mike from California who lives here with his Russian girlfriend. Then there was Salvatore who's here from Italy, studying Russian as well. Then there was Roberto, my dear friend from Madison, Wisconsin. We came in with some friends of our own too. There was Masha and Natasha, whom I've spoken about before. Both staples in our time spent here. There was Aigul', a very nice young lady that we spend time with often. There were a number of my colleagues from the State Dept group and finally Rustam, the nicest guy in the world, from Kazakhstan. It was truly an international event. The were Africans from Africa, Germans from Germany, Russians from Russia, Italians from Italy, and Americans from America. The young man hosting the party was Alex. It was his birthday. Throughout the night, I made my way from room to room, talking with people of various backgrounds about a number of things. It was so interesting that we all ended up in that little one bedroom apartment on the fourth, having come from so many different parts of the world. The perfect way to celebrate the fourth. Later on, there were even some fireworks (roman candles).

I've been thinking a lot lately about the word "homeland". This is something that comes up so often in Russian literature and culture. You know those old Soviet signs with the lady pointing, "Родина мать зовёт"...The mother land is calling. Loyalty to one's homeland is very important in this culture. As an American living here, I've had to adapt to an emotion that is strange to me. Constantly being the "other", the "foreigner", the "stranger" takes a toll on you. This does not mean in any way that the people I do know here aren't wonderful. I'm talking about those times walking down the street and everyone looking at you like there's something strange about you. Or walking through the grocery store and being followed by security, sometimes so closely that if you were to suddenly stop, they'd walk right in to you. It is the weirdest thing ever. Yesterday, a toddler walked past Liz and I and gave us a long, inquisitive look. Liz said, "even the littlest kids know there is something different about us". It's true. While this is very difficult to look past, as it happens ALL THE TIME, the pride and appreciation I have for my own country has been renewed. I think about my friends, my family, my fiancé, my language, my songs, my culture, my history, my traditions, my holidays, my adventures, my jokes, my cities, etc. and how much a part of me they all are. It's true, my homeland is also calling. Perhaps that’s all just a really long way of saying, “I miss home”. Happy 4^th.

International Music Festival

We did some rocking this weekend. On the Kremlin grounds of Kazan' was a pretty large music festival featuring bands from Western Europe, Spain and Russia. It was pretty awesome. The music was great. There was a guitarist from spain that was unbelievable. I was pretty much in awe. The final show was a group called DDT. Internationally, they're pretty famous. Led by Uri Shevchuk, I’d say they’re blend of folk, rock and metal. It was cool. There were thousands of people there and everyone knew all of the words by heart. I remember listening to DDT in highschool, when Robbie Chura would pull out old cassette tapes and play them in Lingaphony Kabinet. I figured it was probably one of the only times I'd get to see them live and I was glad I did. There's actually a pretty cool story behind them. They first appeared toward the end of the Soviet Union and were warned by the state to change their name, which the state deemed problematic because it was unusual for groups to give themselves "rebellious" titles like DDT (the dangerous poison used to kill off insects (if I'm not mistaken)). Well at the time, they were competing against another very famous, new rock band whose name change was also requested by the state. Shevchuk decided against the change, stuck to his guns and went completely underground. It seems DDT didn't play any shows for a number of years and a sort of mythology was created around their absence. Meanwhile, the other group decided it would be best to change their name, and, as the story goes, had lost all its momentum after only a couple years, fading away as quickly as they rose. The professor telling me about this couldn't even remember their name. DDT came back after the fall of the wall and lives on as one of the most well known rock bands in Eastern Europe, if not the world. They were great on Saturday. After the show was a great fireworks display which lit up the Kremlin walls and dazzled the crowd. A great night.

Class is still going very well for me. We're learning alot and yes, we're still only speaking Russian. It's become so comfortable, I can hardly believe it. I hear English here and there on the streets, and it's striking to my ears. I'm so used to hearing only Russian on TV, at breakfast, at school, at lunch, at the gym, at the park, in films, well pretty much everywhere. Personally, I'm beginning to notice tremendous changes in my ability to speak and understand Russian. I'm at the point where I can watch the news, go to class, etc. and not miss anything. I converse nightly with my house mom about everything from money, power and drugs to jazz, art, education and foreign policy. While I do make mistakes, she does a good job of correcting the glaring ones and we are never at a complete misunderstanding. It's good. I feel totally different about the language now than I did having studied it in the classroom. It's weird to say, but it's actually starting to feel like a language and not like a struggle. I know that I still have a lot of work to do, but I'm getting more and more comfortable. It reminds me of when I first started playing guitar. At first, every fret, chord and scale seemed like a separate entity. I could play chords, scales and even other people's songs, but never felt like I understood how it all worked. It was always a series of replications and imitations, each of which in my mind were disconnected. However, with time, I began to see and feel that very important, invisible layer on the fret board. It was the layer that one day lit up and smacked me in the head. I finally saw how it was all connected. Each chord is connected to each scale and each scale is connected to each note and when these are played in various patterns, music happens. It's a pretty extraordinary feeling to finally be able to wrap your mind around it. Although not nearly as bright as the invisible patterns on my guitar's fret board, Russian is lighting up for me. It's quickly coming together and turning into a useful tool that I can navigate through without fear.

Some Sabantuj and the worst sunburn ever....

Well, I made it to the bus early Saturday morning after gallanting around town Friday night with some new friends from Kazan', California and England, all speaking Russian of course. It was a long night, and admittedly, an even longer morning, but all was well worth it. We rode the bus for about an hour out into the forest. I was a bit confused. I thought we were going to some kind of street festival, something similar St. Patrick's Day downtown. Again, my expectations were completely off target. We got out off the bus and walked another half hour deep into the woods. We were in the thick, surrounded by hundreds of people, all walking along a narrow path deeper into the woods. I dropped pebbles along the way, just in case I had to Hanzel and Grettel my way outta there. At the end of the path, however, did not appear a witch, or a candy house, or even a banya...i mean..an oven. Actually, what awaited was a gigantic party that everyone and their brother attended. There was music and games, singing and dancing, traditional food and dress, friendly competition, something called "towel pulling", poll climbing, skits, puppet shows, live bands, booze...it was crazy. And it was all to celebrate work, no less. The mayor was there to give a speech, which was very uplifting. He spoke about the economic crisis and about how the Russian and Tatar people had the strength to overcome. It was cool. We walked around the forest, took pictures, tried some of the food, etc. We we're advised not to participate in any of the friendly competition, as they have the potential to turn "not so friendly", especially with foreigners. I didn't think I'd have a problem, but I was happy to remain a spectator. It was very interesting to see a traditional Tatar-Muslim holiday celebration. I'd imagine, unless I come back to Kazan', that could be a once-in-a-lifetime kind of thing. The more I think about it, the more awesome it becomes. Those people are very, very proud of their culture.

That evening, we went to the opera. I like the opera. We saw "Carmen". If you don't know "Carmen", imagine every other romantic tale of love and death, only with the "Beef...It's what's for Dinner" song playing in the background. It was breathtaking. The theater was beautiful. Everyone dressed up, sipped cognac, and smoked cigars between acts. Russians get down at the opera. A great evening.

Sunday, I was an idiot. We went to the beach on a windy, partly cloudy day. It was enjoyable, only a bit chilly. For the first hour, I sat there, listening to Russian Ipods while Russians listened to mine. The exchange of music, in my opinion, is an all too important act of international understanding and cooperation. Plus, my taste in music is supreme, according to me. Why was I an idiot, you say? Well, I had sunscreen on my face for that first hour, but no where else. Nothing was out of the ordinary. It was cloudy. No big deal. After the first hour, I put sunscreen on, walked out into the river and came back to hang out. We left a couple hours later. Turns out, after that first hour, it was already way too late. The sun that day was like a silent killer, lurking behind the clouds. We all went to Masha's to make dinner and watch a Russian movie. I could barely move during the movie and by the time I made it home, it was agonizing. My thighs and chest are literally still purple. I really don't know what it was. I have noticed that my body doesn't heal here very quickly for some reason. Why would that be? I am, afterall, Wolverine. I'm sure it has something to do with the environment, but I've had the same cut on my leg for 3 weeks. I can only imagine how long my body is going to be on fire.

Other than that, everything else is continuing to go smoothly. I've noticed that many of the little clicks in our group are beginning to break apart, which is good. It's nice to hang out with some new faces here and there. Friday night was also good for that reason. I think we're planning a repeat this Friday, as it's the Englanders' last week here. I've been doing very well in school. We had our first test in grammar over verbal aspect, something that takes a long time for native English speakers to grasp. Verbal aspect, perfective and imperfective actions do not really exist in English to the extent they do in Russian. For nearly every imperfective Russian verb, there is a perfective pair that is the same in meaning, but will alter the syntax of the sentence. Imperfective verbs can be utilized in the past, present and perfect tenses, while perfective verbs can only be used in the past and future. This means that if you only speak in the present tense, you only use half of the Russian verbs in the system. When speaking about the past or the future, knowing which to choose (every time you use a verb) and why, is a daunting task. I did well though. 100%.

I do, from time to time, feel like a stranger here. I do my best to blend in, but I just don't look that Slavic or Tatar. I'm 6'5'' with brown hair and I smile a lot. The whole smiling thing is weird to me. I've heard the opinion among Russians that Americans smile to cover up what they are really thinking. They can't imagine why we'd smile upon first meeting someone new. What is there to smile about if we've only just met this new person? They say, why should we smile if we're not happy. Even in the Russian film we watched on Sunday, the mobster's Russian friends told him, before he left to America, to smile really big in Customs and they wouldn't give him any trouble. I think it's just a stereotype. What's funny is that I see Russian's smiling in public all the time. I also see Russian's making out in public all the time. Hardcore. I must admit, this is something that always strikes me as a bit awkward. I think there are just some cultural differences that everyone thinks he or she is an expert on, and yet, more often than not, the "experts" are completely wrong. It's just interesting the things we are taught to believe about each other. While some hold water, the majority are completely off base.

Another Week Gone By....

That's right. Another week gone by. Although Andrea will gladly argue the opposite, everything here seems to be going by so fast. I have to make a conscious effort to make mental notes, written notes, take photographs, etc. of things I see and experience. It's all almost too much to take in. Life with my host mom is wonderful. We talk all the time about everything and she still yells at me everyday about something. Today it was for ringing the doorbell more than once. I waited a good 20 seconds before ringing the second time, thinking maybe she didn't hear. She opened with, "Hi! How was your day? Did you finish all your homework? Why the hell did you ring the doorbell twice?" It was pretty funny. Last night we had a long talk about Russian-American relations. She won't come out and say it to me directly, but I think she thinks the majority of those who are poor in Russia are poor because the US has taken their money. This might be true in some way or another, but personally, I think the Russian government plays a larger role in the poverty of Russia than the American government does. After that joyfilled conversation, she said she didn't like talking about that stuff and turned on the Russian version of "America's Got Talent". Oh, another show that's huge here...Judge Judy. Only, it's a Russian judge, obviously. It's crazy how many American products, replications of American television shows, etc. you see on television here. It's like there's no escape. The only positive is that I can practice my "Active Listening" skills when they're on. Active listening is something we do when a topic is boring. We listen to decipher parts of speech, case usage, intonation, sentence structure etc. Basically, paying less attention to the overall meaning and more attention to the structure of what's being said.

School is going very well. Our teachers are professionals who know exactly what they're doing. They've been happy with us too. They say we're the best they've seen, which is nice to hear. Everyone, at least in my group, is in class everyday, active, ready to dive in. It's nice because the teachers don't just teach. They are so passionate about given topics. The last couple days in our conversation course have been devoted to a discussion of ecological problems in the US and Russia. We were asked the question, "As awareness and concern for the earth's natural environment grows, is it possible that in the US, the Green Party could potentially break up the age old two party system?" I think it's possible, but a long shot. Personally, there are other factors that will break apart the two party system (and I hope they do) long before conservation will.

Tomorrow we go to a traditional (I can only assumer formerly Pagan) holiday festival called "Sabantui", which I think means "Scythe holiday". We celebrate work from what I understand. There are supposed to be games, food, music, dance, etc. I'm looking forward to it. Tomorrow night will be the first of a couple operas as well, but I can't remember which we're seeing tomorrow. I'll write about it later. I suppose that's all for now. Another week gone by far too quickly. I'm going to try to start slowing things down, but I fear that will be impossible.

The banya experience, among other things...

First and foremost, I am safe, healthy, not losing my mind (yet) and have been learning new russian words, phrases and structures at every turn. I've had some experiences in the past few days that have opened my eyes, if even only slightly, to what it may mean to be Russian. Last week, our first week of courses, was a shortened week because Friday was "Russia Day", basically Russia's version of the Fourth of July. This is apparently a new holiday that is not yet observed with the same traditions and patriotism with which the 4th it, but we, nonetheless, celebrated. Masha invited a few of us over to her parents dacha for a holiday celebration. It was also Masha's birthday, so everything worked out well in terms of party planning. I really didn't know what to expect because I had never been invited to a dacha and had never seen one. This was not what I expected at all. It was nicer than most American country-homes I've been in, which is basically what a dacha is; a place to go, outside the city, to relax for the weekend. We got there in the early afternoon, just as salads we being prepared, the banya heated and shashliki (shish kabobs) thrown on the grill. It was great. Masha's parents were so nice and so welcoming. The guys stood outside and grilled, talking politics and drinking beer, while the girls gathered inside, doing what girls do when they gather places. I really like Masha's dad. He was a Russian version of my dad. Very smart, funny, talkative, handy with tools and likes to garden. He showed us all the plants he was growing for the summer and I had no idea what I was looking at. They were all green and coming out of the ground. I suppose if he showed me his collection of stamps, hockey skates or guitars, I might have been a bit more knowledgeable. Nonetheless, the afternoon was quite pleasant.

Next, it was time for the feast. Everyone gathered at a large table in the dining room to start getting ready. I've noticed that russian meal time, especially celebratory meals, are quite ritualistic. Firstly, toasts must be proposed. Masha's parents toasted to her for her birthday and she to us, to friendship, to international relations, etc. It's tradition to celebrate the toast with a shot of vodka, which I did, a few times. We all said thank you for the hospitality and how happy we were to be there. Seriously, it was nice to feel that intangible "family" thing. It was time for the meal. Everyone chowed, drank, enjoyed the good company. Then, as the amazing russian meal came to a close and everyone's bellies were full, those fateful words were uttered, "Who wants to go to the banya?" I thought, well sure, I've never been in a Russian banya and I've always been told to go. Why not? It was not yet my time, however. To get the real Russian banya experience, we could not go in without weaponry. The girls were chosen to go in first, while we men (myself and another American, Chris) were told to wait for Andrej, Masha's very large, strong, middle-linebacker-esque, tattoo-covered miner brother with bear paws for hands, tree trunks for legs and a pain threshold thirteen feet higher than mine. I must be very clear about this. I mean absolutely no disrespect to Andrej. In fact, I am in debt to him. I am a new man for having set foot in that box with him and I learned a very important lesson that day. I'll explain, but let it be known that I am very thankful and would gladly do it again. It was time for this very traditional rite-of-passage in my study of russian culture. My first banya experience.

Myself, Chris and Andrej walked into the little brown hut connected to the actual banya. Wait a sec...a little background. The banya, more or less, is a heated room, kind of like a sauna. You basically sit inside of it, sweat profusely and expunge all of the impurities from your body. Simple enough right? So we walk in and I see a number of nice things on the small table, a few chairs, a comfortable bed for relaxing, hooks to hangs clothes and some strange hats made of burlap. Andrej told us to take our clothes off. All of them. Whatever, no big deal. So I'm in a steamy room with two naked dudes, eating fish, drinking shots of vodka, talking European football, hockey, cuss words, etc. We tried to find as much out about Andrej as we could and he did the same, all the while trying not to glance down at all the junk, which in such tight quarters can prove to be a strenuous task in and of itself. Finally, it was time to go in. Andrej told us each to put one of the burlap hats on. Mine had a hammer and sickle on it. So funny. So, what did I expect? A sauna. Well, no. This was not a sauna. This was an inferno. The chamber door was opened and my body's first reaction was, "You're not really gonna put us in there, are you? And I said to my body, "Well I have to at least try! I'm standing here naked, with two more naked dudes standing right behind me. What am I gonna do body? Turn around and say I can't take the heat?" My body then punched me in the stomach and kicked me below the belt. I, however, in the spirit of primal manhood, testosterone flowing freely, found the courage and the sweat to defy my silly body's commands for a return to safety and to cross the threshhold of what would inevitably become the seventh gate to hell.

This room was hotter than anything I have ever experienced in my entire life. Let me say that again, I have never experienced in all of my travels through the southern united states, russia, mexico, ovens, coal pits, volcanoes (well maybe not volcanoes), etc. a heat that even comes close to matching this one. I'm naked. We walk in. It's difficult to move because every movement brings you into a new area of super-heated air that you feel is seconds away from melting you. I sit on the wooden bench. Naked. It's hot. To make things a bit more bearable, Andrej dumped some water from a ladle on the bench and gave us a couple rubber mats to sit on. I sat. And thought...about nothing. My mind was a white piece of paper. At this point, I was still frightened, but began to regain a bit of composure, despite the fact that the air was still too hot for my lungs and I was seeing spots. We sat there, panting for five minutes. I was sweating so much. Like, it was pouring off me and splashing and puddling on the floor. Then, to my surprise, Andrej said, "Okay, let's go out!" Ahhhh. Thank god! Relief. I walked along the wall past the coal pit on my way out. It was like a glowing demon. Growling. Reaching for me. I felt it and moved away. Way too hot. We made it back to the little hut. Andrej told us that all we had to do was that, two more times. I thought, I can do this. I can handle it. We drank some more beer, ate a bit more and went in for round two. This time was different.

We walk in for the second time. This time, however, Andrej instructs me to get up on to the elevated platform above the bench we were sitting on. I said, "Really?". I was to climb up and lay stomach first, lengthwise along the bench. Remember, moving is difficult, so this pretty much sucked all around. I clamber my way up there and realize that I can't stretch out the full length of my body because, well, I'm tall and more importantly, because my feet are for too close to the demon coal pit. It was chewing them off. So, here I am, lying naked on a scalding hot bench with my feet hanging off to one side, trying to explain in broken Russian that I simply cannot put them any closer to Gorg, the mutant Lava master from planet Burnyurfaceoff. Andrej gives me a "Nu, Ladno", "Well, whatever". He then picks up one of the three or four bundles of dried, green plants tied together and lying in the corner in a pile. He pulls one out, dumps some water on it and walks over to me. At this point, I was in god's hands. It wasn't that he really even hit me that hard with the dried green plants. It was just that with every lashing, the temperature of my skin in the area of the lashing rose by 45 percent. It was scratchy too. He started with the backs of my calves, worked his way up to my ass and then spent a couple minutes goin' to town on my back. Never in my life felt a pain like that. Again, not that hard, just the slightest touch was ultra-sensitive and this was a five pound bundle of rough, jagged leaves. By the end, I was grinding my teeth and my eyes were bugging out of my head. I was finished.

Round three. Again, more of the same. We take a short break, drink a bit, and walk back in. Only this time, I have to lie on my back on the elevated bench and go through the same process on the front side. Not cool. However, it was all leading up to a very important moment. I had persevered through this experience, surpassing my pain threshold by ten-fold, to receive an unexpected, but absolutely heavenly reward in the end. After I receive my frontal whipping, Andrej tells me to get down off the bench and to run over to the giant bucket in the corner. Naked, I do as instructed. He tells me I get to dump it on myself. It was fresh and cool, cool as a mountain stream, just like in the "Busch" commercials. I dumped that big tub on myself and experienced a satisfaction I've never even dreamt about. It was total bliss. With that, Andrej assured my success, stating those most favorable words, "S Lyogkim Parom!", that are only uttered when one has finished with the banya. I grabbed a towel, turned around, gave Gorg the Lava master the finger and got the hell out of there. I will never forget that day, for as long as I live.

The whole experience had me thinking. First, historians often wonder how Russia managed to defeat Napoleon at Moscow and Hitler at Leningrad, especially when so grossly outnumbered. Or how they persevered through the purges and Stalin’s rule. Well now I know. It's because they're crazy and they do stuff like the banya for fun. Seriously though, I suppose the lesson I learned was that to experience the feeling of that cold water on my skin made all of the pain I endured before, well worth it. I'd do it again. And probably will. Soon. Later that night, after we ate dessert, played some songs and talked, Masha and I talked about Russian joy and Russian pain, compared to American joy and American pain. There's something here. For me personally, the ups are up and the downs are down, but if the banya is any indication of the extremes Russians experience within their own psyche, then Russian ups reach the clouds and their downs scrape the streets of Necropolis. I haven't yet decided which I'd prefer.

The house that Lenin built....

Week one of the summer quarter is nearly over.  And yet, I feel like so much has happened in the past three days.  On Monday we started class.  I was late.  Everyone clapped when I came into the room.  It wasn't really my fault though.  I have this really bad habit of not using maps and not asking for help, basically just using my great sense of direction to get where I need to go.  Those of you who know me personally will agree that I always know where I'm going.  I have an inner compass of sorts.  Yeah that's it.  Well, this particular time, the stars didn't align right and Fermilab sold me shitty magnets, therefore greatly increasing the probability that I would be late to the first day of class.  The fact that the building we now meet in is half a mile from the one we originally met in also did not help.  The first day of class was test day.  This was the day I realized I can't actually speak or understand Russian.  Let me explain.  We sit down in class and we are told there will be a series of written and oral examinations, each used to determine into which of the three groups we'd be placed for the remainder of the summer.  They've split our group of 20 students into three smaller groups, each more or less arranged in terms of ability, knowledge of grammar, conversational level, etc.  The first of these tests was oral, meaning a cd was placed into the radio, some words came out at lighting speed, echoed and bounced off the walls of the auditorium, further garbling the already incomprehensible mumbo jumbo that we were supposed to be answering questions about.  Honestly, I didn't write anything because I thought they just put in the wrong cd.  No.  Not the wrong cd.  After it was over, one of the professors asked, "Well okay, are you ready for the next dialog?"  I just laughed.  First of all, it wasn't a dialog.  It was Alvin and the Chipmunks on crack.  It was okay though.  I'm 99% sure that no one understood a word of that first dialog.  The remaining ones, however, did get easier.  

 

After our oral examinations were a series of written ones testing, specifically, our knowledge of grammar.  Imagine the reading comprehension, sentence structure, and vocabulary sections of the ACT, only in a language that is in no currently discernable way related to your own.  I actually felt pretty comfortable with this portion of test day, and therefore, was placed, in my opinion, into a group that fits my level pretty well.  I'd like to think that I'm in the "best" group, but I suppose we'll never know for sure.  From what I've noticed so far, everyone in my group, which consists of 7  people, converses at a fairly reasonable level and knows the inns and outs of most Russian grammar topics.  Our teachers are great. Everyday begins with conversation hour, in which our professor, Rais (Ra - ees), gives us topics to converse about.  I enjoy it.  He's awesome.  Lately we've been discussing the problems "Mega polis" cities like Moscow, Hong Kong, New Delhi, New York, etc. face in terms of overcrowding, jobs, crime, pollution, etc.  It's interesting.  One of my classmates is a graduate student from Detroit who has seen firsthand the effect the crumbling of the US auto industry has had on the region.  Crazy stuff.  After conversation hour, which is everyday, we have other courses on grammar, phonetics, reading Russian authors, and "the language of Mass Media".  I'm really looking forward to the Mass Media class.  Basically, that's it in terms of school so far.   Today we were surprised with a very kind "Welcoming Party" provided by the university. There was champagne, Russian cuisine, nice conversation and lots of toasts.  Again, very enjoyable.   Masha, Natalya (and sometimes Zhenya) are three wonderful Russian girls who have been given the difficult task of working with a group of 20 wiley Americans throughout the summer. They've all been very hospitable and patient.  Although I'm sure the three of them speak English better than I do, I won't have the privilege of hearing it on this trip as English is forbidden until we've crossed Russia's western border once again 8 weeks from now.  This means the girls must constantly repeat themselves, speak as if to 5 year olds, explain the true meanings of idioms, answer questions about everything from currency exchange to verb choice and, of course, no day would be complete without 75,000 "How do you say this's".  Again, not an easy job.  Plus, they're all just really nice and in more ways than not, exactly like us....just makin' ends as they say.  

 

I've taken an interest in things not exactly on the syllabus.  Nothing bad.  I'm not over here shooting heroin.  I've been using my free time to take pictures of Russian graffiti.  I don't really know why yet.  Maybe I'll write a book about it someday.  So far, my favorite thing to do is grab my bag, my camera and, most importantly, my shades and just walk around along the central boulevard, listening, observing, etc.  I am but a fly on the wall, a distant observer.  I slip amongst them like a transparent....thing.  Yesterday, Masha took 4 of us to a concert.  It was pretty unbelievable.  The concert was at a music school in the city.  One of the students played Chopin with great precision.  He studied for a long time in the Chopin school of music on Poland.  I was most impressed.  Today we took tours of two museums.  The first of which was the "History of Kazan' State University" museum.  Pretty cool stuff.  I was able to sit not only in the same auditorium that Tolstoy studied law, but in the exact same seat that Lenin took everyday during his studies.  It felt weird.  And hard.  The benches were like those old style catholic church pews.  You know, the one's that force you to have great posture.  My house mom showed me the large, red cabin-looking place that Lenin used to live in.  It's a block away.  No big deal.  Sasha, the 16 yr old I live with, has taken an interest in how many pushups I can do.  I told him the truth.  One thousand.  On a bad day.  He showed me the small "stadium" by our apartment, in which I've been working out lately.  There's a track, pull-up bars, tires (not sure yet what these are used for) and always a group of kids playing basketball.  Old school.  

 

Just a couple more observations before I go.  The majority of the graffiti I've seen has been in English, but not cuss words.  Why would that be?  I haven't yet photographed it, but I saw a spray painted outline of a young woman on a wall and next to it, in somewhat broken English, was written, "All I really want is you to love me...".  I still don't know what to make of it.  What else?  Oh yes.  Think back to your stoner days.  Remember hacky sack?  Yeah, that's huge here now.  Make of it what you will.  I haven't yet decided if the hacky sack fad is just now reaching Kazan'17 years later, or if it's found its rebirth in Kazan' and will soon return (from the future) to take the sporting universe by storm.  ESPN 8 "The Ocho".  Oh yes.  White nights.  I don't care what anyone says.  There are white nights in Kazan.  Meaning, the sky is a light shade of blue until midnight.  Vsyo.  And then there's a dusk color all night followed by more light at 4am.  White nights.  Last night I saw a family pushing two strollers, laughing, drinking and eating ice cream...normal right?  It was 11:30pm.  

 

I suppose that's all for now.  I leave you with a question that puzzled me tonight.  How would you characterize the American view of friendship?  Is it wrong to tell someone you don't actually miss that you do miss them?  The idea is that this is someone from way back that perhaps at some point you were close to, but now maybe not so much.  Is it better just to tell the truth and say that you aren't really friends anymore?  Or to just go on keeping up the facade?  Consider yourself lucky you don't have to attempt to answer this god-forsaken question in Russian.  

 -Sam

 

Welcome to Казань!

A friend asked me to describe my first impressions of what Kazan' was like.  That's tough.  I've never seen anything like it.  I envision a 10-th century artist commissioned to paint a highly detailed portrait of purgatory using only bright shades of blue, purple, orange and green, all while strapped to an i-v that provides a steady dose of psilocybin.  This place is literally out of this world.  And for more reasons than one.  I've realized that in relation to those of you back in the states, I'm actually writing these posts from the future.  When you lay down to sleep, I will have already slept, woken up, Skyped, douched (how funny is it that that's how you say shower in Russian...every morning the old lady I live with asks me how my douche was...priceless), eaten my morning porridge, hot dogs, chai, cucumbers and open-faced cheese and butter sandwiches, again, all before you dose off.  That's right.  I'm the terminator, who in ten weeks will be sent back from the future to save Russian / American foreign relations from judgment day.  I now know what it means when you cry.  It is something I could never do.  

 

We took a bus from the airport that first day.  The "airport" consisted of one large plane, which we flew in on, one small building and a truck with 3 big, burlly, Tatars on it.  They drove us from the plane to the building and then drove back to the plane to pick up our bags.  They then drove the bags back to the building, formed a line and pulled the bags one by one off the truck, stacking them in the building.  We just walked up and took our bags.  It was actually all relatively simple.  None of this going to baggage claims, lost bags, waiting around, etc.  I imagine that if my bags were not on that truck, I'd have never seen them again.  We picked up our bags and got on a giant bus, which drove us an hour into the city.  The geography around here is similar to that of Kansas, only with more trees, bigger bugs and slightly more-elevated topography.  Keep in mind we're in south-central Russia, in an area known as the "steppe".  Basically, just rolling hills for thousands of miles.  We approached the city and began to see signs of life.  There were old Soviet housing complexes, small hotels, dachas hear and there.  We began to see more people...all seemingly very different from one another.  Many were wearing traditional Islamic dress, but were not middle eastern.  I know a slav when I see one.  Others appeared to be Russian through and through.  Still others had Asiatic blood in them.  Others appeared to be of Turkik descent, and there were even a number of African descent.  Crazy.  We've come to understand that this city is home to Orthodox and Catholic Christians, Muslims, Protestants, Jews and other smaller religions.  What's crazy is that they are all welcomed by local government and given free rain to display symbols of their faith proudly.  It's something the whole city prides itself on.  Everywhere you look, there are crosses, half moons, etc.  There are even these monuments with 5-pointed stars, each point representing a major religion.  We took a walk to Kremlin a couple days ago and saw Russia's largest mosque, which is apparently unique because it is always open to non-believers.  The same holds true for the Orthodox churches.  All they ask is that you cover your head, don't talk and don't take pictures.  What's even crazier is that everyone, no matter how different, speaks Russian.  I've come to wonder if this is a remnant of Soviet oppression and influence or some kind of futuristic, progressive society where the socialist experiment worked on some level.  

 

The bus dropped each us off at or near the homes of our host families.  I was the third person to be called.  Masha, our student liaison and a very kind, helpful linguistics graduate (woot!), called out my name.  I was pretty nervous.  I kept thinking, mother of god, what am I going to say.  Keep in mind, I was on hour ten of the "no-english" rule.  I got off the bus, turned and saw Irina Sergeevna Volodina.  She was laughing, which made me laugh, before any words were spoken.  And then she said "Big Samuel! Big Samuel!" about seven times.  She grabbed the fifty-pound guitar case from my hand and when I said, it might be too heavy, she laughed and said "нормально"...normal. We walked up a big hill, through some back alleys, up to the back door of a giant apartment building. She asked me if I understood any Russian. I said yes. Then she talked the whole way. And really hasn't stopped since then. We walked up two flights of dusty stairs and into a newly remodeled, two-bedroom Russian flat, complete with icons and traditional Russian knick-naks. I met her 16 yr old grandson Sasha, and her "new husband" Rake. Rake (pronounced like the garden tool) is a 17yr old black poodle who is blind and deaf. Irina really likes Rake because he doesn’t talk back.

I've been given my own room, three hearty meals a day, and a nice shower heated by match and open flame. What's best is that Sasha has not only allowed me to use his Wifi connection, but that he owns two guitars that we play together quite a bit. I couldn’t have been more lucky. We drink tea all the time. It's a tea onslaught. Yesterday, we made borsch together. When I asked Irina which soap to use to wash the dishes, she looked at me like I was crazy. She asked me if I washed the dishes in America. When I said yes, she looked even more wierded-out and asked what it was, exactly, that my fiancé' did? I laughed and said that we shared the chores. Irina thought this was great and very progressive. However, she informed me that I wouldn’t be doing any dishes while in Russia. It was my job to study and relax. So I made a deal with her. There would be at least three days throughout my trip that she would do nothing. I would do the cooking and cleaning. She laughed. Everything has been pretty great so far. I've gone out the past couple nights with some Russians and fellow colleagues. We had dinner together Friday night and then last night we went ice skating, which was awesome. I've been taking a lot of pictures, which will be posted on my Facebook page. I still haven't figured out how to publish "albums" on here. Suppose that's all for now. Today we're going to the dacha to harvest potatoes.

Best regards,

From the future.

Славо Богу...мы приехали!!!

"Thank God...we've arrived!!!"  After a cancelled flight at 3am in Frankfurt, being awake literally for two days, seeing the sun set from above the clouds and then less that 6 hours later seeing it rise again, and 4- hour layovers in Germany and Moscow, I can finally say that we have arrived in Kazan'.  But before I talk about how incredibly amazing this small, fairytale town is, I need to catch up on the last couple days in D.C.  I had never been to D.C. prior to this trip.  Having spent those few days there, I must say, it absolutely deserves praise.  The political culture surrounding downtown D.C. can be seen everywhere.  Not only in the obvious (monuments, architecture, etc.) but in the faces of all the young professionals, government workers, military men and women, etc.  It seemed like everyone there was on a mission of some sort.  There was a real sense of urgency in the air, like there was work to be done.  I admired it.  I can really appreciate a city full of individuals who don't mind working very hard to get what they want.  

 

During the remainder of our orientation, we met some individuals who had definitely worked hard to get where they were.  We spoke with a panel of individuals from the private and public sectors who use Russian in their careers, which ranged from those in law to state dept officials.  Then, unexpectedly, the consular general from the Russian embassy in D.C. showed up to wish us well.  She chose only to speak Russian, which was nice, and then asked if we had any questions.  One guy asked a question about the Russian "Год Молодёжи" which means "Year of the Youth". She spoke about that for a bit and then I asked her (in Russian) to speak a bit about herself and about how she ended up being the consular general to the United States of America. Turns out, this was no easy task. Basically, when she decided she wanted to be a diplomat, she was asked which diplomat she'd like to be a secretary for. She decided to open her own exchange program for women in various aspects of Soviet society to meet, teach and learn from their counterparts in the US. This developed into something new and successful. She developed her skills as a moderator and diplomat, eventually becoming one of Russia's best. It was only then, some 20yrs of hard work later, that she was asked to represent her country abroad, a tremendous honor.

Then we met someone I will never forget. She was the recently appointed Executive Director of the Bureau of Educational and Cultural Affairs at the US Dept. of State. This was only her most recent desk. She had held others before, more than many career officials including senators. She walked into the conference room with her own security, two personal assistants, and a handful of interns. She was a very nice woman, spoke eloquently, was fluent in Hebrew and in three dialects of Arabic. Before her tenure at State, she did ten years in the upper echelons of the Central Intelligence Agency. Surely, a spy. Her advice, never stop learning, work hard and when given the opportunity to immerse yourself in a culture that's not your own, take it. Simple enough. She wished us all the best, took a couple questions and then, literally, rushed off to a meeting before congress. Like it was no big deal. What a woman.

That evening myself and two other colleagues took the metro to see the Washington and Lincoln memorials, as well as the WWII and Vietnam memorials and the White House. Again, this was my first time. It was breathtaking. I couldn’t believe how majestic everything was. Yes, majestic is a good word for it. Seeing that place was the perfect segue to a trip overseas. It made me so happy to be American, which is something that seems to have become a taboo in recent years. I mentioned to one of my colleagues, "You know, we've spent all this time going to other countries to see their monuments, to learn about their leaders, to remember their wars and to learn their languages, and yet, I personally have never taken the opportunity to see my own." Well, from what I've seen so far, ours is by far the best. Looking up at the Lincoln Memorial stairs from below at dusk is like dying and waking up at the gates of Heaven. Whoever built that place, surely, must have seen the light.

The next morning we woke up, took yet another placement test, and then left for the airport. The first leg of the trip was an 8-hour flight to Frankfurt from D.C. It was horrible. There was already zero leg-room and it only took about 20min for the assclown in front of me to put his seat all the way back, crushing me. He retained this position until we landed. At about hour 6, I was continually "accidentally" kneeing him in the back as hard as possible and physically restraining myself from jamming my butter knife into his neck. I wanted this man to die and still do. As far as I am concerned, he is satan's representative on earth and humanity would be better of if he were exterminated. If you find him, please let me know. When we arrived in Frankfurt, our connecting flight to Moscow had been cancelled, which really wasn’t that big of a deal. We had to wait a couple extra hours for a new flight, which was more spacious anyway. So, we set off to Russia.

After 4 hours in flight, it happened. We landed. Other than the fact that we made it there without dying, landing in Moscow, for some, meant something much more frightening. It was at the exact moment that the planes rubber tires squeaked and skipped along the Domyedyedova that English would no longer be spoken. And not just for the remainder of the flight. For the next ten weeks. Other than in private when speaking with family back home, out of ear shot of anyone, English will not be spoken on this trip. Personally, it's a challenge, but a manageable one that will produce tremendous results and has already begun to. After Moskva, there was just one more flight...to Kazan'. Sorry, however, to be anti-climactic. I'm tired of writing. Check back soon to hear all about this extraordinary place. I feel like I'm living in a pre-Soviet, Wild East, rural trading outpost that just celebrated its 1000yr anniversary. Oh wait. I am.  

Day 1

Okay.  I made it to Washington D.C. and I'm still alive.  Day 1 of this ten week journey has been a success.  However, to call this first post of my first blog "Day 1" does not begin to do service to the time, patience and preparation put in to making this "Day 1" possible.  I thought I'd begin my travelogue with a bit of a description of how I ended up in this five-star hotel room (with free Wi-Fi) in Washington D.C. en route to the southern border of Russia, where I will spend the next ten weeks speaking only Russian, immersed in Russian and Tatar culture, living with a Tatar / Muslim family and spending 40 of the week's 168 hours in the classroom drilling declensions, vocab, verb conjugations, syntax, morphology, idiomatic usage and colloquial structures.  Basically, I applied.  It was a shot in the dark that landed a bull's eye.  Seriously.  

The old George Bush thought it would be a good idea to create a federally funded program that would allow American citizens who had expressed proficiency in specific foreign languages to go to those countries for intensive study, thereby increasing the number of advanced speakers of those "Critical" languages every year.  This National Security Language Initiative gives out funding every year for students like myself to study "Critical" languages.  There are 8 or so critical languages.  Russian, Arabic, various dialects of Arabic, Urdu, Chinese, Korean, etc.  One can assume these languages are deemed "critical" because the countries in which these languages are spoken either pose some sort of threat to US interest abroad or they hold some value economically, culturally, etc.  Either way, uncle Sam wants more of us speaking these languages at advanced levels.  (This is a good time to note that the views and opinions expressed in this travelogue are my own and not that of the U.S. Department of State.  And yes, I have to say that.)   This is where I come in.  I've been studying Russian, among other things, since high school.  I received bachelor's degrees in English and Russian Studies and then a master's in Linguistics, focusing on the comparison of a number of Slavic languages i.e. Russian, Polish, Serbian.  Obviously, my background in Russian studies was critical in my receiving this award.   Plus, I really got my act together near or around junior year of undergrad (kind of), managed a 4.0 MA program, did some great internships, moved out of Kirksville, MO, the usual.  Now I'll stop gloating.  

Prior to this Day 1 and soon after I found out I was one of the 20 to go to Kazan', there was a tremendous amount of work to be done to ensure my place on the trip.  Physicals, AIDS test, written language proficiency tests, oral language proficiency tests, over-the-phone language proficiency tests, forms, forms, forms, and a few more forms, health insurance, flight itineraries, homestay preferances, gifts, packing, buying stuff, toiletries, packing, ipod, computer, downloading music, more packing, etc.  And this all paled in comparison to the actual application process which included 5 or so essays, resume's, letters of recommendation, letters of intent, contract to use Russian in some capacity upon return,  forms, forms, forms, a couple more forms, and a couple more essays.  The fact that I'm lying here in this bed right now, typing on a blog is not only completely foreign to me, but a complete accomplishment in and of itself.  Like I said, I made it D.C. and I'm still alive.  

The group of students going on this trip is incredibly diverse.  All walks of life, many universities, many backgrounds, all connected through an understanding that the ability to communicate at the international level will be an invaluable tool in the years to come.  We met the head of the Bureau of Educational Affairs tonight at this evening's only mandatory meeting.  He congratulated everyone and answered a few questions.  Then they handed each of us sixty dollars and told us to go have dinner.  I couldn't believe it.  I've never been given that much free money.  Like I said, Day 1 was a success.  If the whole trip goes as smoothly and as efficiently as the preparation process and Day 1 went, we are all in for a treat.  Thank you National Security Language Initiative and thank you U.S. Department of State.  So far so good.  

I'm going to be dilligent about this whole travelogue thing.  Like a good student would. 

PS:  I already miss my family and fiance'.  Leaving Andrea today was really difficult.  I can't begin to imagine how happy I'll be to see her when I return in two months.