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.