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 4th.
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