We're not gonna step out in front of that truck are we?

I went to bed last night, well, earlier than I think I ever have before. Jetlag is a funny thing. All of a sudden, you are incredibly tired at weird and often inopportune times. It makes sense. My entire sleep pattern has basically been flipped on its head. In my case, the inability to keep my eyes open at 6:45 in the evening really didn't present any problems. I left the office at around 6, played a little guitar, read about two pages from Our Magnificent Bastard Tongue: The Untold History of English (actually very interesting, but will put you to sleep, especially given the circumstances) and then promptly passed the hell out, to put it bastardly. The flip side to this coin, however, must have struck me in the forehead right around 3:45 am. There was no going back. What to do? What to do? Check Facebook. Check. Check Linked In. Check. Read the news. Check. Do pushups. Check. Get through half a decade of Rosary before going back to recheck Facebook. Recheck check. Check. I laid there in the dark listening to Moscow radio broadcasts for the remainder of the night. Definitely not the most enjoyable experience, and unless I plug in my coffee i v soon, tonight might be more of the same.

We had to be at the office at 8:00 am for a traditional standup Bangalorean breakfast. I was mistaken, however. I thought the breakfast was going to be at the office. It was not. We needed to walk a half-mile or so down 100-mile road to a small outdoor cafe. This presented the first of what I hope will be many grand opportunities in India. Today. For the first time. I crossed the road. I know it's crazy, but true nonetheless. I will never look at crossing the road the same. Everywhere you look, both directions, is a mass of semis, scooters, cars, rickshaws, and motorcycles, all coming at you at speeds fast enough...well fast enough to kill a small herd of elephants. Kind of like fighting off a bear in a campsite, our tactic for accomplishing this unfathomable task is to herd together ourselves in as large a group as possible, waving our arms and yelling "Stop!" in a feeble attempt to stop traffic. I'll admit, this transformation into the black, white, chinese, brazilian, indian, 20-something glob monster is quite a sight and actually works. For about 3 seconds. The cars do hesitate for a moment, but then instead of stopping, they zoom behind you, in front of you and around you, all the while never taking the foot off the gas. Being a pedestrian here is simply a game of Frogger. Only in this Frogger (unlike the Atari version) you actually DIE!

We ended up having a very nice meal. Our trainers, to whom we were introduced yesterday and got to know today, met us for the mini-adventure. They, being the veterans they are at this sort of thing, led us down some of the back streets of Bangalore to the cafe. It was my first glimpse at real life for people here. Again, very vibrant, bustling, moving, raw. People were selling things, picking things up, dropping things off, drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes, looking at the 6"5' white dude, etc. Despite drawing a bit of attention, people were very kind and seemed very comfortable affording us certain permissions that maybe they wouldn't one another, like walking in the middle of the street taking pictures, nearly getting hit by motorcyclists who still hadn't taken slowed down from the road we crossed half a mile back. I had some great coffee and the spiciest breakfast I've ever had. I don't know why I expected eggs. Rice and some of that good ole' melt-your-face-off curry at 8:00am is the way to go. If you want your stomach to feel like the 7th gate to hell for the remainder of the day. I may be "eggs"aggerating a bit, but this stuff was definitely no sausage McMuffin.

We came back to the office for our first administrative sessions. Things were very informative. We played some icebreaker games, got to know one another a bit and were given an intro understanding of what we should expect, what our goals are, who are coaches are, who we need to contact for various things, etc. Informative. I had some lunch, spoke one-on-one with my trainer about my personal goals for the program, unlocked my Iphone (something everyone should do - http://jailbreakmatrix.com) so that I'm no longer held captive by ATT and can use any sim card I wish, and then sat down to read a bit of this new book we've all been given,
"Strengths Finder". For anyone interested, my personal goals for the program are to gain an intermediate understanding of the skills necessary to be an effective BA and then to gain experience using these skills in a real-time setting. I also to hope to learn more about creating test automation frameworks from scratch, writing functional tests to populate regression suites, and overall betterment of my QA capabilities. I've spoken about these goals with my trainers and so far they have all been very supportive. I know this experience will be what I make it. That said, I don't plan on leaving any stone unturned. It would be a waste not to utilize such amazing resources.

Tonight, I may play some cricket for the first time. And tomorrow, off to a winery. Pictures to come soon...

I've never pulled 20,000 of anything out of an ATM. Until today.

Seriously. What world am I in? I've been asking myself this question for about a year now. At the present moment this is a question that holds a certain weight that previously it had not. I've just come back from my first meal in Bangalore, India. Prior to arriving, the extent of my knowledge concerning all things Bangalore was that Bangalore, home to two ThoughtWorks offices, is a bustling IT hub near the southern tip of India. Over the course of my twenty-two hours in flights and layovers from Chicago (mostly flights) (literally, 20 hours in economy class), I had plenty of time to think about what lay ahead, what kind of experiences I would have, what I would learn, etc. Now, I didn't really use this time to think about lay ahead, but had I chosen to think about what lay ahead, this would have been the perfect time to do so. Instead, I caught up on some Russian dvd's left over from my time in the land of the Bolsheviks, read some Nietzsche (I've been really getting into this whole philosophy thing lately), ate some pretty terrible Lufthansa food, drank a lot of exceptionally tasty Lufthansa red wine, and popped a few sleeping pills (despite telling my mom I wouldn't). The last of these activities was clutch. I was asleep for about nine hours from Frankfurt to Bangalore. As exciting as Karate Kid 3 was for the second time in twenty hours, I couldn't fight the urge to rest my eyes. For half a day. Sitting. With people all around me. Talking. Myself and two colleagues finally crashed into the runway a bit after midnight Bangalore time. At this moment, after a couple screams, many sighs, and a few claps, it finally sank in that I had arrived and was going to spend the next 7 weeks further away from the US than I have ever been geographically, immersed in a culture far different from any I have ever experienced. That said, I'm not one to worry about these things. Just another stop on this bogus journey that has become my life. Only on this stop, you can't drink the water, you'd be advised to douse yourself in hand sanitizer on a regular basis, and the mosquitos like handing out a little present called malaria. It's free.

After convincing the customs officers that I wasn't a terrorist and that I wasn't smuggling anything other than a guitar and 4 pounds of Columbian cocaine in my guitar case, I walked out the main terminal exit to about 200 men holding signs, looking at me and yelling. Awkward. It was a little bit like being on the red carpet. I strutted my stuff down the runway. Stop. Turn. Stop. Turn. Sashay. Looks like all those America's Next Top Model reruns (the one's I'm constantly forced to watch at home) finally paid off! Not really. I'm sure I looked like the biggest deer in headlights. Among all the men in the crowd, I finally spotted a man jumping up and down in the back, waving a sign that said ThoughWorks on it. We were getting somewhere. He walked us over to the parking lot and left us there while he fetched the car. The smell here is different, but not necessarily bad. The air is filled with exhaust from all the cars, but often you smell a mix of spice, perfume, and sewage. I'm not being facetious, though. The smell actually brought back very fond memories of Kazan', a bustling, growing city, always pulsating with noise and activity. There is something literally and figuratively very raw about the smells in these cities. It makes them feel much more organic and alive.

The nice man (whose name, unfortunately, I cannot remember, nor could I say correctly) drove us for about an hour to the Diamond District. This is where I'll be staying throughout my tenure in Bangalore. He dropped us off and another gentleman helped me to my room. For all intents and purposes, I have a great apartment. I was struck by how large it is. There are three of us living there, each with our own room. The apartment buildings are known as "blocks", which I find hilarious. I'm currently serving 20 to life on H-Block 62 with a member of the Chinese Triad crime syndicate known as "Bob" and an Indian guy I haven't met yet. I was the last to arrive, so I dropped my stuff in the one remaining room, and after turning on the air-conditioner, the fan, the mosquito lamp and the mosquito repellant air-freshener thing, I finally managed to find a bed. I needed it.

I woke up this morning a little hesitant I must admit. I had really received no direction at all and had no way of contacting anyone. I kind of just started going about my normal day. Got out of bed. Took a shower. Unpacked some things. Made some toast. Boiled water for tea. I was sitting on the couch in silence and decided to flip on the TV. A couple preliminary notions about TV in India. I didn't expect there to be so much English. I was watching all the same commercials I see in the States, just with Indian folks talking about how this Ponds product is so great for moisturizing, or why Yahoo is such a great search engine. Bollywood definitely seems to have made it's mark. The music, dancing, traditional dress, etc. is everywhere. I managed to find an English-speaking news broadcast. The journalist was reporting from the streets of Bangalore about potential riots this afternoon. I kind of did a double take when I heard this. Wait, wah? So apparently there's this 500 year old land dispute between some Muslims and some Hindis and today a court will rule (I'm assuming after 500 years of back and forth) on what should be built there, a temple or a mosque. Depending on how the ruling goes (I'm not really sure which way I'm supposed to want it to go), some folks could be pretty upset. I didn't think much about it, until they said that all businesses, universities and schools had been closed. Our team has been told to stay off the streets the remainder of the evening. Apparently it's the real deal. Although, at lunch today one of my trainers was telling me that this kind of thing really wasn't a big deal for the younger generations. I suppose that remains to be seen.

I made my way over to the ThoughtWorks office around eleven, picked up some adapters, met some folks. The office was humming. Like most ThoughtWorks offices and especially delivery sites, you walk through the doors into a bee hive. Many people buzzing around a central hub, each with their own role, working diligently, but always with the well being of the hive in mind. There are no walls. Only tables, chairs, laptops, phones and dozens of city clocks, all in one large, central room. If you don't think osmotic learning is a real thing, work in a place like this for a year. I settled into my honeycomb, plugged in, sat down, and was immediately invited to leave for lunch. Long day. We walked out to the street and one of my trainers asked me (with a grin), "You ever ride a rickshaw before?" "Do the ones near Wrigley Field count?" "No." And no, they don't. We paid a man 43 rupees to drive us to a restaurant not far from the office. He probably deserved much more. There are no traffic laws in India. It's basically every motorcyclist, rickshaw driver, scooter guy, semi-truck driver, man, woman, child and pedestrian for himself. I've decided to characterize what you experience riding here (not driving. I don't plan on driving here. I would die. And that's coming from someone who's been driving in Chicago for 4 years) as poorly-organized chaos. Not quite complete chaos, but close. The honking. So much honking. People use their horns all the time and it's not like in the US when you use your horn all the time because you are angry. The Indians are actually using their horns for a purpose closer to what they were actually designed for: to let others on the road know where you are. When 50 million people are crossing lanes and passing you at any given moment, a few taps on the horn every three or four seconds can't necessarily be a bad thing. Riding along I saw alot. There were definitely cows just walking along the busy roads. People were everywhere. Thousands of people were everywhere. There are just a ton of people everywhere in this place. We stopped off at a local restaurant. This next part might seem totally cliche, so the only reason I'm writing it is because it actually happened and I think I may have been the only one who noticed. We got out of the rickshaw, paid the man and walked up the crumbling sidewalk to the restaurant entrance. Just outside the entrance, I saw a dead cat. It was lying there, dead. I didn't really think much about it until I walked out of the restaurant and the dead cat was no longer there. Now I'm not saying the cat was used as part of our meal. I'm just saying that the cat was used as part of our meal. And it was nice and spicy. Meow.

Back to the Future...

Well, what can I say? It's been a long while since I last posted anything. Now, however, is a better time than any to start back up again. Having just listened to a fascinating talk on Agile methodologies, I've been given a few minutes to unwind, eat some lunch and get ready for our next discussion. For those of you familiar with Chicago, I'm looking out the south window of the AON building from the 26th floor. Grant park is covered in snow. There's a gray plume of smoke billowing from the oval telescope on top of the Adler planetarium and Sue is growling at me from the Field museum. Michigan Ave, as usual, is bustling. Everything's gray. Chicago winter. Things in my life, however, are far from gray. If I had to assign a color to the events of the past 4-5 months, I think I'd say bright-red neon bordered with navy blue. I'll rewind a bit so you can get a sense of where I'm coming from.

I left the amazing people of Kazan, saddened, but knowing that I'd soon return. We spent three incredible days in St. Petersburg, exploring the city with our new and improved Russian. We performed a musical of sorts for the State Dept. people. I played guitar. There was a lavish party on the beach outside the Peter and Paul fortress, followed by a sombre boat-ride, three hours of sleep, final goodbye's and the day-and-a-half trip home. In short, the experience was more than I ever expected. They were so, so good to us. That all being said, it was good to be home. I missed my fiance', family and friends.

Admittedly, I was nervous about being back in Chicago. I basically had no money, no job, and I came back to a United States where the economy was plummeting, job prospects were dim and friends were being laid off. As you might expect, the idea that I'd immediately find and begin my typical 9-5 (something I've always been adamantly opposed to) was not looking good. I spent weeks on job search sites, trying to network with people and get that ever so important "in", but nothing seemed to be working out. I was growing more and more frustrated with the whole process and by the end of it all, was willing to do just about anything for a few dollars. I was applying at bars, furniture moving companies, dog-walking, garage-cleaning...anything. What's worse is that I really started to question the choices I had made in terms of schooling. Now that I was in a tough job market, would my skills really set me apart, or just take me off the list completely. What does one actually do with the ability to speak a couple exotic languages and with the knowledge that a master of arts in comparative linguistics actually brings. After a few more weeks, when I was really approaching the freak-out point fast, I received a call back. Actually no, it was an email.

Earlier that day (early September), I responded to a Craigslist ad requesting warehouse workers for a small Russian ebay company in Northbrook (a northern suburb of Chicago). The gentleman, Andrej, requested that I call him. Actually, I believe his exact words were, "Call me. Andrej." I called him and immediately started in with Russian. He asked me my name and chuckled a bit when I said Sam. He says, "No, what's your real name? Semyon?" I explained to him that I did not have a Russian name because, in fact, I was not Russian. I was an American who had simply studied Russian enough to converse in it. There was a long silence, a long awkward silence. I don't think he thought I was telling him the truth. He immediately began asking me all of these questions and complimenting me on my Russian, which is, in my experience, the typical reaction from a native speaker. He told me to come in a few days later for an interview. I believe he actually mentioned something along the lines, "I've got to see this to believe it." I went in for the interview and everything was fine. I don't know if management was more surprised that I was a Russian speaking American who was willing to work 8 hours a day in a Russian-only environment, or that I was willing to do all of those things for the incredible rate of 8 dollars per hour. Either way, the pay aside, I knew that I could be sitting at home worrying about working for the time-being, or I could be working, improving my Russian, and continuing my search for something a bit more lucrative. I started the next week.

It was great. I had a lot of fun really getting to know those that I worked with. Essentially, I checked cellphones for a number of common problems in the hope that they might be refurbished, repackaged and resold. The work itself was mind-numbingly boring, but that was nothing a steady stream of house-beats live from Moscow, the occasional vodka shot, a new onslaught of tea, and lively conversations about guns, sex, money, drugs, music, religion, banyas, and the "old country" couldn't help to livin up. We had a really good time. Eventually, I was moved to the actual phone room and then placed into the "shipping" role. I felt like I was actually learning something, with the added benefit of learning the inns and outs of shipping in Russian. Looking back, I left with a new set of Russian friends and technical vocabulary. I'm happy that those I've encountered in Chicago's Russian community have been so welcoming and hospitable to me. But this really was no surprise. Russians, stereotypes aside, are some of the warmest, most hospitable people in the world once the initial introductions are made and a sense of trust is established. So, how does one go from working in the suburbs in a warehouse with a bunch of Russians for 8 dollars an hour to the 26th floor of the AON building? Well, it's kind of a long story.

Way back when, even before I started working for the Russians, I received a tip that a company called Thoughtworks, headquartered here in Chicago, had an opening in their legal department, more specifically in immigration. I was interested in positions like this. I had experience in processing visas, had done work with the State Dept. and had already worked with international delegations coming in and out of Chicago. My cousin in law was able to pass my resume along to a contact who was actually interning in the department at the time. They called me. Said they were interested. I did two phone interviews and eventually was called in for in-person interviews. The process, even then, was intensive. Aside from 4-5 in-person interviews, I had to do a number of assessments. These were personality tests, logic tests, and even a quick IQ test. Like I said, intensive. The company itself is a global IT consultancy. Basically, teams of consultants are sent out to clients all over the world and are given the task of solving problems and developing tools to solve problems. That's a very simple explanation, but in essence, it's what goes on. That all being said, I did not get the job. Not cool. It actually really sucked. I was thinking that Thoughtworks would be a great company to work for. Everyone I met was very, very intelligent, passionate about their work, opinionated, dedicated, ready to learn and wanted to see the world. I thought, "Man, it's not a typical 9-5. And I don't want a typical 9-5." Nonetheless, didn't get it. I did, however, receive an email after my interviews from someone stating that although I did not receive the initial position I was applying for in immigration, people liked me and an attempt was being made to find something for me. I thought, "Well, that's better than nothin'"...

Days, weeks, and even months passed and I had still not heard anything. I wrote a couple polite emails stating that I was still interested in a position with ThoughtWorks, but received no replies. I continued my work at the warehouse, while Andrea and I began to discuss other options. I began to search for jobs out of state and abroad. We did a lot of research on teaching opportunities in China, Japan, Russia, etc. All hope was not lost, but the whole situation was starting to wear on us. Thank God we had parents and grandparents there to help. Much longer and we would have literally been screwed. Andrea and I have always wanted to go abroad together, at least for a year or two before we begin our family. I realized that if I was going to make this happen, I was going to have to take a much more proactive role. I had all but stopped considering ThoughtWorks as a viable option and had basically moved on. That is, until early December when I received an email from recruiting. In short, they actually were still interested in me and wanted me to go through the interview process again. Only this time, it was for a consulting / business analyst role. I was very excited. It took a lot to keep me from jumping up out of my chair. I told Andrea on the way home. She freaked out too.

I was a long way from an offer though. ThoughtWorks, despite the country's economic woes and thanks to good leadership, stepped-up performance globally, and good ol' hard work, had just had one of its best years ever. Recruiting was looking at me as part of a new initiative seeking out "aptitude hires". An aptitude hire is a person who doesn't necessarily have the typical IT or software development background or experience, but does have the skill to work into one of these roles. As a business analyst, I would be responsible for working with clients, determining their needs and then interpreting and translating these needs into language that is usable from a development standpoint. It's my job to build relationships with clients, but also with the tech team so that everyone has their needs met in a timely matter. In the end, I made it through another round of interviews and assessments. There were some crazy logic tests, but all along I felt like I was performing well. I met with a number of Thoughtworkers and was really impressed with everyone. I began to learn more and more about the consulting role. While there would be a lot of travel involved, I'd have my chance to see the world, work on challenging projects with a global community of developers and code-monkeys, and finally start to earn a little money. I always felt like I had a lot of really good skills, but had yet to find an industry outside of academia where I could put them all to use. I soon realized that with my background in linguistics, international experience and desire for something a-typical, the field of software development / consulting could actually be a really good fit, especially with a well-respected company like ThoughtWorks. Not to mention, the perks of working for Thoughtworks are crazy!

All in all, I was extended an offer. I am the first aptitude hire. I've heard that that title might be changed, because everyone hired has high level aptitude, but I figure I'll bask in the glory for a bit. Really, I'm just a junior-consultant who has a lot to learn in a short amount of time. It looks like I'll be doing a lot of shadowing these first few weeks. For the time being, I am a pro-active sponge. At least this is what I'm calling myself. I'm looking forward to challenging new career that will develop my skills and give me some new one's to play with. So far, so good. I found out yesterday that I'll be sent to India for 6 weeks in June. I can't say that I'm all that surprised. I've also been hearing how easy it is to get year-long projects in Australia, China, Brazil, etc. Looks like Andrea and I might get our chance after all. Oh, and don't think I've given up on my Russian. I've already met some Russian-speakers here. One American and two native speakers. Now, I've just got to convince them to let me open the Moscow office.

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.