Monday, June 7, 10:50pm. I’m sitting in the Parque Federico Garcia Lorca, blogging and enjoying the lovely nighttime weather. I know, it seems strange to be hanging out in a park at 11pm, but (1) it’s almost empty, (2) it’s a two-minute walk from my homestay, and (3) Granada’s nightlife is just beginning. I’m a little tardy (okay, very tardy) on this first blog entry, for which I do apologize. Let’s see if I can capture the slightly overwhelming flood of impressions of this past week.
So I arrived in Granada, took a taxi from the airport with one of my program-mates, and showed up in a traffic circle filled with construction. If Granadans thought traffic was bad before, it’s been made far more confusing by the beginning of construction on a Metro system. (Honestly, the city doesn’t need it. The buses are comprehensive and cheap, and the city is easily traverseable on foot, as well. But, progress is progress.) Monday was a getting-to-know-you day in several respects, with regard to my host mom, the city, another time zone change, the works. Tuesday was orientation, Wednesday, classes, Thursday and Friday days off, and today, classes began again in earnest.
I, along with a GMU softball player named Beth, have been adopted into a large, warm, loud, constantly moving Andalucian family. Sra. Encarnacion Ventura insisted from the beginning that we call her Encarna (even our professors tell us to call them by first names. Very different from the Russian formality to which I’ve grown accustomed). I’ve met three of her seven children so far, and five of her eleven grandchildren, the youngest of which (five-year-old Cristina) has attached herself to me and Beth like a chattering chick. Beth and I are the only ones who actually live with Sra. Ventura, but it’s very rare that at least three other people aren’t over for lunch. The kids eat in one room, the adults (including us!) in another, with the television on in the background and practically inaudible under multiple lightning-fast conversations. It took me about a day and a half to stop injecting Russian words into my conversations; now, I speak about 80% in Spanish, including among our group (occasionally to their annoyance). The cultural transition has taken much less time than I expected. :)
Bueno, so, the rest of the week. We met on Tuesday at the Centro para Lenguas Modernas (Modern Language Center), tucked away in some aristocratic family’s old summer house in the center of the city. Professor Ramos, our coordinator, was very pleased to finally meet me and passed on her best greetings to Mom. :) We took our placement tests, received a boatload of introductory information, spent a while standing around between meetings (this quickly became a common theme), and were eventually dismissed and told to meet at a similar house in the far northern part of the city at 9pm. That evening, after a very welcome siesta and some more unpacking, the eighteen of us met for dinner, had a little too much wine (thanks to the generosity of the servers), and spent three hours socializing, taking photos, and (eventually) dancing in the garden.
We were informed on Tuesday that we had arrived in the middle of Granada’s biggest party of the year, the Feria de Corpus Cristi, so Thursday and Friday were days off for pretty much the entire city. As it turns out, half of Wednesday was, too; our second professor dismissed us after about five minutes of class to go see the parade making its way down the Gran Via. This one was mainly for the kids, so I understand, but I still enjoyed it immensely: the people on stilts and wearing giant costumes, the bands, the completely random collection of costumed individuals throwing smoke bombs on the street. The centerpiece of this parade was a statue of a flamenco-costumed woman riding a dragon, called La Tarasca. (I’m not sure whether that’s the name of the woman, the dragon, or the statue.) Why the woman riding a dragon is so important, I have no idea, but at least it was pretty.
Even our days off were busy. Beth and Sra. Ventura decided that we would spend Thursday at the beach, accompanied by Beth’s friend Tara and Sra. Ventura’s cousin Pilar. So, we did. I remember now one of the many good reasons I don’t spend much time at the beach. I do love to relax, but even after applying what must have been a quarter of my bottle of SPF 50 sunscreen, I STILL managed to return to Granada the shade of a freshly cooked lobster. Thankfully, four days later, the burns have stopped hurting; even so, I carry a tube of aloe in my purse. When you’re as pale as I am, you can’t be too careful. :P Most of the group went to a different beach on Saturday, an opportunity which I politely declined on grounds of preserving my sanity. I was oddly satisfied to note that some of them returned roughly the same color as myself. -grin-
Friday was a little more like what I’m used to for a study abroad program: two excursions, to Fuente Vaqueros and the Albaicin. Fuente Vaqueros is a little town about half an hour outside of Granada, noteworthy for being the birthplace of the poet Federico Garcia Lorca. I brought several of his works with me to Granada (thanks, Mom!), and I happen to actually like them, so I found this trip to be really kind of neat; most of the rest of the group looked a little bored, but the guide did her best. Our guides for our excursions are two professors from the CLM, named Maricarmen and Elios, and they’re actually pretty amazing. :) Maricarmen was also responsible for leading us through the winding maze that is the Albaicin, basically the historic Arab-inspired quarter of Granada. We passed many a palace belonging to the rich folk of the time, picked our way down tiny cobblestoned alleys, and took dozens of photos of the views that only got better as we climbed. I like to think I’m getting better at landscape photography, though that may only be because there are SO MANY opportunities here. :D
I almost forgot to mention: as part of the festival of Corpus Christi, there’s a giant fair on the far western end of the city, where I spent two wonderful evenings (Wednesday and Saturday). It’s sort of a combination of a county fair and…well, to be honest, I’m not sure what to compare it to. There’s a section full of rides for the kids, sweet sellers everywhere, and games (and people carrying around the ludicrous stuffed animals won from said games), and then there’s the part that’s truly Spanish. A good two hundred tent enclosures are arranged in streets in the back part of the fair, all of which are sponsored by clubs, the university, the local government, and the like, and all of which are places to gather, socialize, drink, and dance. Considering that almost the only dancing I know how to do is Latin, and also considering that nobody judges anybody else because they’re all too busy having fun, this was by far my favorite part. I spent both nights dancing until well after two in the morning, and went home by the convenient Feria shuttles, which were running until something like six a.m. (I also tried both sangria and some sort of local wine sold in shots. A shot of cheap vodka is generally fairly vile; a shot of cheap, dark wine is REALLY awful, but hey, it’s a tradition. Sangria is quite tasty, but I limited myself to one glass a night. ‘Vino de verano,’ literally ‘summer wine,’ is possibly even better; it’s basically just a red wine spritzer, heavy on the spritz.)
So…chronological order be blasted, where was I? Saturday. Right. After the walking tour, most of us were honestly exhausted, so we went home and went to bed. While most of the group spent Saturday tanning/burning on the beach, I slept in, read for a while, enjoyed the air conditioning, then set off in the late afternoon to go explore. I rather like taking the back streets in this city and just seeing where I end up. I know where the dangerous neighborhoods are, but they’re on the other end of the city from my homestay, so as long as I pay SOME attention to where I’m going, the results are generally quite pleasant. I ended up back in the Albaicin on Saturday, where I sat in a little hole-in-the-wall Moroccan tea shop for a couple hours and savored a book and some lovely herbal tea. On my way back, I passed an artisans’ market in an alley and stopped to browse (why not?), and ended up buying an inexpensive and very comfortable dress. At some point when it doesn’t showcase my sunburn quite so brilliantly, I’ll post pictures. :) I did a little souvenir shopping and returned home to meet a thoroughly tanned Beth, chat for a while, enjoy dinner with Encarna, and head out to the Feria.
We spent Sunday in the old capital of the Umayyad (I think) Caliphate, the city of Cordoba. While Granada is hot, Cordoba, situated right atop a river, is hot and muggy. Thankfully, Elios’ stories about the Madina Al-Zahar kept us plenty distracted from the weather. About the only problem with the whole day is that I will forever associate the Madina (the ruins of the Caliph’s palace) with the phrase ‘sexo, drogas, y rock-and-roll,’ thanks to our guide. :) We then spent a pleasant hour or so in the Mezquita de Cordoba, the mosque-temple-cathedral that is a wonder of mixed medieval architecture. Seriously, there’s no way I can explain this place, although my photos might begin to give an idea (once I upload them). I thought I’d had enough of gorgeous religious architecture in St. Petersburg, but this was completely different…and mind-blowing.
And so we come back to today, and classes, and all that important stuff. The bookstore is out of the Level 6 textbook, and has been for a while, but they should have it in by Thursday; in the meantime, our professors are liberal with their photocopies. Gracia engaged us in a conversation about idioms, hand gestures, and general untranslateables, while Montserrat fired every aspect of the past tense she could think of at us, and Mariangeles explained the system of autonomous communities in Spain. Five hours straight of Spanish is kind of a lot, but hey, I knew what I was getting into when I started this program. I sort of feel sorry for the students in the Initial levels…they’re probably at least a little overwhelmed.
The park closes at midnight, so I should probably get a move on towards going back home. Beth will be asleep (although I’m not sure how, as she took a five-hour siesta), Encarna will be watching another talk show or travel program, and I will set my alarm for seven hours from now to wash the dust and sweat from my hair. I’ll be back here soon, though. Palm trees line the dirt paths of the park, and a huge rose garden blooms just around the corner. The whole city smells like dust and roses.
Monday, June 7, 2010
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Of Sand and Sunburn
Sunday, May 30…no, actually, Monday, May 31. Greetings from the weirdness that is Madrid-Barajas Airport! I thought about retitling the blog ‘Of Sand and Sunburn’ for the part that takes place in Spain, but I’m not exactly sure how to do that…so, let’s just call it ‘Of Fish and Frostbite, Part 2.’
I didn’t post after I came home from Russia, but that’s mostly because I was in contact with just about everyone who reads this blog when I came home. Suffice it to say, it was great to be home, even if I’d only just gotten used to Eastern Standard Time when it was time to leave it again. I miss St. Petersburg, and I especially miss my host mom and my friends, but I’m starting a brand-new adventure today, so I’m not giving myself time to think about what I miss. (Except sleep.)
We were flying United on an Aer Lingus plane, which has spoiled me for intercontinental entertainment systems. In between rounds of Garcia Lorca’s poetry, I watched The Princess and the Frog twice (so cute!!!) and an old episode of Glee, which I may need to check out in more detail when I return stateside. (I said MAY. That is not an invitation to start bombarding me with Glee-related information, my friends. Thank you.) I’m not even tired after the nearly-eight-hour flight to Madrid, oddly; I have a feeling that’ll catch up with me in about six hours. I’ve managed to switch mostly into Spanish, except for ending my breakfast order at the airport’s McDonalds (don’t look at me like that, Mom, that’s all there was) with ‘pozhalusta’ instead of ‘por favor’. Actually, I’ve managed to impress a couple of the airline people with my combination of an American passport and a Castilian accent. This may not be so hard after all. :)
Madrid-Barajas seems to be put together mostly for shopping and scenic views, with the occasional informational board informing you that your flight information is not yet available. I’m boarding in an hour, but the information available as to what gate I’m boarding at is ‘either Gates H, J, or K.’ This narrows it down to three fifty-gate sections out of seven in this terminal. :P That, and there’s no place to sit down, so in the middle of a crowd of people pacing in front of the departures board, I’m perching beside of an elevator writing my blog. (I’m not even the only one sitting here with a netbook. -grin-) The ‘Free Public Wifi’ network is not, in fact, free (or working), so I’ll end up posting this from Granada. Only one more flight, baggage claim, and the negotiating of a taxi still stands between me and my homestay! :)
I didn’t post after I came home from Russia, but that’s mostly because I was in contact with just about everyone who reads this blog when I came home. Suffice it to say, it was great to be home, even if I’d only just gotten used to Eastern Standard Time when it was time to leave it again. I miss St. Petersburg, and I especially miss my host mom and my friends, but I’m starting a brand-new adventure today, so I’m not giving myself time to think about what I miss. (Except sleep.)
We were flying United on an Aer Lingus plane, which has spoiled me for intercontinental entertainment systems. In between rounds of Garcia Lorca’s poetry, I watched The Princess and the Frog twice (so cute!!!) and an old episode of Glee, which I may need to check out in more detail when I return stateside. (I said MAY. That is not an invitation to start bombarding me with Glee-related information, my friends. Thank you.) I’m not even tired after the nearly-eight-hour flight to Madrid, oddly; I have a feeling that’ll catch up with me in about six hours. I’ve managed to switch mostly into Spanish, except for ending my breakfast order at the airport’s McDonalds (don’t look at me like that, Mom, that’s all there was) with ‘pozhalusta’ instead of ‘por favor’. Actually, I’ve managed to impress a couple of the airline people with my combination of an American passport and a Castilian accent. This may not be so hard after all. :)
Madrid-Barajas seems to be put together mostly for shopping and scenic views, with the occasional informational board informing you that your flight information is not yet available. I’m boarding in an hour, but the information available as to what gate I’m boarding at is ‘either Gates H, J, or K.’ This narrows it down to three fifty-gate sections out of seven in this terminal. :P That, and there’s no place to sit down, so in the middle of a crowd of people pacing in front of the departures board, I’m perching beside of an elevator writing my blog. (I’m not even the only one sitting here with a netbook. -grin-) The ‘Free Public Wifi’ network is not, in fact, free (or working), so I’ll end up posting this from Granada. Only one more flight, baggage claim, and the negotiating of a taxi still stands between me and my homestay! :)
Friday, May 21, 2010
Final post from Russia
Friday, roughly 2:30 am. I just got back from watching Bolsheokhtinsky Bridge go up. (The bridge normally featured on the postcards and the White Nights advertisements is either Palace Bridge or Troitsky Bridge. However, (a) those are both much further from my homestay, (b) I didn’t want to have an hour’s walk back home in the small hours of the morning, and (c) Troitsky Bridge is currently closed for repairs.) Except for a couple of wandering Russians not much older than myself, the embankment was quiet, and almost majestic in the industrial light…which is weird, considering that I’m calling Soviet apartment blocks and a bank ‘majestic.’ The bridge did not rise in its entirety, which is probably good, because it was one of those round latticed bridges and I wasn’t quite sure how that was going to work. Instead, just the center section rose, but it was still amazing to watch. I have once again discovered the difficulties of photography in very little light, but here’s one of my better attempts.
I can’t believe I’m leaving in less than a day. I just can’t. The last two weeks since Victory Day have been an absolute blur of last-minute activities. Visits to museums I hadn’t yet seen, my last orchestra rehearsal, my last session at the Times, evenings with friends, the weekend in Peterhof, finals (oh, yeah, those), souvenir shopping, photo-taking…it’s a wonder I’ve slept. I’ve said goodbye to a few people so far, including Andrei Vladimirovich, who did his best to wish me a wonderful summer in English; my host mom’s best friend Larisa Nikolaevna; and my conversation partner Ilya. But I’m not looking forward to the goodbyes over the next day and a half.
It’s been in the seventies and sunny almost every single day since Victory Day, and I think I may have worn a coat once during the past week and a half (though I have had my shawl with me). Last Saturday, we boarded a hydrofoil (commuter boat for tourists, basically) and journeyed to the summer fantasy land that is Peterhof. I was kind of disappointed at the beginning of the semester when this wasn’t on our list of excursions, but I am sooooooo glad they saved it for when the weather was good. We stepped off the boat into a garden lit by the blazing sun, met a few very enthusiastic tour guides, and set off for a tour of the major landmarks of the gardens, including the big central statue of ‘Samson tearing open the jaws of the lion.’ Incidentally, it’s hard to pick out Sampson’s long hair on that one. Other highlights included trick fountains, which squirt at you if you step on a certain rock, or which only spray once every hour at a particular minute. I got slightly less than soaked (hey, someone had to!) and dried off very pleasantly in the sun and the Baltic breeze. We even toured the tsars’ imperial bath house, where the tour guides even ran one of the ingenious fountain-shower-constructions for us. Finishing the day with some wandering around the parts of the garden we hadn’t visited on the tour, sitting with Brenna and Evan staring out at the Gulf of Finland and making small talk…it was perfect. Simply perfect.
Other highlights of the past week and a half: attending a concert at the Large Philharmonic Hall, for FREE, thanks to Hayley and her host mother; a beach party Saturday night, complete with campfire, songs, and a group of eight Russian girls coming over and joining us in the singing; and losing my ATM card to a machine at the Cherneshevskaya metro (aaaaaaaaaargh) and receiving and activating the new one within three days (hurrah!). I’ve visited at least three museums, too, in between writing papers and cramming my brain full of six cases and perfect verbs. (I understand, at least enough to use them, why the difference between perfect and imperfect verbs exists. What I can’t wrap my head around is why whoever designed the Russian language cared enough to create AN ENTIRE SEPARATE SET OF VERBS WITH ALMOST EXACTLY THE SAME MEANING.) And in between it all, Lyudmila Afanasyevna has been doing her best to spoil me with her cooking. I left my bedroom for a quick break from writing my Civilization essay, and when I came back from the bathroom, there was a plate of fresh strawberries sitting on my night table. Just the little things like that make me think…no, okay, I’m not thinking about it anymore. It’s going to be tough to leave on Saturday.
One of the coolest parts of this week was thanks to the folks at the St. Petersburg Times. I’m a published writer now (well, I will be as of tomorrow morning)!!! Toby and Shura approached me last Thursday with the idea of writing a restaurant review, so I invited Erica along to a restaurant on a small side street by the Sportivnaya metro station. I won’t go into too much more detail, but I can invite you to read the review somewhere on the sptimes.ru website. Both editors and Sebastian complimented me on it today, so I think I passed the test. :D
…anyways. I’ve taken well over 1600 photos this semester, and I was tempted to spend tonight putting them in some sort of order, but I really do need to sleep. I’m mostly packed, except for the loads of laundry I’ll be doing tomorrow evening. After the boat ride, I plan to come home and bake something special as a parting thank-you gift for my host mom. I’m thinking chocolate-orange biscotti. :)
My next post will be written in Russia but posted from either Germany or the US. I’m almost home! :)
I can’t believe I’m leaving in less than a day. I just can’t. The last two weeks since Victory Day have been an absolute blur of last-minute activities. Visits to museums I hadn’t yet seen, my last orchestra rehearsal, my last session at the Times, evenings with friends, the weekend in Peterhof, finals (oh, yeah, those), souvenir shopping, photo-taking…it’s a wonder I’ve slept. I’ve said goodbye to a few people so far, including Andrei Vladimirovich, who did his best to wish me a wonderful summer in English; my host mom’s best friend Larisa Nikolaevna; and my conversation partner Ilya. But I’m not looking forward to the goodbyes over the next day and a half.
It’s been in the seventies and sunny almost every single day since Victory Day, and I think I may have worn a coat once during the past week and a half (though I have had my shawl with me). Last Saturday, we boarded a hydrofoil (commuter boat for tourists, basically) and journeyed to the summer fantasy land that is Peterhof. I was kind of disappointed at the beginning of the semester when this wasn’t on our list of excursions, but I am sooooooo glad they saved it for when the weather was good. We stepped off the boat into a garden lit by the blazing sun, met a few very enthusiastic tour guides, and set off for a tour of the major landmarks of the gardens, including the big central statue of ‘Samson tearing open the jaws of the lion.’ Incidentally, it’s hard to pick out Sampson’s long hair on that one. Other highlights included trick fountains, which squirt at you if you step on a certain rock, or which only spray once every hour at a particular minute. I got slightly less than soaked (hey, someone had to!) and dried off very pleasantly in the sun and the Baltic breeze. We even toured the tsars’ imperial bath house, where the tour guides even ran one of the ingenious fountain-shower-constructions for us. Finishing the day with some wandering around the parts of the garden we hadn’t visited on the tour, sitting with Brenna and Evan staring out at the Gulf of Finland and making small talk…it was perfect. Simply perfect.
Other highlights of the past week and a half: attending a concert at the Large Philharmonic Hall, for FREE, thanks to Hayley and her host mother; a beach party Saturday night, complete with campfire, songs, and a group of eight Russian girls coming over and joining us in the singing; and losing my ATM card to a machine at the Cherneshevskaya metro (aaaaaaaaaargh) and receiving and activating the new one within three days (hurrah!). I’ve visited at least three museums, too, in between writing papers and cramming my brain full of six cases and perfect verbs. (I understand, at least enough to use them, why the difference between perfect and imperfect verbs exists. What I can’t wrap my head around is why whoever designed the Russian language cared enough to create AN ENTIRE SEPARATE SET OF VERBS WITH ALMOST EXACTLY THE SAME MEANING.) And in between it all, Lyudmila Afanasyevna has been doing her best to spoil me with her cooking. I left my bedroom for a quick break from writing my Civilization essay, and when I came back from the bathroom, there was a plate of fresh strawberries sitting on my night table. Just the little things like that make me think…no, okay, I’m not thinking about it anymore. It’s going to be tough to leave on Saturday.
One of the coolest parts of this week was thanks to the folks at the St. Petersburg Times. I’m a published writer now (well, I will be as of tomorrow morning)!!! Toby and Shura approached me last Thursday with the idea of writing a restaurant review, so I invited Erica along to a restaurant on a small side street by the Sportivnaya metro station. I won’t go into too much more detail, but I can invite you to read the review somewhere on the sptimes.ru website. Both editors and Sebastian complimented me on it today, so I think I passed the test. :D
…anyways. I’ve taken well over 1600 photos this semester, and I was tempted to spend tonight putting them in some sort of order, but I really do need to sleep. I’m mostly packed, except for the loads of laundry I’ll be doing tomorrow evening. After the boat ride, I plan to come home and bake something special as a parting thank-you gift for my host mom. I’m thinking chocolate-orange biscotti. :)
My next post will be written in Russia but posted from either Germany or the US. I’m almost home! :)
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
The Stalin Brigade
Sunday, late. Happy Victory Day! You wouldn’t think 65 years after the end of the siege of Leningrad was a particularly big anniversary to celebrate, but Petersburg would prove you wrong. The city has been plastered with red hammer-and-sickle-festooned decorations for weeks now, and while they look rather silly strung up between office buildings on Nevsky or plastered all over the metro, they make for a very dramatic setting when the celebration rolls around.
A rainy Victory Day kicked off with a parade in Palace Square at 10 am. I was informed by text message that this was probably not a good idea to go down to, as Ella, who’d gotten down there an hour early, was positioned a good half a kilometer away from the square and ended up watching the whole parade on a giant TV screen. Add to that the fact that it was raining…so I stayed home and watched the Moscow parade on TV. I was fascinated by the inclusion of American, British, and French regiments in the parade, a tribute to the fact that the victory was not only Russia’s (though Russia does take most of the credit). Medvedev continues to be a less than engaging speaker, but that’s okay, because I understood the important parts (and the many Oorah’s shouted by all the speakers and the military). Long live Russia’s great victory!
The rest of the afternoon was pretty peaceful; Lyudmila Afanasyevna was tickled pink by the bouquet of Mother’s Day orchids I presented to her! :) After lunch, she went to her dacha with her best friend, and I went downtown to meet with a large group of friends to see the parade. Or so I thought. In fact, so many streets branching off of Nevsky were closed, and the bus routes were so tangled up, that there was no way we were going to make it to the Admiralty, so I hopped a couple of alleys over from a closed street and seized a pretty good spot near the Arch. The parade was done in fine style, with marching regiments, lots of veterans from all around the city and the surrounding regions, a large band, some cute kids in uniform, even a band of communists near the end. The only people near me cheering the communists were the kids, who were just seizing the opportunity to scream ‘oorah!’ at the top of their little lungs, but apparently there were quite a few people along the parade route who were still cheering Stalin. I’m not sure how much applause the flags of Che Guevara and Jesus got, but hey, what’s victory without Che?
I did a little shopping after this and headed home in the rain, braving the bollixed-up bus routes. The fireworks were to start at ten, and I was home long enough to drop off my purchases and leave again for the Bronze Horseman. I met up with Katie, Claire, and four rather drunk Russian guys, and we stood in the square sharing shashlik-flavored potato chips (mmmm) and hoping the rain would hold off. Crowds and crowds of St. Petersburgers in varying states of sobriety or non-sobriety were singing patriotic songs, including the anthem, with which I joined in. The fireworks themselves were over too quickly, but against the Peter and Paul Fortress, they were very, very impressive.
The buses were still snarled up after the fireworks, but I hopped onto one and sat until it was finally cleared for takeoff. By that point, the weather had returned to the St. Petersburg norm (cold and rainy), so even sitting on a bus for half an hour without going anywhere wasn’t too bad; the buses are heated, and I had my Solzhenitsyn novel with me. I finally made it home about quarter of midnight and crawled into bed, but not before mounting my little Russian flag above my bed. I hope the city is slow in taking down the decorations, so I can get some even better pictures over the next two weeks. :)
A rainy Victory Day kicked off with a parade in Palace Square at 10 am. I was informed by text message that this was probably not a good idea to go down to, as Ella, who’d gotten down there an hour early, was positioned a good half a kilometer away from the square and ended up watching the whole parade on a giant TV screen. Add to that the fact that it was raining…so I stayed home and watched the Moscow parade on TV. I was fascinated by the inclusion of American, British, and French regiments in the parade, a tribute to the fact that the victory was not only Russia’s (though Russia does take most of the credit). Medvedev continues to be a less than engaging speaker, but that’s okay, because I understood the important parts (and the many Oorah’s shouted by all the speakers and the military). Long live Russia’s great victory!
The rest of the afternoon was pretty peaceful; Lyudmila Afanasyevna was tickled pink by the bouquet of Mother’s Day orchids I presented to her! :) After lunch, she went to her dacha with her best friend, and I went downtown to meet with a large group of friends to see the parade. Or so I thought. In fact, so many streets branching off of Nevsky were closed, and the bus routes were so tangled up, that there was no way we were going to make it to the Admiralty, so I hopped a couple of alleys over from a closed street and seized a pretty good spot near the Arch. The parade was done in fine style, with marching regiments, lots of veterans from all around the city and the surrounding regions, a large band, some cute kids in uniform, even a band of communists near the end. The only people near me cheering the communists were the kids, who were just seizing the opportunity to scream ‘oorah!’ at the top of their little lungs, but apparently there were quite a few people along the parade route who were still cheering Stalin. I’m not sure how much applause the flags of Che Guevara and Jesus got, but hey, what’s victory without Che?
I did a little shopping after this and headed home in the rain, braving the bollixed-up bus routes. The fireworks were to start at ten, and I was home long enough to drop off my purchases and leave again for the Bronze Horseman. I met up with Katie, Claire, and four rather drunk Russian guys, and we stood in the square sharing shashlik-flavored potato chips (mmmm) and hoping the rain would hold off. Crowds and crowds of St. Petersburgers in varying states of sobriety or non-sobriety were singing patriotic songs, including the anthem, with which I joined in. The fireworks themselves were over too quickly, but against the Peter and Paul Fortress, they were very, very impressive.
The buses were still snarled up after the fireworks, but I hopped onto one and sat until it was finally cleared for takeoff. By that point, the weather had returned to the St. Petersburg norm (cold and rainy), so even sitting on a bus for half an hour without going anywhere wasn’t too bad; the buses are heated, and I had my Solzhenitsyn novel with me. I finally made it home about quarter of midnight and crawled into bed, but not before mounting my little Russian flag above my bed. I hope the city is slow in taking down the decorations, so I can get some even better pictures over the next two weeks. :)
Where does the time go?
Saturday, 5:30 pm. The last few weeks in Russia are coming up really fast, and I’m realizing quickly how much I still have to do, or want to do. But at the same time, the weather’s been so nice, and it’s a shame to spend more time inside than we have to. This week sort of reflected that, really.
Monday was a holiday, so there was no orchestra rehearsal. I’d intended to spend the day hopping from museum to museum, but it was so sunny and warm (nearly 70 degrees Fahrenheit!) that I couldn’t bring myself to stay inside. Instead, I strolled through some of the city’s many parks, tried to find a souvenir market at Yelizarovskaya station (and failed), and ended up celebrating Ella’s birthday in the Tauride Gardens with cake, philosophical discussions, and tree-climbing. It was truly lovely, even though we all agreed that pine nuts are not a suitable ingredient for a cake. Tuesday, on the other hand, was rainy and back down to about fifty degrees, so I came home after classes and reviewed the instrumental case.
Wednesday afternoon, I museum-hopped for a little while, visiting Anna Akhmatova’s apartment-museum and the Museum of Music. Below is a picture of the collection of miniature violins they displayed! That evening, I joined in a lovely event that would become a tradition if we had more of the semester left: poetry night! Eight of us met at a little café near Primorskaya station and shared all sorts of poetry, in English, Spanish and Russian, and good times were had by all. I quote to you the hit of the night, entitled ‘Abraham Lincoln is My Name,’ by none other than (gasp) Abraham Lincoln:
-quote-
Thursday was mainly taken up with preparing for a job interview, and I’m pretty happy with how it went…let’s just hope they’re happy with me too! I booked it over to the Times as soon as the interview was over and got there in plenty of time, walking in on Toby shouting ‘noooooooooooo’ again (it’s not a normal evening unless he does that two or three times). I find it funny that I noted the several interesting errors I dug up this evening with pride. Friday night I spent in, getting more and more into The First Circle, Solzhenitsyn’s account of life in a specialized concentration camp.
I hadn’t actually planned to spend Saturday with a large group of friends; I ran into them purely by accident at the Udelnaya station flea market. I’d hoped to find some more souvenirs there, but it turned out to be almost entirely second-hand clothes. Eight of us set off for Peter and Paul Fortress to do a little more shopping there, stopped to enjoy some ice cream in the park near Gorkovskaya, then wandered around the fortress for a while. Brenna and Evan texted the rest of us with a great find: a full-fledged beach behind the fortress, with sand, volleyball, too many guys in Speedos, the works. Delighted, we promptly kicked off our shoes and flopped down in the sand, abandoning all thoughts of the world for a sunny hour. When it started to cloud over, we fled the beach for a café just in time to avoid the torrential downpour. Later in the evening, someone (I think it was Wes) scouted out a dance club with REAL ROCK AND ROLL MUSIC, played by a REAL LIVE BAND! For at least myself, Wes, and Fred, this was an incredible break from the seemingly inescapable techno, and we danced a good part of the night away (and ended up in conversation with the band between sets). :)
I shouldn’t give away my next post, but let’s just say that Sunday was the exciting finish to a very exciting week! :)
Monday was a holiday, so there was no orchestra rehearsal. I’d intended to spend the day hopping from museum to museum, but it was so sunny and warm (nearly 70 degrees Fahrenheit!) that I couldn’t bring myself to stay inside. Instead, I strolled through some of the city’s many parks, tried to find a souvenir market at Yelizarovskaya station (and failed), and ended up celebrating Ella’s birthday in the Tauride Gardens with cake, philosophical discussions, and tree-climbing. It was truly lovely, even though we all agreed that pine nuts are not a suitable ingredient for a cake. Tuesday, on the other hand, was rainy and back down to about fifty degrees, so I came home after classes and reviewed the instrumental case.
Wednesday afternoon, I museum-hopped for a little while, visiting Anna Akhmatova’s apartment-museum and the Museum of Music. Below is a picture of the collection of miniature violins they displayed! That evening, I joined in a lovely event that would become a tradition if we had more of the semester left: poetry night! Eight of us met at a little café near Primorskaya station and shared all sorts of poetry, in English, Spanish and Russian, and good times were had by all. I quote to you the hit of the night, entitled ‘Abraham Lincoln is My Name,’ by none other than (gasp) Abraham Lincoln:
-quote-
Thursday was mainly taken up with preparing for a job interview, and I’m pretty happy with how it went…let’s just hope they’re happy with me too! I booked it over to the Times as soon as the interview was over and got there in plenty of time, walking in on Toby shouting ‘noooooooooooo’ again (it’s not a normal evening unless he does that two or three times). I find it funny that I noted the several interesting errors I dug up this evening with pride. Friday night I spent in, getting more and more into The First Circle, Solzhenitsyn’s account of life in a specialized concentration camp.
I hadn’t actually planned to spend Saturday with a large group of friends; I ran into them purely by accident at the Udelnaya station flea market. I’d hoped to find some more souvenirs there, but it turned out to be almost entirely second-hand clothes. Eight of us set off for Peter and Paul Fortress to do a little more shopping there, stopped to enjoy some ice cream in the park near Gorkovskaya, then wandered around the fortress for a while. Brenna and Evan texted the rest of us with a great find: a full-fledged beach behind the fortress, with sand, volleyball, too many guys in Speedos, the works. Delighted, we promptly kicked off our shoes and flopped down in the sand, abandoning all thoughts of the world for a sunny hour. When it started to cloud over, we fled the beach for a café just in time to avoid the torrential downpour. Later in the evening, someone (I think it was Wes) scouted out a dance club with REAL ROCK AND ROLL MUSIC, played by a REAL LIVE BAND! For at least myself, Wes, and Fred, this was an incredible break from the seemingly inescapable techno, and we danced a good part of the night away (and ended up in conversation with the band between sets). :)
I shouldn’t give away my next post, but let’s just say that Sunday was the exciting finish to a very exciting week! :)
Friday, May 7, 2010
Someday, I will write a poem about frogs...
Monday, 12:45 am, roughly (was when I started writing this post). I have never in my life been so happy to see dandelions as I was this weekend. Our excursion to Pskov, Pushkinsky Gori (Pushkin Hills), and the surrounding small towns was supposed to be about history and great literature, but the most memorable parts of the weekend were definitely spending spring outside in lovely weather. Being barefoot in the grass again…so, so nice.
We met at Kazansky Sabor at seven am on Friday and prepared for what the schedule said would be a seven-hour bus ride. For once in the history of CIEE, we were early; the trip took about five and a half hours, each way. The roads were…not quite up to the standards of Petersburg…okay, they were bumpy enough that it was almost ludicrous to attempt to sleep. Adding in the fact that our driver was obviously in a hurry to be rid of us, five and a half hours was PLENTY of time on a swaying, bumping, occasionally jolting bus. :P The hotel was a further two hours outside of the actual city of Pskov. Factor in the distance to and from the various monasteries and museums, and the result is a looooooooong time in a non-ventilated bus. Fresh, non-diesel-scented, country air was fantastic.
Friday’s main events were the tour of the Pskov Kremlin, the historical fortress at the center of the whole region, and an Alexander Nevsky monument. The Kremlin appears no worse for Wednesday’s fire, at least from the view inside the walls. Mostly it’s a big stone wall, punctuated by towers, with a church in the center of the grassy enclosure inside. The history was appreciated, certainly, but the chance to sit on the grass in the sun and just absorb the sunshine was not to be missed. (Nor was the GIANT sword hanging over the entrance to the Kremlin. It’s supposed to be a symbol of the city, and I really hope it’s only symbolic, because that thing HAD to be eight feet long.) Our guide, named Svetlana and clad in bright yellow, explained the large statues of Alexander Nevsky and compatriots to us, then seemed bemused when we (after requesting permission) climbed up onto the monument to take pictures. I believe Svetlana was a Pskov native, so I’m not sure she understood just how much we’d all grown to miss large, green open spaces.
Side note: The restaurant where we stopped for lunch on Friday and Sunday, somewhere behind the Kremlin complex, opened onto a yard full of frogs! We quickly befriended them and christened them, and Jarlath and Claire even raced them. That’s one of my favorite images of this weekend: a tiny frog sitting in my cupped hands, sharing the view with me.
We finally arrived at the hotel Friday evening to discover that it was a large wooden lodge, complete with porches onto which every room opened. Sadly, I don’t have a picture of this place, but it felt quintessentially Russian. (It was named after Pushkin’s nanny. That’s how Russian it was.) From this picturesque location, it was but a short stroll down to a real working mill, the historical village surrounding it, and the lake that fed the mill’s water wheel. This was supposedly the setting for most of Pushkin’s Eugene Onegin, so our very enthusiastic guide grabbed Nick and Zoltan to stage a duel. :) We wandered through the village and tried our hands at threshing grain, and even at swinging in the barn! According to local tradition, couples would swing in the barn during Maslenitsa, and if the girl fell off, she was considered a poor marriage prospect; I hung on, despite Zoltan’s best efforts to pitch me into the grain pile. The guide told me at the end of the tour to come back when I had a wedding ring…and was looking at Zoltan as he said it. I may have gotten myself into something here…
Still on the agenda were the village of Mikhailovskoe, where Pushkin spent his exile, and we spent nearly as long in his house; the village of Trigorskoe (Three Hills), where the guide didn’t want to let Jarlath translate, so the Area Studies program didn’t figure out why we were there until after the fact; and two monasteries. Mikhailovskoe was beautiful, but it reinforced the feeling of the whole weekend, where we really wished for a few less scheduled activities and a little more time to wander around. Pushkin’s grave at Svyatagorsky Monastery is…kind of unimpressive, actually. I mean, considering how the man is worshipped all through this country, I guess I’d just expected something bigger than the little white obelisk that’s surrounded by flowers.
Sunday, we wandered around the historic fortress of Isborsk, taking in lots and lots of pretty views, but we missed most of the history due to the scattered nature of our group along the trail. Still, the waterfalls were gorgeous, wet shoes from running through them be damned. The Petrovskoe Monastery came next, where the main attraction was the ancient cemetery called the Catacombs. I’m nearsighted as is, but I hadn’t realized just how scary a pitch-dark walk through a cemetery would be. We were given tiny, pencil-slim tapers, which (individually) barely illuminated the hands we used to shield them and (collectively) gave the tunnel a ghostly quarter-light. Following those in front of us more on faith than on actual confidence in where we were going, led by a priest murmuring in barely audible Russian, we processed through the tunnels, stopping occasionally to peer at graves inscribed in Church Slavonic none of us could read, stopping more than occasionally to relight our candles or those of our companions. Stepping out into the sunlight was an incredible relief, and almost a mystical experience in itself.
But probably the best experience of the entire weekend was Saturday night at the hotel. Lodge. ‘Otel’ means ‘not quite an actual hotel,’ so I’m not quite sure what to call it…but anyways. The hotel had its own banya out back, and Katya organized two groups of girls (Jarlath took the guys) to experience a true Russian banya, in the comfort of just our own group. Eight of us met Katya outside the banya at ten-thirty pm, chatting with the red-faced and wet-haired guys as they came out, gearing up for a similar experience…but there was really nothing like this. The banya experience is sort of a combination of a sauna, an ice-cold pool, massage therapy, and general fantastic girl bonding. Take a shower first, so you’re wet enough to steam. Sit in the steam room long enough to get slightly dizzy, then run out and jump into the barely-above-freezing pool outside. (In the winter, we would have been jumping into the snow. I was putting off my first banya for precisely that reason.) Run back in from the pool, steam for a while, then don towels and go have some tea in the outer room (which is still heated). Greet Irina Borisovna, who came in fully dressed (trenchcoat and all), and pose for pictures in towels. (I’m reasonably certain those pictures have not left her camera…) Steam again, cool off again, a few more times. Somewhere in there, lie down on a bench and have Katya whip you with a leafy bundle of birch branches to restore circulation. Steam some more. The whole process lasted an hour and a half, and I came out of it feeling like I could take on an entire new day as soon as I’d dried my hair. Too bad it was midnight. :)
So, all in all, a thoroughly enjoyable weekend. I apologize for how long it took me to write this, by the way; the week has been busy enough that, every time I sat down to write, I dozed off before getting much of anywhere. I hope I haven’t caused any similar reactions among those reading this! :) Next post: the rest of the week, then Victory Day celebrations on Sunday!
We met at Kazansky Sabor at seven am on Friday and prepared for what the schedule said would be a seven-hour bus ride. For once in the history of CIEE, we were early; the trip took about five and a half hours, each way. The roads were…not quite up to the standards of Petersburg…okay, they were bumpy enough that it was almost ludicrous to attempt to sleep. Adding in the fact that our driver was obviously in a hurry to be rid of us, five and a half hours was PLENTY of time on a swaying, bumping, occasionally jolting bus. :P The hotel was a further two hours outside of the actual city of Pskov. Factor in the distance to and from the various monasteries and museums, and the result is a looooooooong time in a non-ventilated bus. Fresh, non-diesel-scented, country air was fantastic.
Friday’s main events were the tour of the Pskov Kremlin, the historical fortress at the center of the whole region, and an Alexander Nevsky monument. The Kremlin appears no worse for Wednesday’s fire, at least from the view inside the walls. Mostly it’s a big stone wall, punctuated by towers, with a church in the center of the grassy enclosure inside. The history was appreciated, certainly, but the chance to sit on the grass in the sun and just absorb the sunshine was not to be missed. (Nor was the GIANT sword hanging over the entrance to the Kremlin. It’s supposed to be a symbol of the city, and I really hope it’s only symbolic, because that thing HAD to be eight feet long.) Our guide, named Svetlana and clad in bright yellow, explained the large statues of Alexander Nevsky and compatriots to us, then seemed bemused when we (after requesting permission) climbed up onto the monument to take pictures. I believe Svetlana was a Pskov native, so I’m not sure she understood just how much we’d all grown to miss large, green open spaces.
Side note: The restaurant where we stopped for lunch on Friday and Sunday, somewhere behind the Kremlin complex, opened onto a yard full of frogs! We quickly befriended them and christened them, and Jarlath and Claire even raced them. That’s one of my favorite images of this weekend: a tiny frog sitting in my cupped hands, sharing the view with me.
We finally arrived at the hotel Friday evening to discover that it was a large wooden lodge, complete with porches onto which every room opened. Sadly, I don’t have a picture of this place, but it felt quintessentially Russian. (It was named after Pushkin’s nanny. That’s how Russian it was.) From this picturesque location, it was but a short stroll down to a real working mill, the historical village surrounding it, and the lake that fed the mill’s water wheel. This was supposedly the setting for most of Pushkin’s Eugene Onegin, so our very enthusiastic guide grabbed Nick and Zoltan to stage a duel. :) We wandered through the village and tried our hands at threshing grain, and even at swinging in the barn! According to local tradition, couples would swing in the barn during Maslenitsa, and if the girl fell off, she was considered a poor marriage prospect; I hung on, despite Zoltan’s best efforts to pitch me into the grain pile. The guide told me at the end of the tour to come back when I had a wedding ring…and was looking at Zoltan as he said it. I may have gotten myself into something here…
Still on the agenda were the village of Mikhailovskoe, where Pushkin spent his exile, and we spent nearly as long in his house; the village of Trigorskoe (Three Hills), where the guide didn’t want to let Jarlath translate, so the Area Studies program didn’t figure out why we were there until after the fact; and two monasteries. Mikhailovskoe was beautiful, but it reinforced the feeling of the whole weekend, where we really wished for a few less scheduled activities and a little more time to wander around. Pushkin’s grave at Svyatagorsky Monastery is…kind of unimpressive, actually. I mean, considering how the man is worshipped all through this country, I guess I’d just expected something bigger than the little white obelisk that’s surrounded by flowers.
Sunday, we wandered around the historic fortress of Isborsk, taking in lots and lots of pretty views, but we missed most of the history due to the scattered nature of our group along the trail. Still, the waterfalls were gorgeous, wet shoes from running through them be damned. The Petrovskoe Monastery came next, where the main attraction was the ancient cemetery called the Catacombs. I’m nearsighted as is, but I hadn’t realized just how scary a pitch-dark walk through a cemetery would be. We were given tiny, pencil-slim tapers, which (individually) barely illuminated the hands we used to shield them and (collectively) gave the tunnel a ghostly quarter-light. Following those in front of us more on faith than on actual confidence in where we were going, led by a priest murmuring in barely audible Russian, we processed through the tunnels, stopping occasionally to peer at graves inscribed in Church Slavonic none of us could read, stopping more than occasionally to relight our candles or those of our companions. Stepping out into the sunlight was an incredible relief, and almost a mystical experience in itself.
But probably the best experience of the entire weekend was Saturday night at the hotel. Lodge. ‘Otel’ means ‘not quite an actual hotel,’ so I’m not quite sure what to call it…but anyways. The hotel had its own banya out back, and Katya organized two groups of girls (Jarlath took the guys) to experience a true Russian banya, in the comfort of just our own group. Eight of us met Katya outside the banya at ten-thirty pm, chatting with the red-faced and wet-haired guys as they came out, gearing up for a similar experience…but there was really nothing like this. The banya experience is sort of a combination of a sauna, an ice-cold pool, massage therapy, and general fantastic girl bonding. Take a shower first, so you’re wet enough to steam. Sit in the steam room long enough to get slightly dizzy, then run out and jump into the barely-above-freezing pool outside. (In the winter, we would have been jumping into the snow. I was putting off my first banya for precisely that reason.) Run back in from the pool, steam for a while, then don towels and go have some tea in the outer room (which is still heated). Greet Irina Borisovna, who came in fully dressed (trenchcoat and all), and pose for pictures in towels. (I’m reasonably certain those pictures have not left her camera…) Steam again, cool off again, a few more times. Somewhere in there, lie down on a bench and have Katya whip you with a leafy bundle of birch branches to restore circulation. Steam some more. The whole process lasted an hour and a half, and I came out of it feeling like I could take on an entire new day as soon as I’d dried my hair. Too bad it was midnight. :)
So, all in all, a thoroughly enjoyable weekend. I apologize for how long it took me to write this, by the way; the week has been busy enough that, every time I sat down to write, I dozed off before getting much of anywhere. I hope I haven’t caused any similar reactions among those reading this! :) Next post: the rest of the week, then Victory Day celebrations on Sunday!
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Zombie Pushkin will eat your brains in blini
Friday, 11:30 pm. I’ve kind of given up on the day-to-day post for this week, based on the stunning realization that I really haven’t done very much of interest. The last month of the semester seems to be divided by a series of milestones: the ball, Pskov, Victory Day, our last [insert last event here], and then going home. Between the ball and Pskov, another week of classes, another orchestra rehearsal, another evening at the Times. I’ve found out that there will not be another orchestra concert while I’m here, so I’m considering bowing out of the last rehearsal or two to go do something different. I somehow doubt it’ll be a serious problem; it’s not for a grade, after all. :)
Tuesday evening, about fifteen of us made our separate journeys to Vladimir Nabokov’s unassuming apartment for a screening of the Stanley Kubrick movie of “Lolita.” Normally, if I’ve read the book, I’ll certainly be interested to see the movie…though I may make an exception and watch “War and Peace” before finishing the book. :P Hanging out here with two literature majors who can’t let the subject of Lolita drop, I’ve taken more than a passing interest in this book. Matt told me the tagline for this movie—“How could they make a movie of Lolita?”—and I can’t help but feel that it fit. Nabokov himself wrote the screenplay, but the transformation from first-person-singular diary-like novel to a movie, which really can’t be first-person-singular, was a little shaky. Being able to actually see the narrator, even, was somewhat disorienting. No disrespect to Nabokov, or to Kubrick, but Matt, Erica and I are all going to try to forget we saw the movie and go read the book again.
One other discovery from Nabokov’s apartment-museum: the man knew his stuff about butterflies. Granted, they were pinned and preserved under glass, but the collection showed his obvious connoisseurship and respect. (Also, Word has just informed me that I can’t spell the word ‘connoisseur.’ I’m slipping.)
Wednesday after classes, we tramped down the bank of the Moika (river? canal? Not sure) to Pushkin’s apartment-museum, where, as it turned out, he lived for the last eight months or so of his life, then expired. The museum was very inspirational, certainly, and the pictures of Pushkin’s wife and four children lent a charming domesticity to the otherwise bardic image of the poet. We saw the very couch on which he died, and replicas of the pistols with which he and a minor nobleman whose purpose is largely lost to history conducted the fateful duel.
May 9 will be Victory Day, the celebration of the 65th anniversary of the end of WWII, and the city’s been buzzing for weeks over this celebration. The square outside the provisional government’s offices, right next to Smolny, is now hung with red and orange banners, and assorted military divisions have been practicing in Palace Square for weeks now. (On my way to orchestra rehearsal, I texted Ella at one point before the ball, ‘The navy trying to march sort of looks like our group trying to waltz.’ Thankfully, they seem to have gotten their act together.) Victory Day also involves breaking out all the old Soviet army jeeps, loading many of them with missiles that appear to be at least as old as the jeeps, and…sitting along the bank of the Moika blocking pedestrian traffic. I’ve become convinced that they were strategically positioned there because of rumors that Pushkin would soon be stalking the streets of Petersburg as a zombie (never mind the fact that he’s buried not far from Pskov). ZOMBIE PUSHKIN WANTS YOUR BRAINS. (Note to self: look up the Russian word for ‘brains’.)
I appear to have digressed again. Wednesday evening turned out to be my last English class, actually, which was both exciting and sort of bittersweet. Listening to the seven students I’ve been coaching and joking with all semester delivering their final oral exams, I felt probably more of a sense of accomplishment than I deserve, but accomplishment all the same. All the topics we covered in that class sometimes made no sense, but they made for fascinating conversations, and I’ll never forget talking about Shakespeare with Sergey, marriage with Ksenia and Natasha, Rome with Alesia and Anastasia, snakes with Elena, or Paris Hilton with Nikolai. Not to mention trying out my Russian with Olga Vladimirovna. :)
In between articles on police corruption and airline losses due to the ash crisis, I was chatting with Sebastian and his visiting brother Richard at the Times this evening when the subject of Pskov happened to come up. Toby called across to me, ‘you know the Kremlin there burned down today, right?’ Well. As a matter of fact, no, I had not known. Sebastian hopped onto his computer and pulled up a RIA-Novosti article stating that, in fact, two of the seven towers of the Pskov Kremlin caught fire, thanks to the restaurant located inside one of them. This happened in the small hours of Wednesday morning, and the main concern voiced in the article was why the fine imposed on the restaurant was so small. I understand the damage wasn’t serious, but it’s still a lovely omen, coming right before we’re supposed to leave for Pskov. Just another demonstration of the fact that you can’t plan in this country, I guess.
Morning comes very quickly indeed, so I’m going to put up this post and go to bed. We’ve been told that the hotel in Pskov does not have internet, so I’m not going to bring my computer along. I have four novels from the CIEE library, my grammar book, and my camera…to keep me busy over seven hours of rough roads. Expect a long post on Monday after we return! :)
Tuesday evening, about fifteen of us made our separate journeys to Vladimir Nabokov’s unassuming apartment for a screening of the Stanley Kubrick movie of “Lolita.” Normally, if I’ve read the book, I’ll certainly be interested to see the movie…though I may make an exception and watch “War and Peace” before finishing the book. :P Hanging out here with two literature majors who can’t let the subject of Lolita drop, I’ve taken more than a passing interest in this book. Matt told me the tagline for this movie—“How could they make a movie of Lolita?”—and I can’t help but feel that it fit. Nabokov himself wrote the screenplay, but the transformation from first-person-singular diary-like novel to a movie, which really can’t be first-person-singular, was a little shaky. Being able to actually see the narrator, even, was somewhat disorienting. No disrespect to Nabokov, or to Kubrick, but Matt, Erica and I are all going to try to forget we saw the movie and go read the book again.
One other discovery from Nabokov’s apartment-museum: the man knew his stuff about butterflies. Granted, they were pinned and preserved under glass, but the collection showed his obvious connoisseurship and respect. (Also, Word has just informed me that I can’t spell the word ‘connoisseur.’ I’m slipping.)
Wednesday after classes, we tramped down the bank of the Moika (river? canal? Not sure) to Pushkin’s apartment-museum, where, as it turned out, he lived for the last eight months or so of his life, then expired. The museum was very inspirational, certainly, and the pictures of Pushkin’s wife and four children lent a charming domesticity to the otherwise bardic image of the poet. We saw the very couch on which he died, and replicas of the pistols with which he and a minor nobleman whose purpose is largely lost to history conducted the fateful duel.
May 9 will be Victory Day, the celebration of the 65th anniversary of the end of WWII, and the city’s been buzzing for weeks over this celebration. The square outside the provisional government’s offices, right next to Smolny, is now hung with red and orange banners, and assorted military divisions have been practicing in Palace Square for weeks now. (On my way to orchestra rehearsal, I texted Ella at one point before the ball, ‘The navy trying to march sort of looks like our group trying to waltz.’ Thankfully, they seem to have gotten their act together.) Victory Day also involves breaking out all the old Soviet army jeeps, loading many of them with missiles that appear to be at least as old as the jeeps, and…sitting along the bank of the Moika blocking pedestrian traffic. I’ve become convinced that they were strategically positioned there because of rumors that Pushkin would soon be stalking the streets of Petersburg as a zombie (never mind the fact that he’s buried not far from Pskov). ZOMBIE PUSHKIN WANTS YOUR BRAINS. (Note to self: look up the Russian word for ‘brains’.)
I appear to have digressed again. Wednesday evening turned out to be my last English class, actually, which was both exciting and sort of bittersweet. Listening to the seven students I’ve been coaching and joking with all semester delivering their final oral exams, I felt probably more of a sense of accomplishment than I deserve, but accomplishment all the same. All the topics we covered in that class sometimes made no sense, but they made for fascinating conversations, and I’ll never forget talking about Shakespeare with Sergey, marriage with Ksenia and Natasha, Rome with Alesia and Anastasia, snakes with Elena, or Paris Hilton with Nikolai. Not to mention trying out my Russian with Olga Vladimirovna. :)
In between articles on police corruption and airline losses due to the ash crisis, I was chatting with Sebastian and his visiting brother Richard at the Times this evening when the subject of Pskov happened to come up. Toby called across to me, ‘you know the Kremlin there burned down today, right?’ Well. As a matter of fact, no, I had not known. Sebastian hopped onto his computer and pulled up a RIA-Novosti article stating that, in fact, two of the seven towers of the Pskov Kremlin caught fire, thanks to the restaurant located inside one of them. This happened in the small hours of Wednesday morning, and the main concern voiced in the article was why the fine imposed on the restaurant was so small. I understand the damage wasn’t serious, but it’s still a lovely omen, coming right before we’re supposed to leave for Pskov. Just another demonstration of the fact that you can’t plan in this country, I guess.
Morning comes very quickly indeed, so I’m going to put up this post and go to bed. We’ve been told that the hotel in Pskov does not have internet, so I’m not going to bring my computer along. I have four novels from the CIEE library, my grammar book, and my camera…to keep me busy over seven hours of rough roads. Expect a long post on Monday after we return! :)
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