Well kids, here we are. I’ve been in Moscow for a little over six weeks now and its already our last week of classes before we set out on a weeklong cruise. It seems like only yesterday I was struggling to order food and easily getting picked out of the crowd as a foreigner. Oh wait, that was yesterday. And today. And everyday. Ok, so the big picture things haven’t changed much; my Russian speaking ability is still hardly an ability, my sense of style is not particularly Russian (sorry I’m not sorry I refuse to walk the streets in six inch heels), and I’m still just as creeped out by the toilet situation as when I got here. The real difference is, though, that these things hardly faze me anymore.
While I used to get discouraged at restaurants and feel like
the world was ending once they realized I was an American, now I just go for
it- stuttering over menu items and staring blankly back at waiters when they
ask me questions- aint no thang to be ashamed of anymore. Gotta eat, after all.
Also, I’ve realized I’m about ten years of experience living in Russia shy of
having what even remotely resembles a good Russian accent, which is not
something I love thinking about, but
then I realize how far I’ve come in only three years of study, and while the
future is foggy, it’s kind of exciting. I don’t actually know when my Russian
will be good enough to fake out a Russian, but when that day comes…there will
be cake. A big ol’ fancy pants Russian tort.
You can count on that.
In these six weeks I’ve found more confidence in this place.
For example: walking directly into a line of Russians waiting to see Lenin and
just standing there (since we were not about to stand in that line for two
hours) and then playing dumb when they asked us what we’re doing, and then also
pretending to speak Spanish (that skill ship has sailed by the way), was kind
of a proud moment for us (minus the Spanish fail obvs). I’ve even somewhat
mastered certain Russian tendencies: the stern, blankly staring metro/street
face, a brisk, unsympathetic powerwalk through swarms of people, and an ability
to withstand the smell of a crowded metro without passing out.
Some of these things might actually be habits that could be
hard to change once I get back to the States. Like, I’ll probably freak out the
first time someone smiles at me on the street. And I apologize in advance if I
forget that it’s not socially acceptable not to apologize every five
seconds and not to tip at restaurants. I also don’t know that I’ll ever really
feel like a meal is over until I have a cup of tea and a piece of candy. Lately
I’m just surprised by all the things I’ve gotten used to here.
But still, this trip is all about the rollercoaster ride; you
may think you’re getting things together, and you seem to have successful
moments more and more regularly, but then suddenly your toothbrush doesn’t
quite taste right and you realize you just stuck face wash in your mouth. Or
the toilet tilts off the ground from beneath you because it’s not actually
screwed into the floor (you thought this would be a good one, too (it had a
seat AND toilet paper!)). Or the one time you actually have your heart set on
buying cotton candy, you can’t find any anywhere, even though it definitely
seems to be the norm that in present-day Russia, cotton candy find you.
It’s also a little bit disconcerting when an old army
veteran on a wheelchair with a stump for a leg rolls up to where you’re sitting
on the metro and pats your knee, gives you a nod of approval, smiles, exposing
more gaps than actual teeth, and then gives you the ever so creepy, heavily
suggestive wink before slowly wheeling away. I’m just going to assume that this guy was simply approving of the fact that I still have a
knee and be grateful that my metro stop was next after that.
Back to my adjustments, though, I’ve even accepted being called Jane. Which is still not my name. But I don’t need to
tell my host family that. It didn’t take long for the name to feel somewhat
endearing, beginning with one of the first nights when my host mom and sister
burst through the front door, frantically yelling, “Jane! We brought you some shashlik to try! Jane!”
They were so obviously proud of themselves when they displayed to me their
leftover skewered meat chunks, it would have been hard not to feel a twang of
compassion for this strangely enthusiastic family. Even if they don’t know my
name. And sometimes yell at me for not eating at home enough. I can’t help it,
I’m a busy lady. It’s not because I don’t love bean and salami with watery broth
soup.. no, not that at all…
TO BE CONTINUED
(here is where the ominous DUN DUN DUNNNNNNNs would play if this was a
suspenseful thriller movie, which it’s not. but feel free to pretend it is. the next post is about food, after all. and that could go either way. you never know.. ok. end scene.)
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