Okay, this is going to be a long post, because I have a lot of ground to cover. Here goes!
To begin with, another joke-- this one from the newspaper Komsomolskaya Pravda:
A team of scientists from Harvard University working with lab mice have published a new study, in which they have demonstrated that lab mice live longer without the interference of teams of scientists from Harvard University.
And this is for those of you who know a little Russian:
A man walks into a travel agency.
"Two tickets to Dublin."
"Kuda blin?"
"Tuda blin!"
Also, before I begin this week's account, I would like to inaugurate a new feature of my narrative. I will preface this new addition by saying that Moscow is a diverse city, as diverse as it gets in Russia: there are plenty of East Asians, Central Asians, Caucasians (i.e. from the Caucasus region, not white people, dummy), even a few black people here and there. But there is a conspicuous paucity of one ethnic group: the Indians. You can thus imagine my secret delight whenever I see one of my own, traveling in a little Desi pack on the street, or smelling up the metro-- such that I have begun to keep a mental tally of how many times this rare treat of a thing happens.
The Brown Count thus far: 13.
Now on to events. As of the last posting, I was in the midst of the internship search and classes. Classes remain interesting; the internship has already started. More on both of these themes in a second.
Here in Moscow, we have just emerged from a week of hellish, record-breaking heat. Now when I say hellish and record-breaking, I mean low 90s and dry, which for the average Californian is quite literally no sweat-- or at least, not very much sweat, provided physical activity is confined to mornings and evenings. But in Moscow, people don't know how to cope. Alcoholics are weeping openly, bears are walking the streets in search of food, the Red October chocolate factory has literally melted, and the police have started returning people's bribes to them.
Okay, well it's not that bad/ awesome, but it's still pretty bad. Essentially no building in Moscow has air-conditioning, including our apartment. As a result, in low-ceilinged, poorly-ventilated rooms, it turns into an absolute furnace. You could fry an egg on the Khrushchev-era parquet floors. By evening, it's hotter inside than out, and I have often taken to taking a book to read on the lawns of Ukrainsky Bulvar to escape the heat indoors. Add to all this the fact that nobody owns shorts, and the fact that everybody thinks cold drinks will give you angina, and you will understand why O. keeps saying, "we're in Death Valley! We're in Death Valley!"
Despite the oppressive heat, I've done a lot of cool things lately. Last week, I saw Chekhov's The Seagull at the Moscow Art Theatre, which, if you took Study of Theatre at Harker, you may remember as the place where the great Stanislavsky basically founded modern acting a century ago. It's a lovely place, and the play was, as far as I know, excellent, but since my comprehension of the 19th-century Russian script was maybe 15%, they could have been doing Artaud for all I know (Artaud is a very, very different playwright, for you uncultured swine out there). I could, however, tell that this production was better than the one I saw at the ART in Cambridge in early 2009, because here, people were laughing from time to time, while in Cambridge, the only emotion that most people felt was the desire to vomit.
On Friday, I did some nice, healthy nothing. I tried, but failed, to withdraw dollars to pay rent for my family, now technically 2 weeks overdue. In the evening, we simply watched the World Cup. On Saturday, however, we had a morning tour of the Tretyakovsky Gallery, the premier museum of Russian art in the world, which was rather interesting, although I have frankly had my life's fill of Kievan-Rus-era iconography (that's not a code, Mummy). After a surprisingly delicious and cheap meal at the Tretyakovsky Cafe, several of us, including the omnipresent teacher Sasha, decided to undertake an adventure to Novodevichy Convent.
The convent itself is cool; it was built in the 15th-16th century, and it frequently served as the destination of exile for the uppity wives/ daughters/ sisters of insecure tsars; we spent a good 2 hours walking around the grounds and exploring the various buildings and artifacts to be found there. But far more interesting still is Novodevichy Cemetery, where basically every famous Russian EVER is buried. Among the illustrious to whose gravesights we payed homage were Boris Yeltsin, Nikita Khrushchev, author Mikhail Bulgakov, writer Anton Chekhov, director Konstantin Stanislavsky, poet Zabolotsky, poet Mayakovsky, film director Sergei Eisenstein, cosmonaut Gherman Titov, composer Skriabin, composer Shostakovich, composer Prokofiev, plane-guy Tupolev, communist Anastas Mikoyan, communist Lazar Kaganovich, communist Vladimir Molotov (of Molotov-Ribbentrop and Molotov cocktail fame), wife of dictator Nadezhda Alliluyeva-Stalina, and Soviet-anthem-lyricist Sergei Mikhalkov (also, inexplicably but perhaps uncoincidentally, a popular children's poet).
Interestingly, we arrived at the Cemetery 45 minutes after closing time; a good old 300-ruble bribe from Sasha did the trick. Anyway, the whole day combined kept me away from home from 9:30 AM to 10 PM, so Sunday was a bit quieter. In the morning, we had yet another tour, this time to the Kremlin, and this time in Russian. Unhappily, one of our fellow students, a poor Georgia Tech child of Indian extraction whom I will call Kostya, decided to join the Russian-language tour, while in fact knowing essentially no Russia, and even less, appallingly, of Russian history and culture. In his shoes, I would shut up and listen patiently, but he unceasingly would ask for the definition of words that ended up meaning things like "three." I doff my hat to the extremely patient tour guide, who had the generosity of character not to kill him.
Nonetheless, it was an interesting tour-- although they hardly let you into the government buildings, which is disappointing. Instead, you see the fine 15th-century churches on the grounds-- most of which were built by Italian rennaissance architects (cheaters). Therein, there were more graves (!), although Ivan the Terrible's is behind a partition that is not open to the public. Sadtimes. Afterward, we munched on ice cream on the park in the Kremlin, and made fun of the English-language tour guide from the previous week (the one who fought with the great Victor the driver), who had legitimately asked us if we had ever heard of the Great Patriotic War, the Russians' name for WWII.
We all laughed except Kostya, who evidently had not.
Then on Monday, my internship at the Slavic Center for Law and Justice began. The SCLJ is a law firm that focuses on cases relating to human rights, and particularly religious freedom rights. Scarily, it's affiliated with Pat Robertson, but their work is very legitimate, as far as I can tell. I'm working for a pretty cool young guy, who another Harvard dude worked for a couple years ago; he says he is the real thing, and that the internship involves good work. So far, I've helped him on a project in which he is supposed to offer suggestions to the Bar Association of Moscow (or whatever it is) to improve their lawyer examination process; and in finding summaries of European Court of Human Rights cases/ rulings/ execution reports.
Speaking of which, if you know anybody who practices law in Canada, the UK, Australia, or New Zealand, let me know.
Today, there was a cool round table of various academics, religious officials, and lawyers at the SCLJ, where they all compared notes about how to fight for religious rights in Russian courts. I was particularly struck by one vein of conversation: whether Russian courts are bad because people are incompetent, or because they are not independent. As my boss told me afterward, it's a mixture of both, in his experiences. The fact is, Russian judges are all directly appointed by the President, and their ratification by the State Duma (parliament) is basically a rubber-stamp process. Thus, competent or not (and many clearly are not), they all know where the buck stops, and it's not with them. My boss also added that comparing American and Russian courts is like comparing a human with a chimpanzee.
I assume that he was commenting on the evolutionary relationship between the human and the chimpanzee brains. Maybe, though, he was being really deep, and commenting about the long arms of the Russian law, which nonetheless cannot walk properly upright, due to its stunted and underutilized nature, more suited to clinging to the tree on which it suckled than to treading freely on the bold plains of justice. Then again, maybe not.
This week in class has been ho-hum, but the last couple of days we have been learning some Russian black humor, of the "malen'ky mal'chik..." ("little boy...") variety. Here is a sample (my free translation):
Boy's in the kitchen, his cutlets are frying;
In the next room, legless, father is crying.
Well, that's mostly all for now. Today, I finally got the money for my host family, which was a relief, and ate delicious, delicious syrniki, or cottage-cheesish pancakes with jam. I think V. Jr., who is currently strolling with wife and son, is drunk again. I was going to talk a bit about the Russian soul-- about which I have a lot of deep and poetic thoughts-- but I will leave that for another time. But there is news! Tomorrow, I fly to Slovenia, to join my friend Jan and the Harvard Din and Tonics! Jan has set up a stop for the Dins there, and since I'm the mutual connection, I figure I would be stupid not to show. Excitement!
With that, I must depart, but I will leave you with this final video. I hope I could say that it was in jest, but it's completely serious. I will let Petr Nalich (Cosmo Kramer? Borat Sagdiyev?) speak for himself:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AOzkN8dHnjk
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Damage Control
One reason that blogging is not so good is that I cannot reveal everyone's wonderful names, or else hold back on details. The latter I will not do, so I am going to go back and retroactively turn most recurring characters' names into initials (unless I deem otherwise). If you'd like to know someone's actual name, let me know. I know the account will lose some color, alas, but hey-- the price you pay for publicly available content!
И смех и грех
Originally sent June 23:
I forgot to mention a few things. They are mostly not happy, so I will start with a joke I learned yesterday:
1 Englishman is a gentlemen, 2 Englishmen-- a bet. 3 Englishmen-- a Parliament.
1 Frenchman-- a lover. 2 Frenchmen-- a duel. 3 Frenchmen-- a revolution.
1 Russian-- unemployed. 2 Russians-- a fight. 3 Russians-- a drinking session.
1 Jew-- a professor. 2 Jews-- trade. 3 Jews-- the Russian Symphony Orchestra.
Trust me, it's really funny in Russian.
Now-- some drama! I forgot to relay that on Thursday night, V. Jr. came home drunk. O. was not happy, but it was no big deal. But then it happened again yesterday-- a Monday. And he skipped work to do so. This was a massive scandal. O. kicked him out of the house and became very emotional. Tears were shed. They had to call V. Jr.'s boss to ask for forgiveness on his behalf. She told me "I understand if you don't want to live in a house like this. We will think of something." I told her-- nonsense. I like it here. And I meant it-- every family, after all, has its problems.
Another thing: I was told to be wary of racism/ profiling in Russia. While no ordinary person has ever done anything remotely racist, the police aren't ordinary people. I was stopped on the metro yesterday and asked for my documents. As it happened, I didn't have them with me. What does a sensible person do in such a situation? Explain that one doesn't have his documents, and slip the militsiya a few rubles, just to make the point. But what does Aseem Shukla do in such a situation? Shouting "inostranny student!" ("foreign student!") and pretending he doesn't speak Russian. It worked.
All for now!
Aseemchik
I forgot to mention a few things. They are mostly not happy, so I will start with a joke I learned yesterday:
1 Englishman is a gentlemen, 2 Englishmen-- a bet. 3 Englishmen-- a Parliament.
1 Frenchman-- a lover. 2 Frenchmen-- a duel. 3 Frenchmen-- a revolution.
1 Russian-- unemployed. 2 Russians-- a fight. 3 Russians-- a drinking session.
1 Jew-- a professor. 2 Jews-- trade. 3 Jews-- the Russian Symphony Orchestra.
Trust me, it's really funny in Russian.
Now-- some drama! I forgot to relay that on Thursday night, V. Jr. came home drunk. O. was not happy, but it was no big deal. But then it happened again yesterday-- a Monday. And he skipped work to do so. This was a massive scandal. O. kicked him out of the house and became very emotional. Tears were shed. They had to call V. Jr.'s boss to ask for forgiveness on his behalf. She told me "I understand if you don't want to live in a house like this. We will think of something." I told her-- nonsense. I like it here. And I meant it-- every family, after all, has its problems.
Another thing: I was told to be wary of racism/ profiling in Russia. While no ordinary person has ever done anything remotely racist, the police aren't ordinary people. I was stopped on the metro yesterday and asked for my documents. As it happened, I didn't have them with me. What does a sensible person do in such a situation? Explain that one doesn't have his documents, and slip the militsiya a few rubles, just to make the point. But what does Aseem Shukla do in such a situation? Shouting "inostranny student!" ("foreign student!") and pretending he doesn't speak Russian. It worked.
All for now!
Aseemchik
Поездка к Толстому
Originally sent June 23:
Quick update now. Five days ago, went (with our awesome teacher), on a walk through Moscow late in the evening, then to a really awesome bar-club called Solyanka, had a great time, although we had to leave before the party really got started in order to make the metro before closing time at 1 AM. Beforehand, we walked through the narrow, historic streets of Kitay-Gorod, which in contemporary Russian means China-Town, although the etymology is different, and if you go looking for Dim Sum, you will be disappointed.
Before I go on, a few notes of correction/ clarification before I proceed. In a previous posting, I noted that the cost of three months on the Moscow subway is the equivalent of $55. I was off by a factor of 2. It's actually more like $105. Conversion fail, slash you can all stop hurling your "THAT'S SO CHEAP!" at me.
Second note: in my previous posting, I noted that V. Sr. is a large man of fearsome appearance and bear-strangling physical capacity, reminiscent, I would rather say, of a Cossack. Well, as it turns out, V. Sr. IS a Cossack. Verily, his last name means, in his Ukrainian mother tongue, little Cossack. Which is funny because he is not little. But he is a Cossack. His ancestors presumably decimated rebelling villages, grew long tufts of hair on their had, became rowdily drunk, and, for all that I know, strangled bears.
A few more notes on home life. Russian standards of hygiene seem to be regretfully lower than American ones, and I have seen no evidence of the usage of soap to clean dishes thus far. Ah well. I'm not sick yet, am I? Also, the cats have a way of going into the bathroom, and in plain view of their litter boxes, shitting right in front of the toilet. Late at night, when nature calls me but I can't call O., there is little to do but grin and bear it. Also between the cats and the fact that Russians seem to find the usage of sheets superfluous, the apartment wears the perpetual aroma of feet.
Back to the account of things. Thursday night I slept like a long, waking up at 1 PM on Friday (no class on Fridays!). I did nothing for a while, but then went to the Academy to use the free internet (getting there was basically free too. Because I have a 3-month metro pass. Did I mention it's for three months and $105?). I did basically nothing else for the rest of the day, but in the evening I talked to O. and V. Sr. for several hours, while Misha the cat sat on my lap and gave me a massage. Yes, Misha gives massages. He puts his hind legs on your lap, and his forelegs on your chest, and gently presses, going up and down your chest. Where he learned this skill, I know not. All I know is that in Soviet Russia, cat pets you.
On Saturday, we had a pre-planned "ekskursiya," i.e. tour, that we went on. Due to some clerical error (or perhaps sadism on some higher power's part), we advanced students got an English-speaking guide, who operated under the impression that we had never heard of Russia before, while the beginning students got a Russian-language guide who is used to giving tours to people from St. Petersburg. But it was a good tour. We saw the immense and impressive building of Moscow State University (seriously, google image it), one of seven Gothic-inspired skyscrapers built by Stalin in the late 40s and early 50s, situated in the prestigious Sparrow Hills area, from which the whole city (and the other six Stalinist buildings) was visible. From there we stopped through Victory Park, then the Khram Khrista Spasitelya, or Cathedral of Christ the Savior (yes, Borat fans, Khram means Cathedral, not... you know). The latter was built in the 19th century, demolished in the 1930s to make room for a huge skyscraper that never got built thanks to WWII, and where Khrushchev, at a loss for what to do with the foundations, set up the world's biggest outdoor swimming pool. After the fall of the USSR, Russia rebuilt the Cathedral, much to the dismay of atheist swimmers across the city. After this, we were deposited at Red Square, which really has to be seen to be believed. St. Basil's cathedral, with its mystical, Byzantine, chaotic architecture, is just jaw-dropping. Not as big as you think it is, but even more exquisite.
The best part of the Ekskursiya, however, was when our tour guide and our driver, Viktor, yelled at each other. Viktor often took it upon himself to correct the tour guide, who would respond "Viktor, bez kommentarii, pozhaluysta," which I will loosely translate as "shut up in the peanut gallery." The tour guide was also seemingly challenged with the opening of sliding doors, at which point Viktor expressed his opinion that the "passazhiri dolzhni znat sami kak otkryvaetsya dver', potomu chto vy rukami pol'zovat'sya ne umeete," which means "the passengers themselves should know how the door opens, because you don't know how to use your hands."
Anyway, the rest of Saturday was passed in pleasant sitting around, because plans to go to O. and V.'s dacha (country cottage) fell through. But this freed me up to go on Sunday to Yasnaya Polyana, Tolstoy's estate, with Danya of Harvard, E.S. of Stanford, and Sasha the teacher-man. We all met at Sasha's metro stop, which happens to be the same metro stop as the Cosmonaut Museum. Sasha met us there covered in grease. "I was repairing my car," he said. Sasha then led us to said car, and we saw why: it was an early-1980s Soviet Lada.
Ladies and gentlemen, this was the most legit car I have ever seen. And by legit, I mean if you crashed, you would almost certainly be ripped to shreds by the force. It consists of little more than some sheet metal and a couple of (surprisingly comfortable) seats. Sasha had rigged up an electronic locking system himself. Also, the back seat manual window cranks were broken, so the windows were perpetually open! We returned to Sasha's so he could wash up, and then went on our way.
Yasnaya Polyana is outside the city of Tula, a good 2.5 hours from Moscow. The road there passes some lovely Russian countryside-- big green fields and fine forests of birch and maple. It was a warm, dry, sunny day: lovely for a ride-- and for open windows at 70 mph. And what a ride it was. We stopped only to fill the minuscule gas tank and piss in the great Russian outdoors. Later, when to got to the outskirts of Tula, we drove through a small village that looked pretty damn third-world, and had potholes of the sort that led you to believe it had recently been shelled. This was all good for Sasha, who refused to go slower than 60 while taking narrow corners, dodging the potholes on the one-lane street. It was like being at a theme park, except if you died, it wouldn't make the papers.
Yasnaya Polyana was a lovely little spot in a lovely neck of woods. We saw Tolstoy's pond, his apple orchard, his house, books, grave, etc. The house is preserved exactly as it was when he lived in it. I found it weird that he kept the couch on which he was born right behind his work desk. I mean, that's kind of gross.
We then ate a bit, toured Tula (it kind of sucks), and at the local cake, pryaniki, before returning to Moscow; we got home around 11. Then the last couple of days have been more of the same as before-- class in the morning, goofing off in the afternoon, and all that. Last night, we celebrated the 20th birthday of one of the girls in the program at a lovely expat-friendly bar. Today I had an interview at the place where I'll probably be working, the Slavic Center for Law and Justice, which is a law firm focusing on human rights, esp. religious freedom issues, with both for-profit and non-profit clients. I met my putative boss, who is a cool dude. Work duties to be specified, but there is of course the ubiquitous "you want to read some documents for me in English?" And that's all so far! Okay, not so quick update.
--Aseem Aseemovich Aseemin
Quick update now. Five days ago, went (with our awesome teacher), on a walk through Moscow late in the evening, then to a really awesome bar-club called Solyanka, had a great time, although we had to leave before the party really got started in order to make the metro before closing time at 1 AM. Beforehand, we walked through the narrow, historic streets of Kitay-Gorod, which in contemporary Russian means China-Town, although the etymology is different, and if you go looking for Dim Sum, you will be disappointed.
Before I go on, a few notes of correction/ clarification before I proceed. In a previous posting, I noted that the cost of three months on the Moscow subway is the equivalent of $55. I was off by a factor of 2. It's actually more like $105. Conversion fail, slash you can all stop hurling your "THAT'S SO CHEAP!" at me.
Second note: in my previous posting, I noted that V. Sr. is a large man of fearsome appearance and bear-strangling physical capacity, reminiscent, I would rather say, of a Cossack. Well, as it turns out, V. Sr. IS a Cossack. Verily, his last name means, in his Ukrainian mother tongue, little Cossack. Which is funny because he is not little. But he is a Cossack. His ancestors presumably decimated rebelling villages, grew long tufts of hair on their had, became rowdily drunk, and, for all that I know, strangled bears.
A few more notes on home life. Russian standards of hygiene seem to be regretfully lower than American ones, and I have seen no evidence of the usage of soap to clean dishes thus far. Ah well. I'm not sick yet, am I? Also, the cats have a way of going into the bathroom, and in plain view of their litter boxes, shitting right in front of the toilet. Late at night, when nature calls me but I can't call O., there is little to do but grin and bear it. Also between the cats and the fact that Russians seem to find the usage of sheets superfluous, the apartment wears the perpetual aroma of feet.
Back to the account of things. Thursday night I slept like a long, waking up at 1 PM on Friday (no class on Fridays!). I did nothing for a while, but then went to the Academy to use the free internet (getting there was basically free too. Because I have a 3-month metro pass. Did I mention it's for three months and $105?). I did basically nothing else for the rest of the day, but in the evening I talked to O. and V. Sr. for several hours, while Misha the cat sat on my lap and gave me a massage. Yes, Misha gives massages. He puts his hind legs on your lap, and his forelegs on your chest, and gently presses, going up and down your chest. Where he learned this skill, I know not. All I know is that in Soviet Russia, cat pets you.
On Saturday, we had a pre-planned "ekskursiya," i.e. tour, that we went on. Due to some clerical error (or perhaps sadism on some higher power's part), we advanced students got an English-speaking guide, who operated under the impression that we had never heard of Russia before, while the beginning students got a Russian-language guide who is used to giving tours to people from St. Petersburg. But it was a good tour. We saw the immense and impressive building of Moscow State University (seriously, google image it), one of seven Gothic-inspired skyscrapers built by Stalin in the late 40s and early 50s, situated in the prestigious Sparrow Hills area, from which the whole city (and the other six Stalinist buildings) was visible. From there we stopped through Victory Park, then the Khram Khrista Spasitelya, or Cathedral of Christ the Savior (yes, Borat fans, Khram means Cathedral, not... you know). The latter was built in the 19th century, demolished in the 1930s to make room for a huge skyscraper that never got built thanks to WWII, and where Khrushchev, at a loss for what to do with the foundations, set up the world's biggest outdoor swimming pool. After the fall of the USSR, Russia rebuilt the Cathedral, much to the dismay of atheist swimmers across the city. After this, we were deposited at Red Square, which really has to be seen to be believed. St. Basil's cathedral, with its mystical, Byzantine, chaotic architecture, is just jaw-dropping. Not as big as you think it is, but even more exquisite.
The best part of the Ekskursiya, however, was when our tour guide and our driver, Viktor, yelled at each other. Viktor often took it upon himself to correct the tour guide, who would respond "Viktor, bez kommentarii, pozhaluysta," which I will loosely translate as "shut up in the peanut gallery." The tour guide was also seemingly challenged with the opening of sliding doors, at which point Viktor expressed his opinion that the "passazhiri dolzhni znat sami kak otkryvaetsya dver', potomu chto vy rukami pol'zovat'sya ne umeete," which means "the passengers themselves should know how the door opens, because you don't know how to use your hands."
Anyway, the rest of Saturday was passed in pleasant sitting around, because plans to go to O. and V.'s dacha (country cottage) fell through. But this freed me up to go on Sunday to Yasnaya Polyana, Tolstoy's estate, with Danya of Harvard, E.S. of Stanford, and Sasha the teacher-man. We all met at Sasha's metro stop, which happens to be the same metro stop as the Cosmonaut Museum. Sasha met us there covered in grease. "I was repairing my car," he said. Sasha then led us to said car, and we saw why: it was an early-1980s Soviet Lada.
Ladies and gentlemen, this was the most legit car I have ever seen. And by legit, I mean if you crashed, you would almost certainly be ripped to shreds by the force. It consists of little more than some sheet metal and a couple of (surprisingly comfortable) seats. Sasha had rigged up an electronic locking system himself. Also, the back seat manual window cranks were broken, so the windows were perpetually open! We returned to Sasha's so he could wash up, and then went on our way.
Yasnaya Polyana is outside the city of Tula, a good 2.5 hours from Moscow. The road there passes some lovely Russian countryside-- big green fields and fine forests of birch and maple. It was a warm, dry, sunny day: lovely for a ride-- and for open windows at 70 mph. And what a ride it was. We stopped only to fill the minuscule gas tank and piss in the great Russian outdoors. Later, when to got to the outskirts of Tula, we drove through a small village that looked pretty damn third-world, and had potholes of the sort that led you to believe it had recently been shelled. This was all good for Sasha, who refused to go slower than 60 while taking narrow corners, dodging the potholes on the one-lane street. It was like being at a theme park, except if you died, it wouldn't make the papers.
Yasnaya Polyana was a lovely little spot in a lovely neck of woods. We saw Tolstoy's pond, his apple orchard, his house, books, grave, etc. The house is preserved exactly as it was when he lived in it. I found it weird that he kept the couch on which he was born right behind his work desk. I mean, that's kind of gross.
We then ate a bit, toured Tula (it kind of sucks), and at the local cake, pryaniki, before returning to Moscow; we got home around 11. Then the last couple of days have been more of the same as before-- class in the morning, goofing off in the afternoon, and all that. Last night, we celebrated the 20th birthday of one of the girls in the program at a lovely expat-friendly bar. Today I had an interview at the place where I'll probably be working, the Slavic Center for Law and Justice, which is a law firm focusing on human rights, esp. religious freedom issues, with both for-profit and non-profit clients. I met my putative boss, who is a cool dude. Work duties to be specified, but there is of course the ubiquitous "you want to read some documents for me in English?" And that's all so far! Okay, not so quick update.
--Aseem Aseemovich Aseemin
Выпивка у бабушки
Originally sent June 16:
New update. And thanks for the replies! Cris-- nice job figuring out that priklyucheniya means adventures. If I ever say anything you don't understand, look it up on multitran.ru.
After I wrote on Monday, V. Sr. showed up in the night. The man is HUGE. He's about 6'3", and could strangle a bear. Also he has a massive moustache and long, thinning hair. Basically, he is a Cossack. We talked until 3 in the morning about life in the Soviet Union vs. in contemporary Russia. The reason the conversation was so long was that he preferred life in Soviet times, for a variety of very valid reasons. Like the fact that there were no homeless people, and basically everything was free. But he did admit that the repression was inconvenient.
Went to ANE for the first time yesterday, after a breakfast of fried cabbage cutlets (actually delicious, no joke)-- this is the organization that organizes the program. ANE, i.e. Academy of the National Economy (Akademiya Natsionalnogo Khozyaystva). Basically, I take Russian in the morning, and in the afternoon, I'll end up doing an internship or two-- more on this in a bit. The ANE is at the Yugo-Zapadnaya, which is in the South-West of Moscow (Yugo-Zapadnaya means South-West, by the way). A pretty grim place, made grimmer by the fact that it has rained basically non-stop for the last three days, and the temp. has not exceeded 65.
There on the platform, I met the other students-- but I was looking forward to seeing Danya (as I'll call him for the blog), a Harvard kid, who was not there. Apparently, he was trying out an internship. You will understand that I was looking forward to speaking in a familiar language with a familiar person in a very foreign land, but eto ne poluchilos'-- which means it didn't happen. I tend not to be super-outgoing in brand new situations, especially since there was a large contingent who all knew each other from Georgia Tech/ U. of Georgia. But all was good. A.A., the mustachioed dude who runs the program, is a hilarious and friendly dude who made us all feel at ease. We then took a tour of the premises, and finally divided up into advanced and intermediate students. We also met our two ANE student hosts, Boris and Alina.
There are six of us in the advanced group, and it's a pretty vesyolaya gruppa-- i.e. a jolly group. There's Danya and me from Harvard, T. and D. from U. Georgia, A. from SUNY Stonybrook, and K. from McGill. D. is gay and speaks Russian way too well, and thinks nothing of yelling at the rest of us when our Russian lapses or we make a mistake. If he weren't so nice outside the classroom, I would want to kill him. Our teacher is Sasha, a recent MGU (Moscow State) journalism graduate, who is AWESOME. He decided he hated saying positive things about Putin all the time, and he now teaches elementary school.
After class, we advanced kids decided to have lunch together at one of the on-campus restaurants, Il Patio. Delicious Italian food! I got a Greek salad, 8-inch veggie pizza, and glass of coke, all for about 8 bucks, which is considered expensive here, and this is a sit-down restaurant no less. After that, we went in vain search of SimCard stuff for another one of the kids with Boris. Then we went our separate ways, the other kids to watch a movie at one of their apartments, and I to the Babushka's 80th birthday party.
Here follows an account of what has definitely been the most awesome part of the trip so far. O.'s mother turned 80 yesterday, and there was a birthday party at her place. An 80-year-old's birthday party? That was fun, you say? Oh, gentle reader, oh yes. After much difficulty finding my way on the metro and on the street in the pouring rain, I finally arrived at a stately brown Stalinist building (the nasty grey buildings you associate with Communism are Khrushchev-era; under Stalin, the standard of architecture was quite high). And then up to apartment, which I tell you, was so old, and so beautiful, and so Russian, I thought I would explode. Wooden parquet floors, high ceilings, crown mouldings, lime-green wallpaper, sweet-smelling brown furniture, a long corridor lined with hundreds of books. I expected Nabokov to emerge from the office, offering the guests glasses of cognac.
Nabokov there was not, but cognac there was aplenty. I went into one of the rooms behind O. It was so jaw-droppingly Russian-- two long tables, with white tablecloths and lovely silverware, and all laden with Russian party food (mayonnaisy salads and cold fish dishes, and so on) and Soviet-era champagne. And on one end of one of the tables, a gaggle of classy babushkas, all softly and respectfully talking to each other and partaking of the banquet. I sat at the other end of the table and ate the only stuff I could, stewed mushrooms and pickled tomato. Then, the most wonderful thing started happening-- each of the babushkas took it in turn to stand up and say really, really nice things about the 80-year-old birthday girl. Lots of toasts all around. The place could not have been more cozy if we were all wearing snuggies.
It gets better still. At some point a couple showed up and sat next to me. The wife was boring, but the husband, Victor, became my best friend. His first thing to me, having seen me for the first time and putting his arm around my shoulder: "I don't remember your name, comrade, please remind me!" I said I was new here-- and to the country. He said cool. That was all for the time being, because we both knew that this party was all about the babushkas, and not to have side conversations. But later, he got up to have a look from the balcony. I found my way there, because I wanted fresh air. Victor and I ended up talking for about half an hour-- about the climate, about Stalinist architecture, about the reading of foreign literature in the Soviet Union, etc. Then we returned to the table, and there I tried the cognac. But Victor kept refilling the glass, and I ended up drinking about a third of the bottle. Yes, my friends, at a babushka's 80th birthday party, around 8:30 PM, I was drunk.
Now, Alina had invited all us advanced kids to a bar that night, so around 10 PM I set out. My family yelled at me and insisted I be back before midnight, because apparently after 11 PM the "khuligany" (hooligans) start roving the streets. Believe me, after Babushka's 80th, the bar kind of sucked. I left after an hour, but it took 45 minutes on the metro to get home, and I flopped down.
Today I got up at 7:25, shat, showered, shaved, and shined, had three fried eggs from O. (why does everything she makes turn out delicious?), and went off to school again. I arrived 10 minutes late, thinking I'd be the last. I was the first. A very nice day of class with Sasha, and started the internship search! Now, I plan to intern with the Slavyansky Pravovoy Tsentr, i.e. the Slavic Center for Law and Justice, a human-rights related law firm, but the ANE internship coordinator had an idea for a second internship for me, and at 1:30 today I was informed I had a 2 PM interview at the so-called Institute of Europe. Whoa. An ANE woman took me on the metro to Okhotny Ryad station, which is right on Red Square. We went to an old, round building, the headquarters of the Institute of Europe, which is a think-tank on European issues. There, I had an interview with the Director himself. I tell you, there is nothing like a well-educated Russian for worldliness, friendliness, and intellectual curiosity. He talked to me about the Institute and what it does and all his personal interests-- for an hour. Then he asked what I wanted to do here. I thought-- I don't know, you tell me! But I told him that any kind of academic research experience would be cool, and that I was open to anything. He said, I have an idea-- my English sucks, but I need to read a lot of stuff in English. You want to read stuff for me, translate, and send me analytical summaries in Russian? So I said sounds interesting. And he said think about it! But first, he ordered me to enjoy myself and see Moscow. Why are Russians so awesome?
Then, I decided to walk through Red Square, but randomly on the street-- I ran into a couple of my classmates! They had already been on the Square, but were on their way to the Arbat, which happens to be my way home. So I went with them. It suddently started raining cats and dogs, so by the time we got home, I was totally soaked.
Anyway-- that's all for now. After getting home, all I've done is watched Spain vs. Switzerland with V. Sr., who again talked fondly about Soviet life. Also, more delicious fried cabbage cutlets. That's all folks!
--Aseemsky
New update. And thanks for the replies! Cris-- nice job figuring out that priklyucheniya means adventures. If I ever say anything you don't understand, look it up on multitran.ru.
After I wrote on Monday, V. Sr. showed up in the night. The man is HUGE. He's about 6'3", and could strangle a bear. Also he has a massive moustache and long, thinning hair. Basically, he is a Cossack. We talked until 3 in the morning about life in the Soviet Union vs. in contemporary Russia. The reason the conversation was so long was that he preferred life in Soviet times, for a variety of very valid reasons. Like the fact that there were no homeless people, and basically everything was free. But he did admit that the repression was inconvenient.
Went to ANE for the first time yesterday, after a breakfast of fried cabbage cutlets (actually delicious, no joke)-- this is the organization that organizes the program. ANE, i.e. Academy of the National Economy (Akademiya Natsionalnogo Khozyaystva). Basically, I take Russian in the morning, and in the afternoon, I'll end up doing an internship or two-- more on this in a bit. The ANE is at the Yugo-Zapadnaya, which is in the South-West of Moscow (Yugo-Zapadnaya means South-West, by the way). A pretty grim place, made grimmer by the fact that it has rained basically non-stop for the last three days, and the temp. has not exceeded 65.
There on the platform, I met the other students-- but I was looking forward to seeing Danya (as I'll call him for the blog), a Harvard kid, who was not there. Apparently, he was trying out an internship. You will understand that I was looking forward to speaking in a familiar language with a familiar person in a very foreign land, but eto ne poluchilos'-- which means it didn't happen. I tend not to be super-outgoing in brand new situations, especially since there was a large contingent who all knew each other from Georgia Tech/ U. of Georgia. But all was good. A.A., the mustachioed dude who runs the program, is a hilarious and friendly dude who made us all feel at ease. We then took a tour of the premises, and finally divided up into advanced and intermediate students. We also met our two ANE student hosts, Boris and Alina.
There are six of us in the advanced group, and it's a pretty vesyolaya gruppa-- i.e. a jolly group. There's Danya and me from Harvard, T. and D. from U. Georgia, A. from SUNY Stonybrook, and K. from McGill. D. is gay and speaks Russian way too well, and thinks nothing of yelling at the rest of us when our Russian lapses or we make a mistake. If he weren't so nice outside the classroom, I would want to kill him. Our teacher is Sasha, a recent MGU (Moscow State) journalism graduate, who is AWESOME. He decided he hated saying positive things about Putin all the time, and he now teaches elementary school.
After class, we advanced kids decided to have lunch together at one of the on-campus restaurants, Il Patio. Delicious Italian food! I got a Greek salad, 8-inch veggie pizza, and glass of coke, all for about 8 bucks, which is considered expensive here, and this is a sit-down restaurant no less. After that, we went in vain search of SimCard stuff for another one of the kids with Boris. Then we went our separate ways, the other kids to watch a movie at one of their apartments, and I to the Babushka's 80th birthday party.
Here follows an account of what has definitely been the most awesome part of the trip so far. O.'s mother turned 80 yesterday, and there was a birthday party at her place. An 80-year-old's birthday party? That was fun, you say? Oh, gentle reader, oh yes. After much difficulty finding my way on the metro and on the street in the pouring rain, I finally arrived at a stately brown Stalinist building (the nasty grey buildings you associate with Communism are Khrushchev-era; under Stalin, the standard of architecture was quite high). And then up to apartment, which I tell you, was so old, and so beautiful, and so Russian, I thought I would explode. Wooden parquet floors, high ceilings, crown mouldings, lime-green wallpaper, sweet-smelling brown furniture, a long corridor lined with hundreds of books. I expected Nabokov to emerge from the office, offering the guests glasses of cognac.
Nabokov there was not, but cognac there was aplenty. I went into one of the rooms behind O. It was so jaw-droppingly Russian-- two long tables, with white tablecloths and lovely silverware, and all laden with Russian party food (mayonnaisy salads and cold fish dishes, and so on) and Soviet-era champagne. And on one end of one of the tables, a gaggle of classy babushkas, all softly and respectfully talking to each other and partaking of the banquet. I sat at the other end of the table and ate the only stuff I could, stewed mushrooms and pickled tomato. Then, the most wonderful thing started happening-- each of the babushkas took it in turn to stand up and say really, really nice things about the 80-year-old birthday girl. Lots of toasts all around. The place could not have been more cozy if we were all wearing snuggies.
It gets better still. At some point a couple showed up and sat next to me. The wife was boring, but the husband, Victor, became my best friend. His first thing to me, having seen me for the first time and putting his arm around my shoulder: "I don't remember your name, comrade, please remind me!" I said I was new here-- and to the country. He said cool. That was all for the time being, because we both knew that this party was all about the babushkas, and not to have side conversations. But later, he got up to have a look from the balcony. I found my way there, because I wanted fresh air. Victor and I ended up talking for about half an hour-- about the climate, about Stalinist architecture, about the reading of foreign literature in the Soviet Union, etc. Then we returned to the table, and there I tried the cognac. But Victor kept refilling the glass, and I ended up drinking about a third of the bottle. Yes, my friends, at a babushka's 80th birthday party, around 8:30 PM, I was drunk.
Now, Alina had invited all us advanced kids to a bar that night, so around 10 PM I set out. My family yelled at me and insisted I be back before midnight, because apparently after 11 PM the "khuligany" (hooligans) start roving the streets. Believe me, after Babushka's 80th, the bar kind of sucked. I left after an hour, but it took 45 minutes on the metro to get home, and I flopped down.
Today I got up at 7:25, shat, showered, shaved, and shined, had three fried eggs from O. (why does everything she makes turn out delicious?), and went off to school again. I arrived 10 minutes late, thinking I'd be the last. I was the first. A very nice day of class with Sasha, and started the internship search! Now, I plan to intern with the Slavyansky Pravovoy Tsentr, i.e. the Slavic Center for Law and Justice, a human-rights related law firm, but the ANE internship coordinator had an idea for a second internship for me, and at 1:30 today I was informed I had a 2 PM interview at the so-called Institute of Europe. Whoa. An ANE woman took me on the metro to Okhotny Ryad station, which is right on Red Square. We went to an old, round building, the headquarters of the Institute of Europe, which is a think-tank on European issues. There, I had an interview with the Director himself. I tell you, there is nothing like a well-educated Russian for worldliness, friendliness, and intellectual curiosity. He talked to me about the Institute and what it does and all his personal interests-- for an hour. Then he asked what I wanted to do here. I thought-- I don't know, you tell me! But I told him that any kind of academic research experience would be cool, and that I was open to anything. He said, I have an idea-- my English sucks, but I need to read a lot of stuff in English. You want to read stuff for me, translate, and send me analytical summaries in Russian? So I said sounds interesting. And he said think about it! But first, he ordered me to enjoy myself and see Moscow. Why are Russians so awesome?
Then, I decided to walk through Red Square, but randomly on the street-- I ran into a couple of my classmates! They had already been on the Square, but were on their way to the Arbat, which happens to be my way home. So I went with them. It suddently started raining cats and dogs, so by the time we got home, I was totally soaked.
Anyway-- that's all for now. After getting home, all I've done is watched Spain vs. Switzerland with V. Sr., who again talked fondly about Soviet life. Also, more delicious fried cabbage cutlets. That's all folks!
--Aseemsky
Первые впечатления
Originally sent June 14:
Privet druzya,
So I don't know if you care or not, but I will use this thread to describe my adventures in Russia henceforth. I will consider keeping a blog, but until then-- vot syuda ya budu zapisivat' vse svoi priklyucheniya.
Internet time is limited, so I shall keep things brief and curt. Flew via red-eye from SFO to Washington Dulles on Friday night; had 12-hour layover in DC. My cousin picked me up from the airport, and I slept at his place, and then my other cousin came to his place and we had a homemade Indian lunch, the last I will get until August, I am sure. Then the flight from Dulles to Moscow Domodedovo. I was very excited and nervous and all, especially since that plane ride was the first time in my life that I was surrounded by a majority of Russian speakers (in my previous experience, they have formed a small but humorous contingent wherever I was). My first contact with a Russian who didn't necessarily know me to be a non-native speaker: a woman who asked me for my blanket. It was very exciting.
Upon arriving in Moscow, I was dismayed to find it was hot as balls, and the airport was not really air-conditioned. I was more dismayed to find the line at immigration to be longer than the Trans-Siberian express. Literally. The line started in Moscow. I'm now in Vladivostok.
The above is not true, but it was a long line, and it took over an hour to get through. I found my baggage and asked if I needed to go through customs, because I had a bottle of wine (a gift for my host family). The customs officer was like-- why? So I just went through. Awesome.
Then a student from the ANE-- Academy of the National Economy, the host organization-- was waiting for me and found me, and we drove the 40-minute drive from Domodedovo into Moscow. Countless numbers of Soviet-style block apartments along the way. I was excited but slightly terrified, because it occurred to me that this was a fucking huge city, and I didn't know anybody in it, except this one weird punk kid.
We finally got to what is now home for me-- Ukrainsky boulevard No. 6, Apt. 243, and there I was met by my host mother, O.
O. was not what I expected from a woman who teaches journalism at Moscow State University (MGU-- Moskovsky Gosudarstvenny Universitet). She is short and fat and unlovely, and has a liberal amount of facial hair. Nonetheless, she is an extremely nice woman, and her first act was to make me a massive lunch of tomato-cucumber salad with smetana (sour cream), mushroom-potato bliny (pancaky wrap thingies*), and kvas (bread drink, literally made from fermented bread, delicious). We talked for a bit, and I started to feel overwhelmed being in this very new place. I went to bed for six hours or so.
At this point I will say a bit about the family and the apartment. The apartment is located in a very Soviet building. There are three bedrooms, a bathroom, and a kitchen/ dining room. I get a bedroom to myself; my host parents V. Sr. and O. are in the largest bedroom, and in the other bedroom live their son, V. Jr., age 24, with his wife L. and son, D. (age 10 months-- super cute). The apartment is shabby but clean. Cheesy decor. Welcome to Russia.
Anyway, when I awoke at 10:30 PM, the sun had not yet set-- welcome to 55 degrees north latitude. Cool. Had ice cream with home-made cherry sauce (made at the dacha-- i.e. their summer cottage), then talked and watched some world cup, finally went to bed again.
Woke up at 9:30 AM, broke fast, mom called from home. I assured her all was well. Then I went out with O. to buy a simcard for my GSM phone, get a three-month metro card (3000 rubles, or about 55 bucks, for three months-- not bad, but not cheap), and whatnot. O. then went to work, and I walked for the first time alone in Moscow! Normally this is not a big deal, but in a place like Russia, you feel like everyone is watching you, esp. when you are brown.
Later, I went out with V. Jr., who gave me a walking tour of the city. So cool. Walked through the Arbat, the Bohemian artsy street of Moscow (now quite touristy), through the Mayakovsky district, past the Kremlin, past Pushkin's place, bought a beer and stopped in a little courtyard where Pushkin used to hang out, and then walked to Patriarch's Ponds. If you've read Mikail Bulgakov's Master and Margarita, you'll know that this is where the novel begins. And then we went to Bulgakov's house!!! So cool! Saw his typewriter! Used his toilet! So cool!
Then we saw more monuments like the Russian Foreign Ministry and the Russian White House (home of the Prime Minister, i.e. Putin), and other stuff I don't remember, then back home to Ukrainsky boulevard. We passed the majestic Stalinist Hotel Ukraina, which is now the Radisson. Yay capitalism!
Then I had more bliny and tomato-cucumber salad, and now I am writing to you. Cool, no? On the agenda for tonight: a stroll through Victory Park, and then card games. Ура!
--Aseemovich
Privet druzya,
So I don't know if you care or not, but I will use this thread to describe my adventures in Russia henceforth. I will consider keeping a blog, but until then-- vot syuda ya budu zapisivat' vse svoi priklyucheniya.
Internet time is limited, so I shall keep things brief and curt. Flew via red-eye from SFO to Washington Dulles on Friday night; had 12-hour layover in DC. My cousin picked me up from the airport, and I slept at his place, and then my other cousin came to his place and we had a homemade Indian lunch, the last I will get until August, I am sure. Then the flight from Dulles to Moscow Domodedovo. I was very excited and nervous and all, especially since that plane ride was the first time in my life that I was surrounded by a majority of Russian speakers (in my previous experience, they have formed a small but humorous contingent wherever I was). My first contact with a Russian who didn't necessarily know me to be a non-native speaker: a woman who asked me for my blanket. It was very exciting.
Upon arriving in Moscow, I was dismayed to find it was hot as balls, and the airport was not really air-conditioned. I was more dismayed to find the line at immigration to be longer than the Trans-Siberian express. Literally. The line started in Moscow. I'm now in Vladivostok.
The above is not true, but it was a long line, and it took over an hour to get through. I found my baggage and asked if I needed to go through customs, because I had a bottle of wine (a gift for my host family). The customs officer was like-- why? So I just went through. Awesome.
Then a student from the ANE-- Academy of the National Economy, the host organization-- was waiting for me and found me, and we drove the 40-minute drive from Domodedovo into Moscow. Countless numbers of Soviet-style block apartments along the way. I was excited but slightly terrified, because it occurred to me that this was a fucking huge city, and I didn't know anybody in it, except this one weird punk kid.
We finally got to what is now home for me-- Ukrainsky boulevard No. 6, Apt. 243, and there I was met by my host mother, O.
O. was not what I expected from a woman who teaches journalism at Moscow State University (MGU-- Moskovsky Gosudarstvenny Universitet). She is short and fat and unlovely, and has a liberal amount of facial hair. Nonetheless, she is an extremely nice woman, and her first act was to make me a massive lunch of tomato-cucumber salad with smetana (sour cream), mushroom-potato bliny (pancaky wrap thingies*), and kvas (bread drink, literally made from fermented bread, delicious). We talked for a bit, and I started to feel overwhelmed being in this very new place. I went to bed for six hours or so.
At this point I will say a bit about the family and the apartment. The apartment is located in a very Soviet building. There are three bedrooms, a bathroom, and a kitchen/ dining room. I get a bedroom to myself; my host parents V. Sr. and O. are in the largest bedroom, and in the other bedroom live their son, V. Jr., age 24, with his wife L. and son, D. (age 10 months-- super cute). The apartment is shabby but clean. Cheesy decor. Welcome to Russia.
Anyway, when I awoke at 10:30 PM, the sun had not yet set-- welcome to 55 degrees north latitude. Cool. Had ice cream with home-made cherry sauce (made at the dacha-- i.e. their summer cottage), then talked and watched some world cup, finally went to bed again.
Woke up at 9:30 AM, broke fast, mom called from home. I assured her all was well. Then I went out with O. to buy a simcard for my GSM phone, get a three-month metro card (3000 rubles, or about 55 bucks, for three months-- not bad, but not cheap), and whatnot. O. then went to work, and I walked for the first time alone in Moscow! Normally this is not a big deal, but in a place like Russia, you feel like everyone is watching you, esp. when you are brown.
Later, I went out with V. Jr., who gave me a walking tour of the city. So cool. Walked through the Arbat, the Bohemian artsy street of Moscow (now quite touristy), through the Mayakovsky district, past the Kremlin, past Pushkin's place, bought a beer and stopped in a little courtyard where Pushkin used to hang out, and then walked to Patriarch's Ponds. If you've read Mikail Bulgakov's Master and Margarita, you'll know that this is where the novel begins. And then we went to Bulgakov's house!!! So cool! Saw his typewriter! Used his toilet! So cool!
Then we saw more monuments like the Russian Foreign Ministry and the Russian White House (home of the Prime Minister, i.e. Putin), and other stuff I don't remember, then back home to Ukrainsky boulevard. We passed the majestic Stalinist Hotel Ukraina, which is now the Radisson. Yay capitalism!
Then I had more bliny and tomato-cucumber salad, and now I am writing to you. Cool, no? On the agenda for tonight: a stroll through Victory Park, and then card games. Ура!
--Aseemovich
First Post!
Hello everybody! I will henceforth be doing updates via this blog-- here we go! First order of business: copy the existing posts, just so all is here. I will date them in the text from the original date. Пока!
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