At first, I considered opening with an apology for the horrible pun in the title, but I have realized I am completely unrepentant--it is one of the more appropriate puns in recorded history, dating back to the division of Rome by a pair of caesars...or scissors, if you know the hackneyed joke. But puns, even bad ones, are intrinsically tied to humor and the language, and therefore cause trouble any student abroad, since no one can resist wordplay from time to time. After all, they are so heavily dependent on language that they are virtually untranslatable...and there is nothing worse than an untranslatable phrase when you are jet-lagged and far from home. Banal as a pun may seem, reflecting on them seems appropriate as I attempt in the course of a summer to learn to translate not just a language, but the reflections and features of a different culture in such a way others can find some understanding of this enigmatic place. It is my hope that my experiences in Russia allow me to appreciate and possibly understand some of its enigmatic nature, just like clarifying a new pun. In fact, clarification is one of my favorite words; I love having things made clear to me...and of course, the latin base is part of my name. I was seeking clarification when I decided to come here for a summer; not only about the Russian language and culture, but about my future and purpose in learning the language. It is my hope that in this time of political turmoil, I can shed some light on the goodness of a culture and people for my friends back home.
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| Russian lilacs look a lot like American ones.... |
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As I sat and stared at the blanket of clouds that had stretched from Ireland all over Europe on my descent into Petersburg, I realized I should have written my reflection much earlier...probably before I left home, before I was jet-lagged, and before I had forgotten my very justifiable reasons for coming to Russia. As the lovely and curious English couple on holiday in St. Petersburg (for their 40th wedding anniversary!) asked me while waiting to board in Frankfurt, why was I going?
“Because it’s Russia, that’s reason enough.” I said, not thinking of my internship or my interests in music. My tired answer was probably excusable, since I had already made them laugh with my tale of woe; I had gotten lost, circled the entire Z concourse and managed to go through airport security twice. (This is a feat only possible in the Frankfurt airport, the modern labyrinth...) Again, they laughed politely. We chattered briefly about the rain (a consistent hit with the English) and their wedding from long ago. She and her husband had saved up for this special trip to celebrate; he was a teacher of literature in Manchester and she a nurse. During a loll in conversation, the very professorial husband pushed up his glasses with his finger, winked, and asked, “have you been practising your vodka drinking for this trip?”
“Of course...but you know the American drinking age...so you didn’t hear it from me!”
He laughed so hard his newly replaced glasses nearly fell off and said, “You’re quite the thoroughbred, lass!”
It was not the reaction I was expecting. Although I suppose that is in line with the rest of my journey...because one shouldn’t rely on one’s expectations with Russia. It’s a bit like Monty Python’s Spanish Inquisition that way...one never expects it, whatever it may be. I was just surprised it began so early in my journey. It began with the strange woman in the Denver bookstore who suggested I needed to read 50 Shades of Gray because I looked as though I needed a good time... The sweetest was a lovely Catholic lady from Colorado, traveling with her husband, who was a small town mayor. She played me in checkers, slept on my shoulder, and then signed a cross over me before we parted ways in Frankfurt. Then there was Filip, my navigator of Frankfurt, a kindred spirit discovered on my second circle into the unsecured train area when I overheard him mutter, “I hate this airport.”
“So do I,” I said malevolently. Our eyes met, and thus began my friendship with Filip the Serbian-American sound engineer (who worked the Grammies twice) from Los Angeles. It saddens me that the Filip who offered to record my voice anytime at his studio, who happily bought me a drink because, "you are was one of the few American girls I can stand," is the same Filip as the one who glowered at me across his glass, and who spat out the name of his ex-girlfriend and who admitted to throwing away his favorite watch because it reminded him of her. I hope he finds his solace in Serbia away from her memories...
My favorite interesting person, however, is Jean-Marie, who interrupted my reverie at the window and, looking at the Kommersant on my lap, asked, “may I compiliment you? But first, I must know...are you Russian girl speaking ze English, or American girl reading ze Russian, or neither...”
I informed him I was American, and that I enjoyed ‘compiliments...compliments’, and found myself drawn into deep conversation about ‘ze joys of life’ with this lovely old frenchman who sings baritone in a choir that was taking a cruise from Petersburg to Moscow. He was delighted to be sitting by a young soprano and fellow musician, and insisted it was the luckiest day of his travels so far; not only did he get to sit by a beautiful Estonian economist on the flight from Paris, he then got to sit by me. I thanked him for this compliment, and he said he had a story to tell.
A habitual gambler on the seaside, he then said, “Traveling is like lottery. I told my wife when I saw you in line, ‘After my Estonian friend, I shall hope I sit by another nice girl like her.’ And I did....Zis is better than the time I got upgraded to Toronto and sat by...how you say... mannequin.”
I attempted to stifle the mental image of a younger, suave Jean-Marie with his arm around a headless plastic body, giggled, and said, “I think you mean model.”
I was afraid I had embarrassed him, and so asked after his story again, a decision I do not regret. Jean-Marie did not disappoint, and began the tale of his secretary, and his confusion over why smart women did not want to be called pretty. According to him, "In France men can compliment beautiful girls like you and is not problem. In America and Canada, you get problem. I don’t know about now. At least you get problem in 70’s. Like my seceretary from Toronto, who I compiliment, and she trow coffee on my lap. But I have wife so I did not ever offer sex with her even though she was beautiful. But I did gave her raise even after coffee..."
“But Jean-Marie, when men compiliment...compliment a women in America, it usually means they want her. Hearing they are smart is respectful...” I say, good feminist that I try to be.
“But its like admiring a painting. I compiliment art and do not take? I do not understand why ze American men appreciate beauty by taking it.”
“And Frenchman don’t?” I countered, thinking also that women are not paintings, “...but thank you nonetheless.”
Jean-Marie nodded slowly, before suddenly changing course and saying, “You are welcome. I am a mathematician now, after retiring from engineer. I like to teach children math. And music is the order of math with the soul of art. This is why I like it.”
This retiree frenchman introduced me to his wife, before parting ways with a cheek kiss.
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| Anna's "apple pie" |
This proves that even in Russia I cannot escape the reach of small town Wyoming; this is the museum that my boyfriend Jess’s mother works at...
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Having survived jet lag handily (it works wonders flying into Europe in the evening), I awoke in the morning and had breakfast pressed upon me by a worried Anna, despite my protestations. I needed to walk to the University of Economics, in order to complete my bureaucratic registration of my migration card and passport. This, of course, involved finding the university...But Anna was happy to walk me there--it is only 15 minutes from my apartment. Just over the Fontanka canal bridge, down towards the Admiralty spiral, and then right along Gribodoeva canal takes you to the school--which is across from a bridge guarded by a pair of regal lions. It is interesting, a bit old, and right by the extremely fancy cathedral of the Spilt Blood. I am afraid I walked the whole way like I was on air, which is a far cry from blending in with the grounded city people. But the sun had been up for hours, and even through the clouds Petersburg glowed with an irresistible excess of light.
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| A view into the courtyard from Anna's window |
My coordinator, April, and I had lunch to discuss my internship--I will be working at the Museum of Theatre and Music starting this Monday! Which means it is time for a hasty and thorough review of Russian...
Fortunately, I have actually been able to order and communicate with Russians fairly well so far, and I think having to use the cases and grammar makes it easier to get to communicate. Surprisingly, even my lunch was what I wanted--a remarkable feat in a stolovaya (cafeteria), since I usually can’t even identify American foods, let alone Russian equivalents. My first mishap today occurred not in speaking, but in attempting to come back to the apartment by myself. It was just a simple inability on my part to differentiate between the blocks of identical, old yellow and peach buildings that line Gorokhovaya street. The courtyards also all look the same and it would be far too easy if russians posted the building names...So, it was no surprise to me, looking back, when I ended up in an entirely different set of apartments, which were identical to where I am staying...except at the time I assumed the key didn't work simply due to mechanical obstinacy. I ended up being puzzled for a little while, and keeping with my assumption, decided to walk a couple blocks before trying the door so as not to look like a suspicious idiot. I finally realized on my third attempt that I was at the wrong apartment 23... I took a left, and went to the opposite 23, and happily reached home. |
| Kazan cathedral! |
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| St. Issac's Cathedral! |
With Love from Russia,
Claire
P.S. I felt this Irish pub seemed like a taste of adventures to come...
P.S. I felt this Irish pub seemed like a taste of adventures to come...
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| ... O'Hooligan is about as Irish as leprechauns... |
