Tuesday, December 25, 2007
I'm in Rome. For the past two days I've been wandering around, stopping when I'm hungry to eat delicious food and read my book (If on a Winter's Night a Traveler by Italo Calvino...Mom sent it to me a couple months ago and I grabbed it because it's Italian...a cool book, it spends a lot of time describing to you the experience of reading itself). Tomorrow I'm off to Parma, then to Milan on Friday to meet a couple friends from college. I can't wait to be around people who I can talk to and trust that they'll know what I mean, both words-wise and culture-wise. It's been delightful not to talk to anyone for the last couple days, but I'll definitely be ready by Friday. I hope Italy will make me feel reconstituted for my last 10 weeks in Moscow, not make me wonder why I'm going back.
Friday, December 21, 2007
Kiwi's going home tomorrow. As a last hurrah, about 8 of us went to Darbar, an Indian restaurant on the top floor of Hotel Sputnik near Leninsky Prospekt. It's a decent walk from the metro, past a giant statue that looks a bit like an Oscar, except 30 feet tall, more planar and futuristic, and on a 50-foot pedestal. The statue's a monument to Yuri Gagarin, the first person in space (before he took off, he said "поехали," "let's go," the Soviet analogue of "One small step..."). Inexplicably, the statue has a six-foot-tall metal soccer ball underneath.
The restaurant, 16 floors up, is one of my favorite places in Moscow. Out one window, you look down on a bend of the Moskva River, and across it to a stadium with the city stretching behind. Downstream a bit, you can see one of the Seven Sisters, outsized cathedral-like buildings commissioned by Stalin that taper in spires to a final red star at the top. They have an architectural term all their own, Stalin Gothic, and are incredible lit up at night.
Unfortunately we were seated by the opposite window, which looks down on a nuclear power plant. Everyone else in the restaurant was part of a corporate party, and was drunkenly dancing up a storm. We were right next to the speakers, which pretty much ruled out cross-table conversation. The music was a medley of Arabic trance and 90s dance-pop--songs like La Bouche's "Be My Lover," which I haven't heard since the 7th grade (except for all those times I Youtubed it out of nostalgia.) (R, they also played "It's the time to disco," which of course made me think of you). The food was good though, as always, and I'm glad I got a chance to see Kiwi off. Blueberry's leaving tomorrow also, leaving the language school nearly depleted of friends.
The restaurant, 16 floors up, is one of my favorite places in Moscow. Out one window, you look down on a bend of the Moskva River, and across it to a stadium with the city stretching behind. Downstream a bit, you can see one of the Seven Sisters, outsized cathedral-like buildings commissioned by Stalin that taper in spires to a final red star at the top. They have an architectural term all their own, Stalin Gothic, and are incredible lit up at night.
Unfortunately we were seated by the opposite window, which looks down on a nuclear power plant. Everyone else in the restaurant was part of a corporate party, and was drunkenly dancing up a storm. We were right next to the speakers, which pretty much ruled out cross-table conversation. The music was a medley of Arabic trance and 90s dance-pop--songs like La Bouche's "Be My Lover," which I haven't heard since the 7th grade (except for all those times I Youtubed it out of nostalgia.) (R, they also played "It's the time to disco," which of course made me think of you). The food was good though, as always, and I'm glad I got a chance to see Kiwi off. Blueberry's leaving tomorrow also, leaving the language school nearly depleted of friends.
Sunday, December 9, 2007
(wrote this a while ago, forgot to post it)
The Omaha shootings have been all over (government-controlled) Russian TV. The frequency and the tone of the coverage seem...off. The story played over and over, I strained to make out the Midwestern accents under the dubbed Russian, and whatever newsworthiness and emotional impact it had was quickly overshadowed by the subtext that somebody at the Kremlin thinks this is a political windfall.
Blueberry pointed out that things like that always get lots of coverage, and that America has way more than its share of them, and she's right. Plus, I wouldn't put it past Fox to have a similar field day if someone shot up ГУМ, the huge Soviet-general-store-turned-designer-mall on Red Square. Still, it was eye-opening and depressing to see what from America (which is more a part of me than I ever could have imagined before I left) gets plucked out and portrayed as representative.
Relatively mindless anti-Americanism has also hit the jackpot with Creepo Ed (who, turns out, is married with a 9-year-old daughter). He has a column called "An American in Moscow" where he wheels out all the old platitudes against Bush, which, regardless of whether I agree with them or not, sound parroted to the point of meaninglessness. The America he describes is boring, hypocritical, obese, psychotic, etc. What doesn't come through in the articles, of course, is that in Moscow he gets to live it up as Mr. big-shot Editor in Chief (though I strongly suspect that one of his main qualifications for the job was his ability to speak English), whereas in America he's just some dude from Pittsburgh whose parents take him shopping at Wal-Mart on the weekends (excruciatingly telling moment that night at his friend's house...he says something about driving to Wal-Mart, then says well actually my parents take me there because I can't drive, realizes how that sounds, steals a reaction-gauging glance at my poker-face).
He's basically struck a bargain where he gets to keep his self-image, and the forces here that want to tar all of America with the same paranoid, unstable, moronic brush capitalize on his insecurity about not being able to hack it it back home. Government ownership of the Weekly also probably means he's shot himself in the foot for any sort of journalism career in the States.
The Omaha shootings have been all over (government-controlled) Russian TV. The frequency and the tone of the coverage seem...off. The story played over and over, I strained to make out the Midwestern accents under the dubbed Russian, and whatever newsworthiness and emotional impact it had was quickly overshadowed by the subtext that somebody at the Kremlin thinks this is a political windfall.
Blueberry pointed out that things like that always get lots of coverage, and that America has way more than its share of them, and she's right. Plus, I wouldn't put it past Fox to have a similar field day if someone shot up ГУМ, the huge Soviet-general-store-turned-designer-mall on Red Square. Still, it was eye-opening and depressing to see what from America (which is more a part of me than I ever could have imagined before I left) gets plucked out and portrayed as representative.
Relatively mindless anti-Americanism has also hit the jackpot with Creepo Ed (who, turns out, is married with a 9-year-old daughter). He has a column called "An American in Moscow" where he wheels out all the old platitudes against Bush, which, regardless of whether I agree with them or not, sound parroted to the point of meaninglessness. The America he describes is boring, hypocritical, obese, psychotic, etc. What doesn't come through in the articles, of course, is that in Moscow he gets to live it up as Mr. big-shot Editor in Chief (though I strongly suspect that one of his main qualifications for the job was his ability to speak English), whereas in America he's just some dude from Pittsburgh whose parents take him shopping at Wal-Mart on the weekends (excruciatingly telling moment that night at his friend's house...he says something about driving to Wal-Mart, then says well actually my parents take me there because I can't drive, realizes how that sounds, steals a reaction-gauging glance at my poker-face).
He's basically struck a bargain where he gets to keep his self-image, and the forces here that want to tar all of America with the same paranoid, unstable, moronic brush capitalize on his insecurity about not being able to hack it it back home. Government ownership of the Weekly also probably means he's shot himself in the foot for any sort of journalism career in the States.
I've been writing my grad school essays. So far I've finished Berkeley's, which are 10 pages in total. The first one is about academic/professional experience/goals, and was basically an exercise in rummaging through my previous experiences, gauging their weight in my palm, rotating them under the light, giving them a sniff, keeping them or chucking them, and finally piecing them together into a ludicrously logical narrative on why I was born to do energy policy. The limit is 12,000 characters, and I've pruned it down to 11,987 (thank you, Word, for that button), but I still need to include why I want a Ph.D. instead of a Master's. With my remaining 13 characters, I can write "me Ph.D. yes!" but that's about it.
The second essay is trickier. It's the one about social/economic/cultural/academic/familial/personal/animal/vegetable/mineral challenges/opportunities/experiences, so, in a word, anything. I'm going with familial challenge, because it's the only hard thing I've really had to deal with that I didn't choose. It feels like a minefield of sounding messed up, too cold and formal, and like I'm asking for pity (shudder). I'm eternally grateful to Edith the French goat farm lady for basically telling me to put a sock in it, it happens to everybody, when I gave her my really-I'm-ok litany that college students seemed to need.
My Cultural Experience is Russia, so trying to show perspective and understanding without aligning myself with any politics I don't want to or coming across like I think I have my own little sociological petri dish. The question also asked how you cound contribute to diversity, so I was on the fence as to whether to trot out gender. I ended up doing it because the question so pointedly wanted me to. As I was writing it, I realized what I had to say was more substantial than I thought, but still I hate the idea of being cut slack.
Processing it all so minutely and reminding myself who I was in the States is showing pretty starkly how so much of what defined me back home draws only blank stares or polite interest here. I'm excited at the thought of reentry, but there's a little nagging fear that my world will have left me behind.
The second essay is trickier. It's the one about social/economic/cultural/academic/familial/personal/animal/vegetable/mineral challenges/opportunities/experiences, so, in a word, anything. I'm going with familial challenge, because it's the only hard thing I've really had to deal with that I didn't choose. It feels like a minefield of sounding messed up, too cold and formal, and like I'm asking for pity (shudder). I'm eternally grateful to Edith the French goat farm lady for basically telling me to put a sock in it, it happens to everybody, when I gave her my really-I'm-ok litany that college students seemed to need.
My Cultural Experience is Russia, so trying to show perspective and understanding without aligning myself with any politics I don't want to or coming across like I think I have my own little sociological petri dish. The question also asked how you cound contribute to diversity, so I was on the fence as to whether to trot out gender. I ended up doing it because the question so pointedly wanted me to. As I was writing it, I realized what I had to say was more substantial than I thought, but still I hate the idea of being cut slack.
Processing it all so minutely and reminding myself who I was in the States is showing pretty starkly how so much of what defined me back home draws only blank stares or polite interest here. I'm excited at the thought of reentry, but there's a little nagging fear that my world will have left me behind.
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
Being on the metro so much is giving me a new understanding of Moscow life. Before I moved out to Строгино (Strogino), I could walk to the language school from my apartment in 5 minutes, and only took the metro (such a pain) to go out at night, do touristy things, or visit Blueberry or Kiwi. Now, just to get to the metro stop, it's a 20-minute marshrutka ride.
I've taken on some private students, two from my old morning class (the guy who replaced me, according to Holly, is "batshit crazy"...Катя (Katya) and Роман (Roman) would probably agree if they had the vocabulary, but they just went with "awful"), and one from the class I'm still teaching, Михайл (Mikhail). I meet them in the center a couple mornings a week, when I'm not at the oil and gas magazine.
The entire length of the platform of my metro stop, Щуткинская (Shchutkinskaya), is about five-deep with with people waiting for trains, which come every minute or two. I usually have to wait for a couple trains to pass before I can squeeze myself on. The ride from Щуткинская to the circle line in the city center is 15 minutes, packed so tightly that I'm practically lifted off the ground. Each successive stop I think no one else can possibly fit, then another five or so people shove their way on. Usually I read on the metro, but in the morning it's so crowded that either I can't lift my arms or my book would just be pressed against my face.
When we get to the circle line, half the passengers pour chaotically out like air from a let-go balloon. People waiting on the platform are lucky if they can get on before the doors slam shut. There are no sensors and "Please stand clear of the doors" like on the Washington metro, if the Moscow metro's doors close on you, you frantically tug your limbs either into or out of the train before it starts moving. I broke a flip-flop that way a few months ago.
My first few commutes like that left my nerves on edge for hours. Наташа (Natasha), my flatmate, does it every day and says you get used to it. People indeed seem to acquire a remarkable obliviousness to each other, the tighter they're packed. (A couple days ago as I was getting off the train, by accident I pretty much stuck my finger in the ear of an elderly guy who was sitting down. "Oh sorry!" I said because it came out of my mouth before "простите," and he kept staring straight ahead like nothing had happened.)
Not acknowledging strangers definitely alleviates the wierdness of being 3 inches from each others' faces. Plus, if you were polite to everyone you'd never have mental space for anything else. The metro mentality must involve some sort of dampening of the sense of others' humanity, which is maybe even necessary in a city like this not to go crazy from lack of space. It gives new context to peoples' general rudeness.
So many people come to Moscow because it's where the money is, and get stuck in the to/at/from cycle of work hoping for a job that pays well enough to both offset the expensiveness of the city and leave them with something to bring home. I can feel the treadmillness of the lifestyle starting to wear on me, and I'm even in the unique position of having an out.
I've taken on some private students, two from my old morning class (the guy who replaced me, according to Holly, is "batshit crazy"...Катя (Katya) and Роман (Roman) would probably agree if they had the vocabulary, but they just went with "awful"), and one from the class I'm still teaching, Михайл (Mikhail). I meet them in the center a couple mornings a week, when I'm not at the oil and gas magazine.
The entire length of the platform of my metro stop, Щуткинская (Shchutkinskaya), is about five-deep with with people waiting for trains, which come every minute or two. I usually have to wait for a couple trains to pass before I can squeeze myself on. The ride from Щуткинская to the circle line in the city center is 15 minutes, packed so tightly that I'm practically lifted off the ground. Each successive stop I think no one else can possibly fit, then another five or so people shove their way on. Usually I read on the metro, but in the morning it's so crowded that either I can't lift my arms or my book would just be pressed against my face.
When we get to the circle line, half the passengers pour chaotically out like air from a let-go balloon. People waiting on the platform are lucky if they can get on before the doors slam shut. There are no sensors and "Please stand clear of the doors" like on the Washington metro, if the Moscow metro's doors close on you, you frantically tug your limbs either into or out of the train before it starts moving. I broke a flip-flop that way a few months ago.
My first few commutes like that left my nerves on edge for hours. Наташа (Natasha), my flatmate, does it every day and says you get used to it. People indeed seem to acquire a remarkable obliviousness to each other, the tighter they're packed. (A couple days ago as I was getting off the train, by accident I pretty much stuck my finger in the ear of an elderly guy who was sitting down. "Oh sorry!" I said because it came out of my mouth before "простите," and he kept staring straight ahead like nothing had happened.)
Not acknowledging strangers definitely alleviates the wierdness of being 3 inches from each others' faces. Plus, if you were polite to everyone you'd never have mental space for anything else. The metro mentality must involve some sort of dampening of the sense of others' humanity, which is maybe even necessary in a city like this not to go crazy from lack of space. It gives new context to peoples' general rudeness.
So many people come to Moscow because it's where the money is, and get stuck in the to/at/from cycle of work hoping for a job that pays well enough to both offset the expensiveness of the city and leave them with something to bring home. I can feel the treadmillness of the lifestyle starting to wear on me, and I'm even in the unique position of having an out.
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