Yesterday Роман and Катя and I went to Donskoy Monastery after our lesson. We got off at the Шаболовская metro stop (right by the Shukhov Tower, a radio tower I wanted to see because it's made of stacked segments of hyperboloids of revolution), and wandered for a while until we got to the Monastery. We went into the church first, which I was glad for because I was freezing. The dull gold and soft colors of the icons, and the smell and crackle of melting beeswax give it a kinder atmosphere than most.
We walked through the cemetery where famous writers, opera singers, politicians, intellectuals, and their families are buried under a great heterogeneity of statues, monuments with shellacked photos, obelisks, and less descript markers. We found Pushkin's uncle and grandmother, and the 20th-century comedienne Роман wanted to see, then went to a coffee shop to warm up.
We were talking, switching back and forth between languages, and Роман said wait, what's the difference between accept and except? I said accept is where you take something that someone gives you, and except is кроме. He said oh, I always confused those two, and 'expect.'
I said what gets me in Russian is the verbs of motion--приехала, уехала, поехала, объехала, проехала, выехала, вехала, доехала, заехала... Роман laughed because how could anyone mix up words that are so cleary different. He said I should do a comedy show where I sit there and am confused about Russian and say things like "вообше кошмар!" (kind of slang that means 'general nightmare!'...Роман about died when I came out with it earlier in the day. Think I picked it up from him.)
Russian verbs remind me of this toy I had when I was little. It was a cylinder, but hexagonal instead of circular. There were animals painted lengthwise on each side, and you could dial the cylinder so you got a fish head with a lizard back with tiger feet and a monkey tail or something. With Russian verbs, first you start with the prefix: у- if you're leaving, при- if you're arriving, по- if you're setting off, об- if you're going around something, про- if you're passing by or traversing the entire length of something, вы- if you're exiting, в- if you're entering, до- if you're finally arriving to, за- if you're just stopping by, пере- if you're crossing, под- if you're approaching, and от- if you're pulling away from. Once you've chosen that, you decide if you're walking, running, flying, going by transport, carrying, carrying by transport, or leading by the hand. Flying? Okay. Is it happening now/a continuing process (летать), or is it a completed action in the past or future (лететь)? Now you're almost there, just decide the time and pronoun. God help you if it's irregular. You finally end up with я скоро улечу из Москвы (soon I'm flying out of Moscow--turtle head, bat wings, polar bear feet), or он переходит дорогу (He's crossing the street--eagle head, fish scales, pig trotters). Of course if you're Russian your brain just pieces together all the Frankenverbs for you.
Monday, February 18, 2008
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Natasha and I ended up making it to Sochi. She ordered the tickets on Friday and I picked them up at the ticket office, since I was in the city center. The sign on the door said 'open 9:00-20:00 daily, no breaks,' but I entered to find someone clicking around on a computer behind a hand-lettered sign that said 'lunch, 13:00-14:00.' It was 13:30. I said hello, she told me it was lunch break, I said something along the lines of "but the door spoke no lunch," and facing the prospect me, with my strange accent and riddle-speak, plopped irritably for half an hour in the dishlike plastic chair in front of her desk, she relented and issued me the tickets.
We flew out of Домодедово, Domodedovo, where Natasha used to work at the Duty Free. From the train, she pointed out her old apartment in Domodedovo city, the customs headquarters (until recently, controlled by the Georgian mafia...deciding what enters and leaves Russia is really lucrative), and the staff parking lot where one winter she found her car missing and assumed it was stolen until the snow melted.
Figuring airports out is always harder with two people, especially when one of you is thinking "she knows what she's doing, she speaks the language" and the other one is thinking "she knows what she's doing, she travels a lot." We had had a too-leisurely coffee at one of the new cafes overlooking the tarmac (I could happily spend a day watching an airport go through its airport-motions), and ran to the gate to make final boarding (since when is it 40 minutes before the plane takes off?)
We landed in Sochi two hours later. The city's starting to see the first little tremors of Olympification (2014, in case you forgot the hoopla this summer), starting with the airport. Planes arrive in the new wing, a small and bright space-age fiberglass tennis-bubble made of little polygons. They still take off from the old wing, which is basically an exceptionally neglected and sprawling Greyhound station.
Natasha wanted to stay in one of the huge sanitoria on the Black Sea, so we spent the first couple hours wandering around those. She had heard that they were cheap and deserted and had hot springs, so both of us were all over it. The first one we went to was neo-Greek, sprawed out over acres, and creepy as hell in the dark. We didn't find anyone at reception there and managed to escape without being attacked by a cloud of vampire bats or something. The next couple places we went to were at least manned (or babushkied as the case may be), but it turns out you need a prescription just to get in the door. We were turned away by crotchety old ladies who couldn't believe we actually had the presumption to want to pay them to stay somewhere, took a marshrutka back into town, and ended up in Гостиница Москва, Hotel Moscow, the crappy behemoth in the center.
The next day we took a bus to Красная Поляна, the big ski resort in the Caucusus. The road climbs from the sea for a couple hours, past only forest, a giant braided stream, and a few bee farms here and there, until it gets to the smallish resort. (Natasha, knowing it's the winter playground of the Moscow glitterati, was surprised it wasn't cleaner and more developed. I can't imagine what it'll look like when Olympics construction begins in earnest). We tromped around for a while, enjoyed the mountain views, rented a blowup sled, managed not to harm innocent bystanders, and caught the bus back down.
The next day we caught a taxi and asked the guy to show us around the city for an hour or so (Natasha's into asking anybody and everybody for directions, where to eat, where to stay, what to do). He drove us into the nontouristy neighborhoods--steep streets lined with houses of cement, corrugated metal, and chain link, with a celebrity's dacha on the prime hilltop real estate. Most people who live there will be displaced into new apartment buildings to make way for Olympics construction. The cabby, Nikolai, took us back to the airport for our 9 pm flight back to Moscow. Natasha really liked the place and wanted to stay, mostly for the sea and the slower pace of life. I'm glad I saw it, but two days was enough.
We flew out of Домодедово, Domodedovo, where Natasha used to work at the Duty Free. From the train, she pointed out her old apartment in Domodedovo city, the customs headquarters (until recently, controlled by the Georgian mafia...deciding what enters and leaves Russia is really lucrative), and the staff parking lot where one winter she found her car missing and assumed it was stolen until the snow melted.
Figuring airports out is always harder with two people, especially when one of you is thinking "she knows what she's doing, she speaks the language" and the other one is thinking "she knows what she's doing, she travels a lot." We had had a too-leisurely coffee at one of the new cafes overlooking the tarmac (I could happily spend a day watching an airport go through its airport-motions), and ran to the gate to make final boarding (since when is it 40 minutes before the plane takes off?)
We landed in Sochi two hours later. The city's starting to see the first little tremors of Olympification (2014, in case you forgot the hoopla this summer), starting with the airport. Planes arrive in the new wing, a small and bright space-age fiberglass tennis-bubble made of little polygons. They still take off from the old wing, which is basically an exceptionally neglected and sprawling Greyhound station.
Natasha wanted to stay in one of the huge sanitoria on the Black Sea, so we spent the first couple hours wandering around those. She had heard that they were cheap and deserted and had hot springs, so both of us were all over it. The first one we went to was neo-Greek, sprawed out over acres, and creepy as hell in the dark. We didn't find anyone at reception there and managed to escape without being attacked by a cloud of vampire bats or something. The next couple places we went to were at least manned (or babushkied as the case may be), but it turns out you need a prescription just to get in the door. We were turned away by crotchety old ladies who couldn't believe we actually had the presumption to want to pay them to stay somewhere, took a marshrutka back into town, and ended up in Гостиница Москва, Hotel Moscow, the crappy behemoth in the center.
The next day we took a bus to Красная Поляна, the big ski resort in the Caucusus. The road climbs from the sea for a couple hours, past only forest, a giant braided stream, and a few bee farms here and there, until it gets to the smallish resort. (Natasha, knowing it's the winter playground of the Moscow glitterati, was surprised it wasn't cleaner and more developed. I can't imagine what it'll look like when Olympics construction begins in earnest). We tromped around for a while, enjoyed the mountain views, rented a blowup sled, managed not to harm innocent bystanders, and caught the bus back down.
The next day we caught a taxi and asked the guy to show us around the city for an hour or so (Natasha's into asking anybody and everybody for directions, where to eat, where to stay, what to do). He drove us into the nontouristy neighborhoods--steep streets lined with houses of cement, corrugated metal, and chain link, with a celebrity's dacha on the prime hilltop real estate. Most people who live there will be displaced into new apartment buildings to make way for Olympics construction. The cabby, Nikolai, took us back to the airport for our 9 pm flight back to Moscow. Natasha really liked the place and wanted to stay, mostly for the sea and the slower pace of life. I'm glad I saw it, but two days was enough.
Friday, February 8, 2008
Artichoke is interesting because he's torn. I barely see him anymore because I'm around the language school so rarely, but last night a group of us went out for one of the French teachers' birthdays. We left together because we were walking to the same metro stop. On the way, he said Kiosk beer? and I said sure, it's been a while.
His girlfriend Tanya is driving him crazy. A couple months ago, he was saying how she gets up early to iron his socks, she keeps his apartment stocked with food, she says you go to bed early I'll wash the dishes...He could feel himself becoming more childlike and dependent on her, and he said That's the way to get any man, just make him useless. I remember I had ragged on him a lot that night so decided to hold the thought of not wanting a man who could be made useless.
Things are different now. He's sick of the babying, has realized he really wants more of an ally, and is more than willing to was the goddamn dishes at night, thank you very much. He's at the end of his rope, she can't understand why, she tries to take better care of him, and it snowballs. But he can't break up with her because he's Artichoke.
After we parted ways in the metro, he texted me:
Him: "Don't be mad at me!"
Me: "why on earth would i be mad at you"
Him: "dunno"
Me: "goodnight"
Him: "whatever"
(An hour later, when I figured I could plausibly pretend to be asleep: "You're one top bird.")
The "are you mad at me, why do you hate me" thing has lasted for all ten months I've been here. It started one night in Aubergine's club, when Artichoke told me that whenever he sees me he feels guilty ("You just make me want to repent, like...you're Jesus or something." (?)) I laughed it off and said that's ludicrous, and somewhere between that and "shut up" has been my response ever since. I guess if he needs reassurance that I don't hate him, I can give it to him, although it's strange.
As we stood out of the rain by the kiosk, a couple dyevushkas in knee-high boots, shiny pants, and cropped fur coats got out of a car. He looked at them and said What is it about those sour-faced Russian girls? I did my best sour-faced-Russian-girl face, and he said no, you don't have it in you. If he's propping me up as a foil to these Russian girls, that sheds some light on the guilt.
The conversation meandered to expat life, and he said This is basically a man's city. I said Well it is and it isn't, if you're a man with certain sorts of weaknesses this place will find them and tear you apart, it's everywhere and it's sad. He looked down at beer number 6 or 7, a quiet night for him recently, and smiled a little to himself. I halfheartedly backpedaled until I saw he wasn't planning to get offended and shut down.
Things are different now. He's sick of the babying, has realized he really wants more of an ally, and is more than willing to was the goddamn dishes at night, thank you very much. He's at the end of his rope, she can't understand why, she tries to take better care of him, and it snowballs. But he can't break up with her because he's Artichoke.
After we parted ways in the metro, he texted me:
Him: "Don't be mad at me!"
Me: "why on earth would i be mad at you"
Him: "dunno"
Me: "goodnight"
Him: "whatever"
(An hour later, when I figured I could plausibly pretend to be asleep: "You're one top bird.")
The "are you mad at me, why do you hate me" thing has lasted for all ten months I've been here. It started one night in Aubergine's club, when Artichoke told me that whenever he sees me he feels guilty ("You just make me want to repent, like...you're Jesus or something." (?)) I laughed it off and said that's ludicrous, and somewhere between that and "shut up" has been my response ever since. I guess if he needs reassurance that I don't hate him, I can give it to him, although it's strange.
As we stood out of the rain by the kiosk, a couple dyevushkas in knee-high boots, shiny pants, and cropped fur coats got out of a car. He looked at them and said What is it about those sour-faced Russian girls? I did my best sour-faced-Russian-girl face, and he said no, you don't have it in you. If he's propping me up as a foil to these Russian girls, that sheds some light on the guilt.
Monday, February 4, 2008
Day Date Flight Status Class City Time
Mon 10MAR DELTA 31 OK U LV MOSCOW 1110A
AR NYC-KENNEDY 245P
Mon 10MAR DELTA 5364* OK U LV NYC KENNEDY 620P
AR WAS-R REAGAN 802P
Hoo boy. I actually bought a return flight too, because for some reason round trip on Delta to DC is $600 and one way is $2500. Go figure. Hope they don't get after me for being a no-show on the return flight. Couldn't find anywhere on the website that said they would.
Spinach? Early dinner at JFK, March 10?
Mon 10MAR DELTA 31 OK U LV MOSCOW 1110A
AR NYC-KENNEDY 245P
Mon 10MAR DELTA 5364* OK U LV NYC KENNEDY 620P
AR WAS-R REAGAN 802P
Hoo boy. I actually bought a return flight too, because for some reason round trip on Delta to DC is $600 and one way is $2500. Go figure. Hope they don't get after me for being a no-show on the return flight. Couldn't find anywhere on the website that said they would.
Spinach? Early dinner at JFK, March 10?
On Friday I left for Владимир (Vladimir), a smallish city about 3 hours outside Moscow where one of my college friends is teaching. I bought my train ticket at half past noon, but the train didn't leave until two, so I thought great I can have a leisurely lunch somewhere. Bad move. I got back to the station at quarter til, and the train was completely full. I walked the length of a couple cars, asking people next to empty seats, "можно?," and invariably got in response something whose letters sounded like "закрыто" and whose tone was unmistakably "fuck off." Soon I gave up and stood with my back against the window and my backpack balanced on my boots, off the muddy floor.
The heating in Russian trains (binary I bet), isn't made for the recent mild winters. Half an hour after we left, I was roasting. I didn't open the window for fear of the wrath of the babushki (cold air makes you sick, no matter how hot you are), so had to content myself with trying to absorb the coolness of the glass through my back. An hour and a half in, I finally got a seat.
Vladimir bears little resemblance to Moscow. The entire main street is walkable in 15 minutes. People are out strolling on the streets enjoying each other's company, not running to get somewhere or boozing by the kiosk. The restaurants are smaller, have more character, and are about half the price. Onion-domed churches (with snow sculptures out front...my favorite was a maze, which would be especially cool if you were 3 feet tall and couldn't see over the walls) look down on the frozen river.
The foreigner-celebrity effect, diluted by Moscow's growing worldliness and cosmopolitan(aity?), is full-on in Vladimir. My friend's enjoying it, and is frank about the draw of general ego-flattery. (I can't feel flattered when I see my reflection in people's eyes and it looks like Clinton or Hollywood or Mickey D's and not like me, but power to her if she's not that cynical). She's been there for a year and a half, and is thinking of staying for another academic year, but like a lot of twentysomething Americans here is being pressured by her parents to come home and get serious.
She's fairly integrated into life there. She speaks good Russian, plus she's helped build her small language school into somewhat of a community fixture. Part of me wonders if I should have chosen somewhere smaller and more personable, but while I was making the choice the megalopolis seemed the only way to go. There's safety in the variety of a city when you don't know what you're getting into.
The heating in Russian trains (binary I bet), isn't made for the recent mild winters. Half an hour after we left, I was roasting. I didn't open the window for fear of the wrath of the babushki (cold air makes you sick, no matter how hot you are), so had to content myself with trying to absorb the coolness of the glass through my back. An hour and a half in, I finally got a seat.
Vladimir bears little resemblance to Moscow. The entire main street is walkable in 15 minutes. People are out strolling on the streets enjoying each other's company, not running to get somewhere or boozing by the kiosk. The restaurants are smaller, have more character, and are about half the price. Onion-domed churches (with snow sculptures out front...my favorite was a maze, which would be especially cool if you were 3 feet tall and couldn't see over the walls) look down on the frozen river.
The foreigner-celebrity effect, diluted by Moscow's growing worldliness and cosmopolitan(aity?), is full-on in Vladimir. My friend's enjoying it, and is frank about the draw of general ego-flattery. (I can't feel flattered when I see my reflection in people's eyes and it looks like Clinton or Hollywood or Mickey D's and not like me, but power to her if she's not that cynical). She's been there for a year and a half, and is thinking of staying for another academic year, but like a lot of twentysomething Americans here is being pressured by her parents to come home and get serious.
She's fairly integrated into life there. She speaks good Russian, plus she's helped build her small language school into somewhat of a community fixture. Part of me wonders if I should have chosen somewhere smaller and more personable, but while I was making the choice the megalopolis seemed the only way to go. There's safety in the variety of a city when you don't know what you're getting into.
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