A new baby

sO I know its been a while since my last post. A lot has happened. On Cinco de Mayo, but host sister had a baby. 10 fingers, ten toes, good length, good weight. All good. Yet, I have not seen the baby yet. No, its not because I haven’t been home. Its not because the baby is an alien baby that has been taken back to its home planet. Its because, by Russian law, all babies must remain in the hospital, along with their mother’s, for a minimum of 6 days after the birth. Maybe this is Russia’s way of curbing disease. I mean the idea makes sense. Keep the baby under lock and key, monitor the baby. Keep the mother for six days, completely bored. Not even being able to see the baby until day two, for fear that the mother has some disease. Of course, Russia could just fix this problem of extended hospital stays by having cleaner hospitals. Just a thought. In fact, most children in Russia are very sickly. One day in one of my classes we were discussing illness and missing school. Our teacher was shocked when we told her that when we are sick as youngsters with the cold, we will miss one or two days of school. This is a combination of the fact that our parents usually cant take off my than that many days of school, and that in a couple of days we are all better. My teacher was shocked. In Russia, when a student is ill it is a mandatory 10 days off from school. And one of the parents also takes off work, although, in Russia, it is usually always the woman. I mean really, 10 days for the cold? If I had to be out of school for ten days, then I would have been in the hospital, ie, with some serious disease or ailment. But I think it comes from a different perspective on life. Russians describe themselves as having a national character of “laziness” so maybe that is the root of all of this.

My own poetry recital.

This story actually happened last semester. But it is so good that I thought I must write about it. The story takes place on a crowded metro car. I am standing near the doorway. Usually on the metro, there are handrails attached to the roof of the car, and are high up. But there is a bit of railing near the doorway attached to the seats. Since I am a bit vertically challenged, if given the chance, I always opt for the low positioned hand rails. And this day was no exception. At the first stop a mother and her young daughter of about 8 entered the already too crowded car. Lots of pushing and shoving. The doors slammed shut, and with a violent jerk we were off. The little girl stumbled by the jerk, and without any handle bar to hold, almost fell to the ground. The mother caught her. I could see that this girl needed my primary real estate of hand rail. I gave her the head gesture, which of course meant, “want the hand rail?” the mother and daughter eagerly shook their heads in agreement. I moved away from the handrail, and the daughter and mother took my spot. The girl, so overjoyed by the unprecedented kindness that I displayed began to recite me poetry. Of course, this was very early on in the semester last year, so I don’t know what the poem was about, but it was quite lyrical. A few times she forgot the line, and her beaming mother helped her out. Even though we were on a crowded metro car, the poetry reading was private, just for me. The little girl never took her eyes off of me. It was just me and her all alone on the car. At the end of the reading, I gave a slight nod of my head, to show my appreciation, and then we were not alone anymore. The next stop soon came, people came and went. I got shoved deeper into the metro car, the girl disappeared. But not forgotten. Certainly not forgotten

A stroller and some beer

The weather here seems to have made everyone quite chipper. The sun is up, bright and shining from about 6 am till 10 pm. The homeless are a bit more exuberant. In fact the homeless lady who sleeps near my closest metro has seemed to have adopted some dogs, and instead of just sitting in front of the metro all cold and shivering and miserable, she is happy playing with the strays. One particular story of jubilance you may find enjoyable and endearing. A young couple and their baby in a baby stroller were walking in front of me. Both had bottles of beer in their hands, but this is not unusual here in Russia. The wife, who was not pushing the cart, wanted to have some fun, so with a mighty swing of her arm she slapped the buttocks of her husband. It was done with such force that I was privy to see the husbands butt reverberate from the impact. The husband and wife soon began to laugh boisterously. Moments later the husband decided that a similar act would be humorous. He slowed down his pace, to get behind his wife, and with a mighty swing of his arm he gave her butt a good go. Just like her husband, the butt undulated, and laughter was to be heard all around. But butt slapping can’t be fun forever. It was the wife’s move, and she decided to try and get in front of the husband, and the baby carriage, and push the husband. The wife got into positioning, but the husband anticipated her attack, and shoved the baby carriage, with the baby in it, into the wife. The wife was laughing. The husband was laughing. Soon the game became quite intense. The husband with this carriage, the wife with her quick movements. It was like I was watching two gladiators in the coliseum. Each one pacing. Looking for the right time to attack. The husband using the carriage as a shield, the wife with her beer bottles as a sword. Their movements were beautiful. Like a ballet really. And there was so much joy. Both gladiators happy at fight’s end. I just hope that poor baby doesn’t have too bad of whiplash.

I still don’t understand Russian Humor

The other day I had a huge test. So I studied. I went to the best study joint in all of Russia, Carl’s Jr. They have free refills on drinks, and all the ketchup, mustard, and mayonnaise I could possibly want. Sounds so regular I know, but here in Russia, Carl’s is the only place where these regular “luxuries” exist. Plus there is a very cute bus boy who works there named Sergei. But eventually my studying had an end. I had drunk as much as I could handle, and watched Sergei clean one too many tables. It was time for me to go. I decided to take a long leisurely walk home along the Griboedova Canal, that leads directly to the Church on Spilled Blood, or as my brother and dad liked to refer to it when they were here, the church with the “ice cream swirls.” As I was walking along the canal three men ran across me going towards the metal fence along the canal, which usually prevents people from falling into the horribly foul and unhygienic water. As I stopped to exam closer what was going on, two of the men seemed happy, and one not so much. The unhappy comrade was in the middle and being pulled towards the water’s edge. As soon as the band got to the fence the unhappy fellow began to get squirmy in the hands of his captors. They were going to throw him over the edge of the fence into the filthy water. At the fence the man was almost over, clinging desperately to the other two men. His legs were wrapped around one of the men, his head was over the fence, almost in the water. His arms were wrapped tightly around the second man, and all the while the man was yelling “WHORE” at the top of his lungs, over and over again. (of course in Russian.) Soon a crowd had gathered to watch the spectacle. After about 5 minutes of sheer terror, the two men let the other man go. He was freed. And suddenly the unexpected happened. Everyone began to laugh and embrace. The men who almost lost his life in the water was now shaking his head in disbelief, while the other two men were hugging him and laughing. A cruel joke played on us passerbys? Nay. Instead, it would appear as if all three men were friends, and two of them thought it would be funny to scare their friend lifeless by attempting to throw him into the water. I guess the moral of the story is
I just don’t understand Russian humor.

Pigs and Yeast

{{I wrote this blog during passover, but just got around to posting it now. Don’t be scared. Yes, you are correct, Passover is over. But the story is still relevant and interesting….}}}
So Passover has begun. I reminded Gollum last week, about the rules and regulations. Basically all I eat that is no good for Passover is pasta and bread, so I told her that those were off limits, starting Saturday night. In an effort to get my last fill of pasta, for Thursday and Friday nights I requested pasta, as a last meal of sorts. Happily, Gollum made me the pasta, and I ate happily. Sunday night I get to dinner, and guess what it is, Pasta. Honestly I didn’t understand. I told her every day for a week that I could not eat pasta and bread. She was confused. She began asking why I couldn’t eat bread and pasta. And then telling me that lent was over, and that for lent it is no meat, and fish only at certain times. The confusion lies in this, the Russian word for Passover and Lent are the same thing. But I explained it to her that I was doing a different “lent” and it had different rules. But, to no surprise there was pasta on my plate. She also told me that pasta was not bread, and therefore I could eat it. I then told her that it wasn’t the bread that wasn’t allowed, but rather the yeast. To that her response was that there is no absolutely no yeast in pasta. This is just like last term when my host mother thought that ham was not pork, and did not come from a pig. Silly me, I only told my host mother that I couldn’t eat pork. I didn’t specify all pig products. My bad. But in crazy Russia land, ham doesn’t come from a pig, and pasta does not have yeast. A lot to keep straight.

Rite of Passage

I study at a convent. Well what was once a convent. St. Petersburg State University is quite large, and there just aren’t enough buildings on the main campus to house all the faculties. As a result, the foreigners are subjected to study at a women’s convent, which Lenin once used as his headquarters. The convent surrounds the beautiful Smolny Cathedral. In Russian, this is translated as the Tar Cathedral, because the site once was a vast tar pit. Lucky me. Anyway, since I have been here, there has been continual construction on the cathedral. I assume it is to get it ready for the summer when all the tourists come and take pictures, they want to see a pretty cathedral, not a smog eaten, beaten up cathedral. As a result construction workers are always around school. There is a secret pact. We dont bother them, they don’t bother us. We don’t tell their bosses that in actuality they do very little work in a given day, and they don’t tell our teachers that we sneak out of class or play hooky. It works well, the unspoken bond. Anyway, the other day I got to witness a very unusual rite of passage of the construction workers. One man was working. He was driving a plow and moving dirt from one pile to another. In his path, two brave men stood, ready to embark on the ritual. Along the wall of the cathedral the others sat, watching, and eating their sack lunches. As the plow passed back and forth along its unstable path, the two men in the center began to embrace. But not in a friendly manner, in an angry manner. Each one trying desperately to take the other to the ground. It was a duel to see which one was more manly. Stronger. Who was a better wrestler. All the while the plow moving back and forth, across the two brave fighters. The people eating their lunches were cheering on the inside. But their hard construction life led them unable to show emotion. Soon the ritual was over. The men proved their strength. And soon, two more men continued this display of manhood. All the while their symbol of strength, the plow, kept driving passed them. The regularity of its movements, back and forth, but on an irregular path, sometimes it went to the left of the fighters, sometimes to the right, seemed like a symbol of life. One too complicated for me to even ponder. But clearly, the stoic and solid men eating their sack lunched knew the meaning of the display in front of them. No, they were not just lazy, bored construction workers, trying to waste time wrestling, while the dirt was being shifted to another pile, they were enlightened men going on a journey of sorts.

Vacuuming the Hardwood Floors

Gollum bought a vacuum cleaner today. She has hardwood floors in the apartment. She assured me all was good. It is an American made vacuum. “Redmond” brand. Never heard of it. They day she bought it, she called all of her relatives. All I could make out of the conversations was “very expensive.” She has not stopped using it. All day Sunday was devoted to vacuuming the hardwood floors over and over.

Cry Wolf

Today a car cleaner found a pendant worth over $450,000! It was on the news. Fantastic. They showed the pendant. It was shiny and was glimmering. OOOhhhh, AAAhhhh. My host sister and Gollum were not that impressed. But why, may one ask. Simple. They are skeptical. Of what? Easy. Two years ago a story broke that a rich tourist was near the water and waved her arm, and poof, her very expensive gold watch fell off her wrist and landed in the icy St. Petersburg water. A frenzy ensued. People went diving in the cold abyss looking for the wealth. Like a modern day treasure hunt, arrr matey. A few days later someone found the watch. A miracle! Not quite. As it turned out, the whole story was a fabrication of an ad exec at a watch company. Sales were low, and he invented this story. There was no tourist. But there was a hired scuba diver who found the watch. And everyone in Russia saw the watch, and noted the company, and bam, the company is famous. It was quite ingenious. Well, now my host mother and Gollum think that this is a similar stunt of a jewelry company. Who ever heard of the little boy who cried wolf?

Yusopov’s Palace

This weekend I went to a palace. It was nice. But that is not the point of this story. I also walked by Dostoevsky’s apartment, but that also is not the point of this story. The point of this story is this: In Russia at all major attractions there is a foreigner price and a citizen price. And as you can guess the foreigner price is more than triple the citizen price. However, being a student at St. Petersburg State University, I get the privilege of getting the citizen rate, and the even cheaper, student citizen rate. Also, on my program, we get a cultural reimbursement. That is, if we use our Russian student IDs at a culturally Russian place, we get the entrance fee reimbursed. Its great. I waited in a long line at the palace. I showed my student ID and gave them 90 rubles, the Russian student rate. The angry woman behind the counter hinting at my accent, and seeing that I study at the foreign student faculty told me that I had to pay 350 rubles to get in, the foreigner rate. Angrily I began to yell at the woman in Russian. “But I study here, at St. Pete State. I am a Russian student. I should get the proper rate.” At that the woman closed her counter, got out of her tiny ticket office and without saying a word, angrily pointed to administration. I marched my butt right over there. I was irate. I was going to give the administrator a talking to. Again I said my speech to the administrator. She casually glanced at me, said, “no” and then picked up the phone and began talking to someone with whom she had an intimate relationship. Needless to say, I was peeved. The ticket woman didn’t grant me my right to get the reduced fare, and the administrator embarrassed and humiliated me by ignoring my complaint. But the truth of the matter is that this particular palace is spectacular, and I was willing to pay the outrageous fee. I got back in line to buy my 350 ruble ticket. A Russian woman who had seen the whole incident play out was touched by the injustice, and discreetly offered to buy me a ticket at the Russian rate. Tears almost fell down my face. The kindness this woman had paid me. She saw that her country’s system of entrance fees was inhumane, and wanted to help. I graciously gave the woman the warmest of nods, but told her that it would not be necessary. Normally I would love to save the cash, but because of the reimbursement program, I would get the money back. And I decided that my program has screwed me over quite a few times that it would give me satisfaction to have them pay the higher fee. So, happily I paid the fee, and explored the wonders of the Yusopov Palace.

Broken Toilet

The toilet at my apartment stopped working. It doesn’t flush. Instead, a slow yet steady stream of water flows through the toilet. But the force of the water is not really strong enough to make anything go down. So, as a result, we have instituted a bucket-flushing system. We take a bucket full of water, and pour it in the toilet with force and vigor, in hopes of shoving the contents of the toilet down the pipes. I suppose this is better than simply willing it and using my jedi mind tricks on the toilet. But as it goes, this bucket system is not the most effective method. And now the apartment smells of, well, exactly what you can imagine it smelling like. An apartment who has a toilet that doesn’t work, yet people keep using it… There really is no use complaining however, because this is Russia, and it was too good for me to live in a place where everything worked. Something had to go eventually. And let me just say that this is better than the heating not working. So, with that idea, I am pleased with this outcome.