Daily Archives: February 11, 2016

Russia in the Winter Season

Blog Post

Tatyana (Russian through and through,
Herself not certain of the reason)
Loved that cold perfection too,
Loved Russia in the winter season

I messed up reciting, in Russian, the second line of this excerpt from Pushkin’s Eugene Onegin in sixth grade. My tutor looked at me sternly through her wire-rimmed glasses and said, “In Russia, every truck driver can recite it!” My only excuse for such obvious incompetence is that I left Russia when I was seven.

Since immigrating to the US, I’ve often been asked, “Oh, you’re Russian? Do you miss home?” I’ve never known what to answer. Mostly because I am not quite “Russian through and through.” Yes, I was born in Russia and I have the birth certificate to prove it. But if you look closely, the ethnicity section of my birth certificate says “Jewish,” not Russian. Jews in Russia have always been considered foreigners, so my family’s relationship with Russia has always been somewhat complicated.

Strangely, an utter lack of identification with Russia didn’t prevent my parents from hiring a Russian tutor and making me read Eugene Onegin when I was twelve, attending an average American public middle school. As a result, when I imagined a visit to Russia, I pictured beautiful women in ball gowns, with suitors dueling for their honor. More recently, while packing for Russia, drunk armed soldiers eating piroshki and Putin riding on a bear also came to mind.

What I wanted most out of my trip was to see Russia outside of literature and the American press. I was curious to see whether I could fit in. Naturally, my family was not pleased when I decided to visit the country they had made such a great effort to leave.

“Don’t smile on the street! Don’t laugh! Don’t take your phone out! Don’t leave your passport in the hotel! Don’t talk to strangers! If you get arrested…”

“I won’t get arrested!”

“If you get arrested, deny all charges!”

“Ok… I get the p…”

“We’ll miss you! … And don’t keep money in your outer pockets!”

Thus did my parents prepare me for a three-week college course in Moscow. With money and documents stashed in several different suitcases and with only fear in my outer pockets, I set off on my journey.

I spent my free time after classes trying to blend in with the crowds. What my parents told me about not smiling in public turned out to be useful advice. In Russia, a perfect “resting bitch face” must be worn at all times. This does not, however, mean that people are cold and unfeeling. They are simply more honest in expressing their emotions. If a Russian smiles or asks, “How are you?”, they genuinely do want to hear all about how you almost got frostbite on the way to the metro and how your mother has started spring cleaning two months early. Even though I’ve been back in the US for a week, I’m still having a hard time forming a perfect mandatory half smile when I pass people in the dining hall.

Though Russians can seem cold and unfeeling, it’s a facade. What is truly cold and unfeeling is the Russian winter, a source of great national pride. It has been a decisive factor in several military victories, such as the defeat of Napoleon when his troops almost froze to death and were forced to retreat. In frigid weather, Americans tend to stay at home. In Russia everyone is out ice skating, going to the theater, taking walks, and eating ice cream.

On one frigid, windy day, I attempted to go to one of Moscow’s many art museums. As I discovered later, the line outside made the news that day, because those eager art connoisseurs who didn’t pass out from the cold and leave in ambulances managed to break the museum doors in, and many rushed to warm their toes in hot water in the bathroom. I gave up after half an hour in this line, while the group of elderly women around me persevered. Clearly, I was not Russian enough.

Instead, feeling a little defeated, with three pairs of socks on my feet and two sweaters under my coat, I went to an outdoor flea market. I meandered dejectedly through rows of painted Putin matreshkas, Soviet propaganda posters, and fur coats. In a far corner of the market, several rows past the tourists, I spotted the perfect set of hand-painted wooden figures and started to bargain down the price. In my frustration with my inability to fit in, I hadn’t realized that I’d spent most of the day outside, in the coldest weather I’d ever experienced, and navigated my way around the metro without a map. Without really noticing it, I had somehow adopted a flawlessly Russian demeanor, a clashing mix of indifference and fervor: Russian through and through.

On my next trip to Russia, and I’m sure there will be one, I will not be so worried about my identity. I will bring my nicest boots, put on a dispassionate face, and may even be willing to give up my toes for art.

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Braving the cold

English Required – German a Plus

Blog Post,

 “Good morning Berlin; you can be so ugly, so dirty and grey.” The song pumped through my headphones as I sat on the bus and tried to stay awake. “Guten morgen Berlin; du kannst so hässlich sein, so dreckig und grau.“ Ten in the morning on a Sunday is a perfectly reasonable time to schedule an appointment, right? On an average Sunday I might agree; getting from Zehlendorf, a district in southwest Berlin, to Friedrichshain, a district in the east, should take no more than an hour. But Germany was in the midst of yet another Deutsche Bahn strike, which left the buses and trams the only available modes of transit. Great. Now that hour-long trip was going to last two.

Seven a.m. in Germany in mid-February is by any definition awful, but I desperately needed to make that appointment. Since September I had been living in a student apartment in Zehlendorf. It was barely in Berlin (I could have easily walked to the next city over) and I had to share a kitchen and bathroom with five other students. However at 230€ a month the rent was unbeatable, and the building was nicely situated amongst the small garden plots dotting the city outskirts. I had no plans to move until my return to the US in August. Of course that would have been far too simple, and directly before the December holiday everyone living in the building received an email; our contracts couldn’t be renewed for the next semester, and we would all have to vacate the building by the end of February. I was terrified. I had barely learned to cook.

So to the Internet I went, specifically to wg-gesucht, a house-hunting website that’s essentially a German Craigslist. I didn’t think that speaking German in Berlin would be a plus at all; I thought that it would simply be an expectation. Oddly enough the opposite is true. Thanks to its reputation as both a party city and startup hotspot Berlin attracts thousands of young EU citizens. The tech startups, since they recruit talent from all over the world, use English as the language of business. That combined with endless groups of partiers from the UK (a London-Berlin round-trip flight can cost just $35) has created a dual society in the city. Germans who work in tourism or are university graduates can move between both groups with ease but average German shop owners or plumbers now can’t communicate with many of their customers. Berlin is now a city where job advertisements for baristas or bartenders read “English required – German a plus.”

I quickly learned that the rental market in Berlin is brutal. I sent out about two hundred inquiries. I received four responses. One was an instant no. The last three were willing to grant me viewings, more or less group interviews with everyone trying to outdo the other applicants. Two of these didn’t pan out. As I rode the bus to the last one the only thing I could think about was the threat of not having anywhere to live in two weeks. I was running out of time. So after two hours of travel and five flights of stairs I arrived at my last appointment feeling desperate. The landlord met me at the door; when I introduced myself in German his face lit up as he chatted rapidly with me, but switched to slow and broken English when speaking with the other applicants. I thought little of his relief at first. He had agreed to rent me a room in the apartment! I finally had a place to live!

Speaking German, as it turned out, is what got me the room and made life in Berlin much easier. When the water meters in the apartment had to be replaced, my new non-German roommates couldn’t communicate with the guy from the water company, but I could. I could understand conversations that happened in cafes and on traincars. I could understand when the man leading tours of a former Stasi center spoke of his own experiences being imprisoned. The Berlin I got to know wasn’t the Berlin of nightclubs and hipsters. I got to experience a different city, where the water guy cracks jokes about socialist plumbing, where the elderly woman selling the best Apfeltaschen around has lived under three different governments. It wasn’t the Berlin of movies and music videos; it was the Berlin of Berliners.

Petersburger Straße - just around the corner from my apartment
Petersburger Straße – just around the corner from my apartment
Karl-Marx-Allee - The big main avenue in East Berlin
Karl-Marx-Allee – The big main avenue in East Berlin (the TV tower is in the background)

The Breathtaking Island

Blog Post

I stepped off the plane in Ponta Delgada just as green as the magnificent island around me. I had come for adventure and experience, to live the life of a pre-med student abroad, shadowing doctors in a hospital in the Azores. In the weeks prior to arriving, I was savoring the vision I had conjured in my head. I had just finished my second semester of accelerated Portuguese and was ready to speak with the staff I was scheduled to follow. On top of that, I would be staying on the beautiful island of São Miguel, largest of the nine islands in the archipelago. I was the youngest of my fellowship group and despite my enthusiasm; I still had much to learn. I was there to learn from the medical professionals, but in the end the greatest lessons I learned came from outside the hospital.

The program ensured we were getting the most of our experience by taking us on excursions, not only to see the incredible views, but to also immerse ourselves in the local culture. We went on daytrips to every part of São Miguel. Each beach had its own geological signature: large black volcanic rocks, fine black powder, large gray stones, red rich earth, and yellow-white sand. We ventured up to the highest peak in São Miguel in our vehicle, and walked over to the cellular tower. At this altitude, I could look down and see the blue hydrangeas dividing properties and outlining roadways. I could see the Azorean cows eating the green grass and the rooftops of the cities. I could hear the birds rustling in the thickets around me. I took a deep breath as I took in the surroundings and cough cough. I inhaled a cloud of smoke. Cigarette smoke. It wafts across the entire island. The economy of São Miguel is sustained by eco-tourism, and its inhabitants’ favorite pastime, next to enjoying the scenery, is having a smoke.

No two places we visited looked the same, but no matter where we trekked, the smell lingered. In fact, the smoking culture is so prevalent that the modern hospital in Ponta Delgada, home to several hyperbaric chambers and helicopter-units, and prepared for deep sea and cliff diving accidents, has smoking corridors. The fountains in church courtyards are wet ashtrays. The beautiful forests, lakes, beaches, gardens, footpaths, all smell like something gray.

I had been programmed to be disgusted. No aspiring medical professional in 2014 thinks that cigarettes are good for one’s health. Regardless of career trajectory, most adults in the United States do not like being confronted with the smell of cigarettes. Cigarette smoking has significantly decreased, and its presence in pop culture no longer has that sexy, cool appeal; rather it triggers instant revulsion. How could I love this place and its people if it smells of ash?

My student group had been brought to a particular plaza to watch a local parade that celebrated the island’s heritage. Our tour guide pointed out the best spot along the main road with his yellow-stained fingers. The floats were made by hand; people decorated the backs of their trucks with small scenes illustrating the local color: the fishing industry, tea production, and agriculture. Herds of regally dressed oxen passed us as we sat on the curb. A flatbed truck was converted into a bar and pulled in front of our spot. A dozen nozzles connected to a tap dispensed Azorean beer into clear plastic cups and traditionally dressed men distributed the beer among the spectators. Dancing girls with baskets of sweet bread waltzed by, followed closely by their mothers pouring wine. The food and drink were exceptional. I could feel the locals’ island pride from start to finish.

I had come to São Miguel with an idyllic image of my summer, a balance of adventure in an unspoiled paradise and the academic recognition of an internship. I had framed a picture in my head based on what I had seen online; only to be turned off by the sense I did not see coming, smell. There was so much more though, than just smell. When I opened my assessment to a holistic perspective, taking in all of my sensory input, the locals were generous and loving, proud of their home and their accomplishments. The parade showed me I should pay no attention to what my nose told me, but to open my eyes to the people who lived there and their culture.

 

*Edited Version: 2/29/16