Eden

It has been three months since I left Vladimir, but the memories are still as crisp as ever, and the chronicle of my time there just wouldn't be complete without a reflection on my favorite day of the summer, an enchanting, vivid trek to the outskirts of town...

I dedicate this post to the friends who shared this unforgettable experience with me.

                Eden

     It was our last Sunday in Vladimir. The waning summer begged us to one last adventure, a journey to the pond where the boggy grass squishes under bare feet, water pooling and the ground shifting with every soft step. We swam and laughed and ate, all the while taking photographs to make the moment seem less mortal.  I sit on the shore now, muscles stretched, pond water soaking through my old pink t-shirt, and I think I am content.  My friends jump into the water again despite the shiver that the setting August sun has birthed, and I resist until I see them crawl onto a mound of dirt rising out of the pond in the distance. From some almost-forgotten dimension, childhood pulls me. My blood turns to fiery life and some long lost, gleeful little girl says “now!”

    I jump into the laughing water, crispness engulfing my raw, rosy body, and I am young again. At twenty one years I somehow find myself grey inside, aged and arthritic for my striving and chasing mirages, ambition clouding my vision and melancholy clouding my mind. But now, I race through the magic water, chilly breaths shooting ecstasy into my lungs, the sky breathing softly on my face, January-cold twinges in the brown, organic lake lighting my feet with tingles of life.

   The island oozes odorous dirt and rotting grass into the deep water as I pull myself up. My heart giggles and I am transformed into the five year old eager to muddy my skin by any means possible, to feel the earth at its most intimate touch. I used to come inside on hot summer days, painted in brown, grinning, content and more alive than life itself. Mom learned not to be surprised by my need for the dirt, the sensory abandon to something that lauded life beyond rules and structure and trying to be good.

    I fall here now in an old brown bathing suit and embrace the island, letting the muddy mixture massage my skin. The constraints of consciousness are broken and all is sharp, clear and stunning: He never meant for me to grow up into the fragile senility of sin. Surely I am in Eden right now, innocent and intoxicated with a love that is not diluted and distorted by days trod to the rhythm of Ecclesiastes, the hopelessness of being small and insignificant and aging by the day. Here, His voice boldly caresses my ears with what I’ve always known in a vague whisper, in a displaced, misplaced love letter: that I am nothing, and that my nothingness makes His love that much more matchless.

     I stand up and grin and pick up a wad of my chosen weapon; earth crawls under my nails. The war begins, and soon grenades are launched and twelve hands are spinning in joyful mischief. Each splatter of mud melts my mask, and I become clean, shining and whole. I fall and bathe once again, pale white skin washed and renewed by lovely soil, chunks of the island tangling in my wild hair. All I have striven for is eclipsed in this messy perfection that hints at heaven. Beauty surrounds me, beauty is breathed into me and I am Eve before the fall. He colors me with deft painter’s strokes; He makes me beautiful, and no constricting dress or wobbly heels could compare to this lovely living wet earth. He adorns me with freedom, and I now know love from the eyes of a vibrant little girl, screaming “Daddy, Daddy, watch me!”  

Russian Prison? I Don't Think So!

When I got on the wrong plane that fateful December day two years ago, I thought Moscow was done playing cruel tricks on me. I thought that my international missing person story was the trump card for dinner party comparisons; as Brian Regan would say, an "I walked on the moon"  tale. But I was wrong.

After my experience with Russian airports on my last trip home, I penned "The Ballad of the Flight," a little poem that chronicles my terrible time in rhyme. And over the past three surreal, nightmarish days, this verse reverberated in my head:

“Naïve to what the day would bring

We, singing, left our grand hotel;

But there’s a joke in every truth*,

The joke to tell, our airport hell…”

So here, dear readers, is the chronicle of the United 13, a baker’s dozen of Americans who escaped time in a Russian prison by a mere 11 hours. I dedicate this post to you, my dear Amerikantsi, who showed me what our narod is made of!

CANCELLED

We arrived at the airport early, got in line and waited patiently for an hour. I was at the back of the line when I heard someone say “cancelled.” No, they weren’t joking. Shocked, I reacted in a laughing, smiling stupor. I turned to the group mates behind me and told them the news.

“Hope, stop it; you’re a bad liar,” one of the guys in my group said. Somehow I couldn’t wipe the idiotic smile off my face. He clearly wasn’t amused, and I wouldn’t be either if I thought someone was joking about something as serious as this. But it soon became clear, that yes, our flight was cancelled. In a normal situation, we would immediately be re-scheduled, get sent to a hotel, etc., but “normal” situations in Russia are about as common as black caviar.  About half our group ended up getting tickets, but the rest of us were not so fortunate.

Psychological Experiment, or Just Russian Bureaucracy? The Story of the Lines that Never Moved

After finding out our plane was cancelled, out Russian teacher and assistant RD left, leaving us without cell phones, money, and help in the midst of a situation that would quickly reveal its seriousness.  We were hopeful at first, but after waiting in line for over two hours with absolutely no movement, we were told to move to a different line. We rolled our bulky suitcases to a new desk and began to wait. And this is where it got weird. The line didn’t move. No it didn’t move slowly.  It didn’t move at a snail’s pace. It did not move. The woman behind the desk sat there, face blank, helping no one. After two more grueling hours, we were told to move again. I began to wonder where the hidden camera was. We waited again.  The line did not move. It felt like hell.  We did not know who to contact, what to do. We were hungry, subsisting on overly-sugared chocolate that gave us headaches and stuck to the roofs of our mouths.  All in all, we waited there, helpless, for 8 hours. Finally, one of my heroic group mates Sam was able to get a United Rep to put us up in a hotel. They sent us to an avtobus, on which we waited another hour and a half. We still had no idea of whether we would get out of the country, but at least we would have a bed for the night. Later, we found out that this day had marked the merger for Continental and United airlines, and there was a freeze on all ticket booking from 11:00 to 5:00, the window we were there.

The United 13

We finally got to the hotel, but the break was short. It was crisis mode. After all, one of my group mates actually knew someone who had been sent to a Russian prison after overstaying her visa four hours. And no, her friend was not a rabble rouser raiding the Kremlin, but a sweet girl trying to get out of the country, waiting for her plane to take off. The Russian police came on to the plane and forcible took the girl to prison. Our visas expired in almost 48 hours. So this was no game.

One of the guys in my group called a formal meeting, which I thought was a very smart idea. This is where things started to resemble my favorite TV show. If you’re not familiar with the premise of LOST, in a nutshell, it’s the story of a motley group of people trying to get off a mysterious island after their plane crashes. One of the reasons I’m so obsessed with it is because I love analyzing group dynamics, the leadership roles people assume, and the tension that builds as they try to reach a common goal. Our group was in much of the same situation. We needed to get off the proverbial island, and when one of the guys called a group meeting, it was extremely reminiscent of Jack Shephard’s rallying of the troops in season 1. He and a few others took the lead in trying to organize a plan, because the clock was ticking 24 style and if we weren’t out of the country by Tuesday, we would be at the hands of the Russian “justice” system. 

The Adventures of the Valiant Shelby Macy

Skip to the next morning. Two of us had gotten flights, but the rest of us were pretty sure we wouldn’t be flying out until Tuesday. My amazing friend and hotel roommate was woken at 8:20 the next morning to hear: “You have a flight today at 12:50. You need to get to the airport as soon as possible.” Shelby reacted like a seasoned soldier to the sudden change in plans, throwing her stuff together quickly, yet retaining her characteristic calmness and presence of mind. I ran downstairs to order her a cab, but the receptionist would not comply to my petition. “She’ll have plenty of time with the shuttle,” she said dryly. I tried to explain to her the gravity of the situation, but nonetheless, the young receptionist with the frizzy hair wouldn’t listen. And I could do nothing about it. I had no cell phone. I had no money. No one did. We were literally stranded in the biggest city in Europe. After a very emotional goodbye, Shelby got on the shuttle, and I wondered if I would ever see my dear friend again. I went to my room to relax for a few hours, when I got an e-mail from our coordinator saying that Shelby’s flight was overbooked and she was coming back to the hotel. The avtobus dropped her off three blocks away from the hotel, and she was forced to carry her luggage through a construction zone to the hotel (which I am pretty sure weighed more than she did)! As she maneuvered her gargantuan red suitcase through the ruts and dirt of Moscow construction, the workers started yelling after her “devushka, kuda vui?” (Miss, where are you going?). They seemed clearly amused, and one even helped her carry her suitcase. Shelby notes this as a victory because she made a Muscovite smile! (I’ve heard rumors that this is being considered as an event for the 2014 Sochi Olympics).

The Rage of Russian Babushkas

Skip to the next morning. It was the third day, August 21^st, and we arrived at Domodedovo determined to leave this purgatorial madness. Righteous anger pumped through our veins, and we were ready to do almost anything to reach our native land. A large group of Russian study abroad students stood at the United Counter, and we stepped in front of them, trying to explain our dire situation. The leaders, two adult woman, shrieked at us telling us to get to the back of the line. One person told them we weren’t moving, and they screamed again. Another girl from our group yelled back, saying that we had been there for two days. More abusive language from the drill sergeants, American f-words in charming Russian accents. And that’s when I lost it. I looked right at one of the woman and yelled “Our visas expire today!”

She fired back, anger in her eyes “WE DON’T CARE!”

Determined to have the last word, I yelled back, more quietly this time, “We don’t care either!”

In the meantime, two elderly ladies stared at us in disgust, hatred, and advised the younger women on how to deal with the American breed of homo sapien, clearly an evil, under-evolved creature.

“Don’t speak to them in English! They come to our land to war against us! Speak to them in Russian so they can’t understand! The American government is full of corruption.” Then one of my group mates informed me that they both gave our group the middle finger. Classy.

Thankfully, before any blood was shed, the United Representative recognized us and gave us priority. She couldn’t believe that we had been stranded for two days. We got our tickets and boarded the plane to the land of the free and the home of the brave. I breathed a sigh of relief. I shouldn’t have.

You’re Going Home- JUST KIDDING!

Landing safely in D.C.? Check. Customs without a hitch? Check. Rushed goodbyes before sprinting to catch my puddle-jumper to Philly? Check. I sat in the Philadelphia airport, content. Sure, my throat screamed from my newly developed cold, my skin was sweaty with that distinctive traveler’s grime, but I was nursing a Dunkin Donuts hazelnut coffee with cream, chatting on the phone with a good friend from the group, and confident I would be hugging my parents and brother in a matter of hours. So when I handed my “ticket” to the lady at the gate, euphorically awaiting an uncomfortable seat in the US Airways jet, I died a little when she told me the boarding pass, well, wasn’t really a boarding pass. Apparently, the ticket had been “improperly bought.” I hate it when people cry at airport counters. I usually think they’re acting. But this was no role play. Desperate, I lost it. I broke down into tears, explaining my situation to the ladies at the desk. Unfortunately, there was nothing they could do, and my plane left without me. One of the women at the US Airways counter I know was sent by God. She was a short little grandmother with short platinum hair and kind blue eyes. She treated me like her own daughter, calming me down, getting me a magazine, and even walking me to the hotel after she had punched out for the night. Her presence was like God saying, “hang in there honey; it’s going to be alright!” And it did turn out alright in the end. After a sleepless night watching Seinfeld reruns and trying to ignore my growling stomach, I got on a plane the next morning and was able to give my family the huge hug I had wanted to for so long. I am currently sick in every way possible, with a fever, sore throat, and nasty cough, but I am home. And there’s nothing more I could ask for. In the end, this whole ordeal has been a testament to the amazing faithfulness of God in the midst of uncontrollable circumstances. Although it was difficult, along every step of the way, God provided for my needs, and brought me to a place of greater trust in Him.  As the psalmist says in Psalm 20, “Some trust in chariots and some in horses (or airlines and airplanes), but we trust in the name of the Lord our God.”

*Note- This reversal of the phrase “there’s a truth in every joke” was coined by my dear friends Andrew and Mitchel who had a knack for butchering idioms during our time in Nizhniy Novgorod.  I think that the reversal fits the Domodedovo Airport quite well- the truth is that the Russian airport is a tenth as efficient and helpful as American airports are, and the sadistic joke, was that we, poor, helpless Americans, could do absolutely nothing about it!

Kicking Birds and Science

I was going to name this post “Successes, Failures, and Lessons Learned,” but that title would put an insomniac to sleep. So now that I’ve deceitfully gotten your attention, you at least deserve to know how this random title popped into my head. So here it is: I have always secretly wanted to kick a bird. No, not a sweet, defenseless little sparrow. Who do you think I am? That would be cruel! I’m talking about one of the monstrous geese that strut arrogantly around my quaint New England campus. An early morning walk to class is simply not complete without the faint honking of fifty-some geese congregating on the quad in a feeding frenzy. And I’ve always wondered what it would be like to feel my foot punting one of those masses of honking meat into the wild blue yonder.

In Russia, I experience this temptation on a daily basis, as the Slavic strain of pigeon shows absolutely no fear when humans approach. So today, while walking home with my friend Cody talking about the science section of the ACT test, I almost kicked a pigeon. Well, not really, but I pretended to almost kick a pigeon. And then and there we decided that “Kicking Birds and Science” would be a great blog title. But I digress.

What I really want to share with you all is some serious reflection on the progress I’ve made, both linguistically and personally, through these intense two months. My time in Vladimir has been simultaneously challenging and exciting, frustrating and fulfilling, exhausting and energizing. Immersion is a very fitting word for this experience, for although language learning can be refreshing and invigorating, more often than not it feels like you are drowning and vainly grasping for something solid to hold on to. And this week, I’ve been tempted to get down on myself about my progress. I know that in reality, I have made great gains both linguistically and personally. But quite frankly, I am burnt out. As the Russians would say, I have kasha v golovye, the equivalent of “my brain is currently filled with soggy oatmeal,” and I’m beginning to feel that it’s pora domoi “time to go home.” But in order to remind myself of the great strides I’ve made, I think it’s important to reflect upon the five goals I set before I embarked on this adventure.

1.      My first goal was to feel comfortable discussing news and current events in Russian.  My Russian Mass Media Class has been extremely instrumental in helping me reach this goal. Before I began the Critical Language Scholarship program, I never dreamed that I would be able to successfully interact with Russian newspapers and television at my level of proficiency. I used to look at a newspaper, realize that I didn’t know 50% of the words, and immediately give up. But CLS encouraged us to not be intimidated by not knowing every word, and instructed us to instead, look for the general idea of each article. Each week, one student in our class had the responsibility of giving a presentation on a Russian news article and leading the class discussion. And this girl, who used to balk at the sight of a Russian newspaper, successfully, albeit imperfectly, led a discussion on the recently passed adoption agreement between the U.S. and Russia! And next week, for my final project, I will be giving a presentation of the culture of bribes and corruption in Russia. Although my presentation will be far from “fluent,” the Hope of two months ago would be petrified to give even a two minute report in Russian!

2.      My second goal was to successfully overcome inhibitions in one or more of my problem areas, such as organizing travel/buying tickets over the phone or in person; describing symptoms to a pharmacist or doctor; bartering for purchases, etc.

In America I am overly shy. I hate making phone calls, I get nervous talking to professors, and I avoid at all costs approaching strangers on the street. And to a girl conditioned to what Russians often consider the “fake” American smile, their neutral gaze can often come across as an annoyed scowl. But circumstances forced me to get out of my comfort zone, and I successfully bought train tickets to Nizhniy Novgorod, and not once, but three times explained my symptoms to a pharmacist, thanks to my purple bearded infection! I even was able to give one woman in St. Petersburg directions to the train station. Of all my goals, this is the one I feel in which I made the most progress.

3.      My third goal was to increase my conversational proficiency by spending at least two hours outside of class pursuing intentional conversations in spheres of conversation out of my comfort zone.

The first day I met my language helper Alyona, she talked so fast that I could barely understand. On our first walk through bustling Vladimir, I strained my ears to pick up the general idea of what she was saying. As the summer progressed, I not only began to understand more, but became more confident in my own conversational interactions. Alyona has been a great conversation partner, inviting me into her circle of friends and being very open about her life, and from quiet walks through the city to boisterous games of charades in the countryside, I have had more than ample opportunity to practice my conversational skills in a low pressure environment. People like Alyona and her friends remind me of the reason I fell in love with Russia in the first place.

4.      My fourth goal was to maintain my emotional and physical health.

Yes, I started running! But really, the most important piece of this puzzle was finding a church. When I arrived in Vladimir, I felt like a skydiver without a parachute, ripping through the air, trying to grasp for something solid. I have never been outside of a community of believers before, and I felt very alone. I was so blessed to come into contact with a sister of a friend who lived in Vladimir last year doing mission work. She connected me with a church and a youth group, and the people I have met there have been a great encouragement to me.

Finally, my last goal was to build a good relationship with my host family.

And all I can say to that is: I love my host mom! My host mom, Tatiana, is one of the sweetest, most patient, down to earth people ever. I am so thankful to have been able to spend the summer with her. Our conversations started off slow, but when I found out that she absolutely loves to cook, I tried to steer the conversations toward cooking and recipes as often as possible. And lately, we have made even more breakthroughs in the depth of our relationship. She began to give me advice about marriage, saying that I “need to find a man that you can raise like a child, take him like a horse by the reigns and steer him to do what you want.” Pause. “Or someone rich.” I almost died of laughter. But beyond the wedded-bliss commentary, Tatiana’s words have been extremely encouraging to me. It seems that on the days that I am most down on myself about my language progress, she compliments me on my abilities or work ethic. Yesterday, after a frustrating speech class and a brutal history test, I was feeling especially insecure, and Tatiana shook me out of my self-abusive mode with her kind words. A host family can make or break a study abroad experience, and Tatiana’s warmth, friendliness, and encouragement has definitely made mine an unforgettable summer. I will truly miss her!

So all in all, although this week it has been hard to see past my exhaustion, it is clear that I have made strides in my language learning. No, I am not fluent, my grammar is far from perfect, and I still have miles and miles to go in this language learning journey. But I am amazed at the progress I have made, and even more amazed at the depth of relationships with both Americans and Russians that God has blessed me with in my short time in Vladimir. 

 This blog does not necessarily represent the views of the CLS Program, the Department of State, or American Councils. 

What Happens in Petersburg Stays in Petersburg: a.k.a. Konstantine's Creation Part 2

There I stood, with a tearstained face and glass of vodka in my hand.

 No, it’s not what you think.

The vodka wasn’t there to wash away my sorrows, but to wash my ugly, purple, infected wound. Appetizing, I know.  I thought that I had surely sucked out all possible drama from my misadventure on the ice, but I was wrong.

My wound was healing fine. After five days, it looked as beautiful as a gash on the chin can. After five days, an excellent surgeon I know was convinced that the stitches needed to come out. After five days, the dentist at my favorite dilapidated Russian clinic assured me that it was much too early to rid me of my blue beard.

And on the seventh day, I did not rest.

The Friday morning I went to the Dostoevsky Museum marked my week anniversary of waking up with stubble on my chin. In the morning, I noticed that my stiches and the wound around it looked slightly different. I went to a pharmacy, bought some antibiotic ointment, and thought everything was fine. But later in the day, my friend Shelby noticed that my wound had turned purple and was swelling. I went to another pharmacy, explained my symptoms to a pharmacist, and she gave me bacitracin. At dinner, I showed my friend Cody, who, after looking at it, was pretty sure I needed to get right on antibiotics. So I went to another pharmacy and tried to get antibiotics, but she assured me I didn’t need them. (All this was great language practice!) As the night went on, the creepy purple swelling got worse, and I began to worry. I Skyped my parents with a picture of my chin and upon seeing it, they thought I might be in danger. The stitches need to come out, they said. Even if had to call a friend to take them out. Even if I had to do it myself. Every tragic ending to my story went through my head. What if the infection spreads and I die? What if? What if?

“Try to pull the thread and see if you can see the knot.” My Mom instructed me from the other side of the globe. At this point it was almost one in the morning and I was sitting on the bathroom floor, with the computer at my feet, a pitiful mess.

“Okay, I’ll try!” I stood up, looked in the mirror, and pulled on one of the threads protruding like hair from a witch’s wart. As I pulled, the wound started to bleed and I saw the skin pulling away. Squamish shivers washed over me like a score of spiders and I lost it. “I can’t do it!” I wailed. I sat on the floor and started breathing hard, crying, and hyperventilating. At this point my poor roommate Shelby was trying to give me privacy while reading a book outside the hotel room. When she came back in and saw me in my disheveled state, my parents talked with her and she went to get help. Before I knew it, four Americans and a Russian were standing around me, trying to comfort me. One was so nice she handed me a glass of water to calm me down. I wondered why she gave me so little as I brought the cup to my lips. 

“Don’t drink it! It’s vodka!” She hadn’t brought me water to calm my nerves, but vodka to sterilize the wound. Long story short, I ended up traveling through St. Petersburg   at three in the morning with Shelby and my R.D. in a valiant attempt to get my stitches the heck out! This clinic was much nicer than the one in Vladimir, and the doctors spoke English, albeit a very bookish, not quite-actually-spoken-English. I was sure they would take the stitches out. But no! The doc gave me amoxicillin and called it good. And that meant I had to return to my beloved Konstantine…

Upon returning from Petersburg, I dreaded my meeting with Konstantine, the dentist who I remembered as an overbearing, intimidating caricature of Russian male chauvinism. But Tuesday night I gathered my strength and returned to that lovely hovel that housed so many memories. And I received the surprise of my life. “Nadyushka, come in!” Konstantine smiled at me as if we were old friends, using the diminutive form of my Russian name that is the equivalent of “Hopie.” The tension in my body relaxed as I leaned back and bared my chin. “It looks beautiful! You’ll hardly have a scar!” After five minutes of pulling, snipping, and calling me solnishka (sunshine), I was finished. “If you need anything, here’s my number.” He gave his number to my Resident Director. “I’ll be waiting for you next year,” he said, smiling. “I hope not,” I answered. “Just as a guest, don’t fall again.” I left the clinic in awe at the doctor’s transformed mood and euphoric that my fiasco with the Russian medical system was finally over. As I took the bus home, I was sure I was the happiest girl in the world. The wound is healing wonderfully, but nonetheless, I’ll have a souvenir scar that will tattoo this experience forever on my face. And I’m actually kind of excited about it.

Stitches, Barbarians, and Konstantine the Dentist

I had to get stitches last night. From a Russian dentist.

Déjà vu Moskva!

It all started when I decided to do something I haven’t had much luck with before- ice skating. Many of you will remember that my last night in Moscow two years ago, I almost sent myself to the hospital skating on Red Square. Now this was only my second time on skates, and lost in conversation with my friend Andrew and a little too confident in my meager abilities, I fell. And I fell hard. I supermanned across the ice, ribs crashing against the cold, hard ground. Somehow though, the adrenaline kept me going, and I continued to skate for another half an hour, falling about every thirty seconds. 

After the adrenaline of the vivid Moscow night wore off, I began to feel the effects of my falls, stiffly sitting on a hotel bed, ribs screaming. Every breath shot sharp, raspy pain through my body, but somehow, I managed to drag myself to the airport and back to the U.S. (after of course a detour through New Jersey after getting on the wrong plane in Germany).

Pride Goeth Before the Fall

Well anyway, I’m beginning to think that this skating thing just isn’t for me. Last night, some friends and I decided to go skating at an indoor rink near the center of the city. It was only 100 rubles ($3.00) for both tickets and rental skates, so what did we have to lose? (“Teeth” and “blood” did not go through my head as two of the possibilities)

The first few minutes were fine. It took me a while to get my footing- my skates were a little big, and remember, this was my third time ever skating. My friend Cody, on the other hand, was a master of the ice. Skating backwards, skating on one leg, jumping and landing with ease, I could barely believe he hadn’t played ice hockey in school. Feeling it was about time to showcase my adventurousness, I asked him to teach me an easy trick. That was my mistake. “Easy” is not a word in my skating lexicon. He showed me how to turn backwards while skating, and I rashly followed suit. And

Down

I

Went.

Bang!

Head first, my chin took all the impact of the cold, hard ice. In shock, I picked myself up, instinctively trying to assure myself that I was okay. Teeth. Check. Legs. Fine. And then I saw it. Drops of crimson blood splattered all over the frosty rink. Cody steadied me and led me off the ice, after which I was whisked away to a special room for impulsive and clumsy people like me. A nurse sat me down in front of a sink and told me to wash up. By now it was clear that I was bleeding from my chin, a nice trail of blood splattered from the door to the sink where I now sat. She put a temporary bandage under my chin and told me that I absolutely needed to get stitches now! At this point, it didn’t hurt, and I didn’t want to go get stitches, so Cody and I left the rink almost nonchalantly. We sat down on a bench and ate CCCP ice cream pops while waiting for my RD to pick us up and take us to the hospital. At this point, I could barely stop laughing. The absurdity of the situation mixed with the effects of a hard hit to the head made me a little loopy. I was filled with that displaced adrenaline you get when you watch an suspenseful movie but you know everything will eventually end happily. And I still had my teeth. That was enough of a happy ending for me. I’m no masochist, but there was something strangely fun about the whole incident.

Konstantine the Dentist

Cori, our Resident Director picked us up in taxi that then brought us to a drab, grey, dare I say, sketchy building. After searching through a maze of hallways, we finally found the registration desk.

“You need to go downstairs, to the dentist. He opens at 8:00.”

 What? The dentist? I don’t know about you, but I’ve never seen a doctor in the U.S. of A. stitch someone up. We waited over an hour until he came. He, young, thirtyish, with a greasy, slicked back blonde ponytail, sparse mustache and uneven skin. He opened the door to his office and commanded me to come in. When my R.D. and her assitant tried to come in with me he began to yell at them. “Only the patient is allowed to come in! No one else!” His loud, forceful voice was the last thing I needed to hear. They tried to make a case for me. “She’s American. She can’t speak Russian well. She needs someone to translate.”

“No! I don’t make these rules, but I have to follow them. Only the patient!” He must have been a drill sergeant in another life. So I went in. By myself. To Mr. Scary Dentist.

He sat me down in a medical chair that gave me an excellent view of the mold colored paint, peeling in huge chips off the wall. This was definitely not the newest facility, to say the very least. “What happened?” He barked. My Russian began to revert from the current third grade level to po-toddler-ski.

“I-I was skating, and, and, I fell,” I stuttered.

 “If you don’t know how to skate, then don’t skate!” Not one to mince words. Just people. “Let’s take a look.” He took the bandage off my chin and nodded his head. “You need stitches.”

 “Do I really need to? Is there any other way?” I asked.

“No, you must get stitches. Объ-я-за-тель-но!  Ab-so-lute-ly nec-ess-ar-y! He pounded out each syllable like a hammer on nail.” I gulped and sat back as he prepared the numbing shot. And somehow, he started to soften up. Relatively speaking, that is. “So, where are you from?” he asked, a little gentler this time.

“I, I study in, in Massachusetts.”

“Oh, I have a nephew there.” He made conversation with me for a few minutes, probably trying to distract me from the two shots of anesthesia to the underside of my chin. And then he got out the needle. Myth or not, I’ve heard horror stories of reused needles in Russian hospitals, and although these stories probably stem from the Soviet Era, I didn’t want to risk getting AIDS. And that’s when I asked the fatal question.

“Is the needle new and clean?”

He looked at me, clearly offended.

 “You just saw me take it out! We’re not barbarians here, you know!” Point taken. I shut up and let him do his dentist magic. Three stitches later, I was done. Sigh of relief. Then, thankfully, he let my R.D. in to hear his orders. Not recommendations. Orders. His voice became firm, loud and commanding again. “You must follow my orders! If you don’t, you’re not going to get better! You’ll only get better if you do exactly what I say!” He prescribed me antibiotics and some antibacterial liquid, and in the meantime, became very friendly with my R.D. He started to chat with her, smiled, and introduced himself. “My name is Konstantine. But to you, Kost!”  And then, the best part of the night. He stood up from his desk, turned definitively toward his medical closet, and proclaimed “To hell with the government!” He grabbed a huge glass bottle of some yellow liquid, and gave it to me. Government medicine he apparently wasn’t supposed to give out. He seemed pleased with his little act of rebellion as he said goodbye to us and ordered me to come back in 10 days to get the stitches out. 

So that was my adventure last night. Skating, falling, and having an eccentric, imposing, and yet somehow charismatic Russian dentist named Konstantine sew me up and give me government issue medicine under the table. There’s definitely never a dull moment in this country that I love. And now, here I am, typing from my old host family's 9th floor apartment in Nizhniy Novgorod. I arrived at 9:30 this evening and I spent the night catching up with them, drinking chai with raspberry vareniye (jam), sharing pictures to chronicle the past few years, and reminiscing about our very special time together. Life is beautiful. 

Running in Russia (and other gifts)

This week has been hard. Extremely hard.  Language wise, I’ve been extremely frustrated, and physically, I’ve been exhausted. Being the perfectionist I am, I’ve been a little bit too hard on myself this week about my progress.  Classes have been going well, but they have been extremely challenging. I know that my language skills have improved since I got here, but it can be really hard to be objective about one’s own improvement.

 

This week I started running. I normally hate running. But, with the motivation of a friend (thanks Jesse!) I decided to give it a try, at least three days a week. We found a track right between our house (we live on the same street) and meet there at 7 to run for 30 minutes before school. And at first, I didn’t really like it. I wasn’t surprised. But I was surprised on our second day of running by an early morning epiphany. As I ran around the track for the umpteenth time, feet thudding to the beat of my beloved Russian techno pop, it hit me: 

I am living my dream.

 I looked up at the sun peeking through the clouds and realized I was staring straight into a Russian sky. I looked around me and saw the Soviet era apartments, the neon painted jungle gym and the crackling sidewalk and I was struck by the fact that I was actually here. And every step I take here, every lap I run here, is a gift. The steady beat of my well-worn music now filled me with an almost magical exhilaration. The songs that I spent hours translating in my room, pining away for a return ticket to Russia now provided the soundtrack for this long-awaited adventure. And I’m pretty sure that a runner’s high has nothing on what I felt.

And that’s only one of the gifts that running has brought me this week. This Tuesday, I was able to get connected with a church! And how is running connected, you ask? Well, I was able to get contact information from a friend’s sister who lived in Vladimir of a church she was involved with, and my friend Shelby and I set off to find the church, hoping to make the 7:00 youth group. But, after no avtobuses came and we missed the street we were supposed to take walking on foot, we realized we were running out of time. So we ran. I, in my uncomfortable flats and skinny jeans and Shelby, in her dress and backpack, heavy with her laptop. We ran, and ran, and ran, and finally reached a landmark close to the church. We were sweaty and out of breath, but we made it on time. And it was so worth it. The youth pastor welcomed us into the group and made us feel so at home. We sang a few songs, some which I actually knew in Russian from my church in Krasnodar, began studying the book of Mark, and then walked around town and chatted. The people there were so genuine and I am so thankful I was able to connect with this youth group.

So yes, linguistically, this week has been hard. Extremely hard. Yet each and every moment has been a gift from God. I am so thankful for this passion He has put in my heart for Russia, and even when the going gets tough, I can look to Him in anticipation for the next step of this crazy, beautiful adventure. In three short weeks, I have already formed relationships with amazing people, both American and Russian, grown in my linguistic confidence, and had more adventures (and delicious food) than should be legal. And I’m beginning to see the gift in every step. Yes, even in running;)

A Week of Russian Food: Day 1: Shashlik

It’s about time for this blog post. I mean, Russians aren’t usually known for their cuisine. They sit around eating borsch, black bread, and caviar on a good day, right? Wrong! This week, I want to shatter the stereotype that Russian food does not taste good. In fact, although I may sound like I traitor to my beloved America, let me tell you a secret: I like Russian food better than American food! Yep, I said it. Russian food (to me) is not only tastier, but perhaps healthier too. Healthier, relatively speaking, that is. One of the things that I appreciate about Russian food is that everything is virtually organic. Meat, fruits, vegetables, and my favorite, dairy, are extremely fresh and are rarely processed. However, Russians have a predilection for adding heaps of fat to anything that would otherwise be considered healthy. Cabbage soup? Ladle some sour cream in! Cucumber and tomato salad? Here’s a gallon of mayonnaise! Couple that with a host mom who is the epitome of Russian gosteprimstvo (hospitality) and you have a recipe for a thirty pound weight gain! In fact, I have never seen anything in America that compares to this Russian brand of  hospitality, that at first, felt like a force feeding. The first week in Vladimir I became used to the questions (after I had eaten a Michael Phelps size meal) “Nadia, why aren’t you eating the candy I bought?” “Why aren’t you eating [insert food]? And my personal favorite, “You can keep your figure in America; here, YOU EAT!”   But although I sometimes complain about the amount and type of foods that I’m fed, in reality, I am loving every minute of it! I mean, since when have I ever had an excuse to eat sour cream by the spoonful? (Yes, I already know two of you who have excused yourself to go throw up after reading that sentence, and yes, that was hyperbole, I haven’t gone there….yet ;).

Anyway, over the next week or so, I want to introduce you all to the delectable Russian food that I have been enjoying this past month.  Here I go- Food #1: Shashlik

Shashlik is more than a food, it is a cultural experience. In the summer, Russians love to spend the day in the countryside cooking finely spiced meat kebabs over a fire. When explaining it to Americans, Russians usually call it a barbeque. Anyway, I got to experience the Russian shashlik experience with my Russian language partner, Alyona, her two friends, and my two American friends Jesse and Cody. We set out to the beautiful Russian countryside around noon with tomatoes, cucumbers, and enough meat to live on for a week. When we got there, we had to overcome a few barriers, as Russian men are the ones who traditionally prepare the shashlik, and Alyona and her friends had never done it before. But with the help of the Jesse and Cody, we finally got the fire started and the meat cooking. And it was delicious! Here are a few more pics of our feast: 

This picture doesn't have anything to do with Shashlik, but I couldn't resist! We saw this babushka throughout the day leading her goats around the countryside.

I hope this post has at least started to shatter any stereotypes you might have about Russian food. Next up: Breakfast!

First Week in Vladimir

I have been taking classes at the KORA Russian Language Institute for a week now and I LOVE IT! I am taking six subjects, which are all taught in Russian: Grammar, Russian Literature, Russian History/Historical Linguistics, Russian Phonetics, Speech Practice, and Mass Media, which consists of reading and presenting on Russian news articles. Each of my teachers is excellent and clearly loves his or her job.

 On Saturday, we signed our language pledge, which entailed that we speak only Russian on campus, on excursions, and with our host families. This has been one of the most frustrating, yet exciting challenges I have ever undertaken. Like I mentioned in my last post, now that I can only speak Russian, I realize just how little I know. But at the same time, I am astounded by the improvement in my listening skills after only being here one week. I have been pretty hard on myself this week after realizing just how far I have to go before reaching fluency, but as I reflect on my short time here, I feel encouraged when I note the many small linguistic victories I’ve had.

I’ve asked for directions and actually understood the person answering me.

I have been able to understand what is going on in my classes.

I’ve been able to (for the most part) understand tour guides, teachers, and my language partner.

I listened to the radio and understood what they were talking about (it was an interview with a psychic advertising his séances)

Yes, my victory for the week has definitely centered around understanding. No, my tongue still doesn’t want to cooperate, but I am encouraged as every day the world around me opens up more and more as I adjust to the cadence of a new language.

In addition to classes, we’ve been given the unique opportunity of working with a Russian language partner, someone our age who helps us with our language on a more informal basis. I have had such a great time so far with my language partner, Alyona.

 Alyona worked in America last summer through a Work and Travel Program and shares my love of peanut butter and Dunkin Donuts. Last week, she and her friend Zhenya took me on a picnic in the beautiful Russian countryside outside of Vladimir. So far, this is one of my favorite parts of being here, and I’m really looking forward to getting to know Alyona and her friends better.

Finally, today we went on an excursion to my favorite church in all of Mother Russia, the Church Pokrova Na Nerli. Built in 1165, this church is rich with generations and generation of history. Set in the unspeakably peaceful, pristine Russian countryside, it has a magical feeling that speaks of centuries past while seeming frozen in time.

This first week in Vladimir has been challenging and exciting, and I can’t wait to see how the rest of the summer unfolds. Da Svidaniya!

The Adventure Begins

Дорогие Друзья!(Dear Friends!)

Forgive my lack of creativity; after attempting to speak in Russian for three days straight my mind feels quite drained of any creative arrangements of words. Nonetheless, I’ll try to paint as good of a picture as I can of the place I will call home for the next eight weeks.

First(Fifth) Impressions

When we landed in Moscow, it was the first time that Russia has seemed “normal” to me. Every other time I’ve touched down in the Motherland I’ve been filled with a sense of awe and extreme consciousness of my own foreignness, but this time, nothing really phased me. The stand-up toilets, drivers who count traffic laws as mere suggestions, and the constant buzz of the Russian tongue were no longer novelties, but an expected part of everyday life. I’ll be honest, when the “normalness” of Russia hit me, at first it was a bit of a letdown. Somehow, I knew that the nine year honeymoon phase I’d had with the vast country was over, and in my jet-lagged exhaustion, I was unable to realize that, like in a strong marriage, the end of infatuation has the ability to open the doors to a deeper love filled with knowledge, faithfulness, and depth of insight.

Сейчас я знаю что ничего не знаю! (Now I Know that Nothing I Know!)

When our motley crew of Americans boarded the bus, we immediately started to talk in Russian, which was all at once exciting, intimidating, fun, and extremely frustrating. It was about this point that I began to realize just how little Russian I really know! I am truly impressed at the level of Russian of my group mates, and now that the tiredness has worn off, I am extremely excited to learn with them and from them during the next eight weeks. By the way, my group is awesome, and I’ve already made some great connections with many people! We are a group of 28 students from all different educational and language backgrounds, but we all have in common a love for the Russian language. This is the first time I’ve been around other students who are very serious about becoming fluent in Russian, and it felt very strange indeed to begin to talk with fellow Americans only in Russian.

We will all be attending Tsentr Rustiki Kora 5 days a week, a language school which is celebrating its 21^st year. Our group of 28 will be split into 5 group based on our level, and yesterday we took a placement test, which, by the way, was the hardest test I’ve ever taken in Russia! After the test, I jokingly said to my classmates, “Cейчас знаю что ничего не знаю!” (“Now I know that I don’t know anything!”) After realizing that my knowledge of Russian only grazes the tip of the iceberg, I was discouraged at first, but I soon took heart when I began to see an increase in my vocabulary and understanding in the few short days I’ve been here. Maybe I don’t know anything right now, but I have all summer to improve!

Finally, an Anecdote of the Little Lost Girl

And of course, being the Hope you know and love, of course I’ve managed to get lost in the city in my short time here. Luckily though, this time it wasn’t as serious as getting on a plane to the wrong state, as you all know I have a habit of doing. It all started when I bought that faulty international phone card…

I hadn’t had contact with my parents in the whole time I’d been here, and I wanted to let them know that I hadn’t died, so I bought a phone card that would supposedly let me call home. It didn’t work on my phone, my host mom’s phone, or a friend’s phone. I was about to give up when a guy in my group’s host mom told me of a supermarket, Globus, with free Wi-Fi (which is about as easy to find in this city as persimmons). It was already 9:00 at night, but the sun doesn’t set in Vladimir until 11:00, so I decided to set out on my own and find this Globus. I got on the bus and everything went without a hitch. Or so I thought. At about 10:00, the terrible internet dropped my call and I decided to go wait by the bus stop. My call with Mom had been good, but short. I waited. And I waited. After fifteen minutes with no buses, I began to worry. The sky was light, but beginning to fill with the rainbow of sunset, and I knew that I needed to get home soon. I called my host mom, and she told me that buses stop coming to Globus after 10, and I would need to come home on foot. “Can you find the way, or do you want me to come meet you?” she asked. “Oh, I’m fine, I’ll find the way,” I said confidently. I shouldn’t have been so confident. After ten minutes of walking, I came to an intersection, and realized that I was lost. I called her again, and the imperfect Russian that I do have started to leave me. I was beginning to panic.

“Stay there! I’ll come and meet you!” Tatiana, my sweet little host mom, assured me. After she hung up, I stood there awkwardly on the side of the road feeling like a little kid who got separated from his mommy in a grocery store. I felt embarrassed and bad that Tatiana had to leave her house at 11:00 to come find me, but I felt equally scared for my safety. I spent the fifteen minutes on the side of the road alternating between semi-panic attack and prayer, silent tears streaming down my face. And God definitely answered! After what seemed like an eternity, I saw Tatiana waving at me from across the busy street. Apparently Globus was much closer than I had realized! In a flurry of embarrassment and relief, I apologized to Tatiana for making her come all the way to get me. She didn’t show a sign of annoyance, but she gave me a motherly smile, told me it was okay and tried to make light conversation with me as we walked back to her ninth floor apartment. When we returned, she made me a steaming mug of tropical fruit flavored tea, which was exactly what I needed to calm down after my little ordeal. I have to say, I am already so extremely thankful for my host mom. She is one of the sweetest, most patient people, and I thank God for her kindness to me.

As you can see, I’ve already had quite a few adventures in Vladimir, and class hasn’t even started yet! I miss you all and not a day goes by that I don’t think about you. For now my friends, Da Svidaniya! (See you later!)  

It is all worth it

So soon. In seventeen short days, I’ll return to that vast land whose name evokes memories of late night adventures and soul laughter and life at its fullest. I can’t wait to breathe deep the smells of cigarette smoke, late-night bonfires, hot tea, and incense. I can’t wait to hear again the constant dance of the Russian tongue, consonantal waltzes in my ears. I can't wait for the challenge of moving past, beyond the shyness, the foreign identity, to grab hold of life in this language that He’s taught me to love. To step into heels and paint my hair dark and become the girl Nadia for a summer.

I know I will be challenged, faced with the choice of either withdrawing into myself or fighting to live outwardly and to make the most of every opportunity. The first choice is easier, but stale, bland. The second choice is worth the exhaustion, the frustration, the awkwardness, the embarrassment. May I not forget that it is all worth it.

When I have the choice of initiating conversation or retreating to my room, I will fight the inner voices of fear of imposition, of approval-craving, of not wanting to rock the boat, remembering that it is worth it.

When faced with a need, a question, a confusion, I will risk embarrassment, I will risk being misunderstood, I will risk receiving a penetrating glare coupled with a scowl, because it is worth it.

I will attend to my work, but I will not allow the ironic loss of learning that comes from a misplaced gaze on the books instead of the people, on grammatical structures instead of living language.

I will give myself over to the joy in these people, in this place, that God lit in me that 12-year-old summer 9 long, fairy-tale years ago.

And I will keep my eyes on Jesus Christ, the Author and Perfecter of my faith, counting challenges as joy, failures as harbingers of growth, and trials as a chance to delve deeper into His arms.

It is all worth it.

All glory to Him, my Joy, my Rock, my Savior.