A Taste of Russia

Gordon College doesn't offer Russian, so when I received a grant to promote Russian language study at my school, I was elated. As many of you know, Russian language is one of my greatest passions, and I will jump at any opportunity to share my excitement with others. The Critical Language Scholarship, the program through which I studied in Vladimir, Russia, offers small grants to alumni to further pursue their critical language of choice. They agreed with me that promoting Russian at Gordon would be a great idea, so I set out to create an evening that would give students just a little taste of the country and language that I have fallen in love with.

I was pleasantly surprised to have 16 attendees, two of which were professors. We began the evening by diving into the Cyrillic alphabet. I learned Cyrillic about ten years ago, so I was unsure as to how much time people would need to get the hang of it. In a few minutes though, students were reading cognates like "шоколад" (shokolad) and "президент" (presidyent) and writing their names in the Russian script!

After they had gotten the hang of Cyrillic, students split up into groups and practiced simple greetings. This was definitely fun, but my favorite part of the evening was teaching a favorite Russian folk song,"Миленький ты мой" (My Darling). This song is a conversation between a man and a woman, with the woman trying to convince the man to take her with him. She firsts asks to be his wife, to which he replies that he already has a wife; next, she revises her proposal and says that she will be his sister, but he tells her he already has a sister. Finally, she demotes herself to being a stranger, as long as it means going with him, but alas, he has no need of a stranger. This seems to be a dismal ending for our young woman, but our folklore teacher in Vladimir taught us the "Хулиганский вариант," (The Hooligan Version), in which the girl sings "Миленький ты мой, ну и чёрт с тобой! Там в краю далёком, есть у меня другой." This translates roughly to "My darling, go to hell! Where you're going I already have someone else." So yes, Russian folk music has boasted Taylor Swift renditions before Taylor Swift's grandparents were even thought up.

 

We ended the night by feasting upon a spread of delicious Russian cuisine. Included in our meal were блины и одадьи (thin and thick pancakes), варенье из чёрной смородины (black currant jam), сырники (pancakes made from farmer's cheese), хлеб с колбасой и сыром (bread with kielbasa and cheese), шоколад (chocolate), пряники (gingerbread), и чай (tea). 

The evening was wonderful, and I am so thankful to have had the chance to share my love for Russia with those at my school. It was a joy to interact other Gordon students who are interested in Russia that I might not have met otherwise. Yes, the evening was wonderful, but definitely not enough to satisfy my appetite for all things Russian. It is my hope that by this time next year, I won't be ordering Russian food online, but taking a маршрутка (taxi-bus) to the магазин (store) to buy my beloved творог (farmer's cheese) and свежий хлеб (fresh bread).

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

That Lovely, Unquenchable Thirst

The first time I felt that paradoxical desire to cry from happiness was when I was four. My family was traveling back from a daytrip to Bar Harbor, and we had stopped at a little ice cream place on the side of the road. I remember eating bubblegum ice cream (spitting each little piece out by the way on the pavement of the parking lot, trying to be a good little girl) and I was unexpectedly filled with emotions that my little four year old heart didn’t know what to do with. 17 years later, the memory is cloudy, but the feeling is unfadingly vivid. Since that first moment of memory, my life has been characterized by a thirst for adventure and romance that is tinged with this paradoxically beautiful melancholy, this joyful sadness of longing for something that transcends this world. When I was four, I didn’t recognize it as the calling of God. As years passed, I began to believe that the longing would be quenched by intimate friendship, or fulfilled when I met a man whose heart’s rhythm was in pace with mine. But I think I always knew in the depths of my heart that this longing was nothing less than the longing to be overwhelmed by the love of God in a way that is impossible on this earth.

A few weeks ago, I read John Eldredge and Brent Curtis’s book The Sacred Romance and I was struck by the clarity with which they articulated these inner workings of my soul that I had struggled for so long to understand. They write:

 "In all of our hearts lies a longing for a Sacred Romance. It will not go away in spite of our efforts over the years to anesthetize or ignore its song, or attach it to a single person or endeavor. It is a Romance couched in mystery and set deeply within us” (19).

These words gave me the chills because of their truth. I am often struck by this paradoxical joyful longing that is awakened by things as simple as a certain song on the radio, a crisp starry night, a memory of childhood. I am so often filled with “sehnsucht,” the German word that C.S. Lewis uses to describe an “insatiable longing…for we know not what” (Danke Wikipedia J).

Eldredge and Curtis quote Lewis as saying:

"Even in your hobbies, has their not always been some secret attraction which the others are curiously ignorant of- something, not to be identified with, but always on the verge of breaking through, the smell of cut wood in the workshop or the clap-clap of water against the boat’s side? Are not all lifelong friendships born at the moment when at last you meet another human being who has some inkling (but faint and uncertain even in the best) of that something which you were born desiring, and which, beneath the flux of other desires and in all the momentary silences between the louder passions, night and day, year by year, from childhood to old age, you are looking for, watching for, listening for? You have never had it. All the things that have ever deeply possessed your soul have been but hints of it-tantalizing glimpses, promises never quite fulfilled, echoes that died away just as they caught your ear. But if it should really become manifest-if there ever came an echo that did not die away but swelled into the sound itself-you would know it. Beyond all possibility of doubt you would say, “Here at last is the thing I was made for.” We cannot tell each other about it. It is the secret signature of each soul, the incommunicable and unappeasable want, the thing we desired before we met our wives or made our friends or chose our work, and which we shall still desire on our deathbeds, when the mind no longer knows wife or friend or work. While we are, this is. If we lose this, we lose all” (qtd. In The Sacred Romance 20-21)

As I look back through my journals, I see a pattern of continually trying to put this unquenchable longing to words when it comes upon me. This past summer while overcome with this “sehnsucht,” I prayed:

“In my melancholy state, the one I love so much yet ache when I feel. Why do I like feeling like this? Or do I like it at all? It’s just that I feel such a depth of emotion, and I want to share that emotion with someone else, somehow know that they get, understand, the deep love, melancholy, beauty, peace and sadness that Russia evokes in me. I like being in this state, because it makes me feel more human than ever. But it is on the tip of depression. Loneliness. The longing to be one with someone else. In a way that I fear is not possible on earth. There are hints of it in family, and marriage, but nothing that compares to the way you know me. I long to be known, that I could incite in someone the same feeling that paces my heart in its melancholy state….And although you know me, it doesn’t feel like you know me to the depth I long for, but I know you do! If I could understand your love, your knowledge of my inmost being, I wouldn’t feel lonely. And I am so vulnerable to wanting a person to fill that gap…. And I’m going to go my whole life with this feeling, recurring at times when life Is full and colorful and a slice of heaven, yet tainted, broken, the fall still so obvious….And what I was truly made for will finally come to fruition when I die, shed the broken body, deceitful heart, longing sighs. To worship you forever and be one with you….No person can fulfill these desires, answer my melancholy cry with a oneness of soul, because the cry deep in my heart is for you, and will only be consummated after this life. Every line of poetry that pierces my heart, every chord of music that cuts into the layers of my soul, every desire unquenched, points to you."

And less than a month later I wrote:

“What is it about wanting to be known and understood at the core, the deepest heart of hearts? The desire that these experiences, the feelings you get from a certain song, could be felt in unity with someone else? To have them look at you and with their eyes say “I know.” When I hear a song, and the inexpressible emotion courses through me that has no words in the English language, I want to hold someone’s hand and have it course through them; tears of joy will form because someone finally gets it….And I want to spill my heart on the pages of the world in hopes that someone will find that their heart, their essence is in rhythm with mine. That they will read it and be struck. They will say “I know.”

Everyone longs for connection. Everyone longs for intimacy. And in that search, we are all broken. We are all longing. We are quickly satisfied, then quickly emptied, disillusioned by the imperfections of another human and their inability to understand you, empathize with you at your soul’s deepest core. As we walked along the moonlit beach tonight, it felt surreal. Hauntingly beautiful- the joyful ache of eternity beckoning me, whispering “Hope, remember that this is not all there is.” Although the creation was at its zenith, and all the senses were fully satisfied: comforting campfire smoke, scent of salty ocean, sand escaping under feet as minty cold waves lap against our bare legs, and the moon, casting light onto the vast ocean in flowy prisms. Yet imperfection was clearly there. Our conversations, full of personal insecurity, pride and distrust in you, surface. Our ache for fulfillment clear in our words that at times seem so empty. And sometimes I talk to fill the silence. And I usually regret it, how it spoils the sacredness of such moments. We are caught in between, Lord. Your beauty so clearly cries your glory, breathtaking as it speaks of You. Yet we are trapped inside ourselves, bodies full of sin and minds with attention spans for worry but not for you. We rarely know the freedom of being outside of ourselves. So even a night like tonight is far from perfect, because of our fallen state. Regardless of the perfection of the surroundings, my sinful heart, my insecurities, my pride and my selfishness mar even the most sacred experiences. I am beginning to long for heaven. When I will be free of this trapping, claustrophobic, stale body of death that is never satisfied and always searching. Lord, I would be happy if you took me now. I want to be free from this cage, this prison of selfishness, me-centeredness, of constant longing, thirst, hunger, of my deceitful heart.”

I share these entries not because I want to make a habit of posting my prayer journal to the world, but because right now I am so eager to share to joy that these realizations have given me.

 The realization that these desires cannot and will not be met by humans is extremely freeing!

 I hope that the heart understanding that this longing points toward God and heaven will help me to place less pressure and expectation on those around me to fulfill desires that they were never meant to fulfill.

 I hope that when I am overcome with this sehnsucht, I will not give into depression, but I will accept it as the pulse of heaven’s citizenship inside me, beckoning me to remember the hope to which I was called. 

To remember that “for now we see only a reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known” (1 Corinthians 13: 12). 

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.