Today I was very stressed out because I have my two mainstream classes on Thursdays. I thought I might have to give a report in history (the due date was not at all clear to me), and I still didn’t know how to say “Congregationalist” in Russian as of this morning, and I hadn’t printed it, etc. And then my spelling class is terrifying by definition. Plus I started taking the spelling class because it was in the room where I thought a different class would be, so I wasn’t sure if I could find the class again. Plus I hadn’t found the questions we were supposed to answer for homework.
So, after grammar class at the mezhfak, I rushed downtown, went to an internet cafe, used Wikipedia to solve some of my translation woes, printed the paper, continued to stress out about how I can’t read out loud in Russian and I can’t speak well enough to give the report without reading, went to the spelling class. The latin class of the group whose spelling class I went to was cancelled, about which they were very happy, so they were combined with this other class that was supposed to have latin at that time... sorry, this story is long and uninteresting so I’ll stop it. But first thing in the class, we did a “dictation.” That is, the teacher, this large woman with very long gray hair that she wears in a whale-spout, read sentences, and we were to write them, with correct spelling. But I never understood a word she said. So that was good. O% on that assignment. Then the class continued, following some textbook I don’t have. Then it was revealed that the class would meet for two class periods today. But I ran away after the first, because I had history class. But we sat in the class for 20 minutes, and no teacher appeared. I chatted with a very nice boy behind me, and eventually I asked, sort of laughing, “So, what are we sitting around not having class?” And he told me that the professor’s son’s funeral had been the day before. Oh. So then we all left, which means I could have gone to the other class period of the spelling class. It also means I didn’t give my report. Mainly, of course, I am sorry about the death of the professor’s son. Interesting, un-death-related note: my report contains the word “Mayflowerski.” I made that word up. It means “relating to the Mayflower.”
We’re leaving on our group trip tomorrow evening, and getting back Wednesday afternoon. I lost the schedule, so I don’t really know what we’re doing. We’ll see a famous hydroelectric plant, I know, and a museum of the BAM, this segment of railroad that the communists spent lots of year and dollars building but is sort of useless. And we’ll go downhill skiing at this famous ski mountain, but Middlebury only pays for an hour. I’m mostly excited about grocery shopping for the 36-hour train ride.
Very warm here the past few days. On my dash from the internet café to the linguistics department I saw the sad sight of a soft, crumbling ice palace. I hope it’s warmer near Syeverobaikalsk, wither our group trip, as I think our travel plans depend on being about to drive on a frozen Lake Baikal.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Monday, February 25, 2008
Homeward Bound, someday
I called STA Travel, after waiting for it to be business hours in Arizona Standard Time, which was not too convenient, and have successfully changed my ticket home to June 1. I get in at 3:something p.m. In case you wanted to know.
It is muddy and slushy and yet still cold and cloudy here. I have not yet been killed by an icicle.
Yesterday on the television set Valentina Petrovna and I watched a concert of nuclear scientists and the like singing and playing guitars and such. They are big stars. They are also pretty awesome- all these old guys in cardegans up on the stage singing clever songs. At least I was assured that they were clever- I of course did not understand any of it. But the music part was agreeable. I think this is one of the cultural advantages of the absence of free market- in the Soviet Union, musicians didn't have to be good looking.
It is muddy and slushy and yet still cold and cloudy here. I have not yet been killed by an icicle.
Yesterday on the television set Valentina Petrovna and I watched a concert of nuclear scientists and the like singing and playing guitars and such. They are big stars. They are also pretty awesome- all these old guys in cardegans up on the stage singing clever songs. At least I was assured that they were clever- I of course did not understand any of it. But the music part was agreeable. I think this is one of the cultural advantages of the absence of free market- in the Soviet Union, musicians didn't have to be good looking.
Saturday, February 23, 2008
С Празником
Yesterday was two important days in the cultural life of Russia. Well it was only one day, but two important anniversaries were noted. Important Thing Number 1: Day of the Defender of the Fatherland. This is the Russian Federation’s replacement of Red Army Day. In effect, this holiday is a combination of Memorial Day, Veterans’ Day, and Armed Forces Day (I vaguely remember that we have such a holiday-- we do, right?) But then, as International Women’s Day is coming up, or maybe just as a cultural relic of a time when every man was a veteran, the holiday has picked up the added role of Men’s Day, and you have to congratulate every man. This is especially ridiculous when people congratulate the boys in the Middlebury program, who, as I repeatedly pointed out to them after they were congratulated by babushkas, defended nary a fatherland.
I approve of this holiday: it makes Russians festive and cheerful, which is quite a feat. It is in fact the only holiday other than New Year’s upon which I heard people congratulating each other days in advance, on “the approaching holiday.” This puts it way ahead of Christmas, Epiphany, and Day of the Forest Worker. I personally celebrated this holiday by laughing at Russians trying to get into the post office, which was obviously closed; by going to look at the Eternal Flame by the river, and at the other people going to look at the Eternal Flame; by making a heroic effort to read the long poem on the WWII memorial, about the “Leninist sons of city and of taiga;” by almost getting run over by a group of students from the police academy going to march about by the Eternal Flame; and by attending a concert for veterans in which V.P.’s choir took part. You may point out that I am not, in fact, a veteran, so what was I doing taking the seat of some deserving old man who, were it not for me, would have had a better view of the balalaika orchestra? I do not have an answer for you, other than that when Valentina Petrovna commands, I obey. The best part of the concert was the folk dances, especially when performed by cute little 6-year-old girls. Now I am jealous that I did not grow up in Russia and couldn’t be in an awesome Russian dance troupe.
The second significance of the twenty-third of February is that it is the anniversary of the birth of Anastasia Vladimirovna Shulga, my Chinese-restaurant-singer host sister. This meant that the day was a frantic flurry of salad-making, mostly involving beets, and that the extended family assembled at the apartment for a birthday dinner. I don’t really know how to describe this event. The important elements were 1)“the table” which was assembled before the guests arrived, with the aforementioned salads and strives for the adjective “rich” and 2) the giving of toasts, which as far as I could tell were all very similar but all went on for a long time. This doesn’t sound that OOC, I know, but it was, especially by about the 4th toast. Singing and dancing became increasingly involved, as did the intensity with which V.P. yelled at people who she didn’t think were drinking enough. My response to this problem was to escape whenever possible and play Marble Blast Gold on the computer with the grandchildren, but after a while I would always be summoned back. Ok, I have completely failed to capture this event, but oh well, I can’t think of anything else to say.
I approve of this holiday: it makes Russians festive and cheerful, which is quite a feat. It is in fact the only holiday other than New Year’s upon which I heard people congratulating each other days in advance, on “the approaching holiday.” This puts it way ahead of Christmas, Epiphany, and Day of the Forest Worker. I personally celebrated this holiday by laughing at Russians trying to get into the post office, which was obviously closed; by going to look at the Eternal Flame by the river, and at the other people going to look at the Eternal Flame; by making a heroic effort to read the long poem on the WWII memorial, about the “Leninist sons of city and of taiga;” by almost getting run over by a group of students from the police academy going to march about by the Eternal Flame; and by attending a concert for veterans in which V.P.’s choir took part. You may point out that I am not, in fact, a veteran, so what was I doing taking the seat of some deserving old man who, were it not for me, would have had a better view of the balalaika orchestra? I do not have an answer for you, other than that when Valentina Petrovna commands, I obey. The best part of the concert was the folk dances, especially when performed by cute little 6-year-old girls. Now I am jealous that I did not grow up in Russia and couldn’t be in an awesome Russian dance troupe.
The second significance of the twenty-third of February is that it is the anniversary of the birth of Anastasia Vladimirovna Shulga, my Chinese-restaurant-singer host sister. This meant that the day was a frantic flurry of salad-making, mostly involving beets, and that the extended family assembled at the apartment for a birthday dinner. I don’t really know how to describe this event. The important elements were 1)“the table” which was assembled before the guests arrived, with the aforementioned salads and strives for the adjective “rich” and 2) the giving of toasts, which as far as I could tell were all very similar but all went on for a long time. This doesn’t sound that OOC, I know, but it was, especially by about the 4th toast. Singing and dancing became increasingly involved, as did the intensity with which V.P. yelled at people who she didn’t think were drinking enough. My response to this problem was to escape whenever possible and play Marble Blast Gold on the computer with the grandchildren, but after a while I would always be summoned back. Ok, I have completely failed to capture this event, but oh well, I can’t think of anything else to say.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Misc.
I don’t have any exciting new experiences to relate. Still, I’m sure that I am absorbing all sorts of cultural information and such. But I don’t remember anymore what will be interesting to American readers. I’ll try to think of some things.
A) I’ve gotten used to the word ‘Tajikistan’ being pronounced with either angry scorn or with the kind of pity with which people in the western hemisphere say ‘Haiti.’ Apparently it is a place no one wants to be, including the Tajiks, who all seem to live in Russia. All news about Tajikistan involves fatalities. Even in Soviet times, it was always the poorest republic, with few important resources, and I get the impression it was sort of ignored by the government. Before it became a Soviet republic, I think it was ruled by the Uzbeks; Tajiks have tough luck. Am I the only person who didn’t know that there was a long civil war there in the 1990s? At least they probably have good food, being in central Asia and all.
B) This evening, being a conscientious student of Russian language and culture, I read part of a children’s book lent to me by one of my teachers. It is one of the thousands of ‘tales from the history of our great and God-appointed nation’-type children’s books sold everywhere here, with colorful pictures of shining onion-domes and blond men on horseback killing Mongols and such. This one is about the great and holy heroine Evpraksia of Ryazan. The reason that she is great and holy, and a good model for the nation’s youth, is that when Ryazan was invaded by the Mongols she threw both herself and her young son from the highest tower. Our literature teacher talked to us at great length about why this was so heroic and necessary to the patriotism of her fellow Russians (I can’t really say countrymen, because there was no united country), but I am still not sure this is the best subject for a children’s book. Listen well, kids: when in difficulty, the best and most romantic solution is to kill yourself and any minor children under your protection.
C) There are going to be elections soon, but no one cares, because there are no real candidates.
D) We are about to run out of homemade raspberry jam and I am very sad.
A) I’ve gotten used to the word ‘Tajikistan’ being pronounced with either angry scorn or with the kind of pity with which people in the western hemisphere say ‘Haiti.’ Apparently it is a place no one wants to be, including the Tajiks, who all seem to live in Russia. All news about Tajikistan involves fatalities. Even in Soviet times, it was always the poorest republic, with few important resources, and I get the impression it was sort of ignored by the government. Before it became a Soviet republic, I think it was ruled by the Uzbeks; Tajiks have tough luck. Am I the only person who didn’t know that there was a long civil war there in the 1990s? At least they probably have good food, being in central Asia and all.
B) This evening, being a conscientious student of Russian language and culture, I read part of a children’s book lent to me by one of my teachers. It is one of the thousands of ‘tales from the history of our great and God-appointed nation’-type children’s books sold everywhere here, with colorful pictures of shining onion-domes and blond men on horseback killing Mongols and such. This one is about the great and holy heroine Evpraksia of Ryazan. The reason that she is great and holy, and a good model for the nation’s youth, is that when Ryazan was invaded by the Mongols she threw both herself and her young son from the highest tower. Our literature teacher talked to us at great length about why this was so heroic and necessary to the patriotism of her fellow Russians (I can’t really say countrymen, because there was no united country), but I am still not sure this is the best subject for a children’s book. Listen well, kids: when in difficulty, the best and most romantic solution is to kill yourself and any minor children under your protection.
C) There are going to be elections soon, but no one cares, because there are no real candidates.
D) We are about to run out of homemade raspberry jam and I am very sad.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Dog Sleds, or perhaps Dogsleds, or Dog-sleds
We went to Listvianka yesterday, and Middlebury paid vast sums of money for each of us to dog sled for 5 km, which was about 15 minutes. The whole thing was not really remotely adventurous but just completely touristy, but it was still very fun.
It was a pretty, sunny day, and Listvianka was abuzz with activity: cars driving all over the lake, ice-fishing, ice-skating, a hover-craft scooting about, a bunch of dog-sleds on the ice, and a huge walled ice-palace thing with ice-slides and an ice-rink and several ice-castles and sculptures. When we drove in on the marshrutka we had a brilliant view out the window of the mouth of the Angara, never frozen, but a very cold stripe of bright-blue between two endless expanses of ice, with the Shaman Rock sticking up in ice-covered whiteness against the blue too.
The dog-sledding center was far back from the lake up on a hill dotted with dozens of dog-houses with the owners’ little wooden house in the middle. We had to wait around for a long time for a sled to be ready, because it is Russia, and nothing ever works out the way you’ve arraigned it. While we waited, a very quiet woman showed us video clips of a big race in Kamchatka that they enter, and of the fall training they do with the kids from the village, in which dogs pull kids on scooters. They did a 3-day race over Olkhon on such scooters, one dog to each scooter (not razor scooters, but bicycle-size). Meanwhile, a preternaturally serious baby stood by the door and observed us with concern.
The sled-dogs are raised to be completely free of aggression toward people, and they were indeed very friendly. They even had to get a guard-dog at the sledding-center, since the sled-dogs would let anyone come take them away. They aren’t huskies, but some other, smaller breed, in various shades of white and brown. They certainly loved to run; the second the break was let off the sleds they would shoot off down the trail. I think there were 8 dogs pulling the sled, in 4 pairs. The second pair from the back was especially energetic, and when they were all supposed to be resting between runs would object to the lack of activity by leaping as high into the air as their harnesses would allow. Though it was a nice day for us, it was hot for the poor dogs, who did a lot of rolling around in the snow between runs. What else? Oh, my favorite part of my run was when the dogs tried to run off the track to chase some horses. What kind of dogs chase horses? If I were not already fairly used to Russian live-stock practices, my other question would be, why were there horses wandering around Listvianka by themselves?
I have pictures. Maybe if I ever finish posting pictures from break I will put them up on the picture site.
It was a pretty, sunny day, and Listvianka was abuzz with activity: cars driving all over the lake, ice-fishing, ice-skating, a hover-craft scooting about, a bunch of dog-sleds on the ice, and a huge walled ice-palace thing with ice-slides and an ice-rink and several ice-castles and sculptures. When we drove in on the marshrutka we had a brilliant view out the window of the mouth of the Angara, never frozen, but a very cold stripe of bright-blue between two endless expanses of ice, with the Shaman Rock sticking up in ice-covered whiteness against the blue too.
The dog-sledding center was far back from the lake up on a hill dotted with dozens of dog-houses with the owners’ little wooden house in the middle. We had to wait around for a long time for a sled to be ready, because it is Russia, and nothing ever works out the way you’ve arraigned it. While we waited, a very quiet woman showed us video clips of a big race in Kamchatka that they enter, and of the fall training they do with the kids from the village, in which dogs pull kids on scooters. They did a 3-day race over Olkhon on such scooters, one dog to each scooter (not razor scooters, but bicycle-size). Meanwhile, a preternaturally serious baby stood by the door and observed us with concern.
The sled-dogs are raised to be completely free of aggression toward people, and they were indeed very friendly. They even had to get a guard-dog at the sledding-center, since the sled-dogs would let anyone come take them away. They aren’t huskies, but some other, smaller breed, in various shades of white and brown. They certainly loved to run; the second the break was let off the sleds they would shoot off down the trail. I think there were 8 dogs pulling the sled, in 4 pairs. The second pair from the back was especially energetic, and when they were all supposed to be resting between runs would object to the lack of activity by leaping as high into the air as their harnesses would allow. Though it was a nice day for us, it was hot for the poor dogs, who did a lot of rolling around in the snow between runs. What else? Oh, my favorite part of my run was when the dogs tried to run off the track to chase some horses. What kind of dogs chase horses? If I were not already fairly used to Russian live-stock practices, my other question would be, why were there horses wandering around Listvianka by themselves?
I have pictures. Maybe if I ever finish posting pictures from break I will put them up on the picture site.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
This was to be posted several days ago too. I dislike technology.
It has come to my attention that my last post was somewhat lacking in content. But here is my question for you: are you people writing any blog posts at all, that you can so freely criticize mine? Well, for all I know you are, and just don’t want me to read them. Hmm. Moving on. I have posted the brilliant observations of Russian culture, whose absence you were so mourning, below. You were not mourning the absence of Russian culture, but of my observations of it. I am too bad at English to go back and fix that sentence instead of writing a lengthy explanation. And since I am supposed to be studying Russian and not English, it doesn’t matter.
I am, however, enjoying passing on my limited knowledge of the English language to the high-paying people of Irkutsk. This evening I worked as a sub in an adult class and made them read “The Gift of the Magi.” I never realized how incredibly difficult to read that story is. The students were fairly alarmed. I think they still liked it though: the copy room had been locked and the printer in the office ran out of ink, so we were sort of lacking in the third and forth pages of the story, and after class I saw them fighting over the few existing copies. For one thing, judging by my own appreciation of Russian rock lyrics, if metaphors are wrapped in incomprehensible grammar and dozens of unknown words, they seem much more clever when you figure them out. And then Biblical allusions were all very fascinating to them, as they had never heard of any of it. They need Barbara to come do the Three Wise Men rap for them, or whatever. Also, Mama, you were quoted as having often told me in my childhood “Who do you think you are, the Queen of Sheba?” They thought that was very funny. But really, it so difficult to judge how they are feeling about lessons when they just don’t smile. They explained once that it’s very fake and dishonest for Americans to smile all the time, but I’m realizing more and more that for us smiling is a very important method of communication. It is not dishonest to smile when you are not happy if a smile, in the given situation, communicates something that you intend for it to and is true, such as good will.
My main class remains the hooligan middle-schoolers on Monday mornings. After the success of I’m Being Swallowed by a Boa Constrictor, I’m planning on starting all classes with a short and interesting song, so if you think of any let me know. I really want to make them sing “I don’t want a pickle,” but since it’s a song about mispronouncing words, that might not be the best idea. I wish I had these kids more often than once a week: then I would have much more power over their vocabularies, and I could raise a generation of Irkutsk youth to go around saying all the things I think people should say more often, like “For the love of Mike!” and “befoozled” and “nincompoop.” They would also listen to a lot of country music and Silly Wizard.
I am, however, enjoying passing on my limited knowledge of the English language to the high-paying people of Irkutsk. This evening I worked as a sub in an adult class and made them read “The Gift of the Magi.” I never realized how incredibly difficult to read that story is. The students were fairly alarmed. I think they still liked it though: the copy room had been locked and the printer in the office ran out of ink, so we were sort of lacking in the third and forth pages of the story, and after class I saw them fighting over the few existing copies. For one thing, judging by my own appreciation of Russian rock lyrics, if metaphors are wrapped in incomprehensible grammar and dozens of unknown words, they seem much more clever when you figure them out. And then Biblical allusions were all very fascinating to them, as they had never heard of any of it. They need Barbara to come do the Three Wise Men rap for them, or whatever. Also, Mama, you were quoted as having often told me in my childhood “Who do you think you are, the Queen of Sheba?” They thought that was very funny. But really, it so difficult to judge how they are feeling about lessons when they just don’t smile. They explained once that it’s very fake and dishonest for Americans to smile all the time, but I’m realizing more and more that for us smiling is a very important method of communication. It is not dishonest to smile when you are not happy if a smile, in the given situation, communicates something that you intend for it to and is true, such as good will.
My main class remains the hooligan middle-schoolers on Monday mornings. After the success of I’m Being Swallowed by a Boa Constrictor, I’m planning on starting all classes with a short and interesting song, so if you think of any let me know. I really want to make them sing “I don’t want a pickle,” but since it’s a song about mispronouncing words, that might not be the best idea. I wish I had these kids more often than once a week: then I would have much more power over their vocabularies, and I could raise a generation of Irkutsk youth to go around saying all the things I think people should say more often, like “For the love of Mike!” and “befoozled” and “nincompoop.” They would also listen to a lot of country music and Silly Wizard.
More Russian TV News
There was a news story this evening about a toll road in Belarus. I guess I can see how the concept of a toll road would be odd to people used to the ideas of socialism, but it was still sort of funny how struck they were by it all. They filmed the sign with the list of fees, and they pointed out gravely that often a line forms when every car has to stop at the toll gates.
There was a clear struggle on the part of all involved to reconcile in their minds the concept that roads belong to the public sphere and should be free to drive on the same way the government should be guaranteeing you work and a pension and the argument of the Belarusian officials, repeated many times throughout the broadcast, that the road was a very good one, everyone benefits from a good road, and if a society wants a good road they’re going to have to pay for it.
Personally, I was pretty impressed with the road too. And, as Gogol, or perhaps some other Russian writer, said, in Russia there are two problems: fools and bad roads. So I think the Russians should be taking notes. Incidentally, it is because the roads are so bad that we don’t have McDonalds in Siberia- you never know if you can ship products in a timely fashion, so businesses that depend on providing the same products in a uniform manner are often out of luck. Sometimes all the stores in Irkutsk are all out of the same food item- and then you know that whatever truck was supposed to deliver it all couldn’t get through.
The news anchor was also a little indignant when reporting the next story: in Kazakhstan they’re changing the names of the streets to reflect Kazakh rather than Soviet history. No more 5-Year-Plan Street for you, whatever-the-capital-of-Kazakhstan-is. It was a day of activity in general in the former Republics: a very large factory opened in Kyrgyzstan, record-setting low temperatures are killing everyone in Tajikistan, well-dressed children gave out prizes at an industrial exposition in Moldova, etc.
The last piece of news, at which the anchor was very amused, was that the archbishop or something of Kamchatka has started a blog. It is much more impressive-looking than mine. Unfortunately I don’t think they said the address.
Update:
This semester one of my classes is “Post-Soviet History.” Right now we’re studying the last few decades of the USSR, for historical perspective. The reading, though it is taking me forever to get through, as it is written in a foreign language or something, is pretty amazing; it’s like the world has a whole other, alternate history. Soviet dissidents who I have always heard spoken of as heroes in the struggle for human rights are in this textbook members of a cultural elite far from the life of the people, ready to sell out the country for cosmopolitan glamour; ‘communist’ is not a synonym for ‘evil’, and the account of the Vietnam war is wholly unrecognizable. To confirm that the Vietnam part was not the version I had probably heard before, I just looked it up on the World Book that came with my computer, but it was too depressing to read and I had to switch to an article about ‘lilac,’ the first sentence of which is “Lilac is a beautiful shrub that is loved throughout the world for its fragrant flowers.”
There was a clear struggle on the part of all involved to reconcile in their minds the concept that roads belong to the public sphere and should be free to drive on the same way the government should be guaranteeing you work and a pension and the argument of the Belarusian officials, repeated many times throughout the broadcast, that the road was a very good one, everyone benefits from a good road, and if a society wants a good road they’re going to have to pay for it.
Personally, I was pretty impressed with the road too. And, as Gogol, or perhaps some other Russian writer, said, in Russia there are two problems: fools and bad roads. So I think the Russians should be taking notes. Incidentally, it is because the roads are so bad that we don’t have McDonalds in Siberia- you never know if you can ship products in a timely fashion, so businesses that depend on providing the same products in a uniform manner are often out of luck. Sometimes all the stores in Irkutsk are all out of the same food item- and then you know that whatever truck was supposed to deliver it all couldn’t get through.
The news anchor was also a little indignant when reporting the next story: in Kazakhstan they’re changing the names of the streets to reflect Kazakh rather than Soviet history. No more 5-Year-Plan Street for you, whatever-the-capital-of-Kazakhstan-is. It was a day of activity in general in the former Republics: a very large factory opened in Kyrgyzstan, record-setting low temperatures are killing everyone in Tajikistan, well-dressed children gave out prizes at an industrial exposition in Moldova, etc.
The last piece of news, at which the anchor was very amused, was that the archbishop or something of Kamchatka has started a blog. It is much more impressive-looking than mine. Unfortunately I don’t think they said the address.
Update:
This semester one of my classes is “Post-Soviet History.” Right now we’re studying the last few decades of the USSR, for historical perspective. The reading, though it is taking me forever to get through, as it is written in a foreign language or something, is pretty amazing; it’s like the world has a whole other, alternate history. Soviet dissidents who I have always heard spoken of as heroes in the struggle for human rights are in this textbook members of a cultural elite far from the life of the people, ready to sell out the country for cosmopolitan glamour; ‘communist’ is not a synonym for ‘evil’, and the account of the Vietnam war is wholly unrecognizable. To confirm that the Vietnam part was not the version I had probably heard before, I just looked it up on the World Book that came with my computer, but it was too depressing to read and I had to switch to an article about ‘lilac,’ the first sentence of which is “Lilac is a beautiful shrub that is loved throughout the world for its fragrant flowers.”
Sunday, February 10, 2008
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
Fresh Notebooks
I’m reviewing the notebooks I bought this afternoon in honor of the new semester. I went to two different bookstores on this serious venture; the first one’s notebooks were not up to par. The notebooks are such:
1) black; little raised, irregular, shiny black spots; in the center a little cartoon of a fuzzy cat covered in yarn; above this in cursive “I am a little Kitty”
2) back-drop: photo close-up of some wrinkled canvas clothing item, or maybe bag
center: insane-looking cartoon monkey with crossed eyes, pointing down at his own toussled head; thought bubble: “Jeans style?”; in top right-hand corner- “copybook”
3)Ronhaldhinho theme
4) in lower right-hand corner “fish copybook”; pictured: two tropical fish; glitter is involved
5) white, with Soviet flag across the center; drawing of partially-peeled banana, I guess resembling Warhol, on top of that; across the bottom pictures of Soviet metals and large word ‘tyetrad’ (‘notebook’)
6) one I have long admired: black, with a glitter- covered cartoon rooster crazily running across center stage; scrawled above him “i’m taking OFF’ with ‘i’m taking’ in white and ‘off’ in red
I think it’s a good haul. None of them quite as good as the “Rope” notebooks sold last semester, or as the one with a cartoon Darwin hugging monkeys.
1) black; little raised, irregular, shiny black spots; in the center a little cartoon of a fuzzy cat covered in yarn; above this in cursive “I am a little Kitty”
2) back-drop: photo close-up of some wrinkled canvas clothing item, or maybe bag
center: insane-looking cartoon monkey with crossed eyes, pointing down at his own toussled head; thought bubble: “Jeans style?”; in top right-hand corner- “copybook”
3)Ronhaldhinho theme
4) in lower right-hand corner “fish copybook”; pictured: two tropical fish; glitter is involved
5) white, with Soviet flag across the center; drawing of partially-peeled banana, I guess resembling Warhol, on top of that; across the bottom pictures of Soviet metals and large word ‘tyetrad’ (‘notebook’)
6) one I have long admired: black, with a glitter- covered cartoon rooster crazily running across center stage; scrawled above him “i’m taking OFF’ with ‘i’m taking’ in white and ‘off’ in red
I think it’s a good haul. None of them quite as good as the “Rope” notebooks sold last semester, or as the one with a cartoon Darwin hugging monkeys.
Sunday, February 3, 2008
Weekend in Review
Friday
Today was proclaimed Cabbage Day in apartment 54. I got up and found the kitchen occupied by large-scale cabbage activity; Valentina Petrovna had apparently had an allergic reaction to some food the day before, and thought the rash had disappeared, she had decided that this was a sign from her body that she should stay home from work this morning and make cabbage pie. For breakfast I ate some of the cabbage-carrot concoction from the endless supply, in this particular manifestation with a bunch of ran onion mixed in. Then when the big pot of shredded, frying cabbage reached some edible stage, I was given a plate of that too. Have you, readers, ever seen cabbage being fried in a pot? It’s rather pretty, actually- first the pot is overflowing with a messy ball of long, crisp-looking, bright-white strands, and then it’s all turned over fast fast fast with a fork, rotating through the oil at the bottom of the pot, and then the pot is half full of golden, translucent... cabbage. Ok, so. Then I left for the university computer lab to continue my fruitless search for summer internship or work, but when I returned I was delighted to find that the effusively domestic mood was continuing. I returned to the sunny, busy kitchen and was given cabbage-and-meatball soup, and then several pieces of the fresh cabbage pie, and we sat and drank tea and talked about how cool it was in the Soviet days when university students went off to work in Kamchatka in the summers. Nastya was home, too, but not sharing in the good cheer; she’s having one of those days that Russians claim are so advantageous to one’s health in which you just drink kefir all day and don’t eat anything. Oh, we opened a huge jar of homemade raspberry jam today, much to my delight. I had been mourning the absence of jam.
Do any of you know anyone who would like to give me a job in the northeast for the summer? Or, if you act fast, an unpaid internship, and I will apply for a stipend from Middlebury. No, mother, I do not have in mind Staples.
Here is my other question. Is Vyachislav not an awesome name? I’m considering replacing ‘Methushael’ with ‘Vyachislav’ as my name of choice for my first-born son. I really like ‘Ethelred’ better, but everyone would immediately think of Ethelred the Unready, and I don’t want to burden the boy with historical connotation.
Saturday
Went to Slyudyandka on the electrichka. It was, I believe, the prettiest train ride of my life- sunny train car almost to ourselves (ourselves being Ilana, Joseph, me), panoramic view of snow-covered forests, tracks winding along the side of mountains like in a cartoon, after a few hours views of Baikal far below- it was pretty sweet. There was not really enough to do in Slyudyanka to fill the time until another train returned to Irkutsk, but it was very pretty there, with tall purple mountains surrounding the frozen lake, and boys ice-skating on a snow-plowed patch of ice far away from the bank, and lots of people ice-fishing. The train station itself was all made of stone and was very cute. Other than that Slyudyanka is a pretty unattractive place, taken apart from its natural surroundings, and there is markedly little to do indoors. We spend a lot of time walking around a grocery store; I have now spent about 80 times more hours in Russian grocery stores than American ones, I think. We got back to Irktusk late; we were afraid we would have a hard time getting home, if the public transportation had stopped running, but then an amusingly successful passenger revolution forced the train to stop at the little local station at the east end of town, from when Ilana and I could walk home and Joseph, I hope, found a marshrutka.
Sunday:
Last day of vacation!
Went XC skiing with Valentina Petrovna’s awesome wooden skis. I had long been unable to borrow these skis due to inability to figure out how to fasten them to shoes, but at last I discovered the secret; they do, in fact, have corresponding ski boots, I had just always mistaken that particular footwear for odd-looking dress shoes. So, in my funny leather shoes and snowpants (one of the main reasons I was anxious to go skiing: I love all opportunities to justify having brought snow pants with me to Russia) I set off for the woods. These woods were another long-unsolved mystery: people were always telling me there were these big woods right next to our house, but I had never managed to find them. Apparently you have to go up a big flight of iron stairs behind the pharmacy. So, found woods, attached skis to boots, then finally had to face the fact that I have no idea how to cross country ski. It worked out ok, though. My basic strategy was:
1) Waddle up a long, not-too-steep hill
2) Achieve summit
3) Pretend to be on downhill skis over which I didn’t happen to have control of any kind
4) In the advent of the approach of another person, stop and pretend to admire the scenery
Today was proclaimed Cabbage Day in apartment 54. I got up and found the kitchen occupied by large-scale cabbage activity; Valentina Petrovna had apparently had an allergic reaction to some food the day before, and thought the rash had disappeared, she had decided that this was a sign from her body that she should stay home from work this morning and make cabbage pie. For breakfast I ate some of the cabbage-carrot concoction from the endless supply, in this particular manifestation with a bunch of ran onion mixed in. Then when the big pot of shredded, frying cabbage reached some edible stage, I was given a plate of that too. Have you, readers, ever seen cabbage being fried in a pot? It’s rather pretty, actually- first the pot is overflowing with a messy ball of long, crisp-looking, bright-white strands, and then it’s all turned over fast fast fast with a fork, rotating through the oil at the bottom of the pot, and then the pot is half full of golden, translucent... cabbage. Ok, so. Then I left for the university computer lab to continue my fruitless search for summer internship or work, but when I returned I was delighted to find that the effusively domestic mood was continuing. I returned to the sunny, busy kitchen and was given cabbage-and-meatball soup, and then several pieces of the fresh cabbage pie, and we sat and drank tea and talked about how cool it was in the Soviet days when university students went off to work in Kamchatka in the summers. Nastya was home, too, but not sharing in the good cheer; she’s having one of those days that Russians claim are so advantageous to one’s health in which you just drink kefir all day and don’t eat anything. Oh, we opened a huge jar of homemade raspberry jam today, much to my delight. I had been mourning the absence of jam.
Do any of you know anyone who would like to give me a job in the northeast for the summer? Or, if you act fast, an unpaid internship, and I will apply for a stipend from Middlebury. No, mother, I do not have in mind Staples.
Here is my other question. Is Vyachislav not an awesome name? I’m considering replacing ‘Methushael’ with ‘Vyachislav’ as my name of choice for my first-born son. I really like ‘Ethelred’ better, but everyone would immediately think of Ethelred the Unready, and I don’t want to burden the boy with historical connotation.
Saturday
Went to Slyudyandka on the electrichka. It was, I believe, the prettiest train ride of my life- sunny train car almost to ourselves (ourselves being Ilana, Joseph, me), panoramic view of snow-covered forests, tracks winding along the side of mountains like in a cartoon, after a few hours views of Baikal far below- it was pretty sweet. There was not really enough to do in Slyudyanka to fill the time until another train returned to Irkutsk, but it was very pretty there, with tall purple mountains surrounding the frozen lake, and boys ice-skating on a snow-plowed patch of ice far away from the bank, and lots of people ice-fishing. The train station itself was all made of stone and was very cute. Other than that Slyudyanka is a pretty unattractive place, taken apart from its natural surroundings, and there is markedly little to do indoors. We spend a lot of time walking around a grocery store; I have now spent about 80 times more hours in Russian grocery stores than American ones, I think. We got back to Irktusk late; we were afraid we would have a hard time getting home, if the public transportation had stopped running, but then an amusingly successful passenger revolution forced the train to stop at the little local station at the east end of town, from when Ilana and I could walk home and Joseph, I hope, found a marshrutka.
Sunday:
Last day of vacation!
Went XC skiing with Valentina Petrovna’s awesome wooden skis. I had long been unable to borrow these skis due to inability to figure out how to fasten them to shoes, but at last I discovered the secret; they do, in fact, have corresponding ski boots, I had just always mistaken that particular footwear for odd-looking dress shoes. So, in my funny leather shoes and snowpants (one of the main reasons I was anxious to go skiing: I love all opportunities to justify having brought snow pants with me to Russia) I set off for the woods. These woods were another long-unsolved mystery: people were always telling me there were these big woods right next to our house, but I had never managed to find them. Apparently you have to go up a big flight of iron stairs behind the pharmacy. So, found woods, attached skis to boots, then finally had to face the fact that I have no idea how to cross country ski. It worked out ok, though. My basic strategy was:
1) Waddle up a long, not-too-steep hill
2) Achieve summit
3) Pretend to be on downhill skis over which I didn’t happen to have control of any kind
4) In the advent of the approach of another person, stop and pretend to admire the scenery
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)