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