Russia, It's Been Real... Maybe A Little Too Real

Sound: "Changes" by 2Pack & Talent

Tomorrow, I leave Russia and return to 'MURIKA, land of the free and home of the semi-regularly changing head of state.  As with the close of any major period in life, I have a lot of thoughts and emotions about leaving Russia.  So, for my final blog post, I thought I'd summarize them in the best way I know how... list form!

Things I'll Miss About Russia (In No Particular Order)
-Free coat/bag check (unless you're at Lenin's tomb... that's gonna cost you).
-The architecture.  Even Soviet-era architecture has sorta kinda started to grow on me.
-The risk-taking, screw-the-playwright, screw-the-actors'-safety, directorial tyranny of the theater.
-The repertory system.
-The guy who hands out the call girl catalogs (but tries to hide what he's doing from women) near the perekhod on my way to school, and the looks we exchange.  The ones that say I know you're handing out porn, and you know I know you're handing out porn, so why don't you just give me a porn mag? and Nope!  You're a woman!  No porn for you!
-Legit government subsidies for students (it rarely costs me more than $5 to get into any museum, theater, or cultural exhibit).
-Dairy.  Russia knows how to do dairy, y'all.
-Tea Time with Tolya.
-Georgian food.
-The bizarre, crazy Russian-ness of Russia.


Things I'll Definitely Not Miss About Russia (In No Particular Order)
-Horrible internet access.
-People's pushiness/inability to form a line.
-Getting touched.
-Lack of communication regarding any sort of logistics.
-Language barriers.
-The importance of identification papers (you can't even go to the school cafeteria without showing ID)
-Pollution and dirt.  Pollution and dirt everywhere.
-Smoking indoors.
-The lack of high-quality fresh produce.
-The bizarre, crazy Russian-ness of Russia.

It's Hot And I'm Confused

Sound: "Changes" by David Bowie

Suddenly, without warning, it's become summer here in Moscow.  Temperatures are in the low 80's.  The sun is (usually) out.  It's light until 10pm.  I'm so confused.

I'm not really a summer person.  I mean, I love summer activities: beaches, reading in the sun, barbecues, farmers' markets, swimming, etc., but summer and my body don't mix.  First off, I am super white.  As in, the phrase "skin white as snow" was not actually a description of Snow White, but instead was a prophecy describing me.  As as a super white person, I don't get along with the sun.  I burn.  "But, Morgan!  That's okay!" you might say, "your burn will fade into a tan."  NO IT WILL NOT.  It will fade back into white and then I will burn again, thus creating what I secretly call the "candy cane cycle" (I like the alliteration).  So, there's that.

I also have allergies like nobody's business.  And, although I thought Moscow was a concrete and glass safe haven, it turns out that there are actually trees here.  And flowers.  So... allergies.  They're everywhere.

Moscow, my winter wonderland, why hast thou forsaken me?  And, more importantly, why hast thou pretended to be a good place for my white, allergic self, only to pull a fast one on me during the dwindling days that we remain together?  I am so confused.

Why Are People Touching Me Part 3: Para Bailar La Banya

Sound: "Boss Tycoon" by Mac Dre

Note #1: I'm not even going to apologize for bastardizing "La Bamba" as a title.  This is my head; deal with it.

Note #2: I'm not one to victim blame, but this post tells the story of me asking to be touched.  Literally.  So, for the first time in this blog, I'm going to talk about Russians touching me... with my consent!

Note #3: This post contains numerous references to somewhat intimate parts of my body.  This is an integral part of the banya experience.  Sorry, Dad.

Today Leslie, Marissa, and I went to the banya.  The banya is the Russian word for steam bath/sauna.  The banya is a place for ladies (or gents; most banyas are single-sex) to gather, enjoy the sauna, bathe, drink tea, and hang out naked.  The naked part is really important.  While everyone has a towel or sheet, you really use it to just dry yourself off or sit on.  Towels may be wrapped loosely around parts of the body (especially the head, if you don't have a nifty banya hat), but for the most part, people are just naked, doing their thing.  Which is, primarily, sweating.  Russian banyas are steam-heated to 80' C (or 176' F).  There's little need to worry about overheating, though - it is recommended to spent only 5-7 minutes in the banya at a time.  Between steam session, you shower off, and can pour water of various temperatures over your body to wash off all that awesome sweat.

Another thing you can do at the banya is buy venik (birch branches with the leaves still on) and beat yourself with them.  This increases the heat near your body and is believed to improve blood circulation.  You can also pay for someone to beat you with the venik.  Today, I opted to have a Russian lady give me the beat-down.

After ordering the beat-down (this is probably not the official term, but it's accurate), I was given a 4pm appointment time.  This left me, Marissa, and Leslie time for one more steam before a break, and then D-Day.  While in the banya, we saw another woman get the beat-down.  It didn't seem to bad; the woman was brushed and lightly tapped with venik.  I could totally handle this, I thought, and Marissa and Leslie agreed.

At 4pm, I went into the lobby to meet the woman who'd be giving me the beat-down.  She told me to wait five more minutes, and, while waiting, to drink.  The beat-down comes with a complimentary pot of tea.  While drinking my tea, Marissa and Leslie came out to wait with me, since they wanted a break before watching me get beat with birch branches.  At one point, Marissa asked how I was feeling.  I responded thusly:

Soon after, the lady arrived and led me, closely followed by Marissa and Leslie, into the steam room.  She pulled out a bench, laid a mat on it, and had me lay face down.  She then used her other-wordly strength and resistance to heatstroke to wave the venik over my body, spraying me with droplets of hot water.  She then began to tap my body and joints with the venik.  Okay, I thought, this is nice and warm and totally chill.

AND THEN SHE STARTED TO WAIL ON ME.

Now, at no point did this actually hurt, but man, this woman was whacking me.  I think she must have recently scene Rocky IV and felt the need to avenge Drago.  Maybe, I don't really know.  But I do know that I was being smacked repeatedly with tree branches.  But soon, it was over.

Then she told me to roll over.

I did, and stared up in terror.  She said something to me in Russian, but it was hot, and I had just been hit with the venik, and my Russian isn't that great anyway.  Then she made a cupping motion with her hands.  Suddenly, the message was clear: cover your boobies.  I did, and thank goodness, because she started whacking me on the front!  She even slapped my face a little.  Usually, I make people at least buy me dinner before I let them get this rough with me.  But this is Russia, and in Russia, you pay people for this privilege (upon reflection, there are parts of America where you also pay people to hit you.  Those parts are called Nye County, Nevada).

Finally, she was done beating me.  I staggered to me feet, my ears filled with the sound of applause from the other women in the banya.  A Russian woman asked if it was my first time.  Marissa replied in the affirmative.  Too weak to fully wrap myself, I followed the beat-down lady out of the steam room.  She took my towels and told me to sit in a chair.

And then she threw ice-cold water on me.  Repeatedly.

Finally, sputtering and exhausted, I was done.  I was taken back into the lobby and told to drink a lot of tea. My heart was pounding as if I had just run four miles.  I was too weak to lift the teapot, so the beat-down lady did it for me.  And then she left me.  Marissa and Leslie came out soon after and asked how I was.  "Good," I replied, "but done."

We only had thirty minutes left in our three-hour banya block, so we decided to drink some tea and then go shower and dress.  Upon entering the showers, however, we discovered that the Russian beat-down leaves marks:

I looked like a pink marble statue.

Never fear, though: the blotchiness was fading by the time I got out of the shower, and was totally gone by the time we left the banya.  All in all, the banya experience was wonderful, and I would totally go again.  However, I would not have a giant scary Russian woman beat me with sticks.  That was a once-in-a-lifetime experience, and I am totally done with that.  Forever.

St. Petersburg, Or, My Struggles in Ballet Class Finally Pay Off

Sound: "Vacation" by the Go Gos

This weekend I went to St. Petersburg.  It was awesome.  St. Petersburg is a beautiful, cultural, wonderful city.  I saw so many historical sites and buildings and learned so much about Russia.

But I'm not going to talk about that.  I'm going to talk about getting drunk in a bar and making friends with Russians.

Originally, our group was supposed to see a performance of Hamlet at the Alexandrinksy Theater.  But, when we arrived at the theater, dressed in our finest, we learned that the performance had been cancelled... for the next two weeks.  So, we said, "screw it, let's go drink."

Actually, my friend Ron wanted to go on a boat tour, so we waited at what we thought was the pick up point for a boat tour for about forty-five minutes.  When no boat showed up, we said "screw it, let's go drink."

The bar scene in St. Petersburg is... weird.  Granted, we were staying in a really touristy area right off of Nevsky Prospekt (the main street), but the bars were still really freaking weird.  There was one with a pregnant spy theme.  Seriously.  It had pictures everywhere of a super pregnant woman with a giant gun and some spy gadgets.  There was another one with a Viking theme.  Not just Erik the Red Vikings, but any Vikings - including the Minnesota Vikings.  I don't think real Vikings would approve of their house beer though; it was like drinking Coors Light.

Eventually we ended up at a place called The Drunk Rabbit.  The bar is designed to look like a rabbit den (hutch?  I don't really know; rabbits aren't my thing); it's kind of dark, underground, and has lots of carrots everywhere.  Also stuffed rabbits covered in fake blood, which we tried to ignore.  At first, we figured we'd get a drink and just see what happens.  If we get too creeped out by the dead rabbits, we'd leave.  And then the DJ arrived and started playing pop hits of the 1950s and early 1960s.

My friends, to quote the poetic genius/rapper Macklemore: "We danced.  And we laughed.  And we cried.  And had a really, really, really good time."

I think the Russians may have been surprised at the seven Americans dancing and singing (loudly).  This wasn't really a dancing kind of bar.  But they had a DJ and good tunes, so... sorry, Russia, but we just wanna dance.  The best part, however, was when a Russian guy came and tentatively joined us.  And then the DJ played a traditional Russian folk song.  And then the Russian guy started dancing.  And he was doing steps I knew from ballet class!  And I got really excited, and Russian danced with him!  And he didn't slap me for insulting his country with my awkwardness!  In fact, he got kind of excited and made me do the squatty-kicky-outie thing (and when I told him I didn't know it, he just roared "DO IT!"  Okay, Russian man.  I will do it.)!

Guys, it was like the "L'chaim" scene in Fiddler on the Roof; two cultures came together in celebration of a very important thing; booze.

Springtime For Putin And Russia...y?

Sound: "Miami 2 Ibiza" by Swedish House Mafia feat. Tinie Tempah

My apologies to Mel Brooks for the title of this post.  I couldn't resist.

This week has, for reasons that I don't feel qualified to get into here, been really tough.  It's been hard being so far from home and not able to easily contact my friends in Boston.  However, I'm really glad everything seems to have worked out okay, and am extremely proud of my city.

Quick Diversion: There is a group of schoolchildren (maybe junior high school aged) in the park behind my dorm right now.  They are standing in a line listening to a woman (their teacher?) lecture.  The teacher is holding a GIANT communist flag.  "You Spin Me Right Round" by Dead Of Alive is playing.  I am incredibly confused, but, like many things here that confuse, have no choice but to shrug and say "Russia."

Fortunately, Russia has helped make this week a bit better by realizing that it's the middle of April, which means it's definitely spring.  Finally, after the snow that plagued us earlier this month, we have sun!  And warmth!  To the point where I'm not even wearing my coat, and sometimes shed my sweater.

Quick Diversion Update #1: Matt thinks the Russian kids and Communist lady are some form of Young Pioneers.  The kids are all wearing red neckerchiefs.  They are now playing the USSR national anthem, and some man is yelling emphatically at them.  "You Spin Me Right Round" has been replaced by some Eurotrash techno music, which is competing with the USSR national anthem.  Say it with me now: "Russia."

Surprisingly, Moscow is really pretty in the spring.  I'm still waiting for flowers and greenery, but it definitely seems a little less dirty and a lot less colorless.  Even the Soviet-era buildings have a strange beauty to them. It makes my 35-minute walk to school much more pleasant.

QDU #2: The Communist Young Pioneers are now having some sort of picnic.  And "All Around The World (la la la la la)" by ATC is playing.  The USSR national anthem is over.  This country is so bizarre.

Okay, clearly, along with sunshine, springtime in Moscow means more of the Russian crazy comes out.  I can't even anymore.  Sorry guys.  I've gotta keep my nose glued to the window and try to figure what the hell is going on.

Why Are People Touching Me Part 2: Electric Boogaloo

Sound: "Alpha Beta Parking Lot" by Cake

Guess what?  The Russians are still touching me.  Fortunately, they aren't being quite so creepy, and I've gotten so used to it that at this point, I barely bat an eye.

There was a slight respite in touching incidents.  But with the arrival of spring comes the arrival of weird touchy-grabby people.  The two most recent incidents of Morgan-Russian relations happened this past weekend in that most Russian of places - the Old Arbat.

The Old Arbat is a wonderful, huge pedestrian walkway in the middle of Moscow.  It boasts tons of wonderful cultural sites; the Vakhtangov Theater, Pushkin's apartment, Andrei Bely's apartment, Wendy's, Dunkin Donuts, Pinkberry - the list goes on.  It also has a ton of souvenir shops and people (men) dressed up as animals and/or popular cartoon characters (think Disney-style costumes, not realistic costumes).  Tourists or weird Russians can take pictures with these costumed entrepreneurs for 100 rubles, or a little more than $3.

While walking the Arbat with a few of my friends, we noticed a man dressed as King Julian, the lemur king from Madagascar.  Marissa's boyfriend is currently in Madagascar, so she needed to get a picture, which I happily took.  After finishing with Marissa, King Julian said he would take a picture with me "for free" (except we just saw him do the same thing with another pair of ladies, but whatever you say, silly entrepreneur lemur).  Why not? I thought, and posed with him.  And then Russia let its crazy out.

The picture Marissa took perfectly captures the feeling that something is not quite right.  Please note the expression in my eyes:

Why am I so wary?  Well, in addition Marissa, someone else was taking a picture of me.  A strange man.  As in, a man who is a stranger.  Who I do not know.  Who now has a picture of me.  Honestly, I'm not even that upset that he took my picture; I just want my 100 rubles.

Shortly after the stranger took a picture of me, I, along with Marissa and King Julian, was approached by a man dressed as a polar bear, who promptly hugged  me and demanded that I "drink vodka!" with him.  No. No, Polar Bear.  I do not want to drink vodka with you.  Also, you are a bear, and vodka is not a natural part of your diet.  You should not be drinking, Bear.

So we've got five incidents in about seven weeks.  Let's see what the remaining five weeks bring.

I'm The Swan Queen, You Never Even Left The Corps

Sound: "Another Man's Vine" by Tom Waits

One of the classes I'm taking here in Moscow is ballet.  Unlike most of my female friends, I never took ballet as a child.  I took gymnastics, because I was far more interested in hurtling headfirst into various stationary objects (bars, beam, vault, floor) than prancing around in a pretty fluffy tutu.  Clearly, I had no understanding of what ballet actually was.

Guys, ballet is really hard.

Let me give you an example of one of our teacher's favorite exercises.  Lift your leg as high as you can in front of you.  Good.  Now hold it for 8 (slow) counts.  Good.  Now lift it higher.  Excellent.  Put it down.  Now repeat three more times to the front, four times to the side, four time to the back, and four more times to the side because why the heck not?  Now do this with your legs perfectly straight, your feet turned out, your arms in a perfect, gorgeous second position, and your head held high.  Now do this with a serene expression and without, as my teacher puts it, "fear in your eyes."

Not so easy, right?

Plus there's jumping and combinations (My gosh, I CANNOT remember combinations.  At all.) and keeping time with the music, which I think I am unable to do at a genetic level.  Almost every class my teacher comes up to me and literally claps out the tempo while yelling "MUSIKA!  MUSIKA!"  Yes, I know there is musika.  I can hear it.  I just can't tell you what the time signature is.

Despite all this, I love my ballet class.  I still totally suck (and always will suck), but I feel like with every class, I suck a little less.

And I get to wear pink tights and a leotard and pretend that I'm the Swan Queen.  So, there's that.

Cover Letter: I Should Be A Diplomat

Sound: "The Rite of Spring" by Igor Stravinsky

NOTE: The other day I was discussing how much the Russians love me and joked that I should work for the state department on Russian-American relations.  Someone who lacks a sense of humor overheard me and told me that my comment was "self-aggrandizing," as I am clearly not qualified to work as a diplomat.  Being a snarky brat, I've decided to take this idea and run with it.  So, without further ado, my cover letter for consideration as a diplomat:

Dear President Obama,

I would like to submit myself for consideration for a position with the American embassy in Russia.  I feel that my educational background, world travel experience, and focused, hardworking personality have prepared me beyond measure to excel as a diplomat specializing in Russian-American relations.

I hold a Bachelors' of Arts degree in Drama and English, which has created the educational foundation necessary to work in the embassy.  As a drama major, I have taken a lot of acting courses and have extensive knowledge of improvisational technique.  I can adapt to any situation, and am a strong adherent to the improv golden rule of "yes, and?"  For example, if presented with a proposal involving the department of homeland security's admittance of certain Russian nationals, I can respond with "Yes, we will repeal the Magnitsky Act and you will stop using children as political pawns and free Pussy Riot."  I have also studied voice and speech, so I can say this all in a clear, strong, well-projected voice.  As an English major, I took an entire course of the works of Vladimir Nabokov, which has provided me with detailed insight into the mind of a White Russian who feels betrayed by his country.  While there are no longer a lot of White Russians around, I'm sure my thoughts on Pale Fire and Lolita will serve me well when undertaking the necessary diplomatic task of small talk.

Additionally, I am currently working on a Masters' of Fine Arts in Dramaturgy and Theatre Studies.  Again, this degree has provided me with more training in voice and speech, and has the extra benefit of focusing in Russian theater.  As I write this cover letter, I am sitting in a dorm room owned by the Moscow Art Theater (in Moscow, Russia!), where I am taking a lot of classes and seeing a lot of Russian theater.  I have also visited the Red Square and the Kremlin, and thus totally understand the working conditions for Russian politicians.  My Russian language skills are still a little rusty, but I am quite proficient at ordering lunch at the local cafeteria, finding my seat in a theater, and telling people not to touch me.  I am also taking advantage of my time in Moscow to learn more about President Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin (or, as I fondly refer to him, "V.V.").  After reading the entire Wikipedia article on him, I feel confident that I fully understand the intricate details of Russian politics.

Finally, I must note that the Russian people seem to feel quite at ease with me.  They like to offer me food and touch me without invitation.  Surely this is a sign that I would do quite well when it comes to negotiations.

I understand that you are quite busy right now, but hope you will take the time to review my application.  Should you have any questions, feel free to contact me via email or Facebook.  I look forward to hearing from you soon.

Thank you,
Morgan

Sick in Russia

Sound: "Look Around" by the Red Hot Chili Peppers

Surprisingly, 18-hour days, questionable nutrition, and living in close quarters with other people living under similar circumstances resulted in me getting sick.  After two and a half days in bed, I am now mostly functional (albeit hopped up on Sudafed).

Here's my advice: don't get sick in Russia.  Especially if you're like me and want people to take care of you because you are a total sickness weenie.  No one is going to take care of you, and you are probably going to start freaking out because you can't breathe and the Sudafed's not working as well as you'd like and DEAR LORD, DO THEY JUST KILL YOU IN RUSSIA IF YOU'RE INFIRM WHY CAN'T I BREATHE?

If you do get sick in Russia, just sleep.  Seriously, knock yourself out so that you can't start thinking paranoid thoughts (although, you might have paranoid dreams about how you have to sleep in a specific position or else you'll die) and just try to sleep through the entire illness.  That's the only way to deal with it.  Especially since you don't have Netflix.

Russia Hates My Coat

Sound: "Salty Dog" by Flogging Molly

In Russia, one must check one's coat upon entering most buildings.  One's coat is checked at restaurants, at school, and, most importantly, at the theater.  Unlike in America, coat check in Russia is free, which makes it less of a pain. (However, unlike in America, Russians don't understand the concept of lines, which makes coat check more of a pain.)

In order to accommodate the immense number of coats, Russian coat checks use hooks, not hangers.  And that is why Russia hates my coat.  You see, my coat doesn't have a loop thingie (technical term) on the inside of its collar.  You can still hang my coat on a hook - gravity is truly amazing, but the Russian coat check ladies are always confounded, and quite often frustrated, by this prospect.

When I say "confounded" and "frustrated," I mean that I have been straight-up scolded, repeatedly, by these coat check ladies.  But I don't really understand what they're saying, so I just utter "sorry" and they still have to hang up my coat.  Joke's on you, coat check ladies!

My friends and I keep saying we'll sew a loop thingie into my coat, but we've yet to get around to that.  And at this point, March is almost over, which means we're all optimistically assuming that we won't have to wear coats for much longer.  Right?

Why Are People (Okay, Men) Touching Me?

Sound: "Push" by Matchbox 20

I have a problem: people keep touching me.  You might say "Morgan, that's kind of par for the course in Moscow.  Stop being so sensitive."  And you'd be right.  Moscow is pretty crowded, and Russians seem to have a different idea of what "personal space" entails.  It's common to be pushed out of the way, whether you're walking down the street or in the post-show coat check crush at a theater.  Sometimes, people put their hands on your lower back to push you.  This, I can deal with.  My problem is something else.  So, to be more specific: men are touching me in my no-no zones.

A few days ago I was on the subway with some friends and Matt, the Fulbright scholar who lives on our floor.  Thank goodness for Matt - he graduated from MXAT (like, went here for four years, not just a semester), so he knows Moscow well and can put its eccentricities in an American context.  Anyway, we're on the subway.  Three other girls and myself are one side of the car, while Matt and the rest of our group is on the other.  There are enough people in the car that we don't have a clear view of each other.  This old man on my side of the car aggressively motions for us to sit down.  So we do.

At this point the man starts STROKING MY HAIR AND FACE and speaking to me in Russian.  I have literally no clue what he was saying; it could have been "Happy Women's Day!" or "You have short hair - how strange!" or even "You look like my dead wife!"  Or maybe some combination of all three.  Now, if this had happened in the States, I would have immediately released a stream of non-family friendly words to let that man know exactly how not-okay it was for him to touch me like that.  But this is Russia, my language skills are almost non-existent, and I'm terrified.  All I can do is mutter under my breath (in Russian) "I don't speak Russian."  At this point, my friend goes to Matt and says (exact quote) "There's a strange man touching Morgan."  Fortunately, we then reached a stop and the man got off the train.

The next time we had Russian class we reviewed how to say "Don't touch me!"

Fast-forward to today.  I'm walking home by myself and am in a perikhod (underground street crossing) when two teenage boys (maybe fifteen years old) approach me, block me in, and start touching my chest and behind.  Armed with my new knowledge, I strongly ring out "Не трогайте меня!" ("Don't touch me!").  The boys laugh and honk my boob.  Yes, I've now had my boob honked in Russia.  Cross that one of the bucket list.  Soon after, the boys run off and, a bit shaken, I continue on my way.

Here're the two weird things: 1) I've never had this problem anywhere else.  I've been in Israel, in Mexico, in sketchy dance clubs in college towns, and I've never had to deal with someone randomly touching me.  2) Apparently, touching people like this isn't that common in Russia.  People complain about the invasion of personal space, but it's almost unheard of for people to have someone touch their face or private areas.

I guess I'm just special.

Still, I'm pretty sure if this happens again, someone's going to get punched.  Come at me, KGB bros.

Don't Ask, Just Tell

Sound: "Gold" by Macklemore

This post is really about how to influence people.  I don't need to adjust my sparkling personality to make friends.  But really, this post is The Story of A Program In Dire Need of Edits.

Before we left for Russia, Marissa and I, as dramaturgs for the play our class would be presenting in Moscow, put together and sent off a file containing all the information necessary for a program.  We were told it would be translated in Russian, so that our audience would actually know what the heck was going on.  We sent it off with plenty of time, and that was that.  We never heard or saw anything of it again.

That is, until the day before our show opened.

A slight concern was raised about the translation of the title of the evening, "American Sojourns."  We asked to see a copy of the program, and were in for a shock.  While the title was translated correctly, the program was riddled with other errors.  Namely, there were tons of typos in the English, and in Russian, numerous names were spelled incorrectly, inconsistently, or both.  For example, my name had been translated to "Goal-shteye-een."  While I'm not going to get picky about how you translate/pronounce "stein," I know that in pretty much every language, the first part of my last name involves a "d" sound.  One actress had two different last names, and another was listed without a corresponding role.  Obviously, this was unprofessional and unacceptable.

Being a polite American and not wanting to rock the boat, I pointed out the errors and asked if there was any way the program could be changed and reprinted.  At first, the errors were denied as being serious, and I was told no.  Then, our vocal coach, a self-described "power bottom," took over.  He pointed out that the errors not only existed, but that they could be seen as disrespectful.  He then (politely) told the people in charge that the program would be changed; that I would go home tonight, make corrections, and arrive at 12:15pm to meet the production manager and implement the edits.  New programs would be printed in time for our 7:00pm opening.  And that is exactly what happened (actually, the production manager didn't show up until 3:30pm, but, you know, Russian time).

So, in conclusion: if you want to get something done in Russia, don't ask.  Just tell.

"Moscow Smells Like The Eighties"; Or, A Prevalence Of Cigarettes

Sound: "Burning Down the House" by the Talking Heads

The first thing that struck me when I arrived in Moscow was how pushy people are.  The second thing was the crazy driving, and the third thing was the smell.

One of my classmates described that unique Moscow scent as "the eighties."  As in, Reagan-era, economic boom, Dynasty, my Mom's terrible perm, 1980s.  I think this arises from two factors: cigarette smoke and chemical cleaners.

In Moscow, almost everyone smokes.  And they smoke almost everywhere.  You can smoke inside buildings - though this is usually relegated to building lobbies and hallways.  You cannot smoke inside your dorm room, a classroom, or an actual theater house.  You can smoke in restaurants, but, thankfully, not in the MXAT cafeteria.  The prevalence of smoking is, for me, shocking.  I grew up in a part of California where people sometimes sue their neighbors over smoking.  I rarely saw people smoke in real life - and when they did, they were "rebellious" high school kids, or miscreants.  When I moved to the East Coast, I saw more people smoking, but they were definitely still a minority.  Now, suddenly, I'm seeing smoking at levels only previously seen in a pre-Pierce Brosnan-era James Bond film.  It's inescapable.  And, of course, along with a marked lack of smoking, I grew up with an intense fear of second-hand smoke, so now I walk the streets of Moscow terrified of developing emphysema.

As far as the second reason Moscow smells like the eighties, I don't actually have proof that the chemical cleaners here are from that decade of glitz and greed, but based on other aspects of this city - the decor, the infrastructure, men's hairstyles (hey, mullet!) - they probably are.

Oh, and if you were wondering why (or even noticed that) I've been playing the Talking Heads so much, it's because I've decided that if Moscow's going to smell like the eighties, it might as well sound like it, too.

A List of Things I Stress Ate During My First 30 Hours in Moscow

Sound: "Psycho Killer" by the Talking Heads

-Milano cookies (All gone!  No more American cookies for me!)
-Bread with brie and raspberry jam
-Herring (Apparently, I decided reminders of Amsterdam would bring me a sense of peace?)
-Chewy lemonheads (and friends)
-Some kind of Russian deep-fried meatloaf
-A Rice Krispie treat

I am slowly, but surely, adjusting.  I cried a lot during my first thirty hours in Moscow, and I'm sure I'll cry some more before I go home in May.  However, today has been better than yesterday, and pretty much anything is better than 13 hours of air travel, which was my Wednesday.  I'm definitely reading Russian better every day, and the fact that I successfully ordered borscht (with sour cream) today is a good sign.

I've also already almost had a Taken moment (sorry, Grandma).  I walked the last 30 seconds home by myself today, as my friends wanted to go grocery shopping and I was just hella tired and not ready for that.  The street my dorm is on is, apparently, full of lots of dorms.  See, I was looking for the sign that said "dorm," and well, pretty much every building's sign says "dorm."  The trick is to look for the sign that says "MXAT dorm."  Anyway, I went into the wrong building.  And you have to get buzzed in and out of the buildings.  And the woman only spoke Russian, and was really confused, and I didn't really help matters by repeating (in Russian) "MXAT dorm?  MXAT dorm?  Where?"  She kept trying to get me to go down these sketchy stairs into a sketchy basement.  I don't really know the words for "Lady, that is NOT the MXAT dorm.  That is a sketchy basement and there is no way in hell you are going to make me go down those stairs."  However, I finally remembered the verb "to live" and managed to eke out "I live in the MXAT dorm."  Then the lady let me go.  And I found the MXAT dorm.  And was not kidnapped and sold into sex slavery.

As Charlie Sheen would say, "winning!"

I've Finished My Jar Of Nutella; I Can Go To Russia Now

Sound: "He Got Game" by Public Enemy

We're about 33.5 hours away from my flight taking off.  This is the home stretch.  And what am I most focused on?  Packing?  Medicine?  Making sure all my affairs are in order?

Nope.  I'm focused on getting rid of all the food left in my pantry.  Which is why tonight, I'm having people over for brinner (breakfast for dinner).  We're having pancakes, eggs, mimosas, and whatever anyone else brings.  Good times should be had by all.

Other than stuffing my face with good ol' 'Murikan food, I've been spending this past few days seeing as many friends and as much theater as I can.  I saw two fabulous plays this weekend - the first was The Flu Season, which the second years at the Institute are putting on as part of their season.  I'll be honest; I didn't like The Flu Season when I first read it.  I found the language largely inaccessible and the plot rather stagnant - plodding, at best.  But the actors, director, and designer transformed the text into a deeply moving, wonderful, heart-wrenching evening of theater.  I laughed, I got verklempt, I felt compelled to tell every person that I love that I love them.

So, readers: I love you.

The second play I saw was a reading of a new play called Like Father.  It was written by Mike Poe, an Ithaca College aulmn, and directing by my dear friend Lucy Gram, another alumna of IC.  The play is still a somewhat early draft, but it has a very strong center, and I'm excited to see how it grows and develops.

Other than that, I've been packing, breathing deeply, and watching a lot of Food Network.  I'm gonna miss Paula Deen, ya'll.

Next time you hear from me, I'll be in Moscow.  Завершение и выход!

T-minus Nine Days Until Russia

Sound: "Stubborn Love" by The Lumineers

I know, I know.  I really sucked at maintaining this blog thing.  But I did a pretty good job of it when I lived in London, so I thought that maybe with Study Abroad Part 2: Electric Boogaloo (Moscow Edition), would have similar magic.  Also, I wrote down "blog" on every Sunday from now until May 20th in my planner, so that'll help keep me faithful.  We hope.

So, we're at nine days until I get on a plane that will take me to Moscow, Russia.  Well, technically, I'm getting on a plane that will take me to Zurich, and then I'll get on another plane to Moscow.  But I digress.  (Side note: why are we transferring in Zurich?  I mean, I guess Zurich's cool and all, but last year's students transferred in Amsterdam, and I freaking love Amsterdam.)

Right now, I'm trying to be productive and wrap everything up before I peace out for three months.  I did my taxes (woot, woot, refund!), did my FAFSA (woot, woot, student loans!), and started packing up my room.  I've been lucky enough to secure a subletter, and, as a good person, I'm trying to clear out most of my stuff so that the woman moving into my room has space for her stuff.  Fortunately, I have free storage in the basement of my house/corner of the unused room next to my room (because sometimes I just don't want to carry a giant storage bin down to the basement).

Packing up your entire room leads to some weird situations; you come across stuff, buried in the recesses of the storage bin under your bed, that you forgot you owned.  Then, if you're me, you stare at this newly re-discovered item, think "I hope that was a gift.  I hope I didn't actually spend money on that," and then, too overwhelmed to decide to keep it or throw it away, shove it back into the storage bin to deal with at some point in the unforeseen future.

I also have (what I suspect is) a somewhat unique packing problem: my books.  See, rational me says to leave my books on my bookshelf; they don't take up too much storage space, and they're books.  They'll be fine.  But then I worry.  What if my subletter judges me for my books (I mean, I have two different Complete Works of Shakespeare AND an Asimov's Guide to Shakespeare - this is not really part of the usual)?  What if she touches them?!  What if she spills wine in them?  WHAT IF SHE WRITES/HIGHLIGHTS IN MY PRECIOUS, BEAUTIFUL, SPECIAL BOOKS?  Fortunately, rational me is dominant enough to overcome inappropriately-attached-to-my-books-yes-they-might-have-personalities-don't-judge-me me.  Also, I'm lazy, and books are heavy, yo.  I don't want to drag them down to the basement.

But I'm sure everything will work out just fine.  Deep breaths.  Only a few more days, and then it's out of my hands, and it's time for another adventure.