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!"