Tuesday, August 31, 2010

My Impressions of Russia, Part 9748

I probably shouldn’t read back over my own writing, because all I do is criticize myself for being immature/an idiot/a big baby. And of course, I’m already reading over my August 29 blog and kicking myself for being so overcome with grief. Needless to say, I’m not crying my eyes out anymore. I would describe my mood as more of a “meh”. But you know, I think that’s the sound that best describes Russia. Like you’d rather just stay awake under the covers in bed all day instead of bothering to get up.

So it turns out the metro stop Universityet (that’s my metro stop) is exactly a mile away from the dorm. You know, I’m no mathematician, nor am I a lazy effing slob, but damn that’s a long way to walk everyday, sometimes more than once. It’s like old people always say, “Back in my day, I had to walk to school 15 miles uphill both ways.” It’s not quite as drastic here, but I feel that a mile walk is quite far, at least that’s what my feet tell me after I’ve walked to the metro and back, in addition to walking other places. And I haven’t even built up the guts yet to bust out the high heels. Moscow is a big motherf@#$er, so walking is the most practical mode of transportation after the metro. I don’t know how those Russian women do it in high heels. And we’re talking 5-inch stilettos, not those practical, professional Amish-looking get-ups.

Completely changing gears here, my Moscow soundtrack so far has been a mixture of Incubus (for when I’m feeling nostalgic/hopeful/sorry for myself), Radiohead (for when I’m feeling hopeless/depressed/angsty/“eff you”), La Roux (for when I’m feeling rebellious), Coldplay (for when I’m feeling nostalgic/depressed but with a tinge of hope), and the song “Boys of Summer” by Don Henley (for when I’m feeling extra nostalgic/sorry for myself). Listen, I realize that my musical tastes are not commendable or “cool”. In fact, I am well aware that they are what you might call lame. But what the f@#$ ever, man. Happy music and party music are not appropriate for Russia anyway. And I’m no musical elitist. I don’t listen to obscure bands like Arcade Fire (apparently they’re famous now, but I still don’t know who the eff they are, so in my book that means they’re obscure). Anyway, you’ll notice a trend in my musical selection: nostalgia and self-pity. Guess what I just discovered, world? That I am just a big bag of nostalgic, self-pitying bones and flesh. Wow. Once you discover what you really are, you can really take on the world…

What I like about Radiohead is that it taps into the entire spectrum of depression. Because there isn’t just one kind of depression, folks. There’s hopeless depression, depression with a tinge of hope, self-indulgent depression, empty depression, nostalgic depression, the depression of unrequited love, the depression of break-ups, non-love-related depression, depression brought on by social alienation (which I am experiencing now due to my miserable handle on the Russian language). That is just the tip of the ice berg.

The Russian repairmen came today to fix our leaky toilet and faucet. I’m probably the only person who would think of this, but I realized that they are old enough to have lived during the Brezhnev era (1960s-1970s). Isn’t that cool? And one of them is old enough to have lived during the Khrushchev era (1955-1964, I think). I get very excited about relics from the Soviet past. And the dezhurnaya (the “dorm mother”, who has a desk near the elevator and takes care of all our needs) is probably 60-something, so she must have lived during the Khrushchev and Brezhnev era too. Like anybody reading this would give a shit.

Today was my first day of Russian class. As is standard for me, I didn't catch my professor's name, so now I am going to have to find the least awkward way possible to find out what it actually is. Don't you hate when you meet someone, forget their name, don't say anything, and then when it becomes absolutely necessary to use their name it's impossible to find out without being completely awkward? Gah. Anyway, my professor seems pretty nice. She understands my reluctance to speak Russian in public for fear of people thinking I'm stupid, and she encouraged me to be unafraid to make mistakes. The only problem was that she was very, very eager to enumerate the reasons America is a shitty place. I'm no die-hard patriot, but it got a bit wearisome after awhile. Just in case you're interested, here's her list of why America sucks (translated from the Russian and paraphrased, of course):

1. Americans have it too easy. We hardly ever walk anywhere and we eat too much fast food.

2. Americans are taking over the world. Russian culture has changed since the fall of communism and is becoming more Americanized.

3. Americans feel too good about themselves. We are raised to love ourselves too much, and we put on fake smiles in public in order to conceal our problems. We all think we are "number one". In Russia people accept the truth about themselves. If they f@#$ up, they acknowledge it.

4. Americans are not generous. If you are a Russian in America and walk everywhere instead of driving, people think you are crazy, but they don't offer to give you a ride.

5. Americans have too much money.

6. American universities suck. In Russia you have to choose your major and study nothing but that topic for 5 years. American universities let you study lots of different subjects at once, that is, they are playgrounds for young adults.

Obviously I think all of these are silly reasons to hate America. Most of them are things I like about America. If you're going to hate America, hate it for the right reasons, foo.

I have really written way too much today. I just have so goddamn much to say. But I'm going to cut this off and wait till next time to continue bitching and moaning. Until next time, just in case anyone is actually reading this!

Sunday, August 29, 2010

The Old Buff is Back (I Hope)

It seems I've made a dramatic recovery -- a complete 180, one might say -- from yesterday's throes of despair (knock on wood). I am quite amazed at the spectrum of emotions I have experienced over the past 24 hours. I am going to savor this high point for as long as I possibly can. The reason behind it is my Russian friend Nastya, who lives in Moscow and who I met during my quarter abroad through Stanford. She invited me over today (well, technically yesterday, since she allegedly had a dinner and party planned for me, to which I did not show up because I was traumatized and knocked out on sleeping pills), and we spent the entire day talking and drinking coffee at her kitchen table. Lesson learned: never underestimate the healing power of friendship.

When I saw Nastya for the first time today, a wave of relief swept over me and I hugged her like she was my own sister. I know that's hella lame, but I was so incredibly happy to see a familiar face. She took me to the grocery store to buy jelly, bread, and grapefruit juice, then we came back to her apartment and spent the day catching up, talking mostly (of course) about boys and relationships. At the moment I am in her apartment staying the night, while she is spending the night at her boyfriend's flat. It's nice having a little place to myself for the night, and it's even nicer having a little place with Internet. One thing about Russia: it's so damn hard to find Internet around here. It's not all that common to have your own personal WiFi connection, and you often have to go searching around for Internet cafes and the like (which I did this morning, to no avail. And let me tell you, I walked several miles looking for that shit. I even listened to a Russian security guard give me a long, drawn-out explanation as to where I could find Internet, and I swear I didn't understand a single word of it). Good thing I wore my chucks and not high heels, which every female in Russia seems to be able to do without a second thought.

Nastya fed me a great bounty today, so I "breakfasted" after approximately 40 hours of self-imposed fasting. Don't blame me; I had no appetite or desire to trouble myself with such petty matters as food. When you're emotional nothing else matters but your tears. Wow, those could be lyrics to an emo song. I know how to overcome emo writer's block: just send the emo songwriter to Russia.

I am very, very tired right now, even though I slept 20 hours last night (with the help of Ambien so as to avoid waking reality as long as possible). Living in another culture is exhausting. I am definitely not jet lagged, though, as Moscow is a perfect nine hours ahead of Kansas so that the nights I spent awake over the summer at home seamlessly transitioned into the days I spend awake here. Thank God for the small things. (Isn't it funny how in times of trouble I pretend to have religion?)

More to come later. So much to tell, yet so few people interested in hearing my bullshit, and so little energy to produce grade-A literature.

Friday, August 27, 2010

Day 1 of Russia

This is not going to be a positive blog post. There: I have provided a fair warning.

I arrived in Russia approximately 20 hours ago. Those 20 hours have been nothing but terror, tears, extreme loneliness, and some very uncomfortable self-questioning. However, this time around nothing externally bad has happened. This time I did not arrive in Moscow hung over and 12 hours late, I did not lose my luggage, and most importantly, someone was there to pick me up from the airport.

The problem is the overwhelming emotional pain I am experiencing, due namely to the fact that I am in a new place, with new people, a new language, and an uncertain future. I miss my parents like hell, and at this moment I would give away everything I have just to return home. On the plane ride over here and the entire time I've been here, this question has been bouncing around in my head: Why did I just give up everything I had, everyone I love, for this hell-hole of a country? Why would I want to relinquish the life I had back in the states, which, I must admit, was an amazing/perfect/awesome/love-filled life, for this? For a country in which there is not a single person who gives a shit about whether I live or die, for a country over which a heavy cloud of oppression still lingers (it's practically tangible) from the Soviet era, for a country whose people are (pardon my French and my over-generalization) assholes?

As I sit here on the marble floor of the main building of Moscow State University, illegally bumming WiFi from the cafe upstairs, my tears do not seem to want to stop falling for anything, and my keyboard keeps screwing up because it is getting soaked with them. I am 23 years old and should be able to handle this like an adult. Why am I so afraid and so ready to give up? Nothing bad has happened to me (yet). I just miss my family and my friends and want nothing more than to be loved right now. But that, unfortunately, is the one thing I can't have right now: the embrace or touch of a loved one.

How am I going to do this?