Me, Myself, and I

Back in February, when this whole coming to Russia scheme was in its embryonic stages, my motive seemed pretty clear to me: improve my Russian. This was, and still is, my weakest area in terms of my desirability as a candidate for a master’s program in Russian studies at competitive institutions like Harvard or Georgetown. The plan was pretty cut and dry: go to Moscow for a year, apply for graduate school from here, go to graduate school for two years, apply for a job at the State Department or a think tank or some government institute, then live happily ever after.

Having had lots of time to myself over the past three weeks, other, more subconscious motives have arisen. It even seems to me that, in terms of personal growth, these motives might hold more weight than the original motive. I mean, who knows, I might completely change my mind about my career path anyway.

I have an irrational fear of sounding or being cliché, but here goes: I think one of my primary motives in coming to Moscow was to figure myself out. Ugh, god, just reading over that sentence makes me cringe. How many Americans, and I guess people in general, go to other countries to “find themselves”? WTF does that even mean? And wasn’t Eat, Pray, Love a pretty big failure in literary circles and in theatres? Good god, I’m pretty embarrassed right now.

All right, getting over my initial self-disgust, I’m going to delve a little more into this subject of self-realization. I’m not actually sure if we all need or feel the need to “discover ourselves", whatever that means. One of the fundamental problems with being human is that I can’t possibly know what it’s like to be the next person, or the next; I only know what it’s like to be me. I don’t know if other people feel the same way I do, if we all are pretty much alike, or if we’re all truly unique in our emotions. I don’t know if other people feel as complicated, confused, self-disgusted, dependent, desperate, manic, depressed, or sometimes giddy as I do. I don’t know if it’s just me, if I’m alone in the world in feeling this way. I’ve been told that I’m not alone, that almost everyone feels like I do. Then why do I always feel so alone, like nobody gets it? I feel so incredibly self-aware, that it’s uncomfortable. I feel that, if I had stayed in Ark City, I would wither away into nothing out of depression and inertia. Entropy, I guess. In Ark City I have so many people acting as emotional crutches, holding me up and giving me a false sense of greatness, that I think I could life my entire life never actually knowing what lies beneath my everyday thought process. I can’t imagine that.

For one thing, as all of my readers will know and probably get sick of hearing (sorry, everyone!), I am depressed as hell most of the time. For this reason, I feel an invisible but undeniable pull toward the unknown. I believe that, the more I see of the world, the more I will see of myself, until I eventually reach the core of my depression and figure out just WTF is causing it. Once I find the root, maybe I can eradicate it. And if that’s not an option, then at least I can gain enough experience and spend enough time surviving on my own that I eventually learn to cope with that it in a more effective way than I already do. At this point in my life, I let the depression control me. I cater to it like it’s my effing child. When I’m feeling depressed, I like to stay home under the covers in bed. I like to eat comfort foods. I like to listen to Radiohead and feel oh so sorry for myself. That barrier between my depression and a good day just seems too exhausting to climb. So I just nurse the depression like it’s a poor little pathetic creature in need of love and care. Gah.

Okay, wow, I’m really going off on a tangent here. I sat down to write this blog post with the intention of compiling a list of the things I have learned about myself these past few weeks in Moscow. Because, really, all of this time alone has revealed, in stark detail, a lot about myself that either a) I didn’t ever notice or b) I prefer to not notice. So, here’s a by no means exhaustive list:

1. I am flaky. If I don’t want to talk to someone, I screen my phone calls. I often make up excuses to get out of doing social things. I often say I will do something, then I back out. Usually this happens when I am too grumpy to go out and find social situations exhausting. I hate that I am flaky, and I know other people hate it. I am very, very uncomfortable with this aspect of myself.

2. I don’t take very good care of myself, physically or mentally. I always forget to take my pills, I don’t eat healthily, and sometimes, if food is not readily available, I just don’t eat. I almost never take my contacts out; in fact, I have gone days and even weeks without taking them out. Don’t get me wrong; I am very clean and hygienic. I just don’t go above and beyond the call of duty to keep myself healthy or happy. I think maybe this lack of personal care stems from my low self-esteem.

3. I am not a picky eater. I will generally eat anything that is put in front of my face. I found a caterpillar in my soup the other day, and although of course I didn’t eat the caterpillar, I was back again the next day eating the same soup from the same cauldron. I will eat mystery meat. I will eat things I’ve never seen before that I can’t quite identify. I have no food preferences in Moscow. If it’s food, I’ll eat it.

4. I’m a lot more of an introvert than I thought I was. Like I said before, I often avoid social situations, mostly because I get tired trying to put on an act in front of people. Usually I am in a pissy mood (bah humbug, I know) and don’t feel like dealing with people.

5. I’m moody.

6. I am kinder than the average person (at least the average Russian). Whenever I see an old lady on the metro, I let her have my seat. I open doors for people. I let a stranger use my computer when he was freaking out about not having Internet. I always greet people. I know this is kind of a stupid thing to notice about myself, but I’m putting forth an extra effort to say at least one positive thing.

7. I curse… a lot.

8. I laugh really loudly.

9. I am often broody and silent in social situations, especially if it’s with people I just met. This is not so when I’m around my friends, usually.

10. I’m pretty funny. At least I like to think so.

11. I like animals way more than I should. So much so, that when I told my Russian professor that I have five cats, she accused me of being mentally ill.

12. I have very progressive values. I am a feminist (see previous blog post), very un-racist (after witnessing Russian racism, I know that there is a huge difference between minor prejudices and racism), liberal in my views on sex and marriage, etc.

13. I really suck at speaking Russian. I mean, really suck.

14. I am emotionally dependent on other people for my self-esteem. When I am alone, without anyone to hold me up, I feel like shit. This is one of my biggest problems, and I hope to make some progress during my time here.

15. I prefer solitude.

16. I like coffee.

That is a pretty effing long list. I could definitely think of more, and I’m sure I will have more self-realizations as time goes on. I think my time here will be well spent, as long as I continue to pay close attention to my behavior in all kinds of situations. It’s like I’m having a date night with myself, only it lasts a year. I sure do get sick of myself, though. Let me tell you. I have about had it with myself, and it’s only been three weeks. I bet you guys are getting sick of me, too. You're probably thinking, "does this girl ever have anything positive to say? She's like Eyeore, for godsakes." I'm sorry, man. I really am. I am hoping that, over time, this will improve. But I've got to continue being true to myself, or the blog will lose its authenticity. Please bear with me...

Clash of Cultures

Despite my severe head cold (I even lost my voice and could only talk in a squeak), yesterday I met up with Carolyn and Marlena, who just arrived in Moscow to get their master's degree in Change Management (don't even ask) at The Academy of the National Economy. Carolyn and Marlena are two of my friends from Stanford, who were both in my Russian class and graduated with me in June. I am so thrilled to have them here, since I like them both very much. I feel a lot less alone knowing we're all sharing similar experiences.

Contrary to my usual cravings, yesterday all I wanted in life was a mondo cheeseburger from McDonalds, probably because for the past couple of days I had only been eating oatmeal and chicken soup. I fantasized about cheeseburgers for approximately 36 hours before finally mustering up the energy to leave the dorm and go in search of one (Russia reverts us all back to the state of nature: hunting and gathering). Coincidentally, Marlena and Carolyn were already at McDonalds, so I met them there and indulged in a big ol' cheeseburger, fries, and a salad. Oh man was it good.

After that, we went over to a friend of Marlena's apartment. Marlena's friend is a girl named Tatev from Armenia, who moved to Moscow about six years ago. (A side note about Armenia in case you're not familiar with it: it's a small country next to Turkey). When we arrived at her apartment, she and her mom prepared a veritable Armenian feast for us: lots of dried fruit and nuts, Armenian coffee that Tatev spent about 20 minutes hand-grinding, bread, and some of the most delicious beef jerky I have ever tasted. DAMN was that beef jerky good. It's a shame customs doesn't allow me to bring meat from one country to another, because I would definitely stock up on that shit and bring some home for my friends to try. Anyway, Tatev and her family were incredibly hospitable. Hospitality is very, very important in Russia and the surrounding countries. You never visit another person's apartment without them serving you some sort of food and drink. That's one thing I wish we valued in America. Although Russia certainly has its issues, part of its appeal is the hospitality of its people. They are so incredibly generous, and even if they have very little, they will give it all away to you.

I was very impressed with Tatev and her family, and I am so glad I went along to Tatev's apartment. We sat and talked with Tatev and her cousin for hours about all kinds of really interesting subjects, from relationships, to marriage, to sex, to movies, to racism, to feminism. I was both shocked and fascinated by the vast cultural differences between Armenians and Americans. It made me stop and think about my own values and beliefs, which in all my 23 years I have never really thought twice about. I was always under the impression that my values, which I share with so many other Americans, were just natural. I guess I was wrong.

Take marriage, for instance. This is a subject I have come across again and again these last couple of weeks in Moscow. It is a very important issue here in Russia, and both Russian men and women (especially women) take it very seriously. In America -- and here I am generally referring to the America that Stanford represents (which I realize is a specific demographic), since my current beliefs and values were formed there -- there seems to be a general consensus that marriage is not to be rushed. I, for one, believe that a woman should develop a solid, independent foundation for herself before she marries. For me, a good marriage age would be about 28 (although I am certainly flexible), after I have finished graduate school. I have no intention of ever depending on a man, financially or emotionally. I would never marry just to marry; I have my heart set on finding the perfect fit for me, in terms of education level, interests, life goals, etc. Although love certainly matters to me, I am looking for a life partner that I mesh well with on a practical level. And that means that we have to agree on things like splitting household duties, earning income, and raising children. I do not plan on being the sole chef and maid of the house. I do not plan on serving my husband. I realize that many people will fundamentally disagree with me here, but I reject the notion of the 1950s housewife. I'm sure there are varying beliefs and values within America, but this is my personal belief, and I know Carolyn and Marlena will agree that this is generally how a university-educated American female thinks.

In Russia and also in Armenia, the complete opposite values prevail. According to Tatev, my friend Nastya, and many other Russians I have spoken with over the past couple of weeks, marriage is the single most important part of a woman's life. People here marry relatively young; the average age to marry is around 21 or 22. If a person is not married by 25, he/she is viewed as strange, and it is generally thought that something must be wrong with him/her. It is very rare to come across an unmarried 25-year-old. It is also thought that the first child should be born at age 25, at the latest. To marry at age 30 is pretty much considered an abomination. Also, at least in Armenia, a woman is expected to wait until marriage to have sex; non-virgins are considered whores and not marriageable. Women are also expected to fulfill traditional feminine roles: housewife, cook, mother, maid. A highly educated woman is unappealing and generally undesirable to a Russian or Armenian man. When I told my Russian professor that I hoped to marry only after graduate school, she told me that the longer I waited, the less choices I would have, and that too much education would make me less appealing to my candidates for future husband. After all, "no man wants a wife who is smarter than him".

I am well aware that the aforementioned values are traditional and have prevailed for most of history. I realize that my extremely progressive values are not the norm and are actually pretty strange in light of tradition. However, I did not come to fully appreciate this until yesterday, when Tatev and her cousin stared at Carolyn, Marlena, and me as if we were freaks of nature. When we said we did not want to serve our husbands, Tatev asked us, "If you do not serve your husband and expect him to clean his own dishes and cook his own food, what then is the difference between a man and a woman?" I responded, "We like to think there isn't any difference."

I know there are many anti-feminists out there who resent the feminist movement and all it entails. There are many strong believers in gender differentiation out there. What people like Carolyn, Marlena, and I stand for is not natural or even wholly accepted by society. We may not even be "right", and I'm not even sure there is a "right". But anyway, some may consider it to be "against nature" to pursue what are traditionally men's activities, but if that is the case, then I need someone to explain to me what is so wrong with going against nature.

There is this quote that I really like. I'm not sure who said it. But it goes like this: "We are the daughters of feminists who said 'You can be anything,' and we heard 'You have to be everything.'"

Anyway, the marriage conversation with Tatev and her cousin was pretty fascinating, and it was only one of many conversations I've had on the subject. In fact, after so much ado over marriage in Russia, I am starting to feel a little bit of pressure. Good thing that when I go back to America it'll be socially acceptable that I'm not married...

Between a Rock and a Hard Place... Sort Of

Ladies and gentlemen, it's that time again to show my ass to the world by demonstrating that it doesn't matter how book smart I am or how prestigious my alma mater is; none of these things provide immunity from being a dumbass and getting myself into ridiculous situations.

Last night started out normally. I went to dinner for a friend's birthday at a hopping yet expensive Russian restaurant called Cafe Mayak, where the $8 bowl of minestrone soup I ordered was really nothing but "water with things in it" (i.e. a thin broth with mixed vegetables floating around in it)--at least that's how the fascist, white supremacist German sitting to my left referred to it. I had a beer and a couple of glasses of wine, which when taken in combination with my head cold made me feel sort of floaty and surreal. After dinner our interesting group of Europeans, Russians, Vietnamese, and Americans made our way to a bar called Gogol, where I ate some unidentifiable yet delicious Russian dessert and saw the largest cockroach in the Northern Hemisphere crawling across the floor. Said cockroach (what I prefer to refer to as an evolutionary abomination in serious need of annihilation) and the caterpillar I found earlier that day in my cabbage soup really made for a critter-filled day.

After some interesting conversation at Gogol I finally decided to call it a night, since I was quickly losing my voice from my cold. My room mate and a Russian friend helped me find a taxi (well, not really a taxi, but an unmarked car claiming to be a taxi) back to the university. I must say that the taxi ride back to MGU was pretty amazing. I'm not very accustomed to living in a big city, and living in such an old and history-rich city as Moscow is quite a transition from Ark City or Stanford life. It was around 4:00 in the morning and the streets were practically empty, but all the amazing land marks were all lit up and looking majestic: the Kremlin, St. Basil's Cathedral, the Cathedral of Christ the Redeemer, the giant old buildings commissioned by Stalin, MGU. As we drove by all of these amazing architectural wonders all lit up in the silent night, I was pretty excited. But anyway, enough of that corny shit.

Once I got back to MGU, the real fun started. Keep in mind that it was around 4:00 in the morning, and technically the university shuts down around midnight. But there are still security guards there to check your documents and let you in, so I figured I wouldn't have any problems. What a silly assumption to make. When I took the elevator up to the fourth floor (that's where my room is), I ran into some real problems. Every night the "dorm mother", whose sole purpose seems to be to nag us since our parents aren't here to do so, closes these iron gates right at the entrance to the elevator, so that anyone trying to leave the elevator can't get out. Well, as I attempted to exit the elevator, there was the iron gate, right smack in my face and padlocked shut. Before I could turn back around and take the elevator back down to the first floor, the elevator doors closed, and I was stuck between the closed elevator and the gate. There was literally a half foot of space between the elevator doors and the gate. I was stuck like a rat in a tiny cage. At first I tried to remain calm and tested my key to see if it would unlock the padlock. That didn't work. Then I stood there for a second doing absolutely nothing. Then I started pathetically calling "Hello? Hello?" in my awful Russian, hoping that the dorm mother sleeping in the other room would hear me and have mercy. Then I started shaking the iron gate, hoping that would get her attention. When nothing happened, I tried to call my room mate, only to discover that I had no credit on my phone. Then I started panicking. Holy shit, I was going to be stuck between the elevator and the little f@#$ing gate for the entire night. I couldn't even reach the elevator button to open the elevator back up. So I resigned myself to squeezing myself into a sitting position in my little rat cage, feeling like an idiot, all dressed up in clubbing clothes and heels, a 23-year-old adult stuck in the limbo of elevator-gate exile.

Finally, the dorm mother emerged from her hibernation, grumbling at me in Russian. From her diatribe I caught "do you see what time it is?" and "how long have you been stuck here?" and "the dorm closes at midnight, you should know that" and "you should have taken the stairs" and "my God". Who knows what else she said, since I have the Russian level of a five-year-old. All I know is, I felt like a blooming idiot. She pushed the elevator button for me, I took the elevator back down to the first floor, and I took the stairs to my room.

God I'm an idiot.

Buff Plays Dress-Up in Moscow

It’s amazing what a pair of heels can do.

The day before yesterday I finally mustered up the courage and physical endurance to wear a pair of high-heeled shoes. Back in the States wearing heels is usually not a problem for me, as I don’t do a lot of walking anyway. But in Russia, I walk several miles a day, usually between the metro and my dorm. And a couple of miles in high heels are pretty damn torturous.

Russian women are generally more traditional than American women, in that they still subscribe to traditional gender roles and stereotypes (i.e. wearing pantyhose everyday; wearing high heels everywhere; expecting men to always foot the bill and pour the drinks; working “feminine” jobs like secretary, nurse, etc.; knowing how to cook and clean; etc.). From a young age, Russian girls are taught to wear high heels every single day and to dress elegantly. They grow accustomed to it over the years, and once they’re adults the discomfort of wearing high heels is either so ingrained that they’ve forgotten about it, or it simply doesn’t cross their minds at all. Although of course I see plenty of Russian girls who dress like American girls (flat shoes, T-shirts, etc.), I see many more distinctly Russian-looking girls; that is, girls who are dressed impeccably, as if they are going out to a night club on a Monday morning. Girls who walk miles and miles in 5-inch stilettos and don’t struggle in the least. And what’s more, these girls know how to walk in high heels. They don’t stumble or walk all stiff-legged like we Americans who only wear heels for interviews. These girls have a swagger like they’re on the catwalk. And many of them look like models. This, to me, is amazing and extremely intimidating. But that’s Russia, and it is what it is.

So anyway, the point of the story is that I wanted to look like a Russian girl the other day, so I put in the extra effort to sport some high heels. Within literally 20 steps, to say I was hurting is an understatement. When walking in heels, one has not only to consider how painful it is; one has to consider that there is an art to walking in high heels. We have to be sure to stand up extra straight to make up for our instinctual desire to slouch from the discomfort. We have to concentrate on walking heel to toe, heel to toe. We have to constantly make sure we are not stomping like a Clydesdale. Walking in heels is f@#$ing difficult. It requires a grace that we are not born with, but that we must acquire through practice. And it’s hard to know if we are even walking correctly if we don’t have a mirror to inspect ourselves in. I get really paranoid when I walk in heels, because I don’t want people to look at me and be like “Goddamn that girl can’t walk in heels”. So at every opportunity I get to check my reflection in a glass window as I’m walking down the street, I make sure I’ve got the right posture. And the other day when I was walking through Moscow in high heels, I paid extra attention to the way I walked.

So that’s why, when I noticed people staring at me, I was confused. I got all paranoid and started thinking that maybe I was walking like an ape. So I kept checking out my reflection to make sure I didn’t look like an idiot. Sure enough, I was walking just fine. But people kept staring. I still don’t know why they were staring. I like to think it’s because I looked damn fine that day, but I am reluctant to give myself that much credit. I finally settled on the reasoning that when girls wear heels, they are more noticeable, so people instinctually check them out. I, for one, always check girls out who are wearing awesome heels. It’s not because I think they look ridiculous, but more out of curiosity and admiration. Whatev. I just hope it wasn’t because I looked like a stupid American trying too hard to look Russian.

And damn, was I glad to take those little shits off at the end of the day and put on my slippers.

Russia Has Sucked My Soul Dry

There is a reason I haven't been blogging regularly since I arrived in Moscow. Ever since I stepped off that plane, I have been struggling with monumental depression. Some days are better than others, but generally they are never much better than mediocre. I spend a lot of time with myself, be it alone in my room or as an anonymous passenger on the subway. I have experienced a number of blog-worthy things in the last ten days. It's not that I have no material. It's simply that, at the end of the day, when I settle down in my room for the night, I have nothing to say. I feel like a heavy wet blanket is smothering my mind and rendering me silent. I don't have the energy or the desire to write. Every morning when I wake up, I tell myself that today I will blog. But by afternoon my mind is so worn down by loneliness/social alienation/depression that I just don't have anything to say.

Generally, I am a pretty depressed person. I'm very sensitive to external stimuli and quick to pick up on subtleties. I am easily brought down. My whole life has been this way, and I have spent most of it using up tons of energy to push those things away or to be able to function in spite of them. Functioning in spite of depressors requires an immense amount of mental energy, and most days I end up defeated by those depressors. I very rarely triumph over them, and when I do, I am so incredibly aware of how transitory my bouts of happiness are that I end up not being able to fully enjoy them. I just keep hoping that, as long as I live my life like a normal person, go through the motions, and even attempt to over-achieve, happiness will eventually follow. My reputation as an over-achiever stems from a desperate desire to overcome what I consider to be an exhausting, difficult, sometimes not even worthwhile, life.

Okay so, all of that was really depressing to read, I'm sure. But let's be honest with ourselves here. I'm not blogging exclusively for your entertainment. This year in Russia is an experiment in self discovery, and writing is just another instrument in my toolbox to help me along the way. The fact that I am broadcasting my thoughts to the entirety of the web community and facebook is questionable, I know. Sometimes it bothers me. A lot of the stuff I say is awful, lewd, or just downright depressing. Sometimes I worry that anything I say could come back to bite me in the ass when it comes time to begin my "career" (whatever and whenever that may be). Sometimes I worry that I will end up alienating people. But there is a small, pathetic little hope in the back of my mind that the people reading this will connect with bits and pieces of what I'm saying, or that they will gain some greater insight into the real Buff that assists them in deciding whether or not I'm a worthy friend/person. This hope trumps my fears of rejection and self-incrimination. Maybe (almost certainly) in the future I will regret broadcasting my bare soul to all. It's pretty inevitable. I can't look back on my past without cringing; it's instinctual and automatic. But all I have to say is: whatev.

Let's get back to current events. I have been in Moscow for ten days, and all told I have pretty much completely adjusted (depression notwithstanding). It didn't take me long, actually. As my readers will know, those first couple of days were pure hell, but soon after that I fully recovered. Now I am back to the regular old depressed Buff with a comedic edge, only I don't really have many people to tell jokes to, since my Russian is at the level of a five-year-old. I have made a few new friends, which I am quite happy about. I have spent a little time with my old friend Nastya and her boyfriend Rene, although not as much time as I would like. I have also befriended a French student here at MGU named Jawad, who I probably spend the most time with, mostly because we both live in campus. His English is quite fluent, so we are able to freely communicate. We quickly became friends because of our similar feelings of alienation and loneliness after moving to Moscow. It seems that I am doing a poor job of making Russian friends and an excellent job of making English-speaking friends. It's funny how all the English-speakers find each other so quickly. For my own well-being, I should really make more of an effort to befriend more people (especially Russians). But I've found that after a long day of Russian lessons and traveling around the city, I don't want to do anything but be alone in my room. Why am I so lame?

I actually think I am going to go work on some Russian homework right now, and then come back and write another installment of my blog. Writing this post has sapped me of my energy and I need another $6.50 cappuccino anyway...

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!

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.