Tallinn

Estonia is a feel good story. It’s like a kid who grows up to be successful even though his Mom conspicuously scratches her ass in public and his Dad swerves to hit squirrels on the highway with his pickup truck.
The 20th century was especially tumultuous for the citizens of this Baltic country. First occupied by the Soviets, then the Nazis, then the Soviets again, eventually becoming a full-fledged Soviet Republic in some mockery of a referendum. Estonia withdrew from the Soviet Union in 1991 in a glorious “singing revolution” where thousands gathered to sing banned national songs. The Baltic countries joined the European Union and today, Estonia’s economy is growing like a tumor (in a good way). I heard the second half of the 20th century in Estonia described as “schizophrenic.” The current president, Thoomas Hendrik Ilves, grew up in America, the son of Estonian expatriates. He was involved in anti-Soviet radio broadcasts into the country via Radio Free Europe. Cool stuff. Today, about a quarter of Estonia’s population are ethnic Russians. This makes for plenty of Russian speakers, which was really great for me!
We took a short ferry ride from Helsinki to Tallinn, the capital and largest city in Estonia. The center of the city is a medieval old town with cobbled streets and stone walls. Church steeples dominate the skyline in old town, with modern buildings a good ways away. I climbed to the top of the tallest church steeple- St. Olaf’s- and stood on the narrow wooden planks at the base of the copper spire. Twas neat.
Our apartment was on the fifth floor of an old building. It was replete with Soviet era elevator (small, dingy, liable to get stuck) and industrial-metal doors the likes of which are found in old Moscow grocery stores. However, the apartments were completely renovated and modern.
Our building was right on a square with lots of bars and strip clubs around. Not only was it difficult to fall asleep because the sun was up all night, but also because drunken revelers were singing and shouting at three in the morning.
I rode my bike to the residential part of Tallinn one day. Outside of the upper-middle-class neighborhoods there were big apartment blocks like you find all over Russia. I was surprised to see that most of the blockhouses had been or were being completely renovated. The grey utilitarian mass-production that characterizes post-Stalin architecture in the former USSR was being erased. Concrete and exposed mortar was being covered with brightly colored stucco; rusted steel and rotting window frames were being replaced with modern materials.
A dreadlocked guy was walking by and I stopped to ask him about the renovation. Was it being paid for by the city, the national government, the EU? He said that the housing unions (equivalent to neighborhood associations) were paying for the remodeling and that he had lived in one of the housing blocks his entire life. They were a lot nicer than their Russian counterparts and gave me an idea of what Russian housing could be.
Biking, by the way, is the absolute best way to see a new city. The fam and I all rented bikes and spent hours going around old town seeing what would have taken days on foot.
It is really amazing what Tallinn is doing with its hated Soviet legacy. Run-down factories are being converted into upscale shopping malls in that sort of industrial-chic style. Some 1960’s Soviet eyesore has been converted into the Museum of the Occupation, which details Soviet and Nazi occupation of the country. Some of the stories in that museum were nauseatingly horrible. Thousands of Estonians were deported to Siberia on fabricated charges of counter-revolution (article 58). Thousands were falsely imprisoned, tortured and murdered at the hands of the NKVD/KGB. The Estonian government is actively trying to prosecute former Soviet agents who committed crimes against humanity, but unfortunately many of the perpetrators live in Russia. The Russian government is uncooperative. Go figure.

St. Petersburg, again

My time in Helsinki was split, like the presidency of Grover Cleveland. We went to St. Petersburg in between.
Typically, visitors to Russia need a visa. But, by the graces of some new legislative change, tourists are allowed to enter St. Petersburg visa-free for 72 hours if they arrive by sea. So, we took a cruise to the Northern Capital aboard a ship that dated from the era when the city was still called Leningrad. There was a casino on board which sat empty and a few restaurants with 20 euro+ entrées. We ate in the canteen the first night and I got гречка с грибами, buckwheat with mushrooms, a Russian student staple (for Shelly anyway).
As I’ve said before, I am a Moscow man. But, to be back in Russia was tremendously joyous. Finally my family could see my second country! Unsurprisingly, they didn’t share in my gusto: “this is the place you like so much?”
They loved the historical landmarks and pretty buildings even as I was getting a little bored seeing it all again.
It had been a long two weeks being out of Russia especially since I wasn’t able to speak much Russian in France. St. Petersburg gave me the opportunity to show off my language skills asking residents where Nevsky Prospect is, or telling shopkeepers that my dad wanted to buy batteries (almost the same word in English, but the guy couldn’t understand the accent).
I enjoyed St. Petersburg much more this time around because the weather wasn’t dismal and I managed to get around in shorts. We had a lively Russian guide named Юля, Yulia, who took us around the big sites- St. Isaacs Cathedral, Church on the Spilt Blood, The Hermitage, Peterhof, Catherine’s Palace, Peter and Paul Fortress, etc. She threw in a few Soviet points of interest to please me. I did see some new things actually and I’m glad that I had another chance to go back to Petersburg because two days wasn’t enough the first time.
Also, we are in the white nights in this part of the world. That means it doesn’t get dark. Quite literally, the sun never sets and the hours past midnight are twilit until the sun rises again. This makes for good partying but poor sleep schedules.

Best Local Beer: Baltika 7
Best Beer: Kozel Cerny (actually a Czech beer, but it’s what we drank in Moscow)

Helsinki, Finland: A Typical Nordic capital

The Gulf of Finland has a way of casting miserable haze over everything (as I found in St. Petersburg) but grey and rain didn’t suppress my spirits as I was meeting back up with Mommy, Daddy and Sister after 4 months of Moscow.
Helsinki is more or less what I pictured a Nordic capital to be. I’ve seen plenty of pictures of Reykjavik, Iceland and either it took a page out of the Finnish book or the other way around. The weather cleared up the next day and so we were off to walk around the city and to see what architectural or cultural wonders there were to see.
Pretty people have a way of deflecting attention away from humbler looking folk- unfair but true- so that accurate estimations of the ratio of pretty-to-ugly people are impossible to make. There were so many pretty people in Finland, all with bright blonde hair, fair complexions, and blue eyes; it was practically everyone! I remember thinking the same thing about Moscow until I decided to empirically determine the prettiness level by counting the interval between pretty people on the metro escalator. It was about 10% pretty, 1 and 10 people, which I reckon is about average. Now, I wonder if I’d count on someone’s pretty list ☹
Anyway, we were in a hotel room that looked over a school playground so the sounds and screams of recess came in through the window. I observed, once again, that kids are the same everywhere even if they speak Finnish.
Helsinki is full of nice parks and green space but lacks adequate litter legislation and/or trashcans because there was as much garbage on the ground as there was grass. It was a holiday weekend though, so I’ll give the Finns the benefit of the doubt. The tulips and flowering weeds had hatched in a multicolored array of flare. Late May is idyllic in these far northern climes.
There is a nice waterfront with old wooden dinghies docked. Weathered looking women sell fresh herring from the deck. We went inside an old market that is now set up for tourists. They sold lots of fish.
Finnish food is like other Nordic cuisine, which is to say that it is heavy on salted fish. But, it also takes a lot from the Russian culinary tradition with heaps of bland earthy vegetables, tasteless dairy products and fatty meats. Reindeer steak was perhaps the only uniquely Finnish dish I encountered.
One night we ate at a Finnish restaurant where dad ordered the “Russian appetizer.” Salted pork fat (сало, really Ukrainian I think), pickles, green onion, and an ice-cold shot of vodka. I had a similar plate at my friend Alisa’s flat in Moscow. It was funny to see my dad assimilating.
Helsinki is a quiet town and not much goes on there. It has an artsy streak, typical of most cities of a certain size. Frankly though, I wouldn’t make it a destination. To be fair, I didn’t get out too much because the family was jet-lagged and no one really wanted to do a whole lot. Still though, I didn’t get the sense that it would be the kind of place where I could adventure endlessly, spend many drunken nights, or ride bikes for hours. Maybe I just didn’t have the best time; go see for yourself.

The best local beer: Karhu III

Paris

Paris is like one of those people who you see from afar and who you just know you don’t like. He runs with that other crowd: you have friends in that crowd and occasionally there is some fraternizing between your crowd and that crowd because, you know, they like some of the same stuff. But this guy, he’s always outgoing with everyone until you come around and then he starts acting standoffish. Geez, what’s his problem?
One time he ends up hanging out with you because sometimes the social die is cast that way. At first you’re thinking “oh God, not Paris, he’s annoying as hell.” But, after a while you bow down before convention and introduce yourself even though he already knows who you are and you know who he is. With all of your prejudice stacked against him you painstakingly initiate conversation. To your complete surprise, he chats right back and the chip that you you’d seen carved deep into his shoulder suddenly disappears and all preconceived notions dissipate. Now you’re buds, hooray!
That’s a bit like how my friendship with the French capital developed. I thought it’d be lame and touristy, and it was. But, there was some Parisian magic that lightened my heart and made me admit that Paris was an okay city.
Max and I arrived mid-afternoon and immediately found a free parking space right next to the Louvre. I had to go find a clinic to get my Hepatitis A and Typhoid vaccinations. Immunization complete; I’m invincible.
I’d booked two spots in a co-ed room at some hostel in the boondocks. Well, Paris doesn’t really have boondocks, but it was on the southern edge in a predominantly Korean neighborhood. The hostel was called Namdemun Guesthouse and they served free Korean food for dinner (included in the 28 euros a night). Not a bad deal. There was a “Free Mumia Abu-Jamal” poster hanging outside and I’m a big fan of Live from Death Row.
My friend Rosalia happened to be in Paris too so I met up with her and some of her friends under the Eiffel tower. Unfortunately, she was back to her home in Spain the next day so our reunion was brief.
Afterwards we happened to run into several of the folk who were staying at our hostel. They invited us to a bar and so we forgot our fatigue and stayed up late drinking with our new friends.
The next morning over a Korean breakfast I met a nice Japanese girl (whose name I still can’t remember) and I invited her to come ride bikes with us. Paris has a bike-loan system where you can take bikes from hubs located all over the city. The first half hour is free and new bikes can be checked out almost immediately after turning in the old one. So, every thirty minutes we’d park our bikes and then grab another set for the next half hour. The bikes were a bit cumbersome and weren’t so good for doing wheelies on, but they handled all right. I managed to cover most of the tourist areas without being hit by a car once!
There were loads of young folk staying at our hostel and I quickly made friends with lots of them. After riding bikes I met up with a girl from New Zealand who had just recently completed a tour through the Balkans. She said Bosnia was great, so it’s on my itinerary now of course. I invited her, a girl from Seattle, and a girl from North Carolina (with a heavy Southern accent) to come back to the Eiffel tower with us that night.
I’d forgotten my metro tickets in another pair of pants so I was forced to jump the turnstile, which isn’t such a big deal because they rarely check tickets. Ha! Just my luck that we walked right into a ticket checkpoint where I was fined 25 euros. Maybe I deserved it, but Max entered legally and threw away his ticket so he was fined too.
In Moscow when you jump the turnstile it plays a little melody and an old woman blows a whistle at you (or sometimes just smiles). Occasionally there are police stationed to look out for turnstile jumpers, but they just turn you around and make you buy a ticket. I was mad about the 25 euros, but that’s the price we pay for legalism. So be it.
Anyway, we got to the Eiffel tower and only Max, our new Japanese friend, and I wanted to go up. The others sat drinking overpriced beer in the park.
The Eiffel tower is a good deal higher than I expected. It’s almost as high as the Empire State Building. Yeah, I know that the Empire State Building isn’t really that tall compared to more modern buildings like the Burj Khalifa, but it’s still an amazing view. Likewise, the Eiffel tower was a good vantage point from which to overlook my new city.
The morning of my departure I met two Israeli guys, one Russian born. We chatted about the Netanyahu administration and Palestine. They had an interesting take on current events- decidedly pro-Israel- but they were really nice guys. You know, there’s a lot more to people than their politics.
I had time to kill before my flight so Max and I went to an outdoor market in some Parisian neighborhood off the beaten track. I bought a baguette and some goat cheese for lunch. All week I’d been finding delicious fresh produce, especially good nectarines. But, the market produce was mediocre- nectarines hard as knee caps.
We sat in traffic a while on the way to Charles De Gaulle International Airport and when I got there I was too early to check in. I bought some overpriced orange juice so that I could sit in a restaurant and I started to write.
The time came and I walked to my terminal. Security screening was uneventful. I sat in the handicap chair at my gate which elicited some glances, but I would have gotten up for an invalid..duh. The room was a bit warm from the sun poring in- the greenhouse effect, you know- and my feet were aching from my new shoes.
The flight was open seating so I ended up being stuck behind a huge group of Finnish high-school kids. Not that I mind high-school kids, I’m not so far removed. But, sometimes you get some young bucks trying to impress the girls and sometimes they need to be knocked down a rung. There was an especially rambunctious kid sitting in front of me who kept messing with the girls in front of him and being goofy. No big deal, just kids like me having fun. But then he started banging his armrest up and down and it was making this obnoxious squawking noise. Everyone was giving him looks but he kept on going: squeak, squawk, squeek, squawk for a good twenty seconds. So, finally I looked fear in the face and, risking derision, tapped him on the shoulder and said “could you cut that out please.” The girl sitting next to me gave a big smile and thumbs up. Yep, fighting tyranny big and small wherever I go.

France: Maxime's house

On the way from Dijon to Paris I stayed at my friend Max’s farm. Max and I were roommates in Moscow and since I was passing through his home country I figured I’d come say hello. The farm was called Saitainville, pronounced like “Centerville,” and is about two hours south of Paris.
The farm is out in the middle of a field. The closest neighbor is over 1 kilometer away. The house is within a compound with high barns and storage buildings making the walls, and a graveled courtyard in the middle.
When we drove up to open the gate, two dogs- a spaniel and labby mutt- ran up. Max’s dad came out to greet us, giving Max the customary French double-cheek kisses and shaking my hand. I asked him “where the hell are my kisses?” just kidding. His palms were calloused and a few of his nails were blackened with blood blisters where they had been smashed. Real farmer’s hands.
Max’s dad was animated and he talked happily to me in French, though I didn’t understand a word.
I’m still getting used to kissing strangers, but Mrs. LeComte radiated some maternal energy that made the cheek-pecks a filial duty.
They gave me a tour of the farm and I was given Max’s sister’s room for the night. The décor of the house was French hodge-podge eclectic. Lots of upholstery and furniture from the 1970’s mixed with some classic French design and a few hand carved armoires that must be family relics.
Max’s brother, Camille, had the same animated expression as his father. He was anxious to exercise his English, which is just marginally better than my French but not as good as my Russian (to give you an idea). Camille was a goofball.
Mrs. Lecomte keeps a big garden in the back and- just my luck- all of my favorites were in full fecundity! Three cherry trees had dark red ovaries dangling like ornaments. His Mom had already picked the strawberries, which were sweetened by the unseasonably dry weather that the region has had. The apples, pears and apricots weren’t bearing yet, but that was no loss.
We had “French barbeque” for dinner, which means four courses with two wines, plus the before dinner chips and drink.
So we started in the living room with a special liquor from the south flavored with anise seed- a bit like absinthe. To the kitchen for a garden grown salad and goat cheese on toast. Then came the barbecue that we’d cooked earlier over this little forge: pork and beef sausage, shish-kebab and pork chops. A plate of French cheeses and finally a cherry cobbler with strawberries and cream- all from the garden. We drank rose wine with all of it, which Max told me is customary.
The next morning we left for Paris where the streets are bumpy.

Another word on Russian corruption

If one has the financial resources, then freedom of action is nearly limitless in Russia. It is a country of libertines; there is no moral mortar to bind people to the law.
That is not to say that Russians are immoral or amoral, just that the law, the state, and the government has no moral authority in the eyes of the folks on whose back it stands. In the United States we typically think of our laws as just because they generally reflect popular opinion and are written by freely elected representatives. People usually try to follow the law, however unpopular or antiquated, if not just to avoid the legal repercussions.
The problem in Russia is that no law has moral authority, even the ones that should (and few have legal authority). Laws designed to protect have been muddled with laws that are little more than red tape so that the moral considerations given to breaking either are the same.
A friend of mine totaled his car driving drunk. On paper, driving drunk results in the loss of one’s driver’s license and a hefty fine. My friend got off paying the police 10,000 rubles (about $350).
But, it’s not my friend’s duty to uphold the law. The fact that the police were willing to overlook a drunk driver who was obviously endangering any hapless pedestrian who he may have passed shows that the law has no moral weight for those tasked to enforce it (let alone legal weight).
This mindset was explained to me by an acquaintance of mine:
“When I was studying in Europe, they didn’t understand my mindset. I want to party and have fun but they were always like ‘no, that’s against the law.’ Europe is the worst, then America. In Russia we don’t care whether it’s against the law. A lot of people talk about the bad things in Russia but I can ride my motorcycle at 200km/h and if the police stop me I just slip them a few hundred rubles and I’m off.”
I’m quoting from memory, but it went something like that.

Of course, this is not every Russian’s mindset. Most abhor the lawlessness and want things to change but don’t know where to start.
What is the root of the problem?
The offenders? One can’t be expected to volunteer for punishment. If the legal environment is such that jail time or large fines can be avoided by paying a relatively small bribe, then who wouldn’t pay?
Are the police at fault? Partly. People have to eat and that is difficult to do on the pittance of a wage that Russian police earn. Unless an officer engages in entrepreneurial law enforcement there is no way he can own a car, live in a decent flat or provide much of an upbringing for his children. There is virtually no punishment for soliciting bribes but there is everything to lose for opposing corruption or speaking out against one’s fellow officers.
The problem is the wider legal and political culture. The Russian government is rotten through and through, with officials at the highest levels actively reinforcing the good ol’ boy structure whereby the country is ruled by oligarchs and low level bureaucrats are given free reign as profiteers.
I’m afraid that things will only change with the death of the older generation. Politicians are still caught in what Solzhenitsyn described as the thief’s mindset: “you today, me tomorrow.” Today I will do whatever I need and screw whomever stands in my path to reap the short-term benefit. Tomorrow, the same will be done to me. Until this thief mindset is purged from Russian political thought, bacterial corruption will continue to fester in the wounds of the country.

France: like America with funny accents...

I’ve ended up liking France a lot more than I thought I would. Russia colored my lens so that anything less dysfunctional strikes me as boring. France is, of course, the epitome of a Western liberal democracy where everything works as designed and everyone falls in line. That’s good. That’s how it should be. But, it’s not as interesting to me.
Gambling is not my strong point because I always root for the underdog. Some unexplainable discontent pulls my heart away from the obvious bet, so that I often find myself playing against the odds. My mind knows that I’m sabotaging my game, but what if?
So, excuse the imperfect analogy, but Russia is the guy at the casino who just spent his whole paycheck on a new tv, beer, scratch-off lottery tickets, and phone-in sexlines but who has a daughter who needs money for her 8th grade field trip to Washington D.C. Well, her dad doesn’t have the money because he blew it all. So he takes his last $20 that he keeps in the sun-visor of his car in case he runs out of gas (or has a bad day at work and needs to buy more beer) and he goes to the casino because he knows no other way to get the $400 for his daughter’s trip (he’s already maxed out his credit lines). He’s at the casino to win, not for himself but for his daughter because she’s been asking about the trip for weeks and doing little jobs for the neighbors to save up money. Sure, the guy may be a self-destructive ne’er-do-well, but who are you going to root for? You want his daughter to go see the Lincoln memorial and get a picture in front of the White House. You want him to win this time.
That’s Russia. You may hate the hell out of the government because of the way it blows the country’s potential by enriching oligarchs and brutalizing anybody who complains about it. But, you’re not rooting for those guys, you’re rooting for the people who have to live with them and have to suffer the consequences of their atrocious mismanagement. You want those good Russian folk to throw off the yoke of history and win for once.
France is beautiful and clean and the guys who check tickets on the Paris metro would never dream of taking a bribe so that you can get out of the $25 fine for hopping the turnstile. France is like that guy who you see at church and you know that when he puts an envelope into the collection plate that’s being passed around, there’s a hefty sum enclosed. All of his kids are well mannered, going to university on scholarship, and they tell you about it with the utmost humility if you bring it up first. A great guy, everyone should be like him.
But come on, that’s like betting on the hare when he’s racing the tortoise; I know how the fable ends, but that isn’t real life because hares are much faster, period.
That being said, I can still appreciate Mr. France’s daughter because she’s gorgeous, smart, clean, and funny. Yes, young Ms. France is quite a catch and I wouldn’t mind visiting her for a few weeks to see her Louvre and vineyards.
But Ms. Russia has that spark. She’s not so good in school and she can be snappy and mean when she’s in a bad mood. Her and I butt heads on a lot of things and she always leaves a big mess when she comes over. What can you do though? She’s just a lot cooler than Ms. France.
The European Union as a whole is a wonderful place to live and to work. Liberal attitudes flourish and politics generally serve the betterment of human life. Hearing the lectures and learning more about the organization made me very happy to see that centuries of struggle, war and bloodshed had finally culminated into a rather boring institution with rather mundane issues to tangle with. The European Union is the dream of social order: a place where power is tempered by extreme pluralism but cohesion is maintained through economic incentives. War is unlikely to break out, beautiful churches and castles dot the landscape, pretty languages, pretty parks, and healthy people abound. I can hardly think of a structure better suited to moderation or a nicer place to have it.
My impression of France before I came was basically that it was America but with funny accents. There are plenty of English speakers and you can buy the same shampoo in a grocery store in Dijon as you can in the WalMart in Easley, SC. That’s true, but there is still a cultural divide I’ve come to find out. French are different folk and they have some different strokes. Their palettes are much more attuned to fine wines, their views on gender roles and their preparation of buttered rolls are entirely different.
Strasbourg, specifically, was a great example of a city settled into the age. It had changed hands several times between France and Germany like an ugly sweater at a Chinese gift exchange. Generations of Strasbourganites had been distressed by border disputes between pompous men in capitals far away. Yet, today border-hopping goes unhindered by any physical or legal obstacles and the inhabitants of Strasbourg no longer have to worry about how they’ll respond on SAT tests (or whatever) when the question of nationality arises.
I am genuinely proud of Europe for constructing the union. High political mindedness has achieved something that will have incalculable benefits for the continent. So, onwards to the next country and the next region! I want to be at the forefront of the effort to make things boring for all people because boring is a lot better than bad. Therefore, the East post-Soviet block is to be my stomping grounds with Western Europe as a model for how Ms. Russia should dress, behave and be.

Leaving Russia, airport

Coming through airport security at Domodedevo airport, my previous observations were confirmed. If you are a white European looking person in Russia, then security personnel don’t pay you any mind.
When I was at the American embassy I had to be screened before I came inside. I took off my jacket and sat it on the table while the guard went over me with a metal detector. He ignored my jacket though. I had to leave and come back in a few minutes later, and when I came back he gave a laugh and said, “you’re not a terrorist,” then waved me through.
I’m not saying that this bothers me exactly. I think that our enhanced security atmosphere is a bit silly and not terribly effective, but it is still strange to see the Russian security model at work.
When my bookbag went through the x-ray machine, it was a wired mess of laptop, cables, phone chargers, and cameras. It looked suspicious to me on the screen (though I’m not a trained “professional”). The lady had me open it, take two books from the top and then without a second glance passed me on- no digging or anything.
Of course, if you are someone with dark skin then you’ll go through hell at the security screenings. Central Asians and people from the Caucasus are picked out of the crowd to undergo full search. Is that justified? The liberalism churning inside me says no way, but the realist knows that individuals from these countries are usually the perpetrators of terrorist acts. Is it worth the lives of everyone on an airplane to preserve the liberties of an individual? Well, obviously not, but that’s a loaded question.
Is it right to screen certain people? To me this is only partly a question of ethics. There are ways to screen that aren’t completely racial. I’ve read about new methods being developed to run people through a “psychological security screening,” where images of known terrorists, insurgents, and other bad guys who wouldn’t be recognized by the average person but who would be known by a potential operative are flashed on a screen. The screenee’s reaction is monitored and used like a polygraph test to flag people who respond suspiciously. There are also programs- in testing I think- where frequent fliers go through expedited security screening; the reasoning is that it’s unlikely that someone who frequently flies will suddenly decide to blow up the plane.
These are imperfect solutions but they might help to speed up and improve security screening.

So, I am leaving Russia today- writing this in the airport. I can’t believe it. I am more nervous to leave Russia than I was coming. The last 3 and a half months have passed so quickly and I have had one of those experiences. The kind that you bring up in casual conversation and blabber about until people start wondering when you’ll finish so that they can stop saying “wow, that’s interesting” as an automated response. Unless you’ve had one of these experiences it will sound trite when I say that it was “life changing” and “I would do it again.” But, it’s true. This was my first big adventure and it will be the standard for adventures forevermore.
I had three good Russian friends accompany me to the airport and hang out with me in the terminal while I waited for the Air Berlin booth to open. I was charged 110 Euros for my CARRY ON BAG, but what can you do? I’ll miss Russia terribly- it’s my second motherland now. Strange to think, but Russia is more familiar and dear to me than Clemson.

Trains, again

The train to and from St. Pete’s was a Soviet relic, replete with a red star on the front and humorless staff.
I mentioned in an earlier blog how my friend, Elina, smirked at Russian trains. Now I know what she was talking about.
I’m about 6 feet tall, which must be above average because nothing made during Soviet times really fits me. I remember reading about how the Central Committee (or whoever was the authority over this) designed all toilets made in the Soviet Union around Mr. Khrushchev’s proportions: “if it fits me, it will fit everyone.” They must have taken that same spirit when they were building beds too because my feet always hang off the end.
The bunks on the train have dividers at head and foot so it’s a bit like sleeping in an open-air coffin. I woke up sweaty and feeling like my spine had been compressed a bit. For one of our Canadian fellows who is 6 foot 4” it was rather uncomfortable.
During the evening before bedtime, everyone sits on the bottom bunks around a small table and plays cards, chats, eats weird Russian sausage and herring, and drinks heavily. It’s really common in Russia to go to lunch during the middle of the day and to see people drinking alcohol. Not just beer, but liquor. The family across from me wasted no time in breaking out the beer and becoming merry.
If you want to smoke, you have to go stand between the two wagons. So of course, the passage was always full of people and when you opened the door smoke billowed out and filled the rest of the wagon.
Russia is not highly esteemed for its toilets, and the bathroom on the train definitely fell under the “only for emergencies” designation. There was no toilet seat, which is no big deal for us guys but woe to you females. There were shoe-marks on top of the toilet where evidently one is supposed to squat in a rather undignified position to excrete in a rather undignified hole.
At the end of each car there was a samovar with hot water from which the kids would make ramen noodles.
The train station in Moscow looked exactly the same as the station in St. Petersburg. It was hard to tell you had arrived. On the walls there was a big map of the different routes. You could take a train from Moscow to Budapest or Prague (about a 24 hour trip I would imagine).
I’ve been talking with friends about making a trans-Siberian trip by train- that is Moscow to Vladivostok. It takes 7 straight days to get there. Now that I know what to expect, Let’s go!

Time Travel

Being stuck in Leningrad for 3 days had me feeling homesick. Not for home, but for Moscow. I don’t know when that happened! Emotional attachment creeps up on you so that before you know it, you are “at home” in a place.
I was reading a bit about the “mental clock.” There are many many parts of our brain that interpret time in various ways. Since I’ve been here, my mind’s clocks have lost their calibration and my sense of time is all distorted.
In the old days of naval navigation, the captain (or whoever was doing the navigating) relied on “dead reckoning” to estimate the longitude. There were tremendous error margins involved with this method, but it remained the standard until the 1770’s. The difficulty of calculating longitude lied in the inability of mariners to keep accurate time on board. The rocking of the ship immediately made pendulum clocks untrue, so knowing time at the appointed meridian was impossible.
To calculate longitude is rather simple if one has an accurate clock: there is a difference of 15 minutes for every longitudinal degree. So, one must only determine the local time (at high noon) and compare it with the meridian time.
In one of my temporal perceptions, very little time has passed since I’ve been here. I remember saying goodbye to my parents and my first day in Russia like it was just a few weeks ago. I suppose it really was just a few weeks ago (almost 12), but my mental conception of what 12 weeks feels like is a lot longer than what I’ve actually experienced.
When you travel at the speed of light, time does not exist. If you head at light speed away from the earth for a few minutes (relative to you), and then turn around, you will find that years have passed on earth. My internal clock says that I haven’t been here long, yet my date of departure is near.
On the other hand, it’s like I’ve been here for years. I’ve already settled into social equilibrium- I have friends and schedules and can text in Russian as quickly as in English! I know the people who work at the grocery store, the shwarma stand, and the fruit stalls. I just ran into a Nigerian guy who I know yesterday, like, I have people who I know in Moscow! It’s all become so familiar and lovely. I suppose that because I have taken in so much these past few months- been so hyper-stimulated- that my mind assumes this must have been a longer period of time. It’s like packing many years of social, cultural, linguistic, and emotional learning into a 3-month frame. I can really say, “I lived in Moscow.” I have lived life here, not just visited as a tourist.
When you’re a child, time moves slowly. This is not just an illusion: time, relative to you, actually does pass more slowly because your brain is taking more time to process the new information. Big programs run slowly on a computer because they involve many more processes. Remember, a computer’s processor is electro-mechanical, a series of switches either in a 0 or 1 position.
Our brains are no different. Big new mental stimulation requires more brain processing. So, one’s perception of time actually slows down because it literally takes more time for the brain to interpret what is going on.
The novelty of the experience makes the brain work harder, and so time creeps like a lagging computer.

Anyway, St. Petersburg was a bit of a let down for me. To me, the interesting part of traveling is seeing how different people live. There are so many realities on the planet that it seems a waste to spend the time and money to get to a place just to see your own reality in a different location. Being stuck to a tour guide with a rigid itinerary on a pre-packaged trip has a way of killing the excitement of travel and the genuineness of observation.
Not only that, Russia is this giant country full of crumbling Soviet buildings, corruption, poverty, alcoholism, and so on. St. Petersburg is a façade to show tourists; it’s a fraud! I love Russia for what it is, and to me it is not St. Petersburg.
I’ve always disliked Washington D.C. because it’s not a proper outgrowth of human society. It was planned from the top down and so it has none of the interesting quirks that color a large urban inhabitation. Nobody even lives there except for students, young people, the super rich and the super poor. Boring. St. Petersburg was built in this same fashion, although I grant that it is a much more living-and-breathing city than D.C.
If you have or have had the chance to visit both Moscow and St. Pete’s, let me know what you think. I want to get out and see more of Russia. Moscow is like New York: a little taste of everything that the country has, but invariably detached from everyone else. So, I need more Russian experience methinks.

New York Times: Russia

I would like to direct everyone to this Pulitzer Prize winning news-series: “Above the Law.”
It documents the unbelievable abuses and corruption in the Russian legal system. You will be shocked.

Language

Noam Chomsky’s linguistic theories have been assailed by none other than Dr. Quentin Atkinson (and Michael Dunn)! As many readers of my blog know, my name is Miles Quentin Atkinson. But that’s immaterial. What’s interesting is that the field of linguistics may face its first major paradigm shift since Chomsky turned the field on its head back in the 50’s and 60’s.
This is interesting to me for a number of reasons. Firstly, it knocks a hole in my image of Chomsky as an impenetrable fortress of intellect. Chomsky, aside from being a linguist, is the torchbearer of modern anarchism. It’s not that I necessarily agree with all of Chomsky’s politics, but I’ve said “I guess I have to be an anarchist because I don’t think I could ever beat Chomsky in a debate.” That’s probably still true, but the man’s shining white visage has been tarnished.
I’m only sort of joking.
More important is the challenge that Dr. Atkinson’s and Dr. Dunn’s papers offer to mainstream linguistic theory. To summarize, Chomsky says that humans are naturally programmed to learn language and that there is a universal grammatical structure underlying all chitchat. Just as our organs develop according to some genetic blueprint as we age, Chomsky says that our ability to learn language develops similarly. That’s a very simplistic summation, but then again, I have a very surface understanding of the topic; don’t cite my summary.
Atkinson’s paper traces languages as a function of the distance from Africa from which it originated and the number of “phonemes” that the language contains. Africa is where humanity finds its origins and “the farther you get from that continent, the less diverse, genetically speaking, people are.” The same is true of languages. Phonemes are the single sounds that distinguish one word from another: f, d, b, and s in fad, dad, bad, sad. Atkinson found that the farther away a language originated from Africa, the fewer phonemes it had. In other words, the farther away from Africa a language developed, the less diversity in sound it contained.
Dunn used computer modeling to find that almost no grammatical uniformity can be found across language groups.
Basically, this challenges Chomsky’s theory of innate language and suggests that languages are shaped much more by culture and other things that we humans create rather than genetics.
Maybe I was being too ambitious in trying to explain all of that since I don’t really know very much about it. But, it leads me to my next point, and what was going to be my main point before my thoughts turned tangential: Russian language and language in general.
I love the Russian language and I intend to become fluent in it, or at least decent. I’ve progressed more slowly than I would have liked in learning the language since I’ve been here, mainly because most of the Russians I know speak English. Recently though I’ve become friends with someone who speaks no English, and that has been good from a language-learning point of view.
Learning another language has got me thinking about my mother tongue and its great dialectical diversity, quirkiness, and structure. I’ve never thought of the different accents and regional characteristics of English as separate dialects, but there is enough variation between the speech of rural Southern black people and English speakers in India, for instance, so that the two are not mutually intelligible.
I use the example of Southern black dialect because I am familiar with it. It is interesting to note the grammatical structure of this dialect and how it often drops or misuses standard English verb conjugation: the present tense of a verb is often substituted for past tense or sometimes the past-perfect tense is used instead of past (“he had told me,” or “he tell me” instead of “he told me”) Also, as Johnson (the Economist’s language blog) pointed out in a recent post, the possessive “s” is often dropped so that “Michael’s sister” becomes “Michael sister.” Really, for the purpose of intelligible communication, the possessive ‘s is an unnecessary addendum.
Also of interest is the heavy use of intonation in this dialect. It is always fun to listen to black folk talk excitedly as their pitch flies up and down, stress is shifted around, and certain words are elongated.
Listen to the people speak in this video: If you don’t want to watch it, it’s about a teacher who is trying to get young black kids to speak proper English (“say ask instead of ax.”)
I don’t really see the difference between black “ebonics” and any other type of dialect. I mean, the Cockney and “deep South” dialects are just as incorrect in a strict grammatical sense. I do think it is important to know proper English, but I also think that our dialects are something to be respected and preserved. Just to note, many of my black friends switch back and forth between more standard English and the Southern black dialect depending on who they’re talking to.
The Russians here who are fluent in English often mention how difficult it is to understand certain English speakers. Some have mentioned how poorly the Dutch speak English, or how Indians make lots of grammatical errors. For my friends who have spent time in America, a lot of them talk about their troubles with talking to black folks. Even I am hard to understand! But, that’s mostly because I talk very quickly and have a hard time enunciating syllables when I am eager to share a thought.
What most of the Russians seem to agree about is that Canadians are the easiest to understand. I’m not sure why.
There are a lot of quirks in our language that the Russians have opened my eyes to. Contextually driven “phrasal verbs” present a major challenge to non-native speakers. For instance, how would one deduce the meaning of a phrase like “let’s hang out?” Hang out of what? Why would we want to do that?
When we “put off” work or “get over” the flu, what are we doing? Only a native speaker would know.
One of my friends asked me: “why do you say ‘he was beaten up,’ instead of ‘he was beaten’?” They mean the exact same thing, so why do we add the “up?” I told him I had no idea.
Almost every English speaking Russian makes the same kind of grammar mistakes. The most common mistake is simple word order confusion. They will say “tell us what is it,” instead of “tell us what it is,” for example.
There are certain sounds that are unique to English. The most difficult for the Russians are the “th” sound in thick, and the “w” sound in well. I just read that “th” is a sound found exclusively in the languages of the European fringe (Iceland, England, Spain, Greece, and Denmark). Interestingly, the “th” sound seems to only appear in areas where a majority of people carry the O-blood type gene.
Unfortunately, the Latin script is not so comprehensive as to include all of the sounds that we use, and for many words there is no obvious pronunciation. I’ve heard one of our Russian friends pronouncing “muscles” with a hard ‘c,’ like “muskels.” Or he will say “charger” with a hard ‘g’.
Many logical mistakes are made. I remember my friend Vasily was telling me that a man I had just talked with was a “nuclear physician” in the Soviet Union. A nuclear physician? Oh, he meant a nuclear physicist.
Russians use English words in ways that we wouldn’t; I assume this is just transposing Russian slang and colloquialisms into English because they certainly didn’t pick them up from English-language mass media or native speakers. When looking for affirmation, they will ask “is it normal,” where we would say “is that alright?” They use “legendary” as the highest endorsement, where we would say “awesome!” Many beginners will look up English phrases that end up sounding very out of place when spoken in a broken accent: instead of “thank you,” they’ll say “don’t mention it,” “not at all,” or “my pleasure.”
I’m sure I sound silly when I use the Russian slang that I’ve been taught. I certainly get laughs when I use words like “ништяк” (nishtyak) or “отстой,” (otstoy) which translate roughly to “that’s sick/cool” and “that sucks.”
Language is one of those marvels of human existence and that’s all there is to it.

Unjustified Optimism?

*I wrote this about a month ago, and I think my opinion has changed since. Another blog to follow.

I may be overstepping my boundaries and making assumptions that are beyond my knowledge in writing what I am about to write, but I am an observer and these are my observations.
When it comes to political life, most Russians have a pessimistic streak and a general attitude of hopelessness, which is invariably self-fulfilling. Granted, I hail from the upper-middle class in “the land of the free”, so my outlook on political life is likely to be a bit sunnier than that of the general world population. Still, I believe in the efficacy of peoples, even peoples inured to corruption and mismanagement at the highest administrative levels.
Vladimir Putin, the prime minister of Russia, is often charged with holding dictatorial power. This may be the case, and there are certainly shady things that have happened on his watch, but I don’t think that he is the main problem. Corruption is widespread in Russia and it takes many forms. From the lowliest power monger to the highest officials, the practice of greasing palms is pervasive.
Corruption is always the product of a poorly structured bureaucracy, and in the case of Russia, it is a legacy of the Soviet system, which was notorious for its lack of accountability. Perhaps the mindset that fermented in the days of despotism under forced conformity when dissent carried a death penalty still lingers in the Russian subconscious; perhaps a society used to a strong authoritarian will always want for that paternalistic power.
But, even in Soviet times there were plenty of dissenting voices and they became muffled less as time went on and the Soviet Union liberalized. Dissent under Stalin was not tolerated, but things lightened up a lot under Khrushchev and certainly under Gorbachev. There is a general human tendency to resist oppression and the voices of people like Pasternak, Akhmatova, and Solzhenitsyn still found expression in spite of Soviet censorship (in later years anyway). As far as I know, which is not very much, there is not much serious talk inside the country about the problems of modern Russia, at least not talk with the purpose of bringing about change. What is going on?
Maybe there is a fear factor, what with the suspicious deaths of Anna Politkovskaya, shot in an elevator, and Alexander Litvinenko, poisoned with radioactive material in London. The recent decision to extend the prison sentence on trumped up charges of oil magnate Mikhail Khodorkovsky who funded anti-Putin campaigns, does not instill trust in the legal system. Not to mention the two reporters who were savagely beaten a few months ago after they covered a controversial highway construction story.
It may be the case that many Russians think fatalistically, but fatalism is not “ingrained” in Russian culture as many claim. Recall, if you will, that Russia was the scene of the most dramatic and comprehensive political movement of the twentieth century, if not the history of civilization. It was here that a centuries old imperial system was toppled and with it the nascent roots of international capital in the country. An entirely new societal structure was adopted. Of course, we can see now that this was a misguided attempt, but it was not an attempt made by complacent fatalists. The mood of the time, 1905-1917, was of hope. 1905 brought the first signs of change: a semi-representative Duma and a constitution. February 1917 brought the end of dynastic Russia. October, unfortunately, brought the Bolsheviks. Still, the civil war that followed was fueled by ideology and a hope of establishing a better Russia.
What Russia needs is a change in attitude. My Russian friend said this about change in Russia: “you can’t turn shit into candy.”
That may be true, but you aren’t dealing with shit, you are dealing with a country; a country with one of the most vibrant and diverse cultures on the planet that values education. It is a country that has produced some of the most brilliant artists, authors, and scientists in history and which has tremendous potential for growth. All it takes to create change is a shift in attitude. From that, everything else will follow.

VDNKh

Today I went on another of my solitary walking tours of Moscow to get some exercise and allow some thoughts to brew. I’ve begun reading my second work by Solzhenitsyn- “The Gulag Archipelago”- and already I sense the tremendous impact it will have in the formulation of my political compass. You see, Solzhenitsyn is the foremost chronicler of the abuses in the GULAG labor camps, and he describes the abuse with such harrowing specificity as to churn up rabid indignation in the most imperturbable and morally relativist of individuals. So you can just imagine my reaction!
Walking around the VDNK (ВДНХ) today I was filled by a desire to desecrate the “temples of the proletariat” built to the glory of a bastardized ideology that was the driving force behind the unspeakable treatment of millions at the hands of the bastards who became so unthinkingly consumed by it!
Getting ahead of myself. The VDNK was a permanent exhibition center for each of the Soviet Socialist Republics (the SSR in USSR) built in 1939 under papa Stalin. In the enormous outdoor complex are magnificent exhibition halls, built like temples, where cultural displays from each of the republics were maintained. Each building has its own unique architectural design but is covered with communist iconography that not-so-subtly suggests the subordinate status of regional culture to global worker’s solidarity.
Today, the cultural exhibits are long gone, replaced with little vendor stalls like the ones we have outside of my apartment building. Inside the Belorussian building there was a purveyor of toothpaste, blow-dryers, and floor-mats. Each of the buildings is full of vendors hawking everything from fancy televisions and high-grade video cameras, to prop swords, hookahs, cookware, and faux-fur.
Strange to see the hand-drawn signs and splintered plywood “storefronts” underneath the intricate plaster medallions on the ceiling. Stepping through the threshold framed by magnificent marble columns and archways and into the hectic bazaar feels much like going to a flea market in the Lincoln Memorial. Really, imagine all of the monuments in Washington D.C. being overtaken by the peddlers in New York’s Chinatown. Counterfeit watches on sale at the WWII memorial; food stands blocking the names on the Vietnam memorial; a big banner advertisement hanging on the Washington monument.
Although initially taken aback by this, it dawned on me that there could be no greater triumph of the noble forces of liberalism over the petulant rottenness that inspired the construction of these halls! Sure, the booths are a bit tacky and out of place, but can you imagine the look on Stalin’s face if he knew that his grand monument to communist unity was being used in this manner? I can think of no greater desecration of his vision. Sure, Khrushchev did a number on Stalin’s reputation when he dismantled the cult of personality, but nothing like this. It makes you want to go stomp on the old bastard’s grave near the Kremlin and joyfully scream:

“You lose, you’ve lost! Everything that you thought good has been dismantled; your memory has been defecated upon by history; you are an object of contempt! Good riddance!”

Churches

There seems to be a degree of superstitious mysticism in Russian culture, and it can be seen especially in the Orthodox Church. There is a tremendous amount of ritual that must be followed before, during, and after being inside. At the threshold, believers will cross themselves (the Orthodox cross-motion is the reverse of the Cathol/Protestant- top, bottom, right, left). Inside, men must remove hats and women must put on headscarves. Women must also be dressed in conservative attire, that is, skirts or loose-fitting trousers. Believers scurry about the dark rooms perfumed with incense, busily crossing themselves and bowing to the gilded portraits of saints.
The whole atmosphere inside the churches plays to the senses: elaborate icons, golden alters and paintings on every bit of wall and ceiling overwhelm the eyes. The strong smell of incense permeates everything, and the warm stuffiness of the sanctuaries contrast sharply with the cold outside. The room is either full of chanting or, more commonly, so quiet that you have to make an effort to stifle the sound of your footfall. This all creates an environment that emphasizes the mysterious and the spiritual, which goes a long way in explaining the raw and emotional form of worship in the church. It is not uncommon to see women weeping before the image of a saint, and most every one of the faithful kisses the saints’ pictures on the walls. In some churches there are the remains of long-dead saints encased in tremendous sarcophagi with transparent glass over the top. I have seen people stand in line to bend over and kiss the glass, which is always smudged with the collective lip-gunk of the faithful.
I should mention that the bodies of the saints are covered in linens, so it’s not like you can see a decomposing face staring back up at you. But, I wonder if people would be so keen on kissing the glass if that were so?
The Russian Orthodox Church is so fundamentally different than the Protestant tradition that I am more familiar with. As far as I can tell, Russian Orthodox services lack sermons in favor of much chanting, singing, incense swirling, and prostration before the Lord (who stares down with a stern face from the ceiling). This worship is much more transcendent and spiritual than the typical Protestant variety, and without much organization or structure. People come in and out, praying to whichever saint they choose and all bowing and crossing whenever they feel like it. I haven’t seen the blank back-and-forth between priest and congregation of the Episcopal tradition, nor have I seen anyone taking communion in any form, or really any interaction between the priests and the people. That’s not to say that it’s not there, but not in a form familiar to me.
Really, it reminds me much more of the type of worship I’ve seen in mosques or synagogues. A great deal of chanting and recitation of prayer in Russian, Hebrew, or Arabic, respectively, with lots of ritualistic bowing, crossing, prostrating, and rocking. From what I can tell, the Orthodox priest plays a similar role to the imam. He leads prayer during a service, and is a spiritual adviser after hours. Unlike Islam, there is a lot more pomp and show in the Orthodox Church and with plenty of pictures of Jesus, God and the saints (strictly forbidden in Islam). So, in that sense, an Orthodox church is also similar to the synagogues that I’ve seen. There is a lot of decoration and they both have big elaborate versions of their holy books, to point out a few things. Well, naturally they will all be a bit similar since they come from the Abrahamic tradition.
There is a lot of formality in church, and being unfamiliar with it can get you in trouble. I was in the Cathedral of Christ the Savior and some бабушка ran up from behind, slapped my arm and issued some reprimand for an unknown violation. In another church, I mistakenly put my hat back on before being all the way outside. I was approached by a youngish man who gestured to me to take it off. It’s difficult to know how to behave inside exactly, but I just try my best to be unassuming and inoffensive.

Superstitions Are Silly

“Superstitions are for the weak of heart, they make you think you’re finished without even having to start…circumstances are the closest thing to luck, the trick is to keep on moving. Whatever you do, don’t get stuck.” So says Mr. Ian Hanawalt.

Russians have a lot of superstitions, and like all superstitions they don’t make one bit of sense. I enjoy superstition though, as long as it doesn’t impede progress or anything, because it is a relic of a primitive mindset where arbitrary actions are attached significance. Superstitious behavior satisfies an obsessive-compulsive tendency in human beings in a relatively harmless way. I like to play along!
I’ll relate a few uniquely Russian superstitions that I have encountered. When pouring a drink, always set the glass down on a table. When pouring a round of drinks, always have one person pour for everyone. When drinking, the first shot must be followed by a third shot (which, of course, necessitates a second shot). When drinking, always wait for a toast before you take your shot. When drinking, always finish your shot in one gulp. Of course, all of these superstitions have been related to us out of context- we certainly wouldn’t be consuming alcohol.
When describing a physical deformity, never show it on yourself. I was talking to Katya and Alisa about a guy I saw with no hands, and when I crinkled up my fingers to show them they both reacted immediately! The superstition holds that showing it on yourself will bring it upon you (but apparently it doesn’t apply in some circumstances like if a girl says “her breasts were way out to here!”).
When sitting between two people of the same namesake, one is granted a wish. This one is good for us because we have three Max’s in our group.
If someone itches their nose, you’re supposed to punch them.
I’m always being called out because I whistle: “whistling money away.”
When people are getting married the guests call out some word that translates into “bitter,” and the groom will kiss his bride while everyone counts. However high they count is supposed to be the number of years they’ll be married.
There are plenty of opportunities to make wishes. On Red Square there are several places to make a wish, but usually you have to throw money or something first.
In the metro station Плошадь Революции, there are bronze statues. All of the extremities of the statue are rub-polished because rubbing them is good luck, of course!

Борис Пастернак

After I’d visited Pasternak’s house I decided I didn’t want to see his grave. His home is kept in such a way that you would think that it is still inhabited. There’s a cat sleeping on the bed, and for being a museum, nothing is roped off or behind glass. His worn paperbacks are still on the shelf and his plain oak desk sits unvarnished and empty.
Nadya and I had spent a while trudging through the cemetery, getting snow in our boots, but we couldn’t find the author. Russian graveyards are a bit of a hodgepodge with a different motif for each headstone. Some are wooden orthodox crosses- a bit more ornate than the protestant variety, with an extra half-X at the bottom, but without the macabre crucified messiah of the Catholics. Others are of black and red granite like Lenin’s mausoleum. Most of the headstones had pictures of the deceased etched into them: one particularly morbid grave was topped by a black obelisk that had on one side a dramatic scene of a beautiful naked girl reaching up towards the sun, and on the other side, a life-size etching of the same girl. Seemed like a strange way to decorate a grave.
We eventually abandoned our search for Pasternak and resolved to go on to his home. Down a residential street with new construction on one side is the dacha where he wrote Dr. Zhivago and where he died. There are neighbors next door and they have barking dogs. Besides a small sign on the gate and another on the side of the house, there is no indication that anything out of the ordinary happened here. Nothing would suggest that one of the greatest novels ever written was penned in one of the upstairs rooms of the little barnyard-red house. Nadya and I were the only people in sight; there were no tourists and no food or Pasternak memorabilia stands outside.
It costs 50 rubles ($1.75) to come inside; an entrance fee is almost just a formality. A friendly Russian woman led us around the house, holding up photographs of the author and showing us exactly where they were taken. Everything is in the same place as in the picture, just as it would have been.
Whenever I’ve visited museums or old estates in the United States or Europe the tour guides claim that “this is just how it would have been.” Somehow though, it always feels a bit contrived. This is not how it would have been. The Vanderbilts wouldn’t have let hundreds of tourists traipse through the Breakers or Biltmore and gawk. There wouldn’t have been yellow grip-tape on the stairs, cameras in the corners of the ceiling, velvet ropes blocking off rooms, or EXIT signs above the doors.
Pasternak has pictures that his father sketched hanging up on the walls in the dining room. Colorful etchings of chubby women in the nude and a painting of a mother breast-feeding. A magnificent grand piano is crammed into his wife’s tiny room. When Boris was dying they moved it there.
Looking out of the upstairs window next to his desk, Pasternak invented Zhivago and Lara. Has it ever happened to you that you feel a strong, almost romantic attraction to a fictional character? How could Zhivago have let Lara go? I don’t understand Boris Leonidovich why you had to make him so miserable. The characters become real people over whose mistakes you can’t help but feel distraught.
Yury Zhivago is loosely based on Pasternak himself, perhaps not in deed but in thought and mindset. That is only natural for an author to make his protagonist in the image of himself. For me, this has the effect of blurring the line between fictional character and the man who created him so that I couldn’t help but picture Yury and Lara going about the rooms. Pasternak’s desk was where Yury wrote his poems and just outside the front door is where Strelnikov shot himself. Perhaps this was Lara’s room and off in the distance is where Yury caught his last glimpse of her.
In the room where Pasternak died, a plaster death mask stares into the dining room. In the corner is a pencil drawing of the corpse. On the opposite wall there is a centerfold from a French magazine with a picture of the author’s funeral procession. It all felt out of place in the house.
We sat at his table on his wicker chairs while our guide flipped through a book to show us a picture of his grave. The panoramic windows let in sun, and cast the room in a cheery springtime light. A porcelain samovar and matching saucers looked ready to be made use of. She told us that the headstone had originally been pure white but some zealous literary enthusiasts wanted to pay special tribute so they burnt flowers on top of it leaving it blackened. She pointed it out in the picture.
We left the house and stepped out into the yard, full of towering pines and the occasional bleached bark of a birch. Across the drive is a guesthouse, or maybe it’s a work shed. At the end is a tiny garage. Down a walkway cut in the snow there is an outhouse where I pissed in Pasternak’s toilet.
On the way back up the road, we walked past the graveyard again but I couldn’t spot the charred headstone.
I can’t help but feel some fraternity with the man, even though he’s been dead for fifty years and lived in a different time in a different country. I haven’t even read his work in its original language. Still, some ideas and emotions transcend time and place and even language so that more than half-a-century after Dr. Zhivago was published and almost a century since it took place, I can still be deeply impacted by a work and the man who created it.

I like Russians

I am constantly trying to define Russians, trying to pinpoint some overarching character trait and create a mold. The futility of this is beginning to dawn on me. I’ve never tried to define what Americans are, because how can you? There is no one thing that binds all 300 million of us. There are good Russians and there are bad Russians. There are friendly and outgoing Russians and there are obstinate Russians and there are pretty Russians and ugly Russians. Yes, I guess all I can really say is that Russia, like anywhere else, has a great diversity of personality.
That being said, Russians do have a unique culture and a way of doing things that is different from what I’m used to. I first noticed this when I went to New York with English and my Russian friend Vasily. We drove from Clemson to Washington D.C. to New York, and along the way I noticed a few things that I now know are characteristically Russian.
Firstly, Russians seem to have a special love of automobiles. Vasily loved to drive. He chose to drive to New York City when we could have easily flown for about the same price. To him it was a great American road trip; to me it was I-95 for 14 hours! All the same, Vasily was so impressed with the quality of the roads, and cruising around in his older-model Lincoln Towncar we were really riding in comfort. He was very particular about the car, which was at least 15 years old and had way over 100,000 miles on it. It struck me as kind of funny because he bought it when he got to the United States, and he is returning to Russia sometime this summer- so this was not a long-term investment. But, before we could take off in the morning we would turn the engine on, sit in the car, and wait for about five minutes for the engine to warm up: “this improves the longevity of the car.” Well, no reason to argue. We stopped a few times along the way to let the engine cool, though the gauges suggested that it was operating at a normal temperature.
Vasily really treated his car well. My Russian friends here are also very particular and very proud of their cars. My friend Max has an old Lada, a Russian made car, that has difficulty starting in cold weather and sometimes turns off at stoplights. But, he has put a lot of work into it, fixing it up and making it run well. The Russians are a bit car-crazy; they love Mustangs and American muscle cars. I have seen more luxury automobiles in Moscow than I have ever seen in my life: several Bentleys cruising around, countless Mercedes, Audis, BMWs, and we saw a Ferrari dealership the other day.
Secondly, Russians have a fluid concept of time. When we were in New York, I wanted to be active. If we were going to eat, then I wanted to be in and out so that we could maximize our time adventuring! Vasily liked to take it easy and thought I was funny in my rush. When I am on vacation, the last thing I want to do is rest. I can rest at home, so let’s go see everything while we’re here! Vasily didn’t mind taking his time with things. When English and I accidentally took the subway over to Brooklyn and then had to backtrack, I was frustrated at the hour that I lost. When Vasily decided to go to Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty, the hour-long line to get tickets didn’t faze him, neither did the tremendous opportunity cost of being out on the water all day.
Especially among our male Russian friends, schedules may as well be written in the sand with the tide coming in. I learned quickly to not base my schedule around them. When they say “we’ll be there at three to do ____,” that really means “we’ll be there around five, sit around a bit and talk, and then go do ____ at six thirty.” It’s not a bad trait, it’s just not the way I do it.
Thirdly, Russians take things in stride. When things didn’t go our way or schedules were interrupted, Vasily would not be worried in the least. Where are we going to stay tonight? Where are we going to park? What are we going to do? Eh, we’ll figure it out; that was Vasily’s attitude. It’s a nice way to be. I’ve found Russians to be calm in situations when I am angry or worried. I like to be proactive with things. I like to channel that nervous energy towards fixing problems and finding solutions! I enjoy the emotional rush of uncertainty. Also, when something doesn’t work out, it distresses me. I’m bothered when my plans go awry. It’d be accurate to say that Russians are fatalistic: things happen, and that’s the way the world works. Nope, things happen because we make them happen!!!
When we went to the Georgian restaurant and were ripped off (previous post), the Russians didn’t seem too bothered about the whole ordeal. It’s just money after all. I guess that’s true. In the grand scheme of life, I’m not going to miss $25. Still, that didn’t have to happen…
Anyways, you can probably disregard everything I just said because it’s likely to be completely untrue. Still, those are my impressions.

Georgian Food

Georgian food is a delicate mixture of eastern spices and sensible European fare. It has the heartiness of Russian cuisine with plenty of root vegetables, cream, and fatty red meat; it balances the aforementioned with vibrant spices like those in Indian food. All of this makes for delicious food.
I first tried Georgian food at a place called “Genatsvale,” which supposedly means “comrade” in the Georgian tongue. The place has a warm wooden interior with low ceilings and low lighting. It all makes for a cozy dining experience.
Our first time eating there was excellent: the food was tasty, the wait-staff was prompt and friendly, and our dinner didn’t cost very much! Basically, it fit all of my criteria for a good eatery.
That our second visit was so unbelievably terrible was shocking.
On our second visit we came with about eight people. I talked the place up the whole way there and assured everyone that they would love it, even though Russians don’t like spicy food…
Our waiter, our smug waiter, came to the table and recommended that we take an appetizer sampler since most of us had never tried Georgian food before. He was pretty insistent, so we said that that sounded good. He walked off and returned a few minutes later, by which time we had decided against a sampler platter, and would prefer to just order our own entrees and share if we so desired. The waiter was taken-aback, he put on his most condescending smirk and said that it was too late, that he had already put the order in! Oh, and by the way, it cost 6,000 rubles!!!!!!! That’s $200, between 8 people, or $25 dollars each. Not only that, it was a sampler of the “cold” appetizers.
We should have just walked out, or insisted that he cancel the order, but we were polite instead.
While we were waiting on the food to come, we began to assure ourselves that surely there had been some kind of mistake- maybe this would actually be a full meal, or maybe it wasn’t really 6,000 rubles. Nope.
They brought us out a basket of bread, some cucumber and tomato slices, a kind of Georgian salsa, some vegetable pâté’, stuffed peppers, grape leaves, and a cold-cream and chicken soup. It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t filling and it certainly was not something I would pay $25 dollars for.
I was so angry at our petulant, haughty, cheating, lying waiter that when he brought our bill I asked him “почему?” which means why? “Почему что?” (why what?) He asked. You know damn well what I’m talking about you foul moron! Why would you recommend a 6,000 ruble plate of cold appetizers to a bunch of college kids?! What do we look like? And then we say we don’t want it before it’s brought out and he gives us a hard time about it. It was a bunch of cold appetizers that were probably already prepared, so it’s not like they had to throw it all out.
So, now I’m torn. I love Georgian food, but I’m fostering a fiery hatred for that waiter- oh, you should have seen the way he carried himself, a real arrogant jerk. Ergggh! Here it is a week and a half later, and I’m still mad about the whole thing. Should I return to the restaurant? Can I return and still be able to call myself a principled person? I don’t know.

Trains

I had heard rumors about Russian trains before when I mentioned to my Russian friend my interest in a trans-Siberian adventure. She wouldn’t go into details, but just wore a smirk on her face. I found out today what that smirk was all about.
We had our first adventure outside of Moscow today to the monastery Sergeyev Possad. It’s about 60 km (I guess) outside of Moscow, which necessitated travel by train. I was really surprised at how cheap the tickets were: 60 rubles (2 dollars) one-way. But, that price began to make sense when I entered the train.
Even before you step off of the platform some major disparities between Russian rail and Western European rail are identified: there is a foot-wide gap between the entrance to the train and the platform. It looked to me like a broken hip ready to happen, especially considering the number of elderly folk riding.
Entering the carriage, the doors were spring loaded so that you would have to fight to keep them open. Finding a seat is not difficult as long as you don’t mind sharing with a stranger (which I don’t). However, sitting in the seat for an extended period of time is a bit uncomfortable unless you are used to sitting against walls; the seats are not designed for long-distance travel or comfort. No big deal though, I am young.
The most interesting thing about the train is the constant flow of pan-handlers and small time salespeople who cycle through the carriages at steady intervals. One of them will stand up at the front of the car and start his sales-pitch, or appeal, or song, and then slowly move down the length of the car ready to make a sale or take in a spare ruble. As soon as one person is done, the next one come in and starts her spiel, and the whole ordeal continues the entire duration of the trip.
There would be one woman selling a toy remote controlled car, then another selling what looked like napkin holders? There was a legless man who walked on his knees down the aisle, and several people on crutches. It’s difficult, because you want to help but you can’t give money to everyone, and who knows where it’s going? The Russians have told me that a lot of these people work for someone, and have to give the money back to higher brass. I guess it’s maybe like in the movie Slumdog Millionaire, where the kids go and beg for the profit of some man in the background. Terrible.
One kid was really impressive. This boy must have been about 12 years old, he was dark skinned, maybe looked like an Afghan or Georgian or something like that. He played the accordion really well and sang a song in Russian. I found myself closing my book to watch him perform. I slipped him a few rubles as he walked by, who knows if he’ll get any of it, but I hope he does.

Русский Язык

The Russian language has a vibrant history full of political intrigue, brilliant artistry, and a whole host of other attributes that I will avoid listing so as not to sound hackneyed. From what I have read, Russians have a special attachment to their language, a kind of linguistic nationalism that we English speakers do not share with our mother tongue. Speaking for myself, English is just a means by which to communicate, not an expression or representation of my culture. However, for Russians, the Russian language is inextricably linked with the history and mindset of the country; it is the good old Sapir-Whorf hypothesis.
So, language being such a cherished natural treasure, it is surprising how inundated Moscow is with the English language. Most advertisements on billboards, television, and in stores are in English. Today when I went to get my haircut, none of the employees spoke a word of English, which made explaining the style that I wanted rather difficult. But, inside the shop, every product that they were using, all of the hair-care advertisements, and even the songs on the radio were in English.
Our language is everywhere. Even the most tucked away restaurants have full menus in English. In all of the tourist areas, signs are in Russian and English. The popular music is from America (mainly) and America movies gross almost twice as much as their Russian-made counterparts.
Last week I went to an English-speaking club, which is basically a bar where people come to speak English. Native English speakers get in free; Russians have to pay a cover charge. Apparently native English speakers are more of a draw than attractive women! Of course, most everyone there is Russian, but there were several British and American expatriates as well.
I was wandering around Moscow trying to find Old Arbat Street, which, by the way, is an entirely different road than New Arbat Street. I asked someone: “ Вы не знаете, где Старая Арват улица?” The response: “right over there.”
My Russian friends say that Americans stick out like a Jewish lesbian at the Republican National Convention (well, that’s not exactly how they put it). I am beginning to notice the difference too. On the metro, I can usually pick out a Brit or an American just by her facial expressions.
I feel myself beginning to assimilate. I am smiling less often when I am in public, and slowly getting used to the aggressive behavior in grocery store lines or on the escalator in the metro. Yesterday I was riding the bus and I stood up from my seat to talk with my friend across from me. I was still holding onto the rail that was attached to my seat, but when I turned around someone had snuck right past me and sat down. That’s just how it is. Still, with my new Eastern-European haircut, maybe people will start to think I’m Russian.
Back to language: Moscow is easy enough to navigate for English speakers, especially in the busy tourist areas. Still, Russian is definitely the national language and is still very much a part of life here, especially outside of the cities (I assume, I have not yet been outside of the city). I am excited to improve my speaking skills and to learn the language.

Communists

When I think of communists, I picture a 16-year-old kid who just read the Communist Manifesto and who thinks it might be cool to label himself a Marxist because it has shock value. Of course, Marxism is a relatively easy stance to take and to debate because its main tenets are derived from emotionally gratifying concepts like equality and brotherhood of mankind. Also, the “us and them,” proletariat-and-bourgeoisie, mentality of exclusivity gives the whole thing bandwagon appeal. I can understand how kids can go in and out of communist and other radical phases: it’s one of those teenage angst moves that does not actually reflect the individual’s beliefs, tastes or knowledge.
So, that being my mental image of a communist, it is interesting to see so many communists marching around here in Russia who do not fit into this mold. The members of the Communist Party here are almost all over 65. Yes, these champions of the working class, these Tom Joads, these cradle-to-grave Marxist-Leninists, are all retired. Really, the communists here are very similar to the AARP in America. In the U.S. of A, the Association for Retired Persons uses its tremendous political pull to channel federal funds towards pensioners. In Russia, the remaining communists are essentially trying to do the same thing by re-establishing the CCCP and getting their benefits back. The Russian counterpart to the AARP is the Communist Party!
This begs the question: are these individuals who march around Red Square with their Soviet Union flags and icons of Lenin really communists? I think not. I believe they are a combination of two things: (1.) angry because their pensions were cut or lost when the CCCP cracked, and (2.) nostalgic about the good old days.
The former, I can really sympathize with. Many people lost everything they ever had and were cast into great instability for years while Russia was recovering from the political and economic shakeup of the collapse. I would be upset too.
The latter though is an illogical and emotional condition found everywhere that seems to be innate in our species. People are always pessimistic about the present and the future, but remember their past as one eternal spring frolicking naked through a field of sunflowers in an opiate-like euphoria. Yes, most humans have a “grass-is-greener” complex in their rear-view. Returning to the Soviet Union would not make Russia any better, especially now, twenty years out. But, sorry about your pension.
Today I met a communist while I was riding the bus. He began talking to Shelli upon his realization that she was an American. She entertained his speech with big approving smiles- a Southern thing, you know- as he went off in Russian about how dramatically superior Marxism is to Democracapitalism. Our Russian friends were translating for us of course. The old man also went off about how black people destroyed America. A racist-communist. I thought those were supposed to be mutually exclusive? This maybe supports my theory of old communists not really being communists- just angry and dispossessed retirees.
As I have mentioned before, old people command a certain amount of respect in Russia. Young people immediately stand up on the metro when old ladies walk on; old women frequently chastise youngsters when they do something wrong (as I discovered firsthand*); young people avoid political debates with the old people even if they are spewing out blatant untruths that were fed to them by the political propagandists of yesteryear. In general, Russians my age are mostly apolitical. They care very little about today’s politics, and even less about the politics of the Soviet Union. I think that within a few years the last of the staunch communists will die off and that period of Russian history along with that political philosophy will be completely relegate to the history books.

Police

I’ve heard a great deal about the police in Russia and their tendency to scope out “offenders” who are likely to be the biggest cash cows. The police have an incentive to do this because fines can be paid directly to the officer, so all it takes is a little forgetful paperwork and that money disappears as far as the law is concerned. In addition to this legal structure, which facilitates the padding of pockets, bribery is a common practice and few Russians express ideological reservations to feeding this corruption.
A few nights ago we went out for some wholesome entertainment at the billiards hall, and then to the bistro afterwards for a quick dinner. We left the restaurant, which is in sight of our hostel, and began to walk back. One of our comrades had an open beer that he had been drinking at the bistro and was going to finish it on the way home. Having an open container is a finable offense, and as we were crossing the street, a police van tore out of nowhere and an excited looking female officer jumped out demanding our documents.
Passports were presented and to no one’s surprise a violation was spotted. Shelli did not have her immigration card on her. The police demanded to see the sheet of paper, so Shelli’s roommate Nadya had to walk back to the hostel to find it in the room. She returned with the wrong sheet of paper, but by that time the cops had gotten bored with the foreigners and allowed us to go without checking anyone else’s documents.
The po’ were not so lenient with our beer-drinking Russian friend. First, he had to pay a fine for carrying an open container. Reasonable. But, the police then told him that he had to pay if he wanted them to keep his offense secret from the dean, so he paid them more. By the time we were leaving, he was climbing into the police van presumably to work out another deal with these corrupt police.
From what I’ve gathered, this is a typical interaction with the Russian police. I was shocked to watch a police officer accepting a bribe as if it were protocol, like asking for identification during a traffic stop. It makes you wonder how many crimes go unreported because the police are paid to forget. What is a police force that does not uphold the law? It is nothing more than a state-endorsed gang, and the police are nothing more than gangsters. I make this statement based not only on my single experience, but also from the experience of my Russian friends, as they tell me.
For example, my friend’s father died five years ago. He was found dead in his friend’s apartment, with bruises on his body. The official cause of death was cirrhosis of the liver. However, according to my friend, the police stopped investigating because the family did not have the financial means to bribe the police to do its job. Maybe there was foul play, maybe there wasn’t, but my friend will never have the consolation of knowing exactly what happened to her father because of the crooked police force.
There are many other incidents of police misconduct. Another friend was telling me about the unprovoked attacks on “black” (Central-Asian, East Asian, and African) people perpetrated by Russian nationalist groups. Videos have been uploaded to the Internet in recent years of skinhead gangs severely beating and sometimes killing innocent “blacks.” I have read that the police often look the other way and fail to adequately investigate these cold-blooded crimes, and my Russian friend confirmed this. Random attacks against minorities have subsided in the last year, but other politically motivated attacks have recently made headlines. On Nov. 7th a reporter named Oleg Kashin was nearly beaten to death by two unknown and unprovoked assailants. His jaw was shattered, leg was broken, and he suffered a head injury. Two days later, another journalist was beaten up, though not as severely. Both had been reporting on a road construction project through some of the last woodlands on the outskirts of Moscow. None of the assailants have been brought to justice.
The Russian police force is rife with corruption, and every Russian knows it, but few do anything about it. The police levy a heavy tax on Russian society when they extort money from the innocent, and ignore heinous crimes. This must change if the country ever hopes to emerge into liberalism and modernity.

W.W.L.D. What Would Lenin Do

I’ll touch on a topic here that has probably been worn out by every observer to have ever stepped foot in the Russian Federation with even the tiniest bit of culture-consciousness. And that is: the contrast between contemporary Russia and Soviet Russia.
Moscow is the largest city in Europe, and as one would expect to find in any Western metropolis, there is a lot of flashy consumption. All over Moscow we see luxury automobiles driven by fur-clad young women sporting the newest model of iPhone. Similar to New York, most of the younger crowd seems to be very fashion-conscious with many of the Russian girls paying for professional photo shoots. Interestingly, everything American seems to be popular: we went to McDonalds last night (Sunday night at 8:30 or so) and it was packed with teenaged folk. Surely they don’t like hamburgers that much; it seemed like MickeyDees was just the place to be.
Really, I would say Moscow is a bit ritzier than New York, in some ways at least. The last time I was in New York I was with a pal of mine, Vasily, who normally lives in Moscow. We passed a really nice Bentley parked on the side of the road and English and I stopped to gawk at it: it’s rare that I see a $200,000+ car. But, Vasily just looked and chuckled, “oh yes, we have a lot of those in Moscow.” Sure enough, I’ve seen several here. Of course, that’s anecdotal.
I’m certainly not complaining about any of this, I welcome the rise of Russia. Hooray capitalism! But, to get back to my point, all of this contrasts sharply with the lingering Soviet tint.

Most of the central Moscow metro stations are ostentatiously adorned with bronze statues, stone inlays, magnificent mosaics, and elegant chandeliers, all built for the glory of the proletarian everyman! Many of the mosaics and statues depict scenes with strong communist undertones. The hammer-and-sickle icon is ubiquitous. I have seen several large portraits of Lenin in the stations as well.
What irony that the revolutionary infrastructure is being used by today’s generation to skirt back-and-forth between its bourgeois proceedings!
Last night I was riding on a particularly busy train and sitting across from me was an old babushka. The old women in Russia are funny: they all wear drab colors, no jewelry, no makeup, and most of them cover their heads with hijab-type scarves. I assume that this modest dress stems from an upbringing where preoccupation with appearance and other such dainties were considered counter-revolutionary. Why spend time getting pretty when you could be studying political literature. I can’t say I disagree with that logic, honestly.
Anyway, I couldn’t help but wonder what this old woman was thinking as she watched us young folk going hither and thither without a second thought as to the ideological implications of our actions! It must be disconcerting for the old people to live under what was considered “the bad guy system” when they were growing up. Just imagine if it had been American capitalism that had fallen to the communists instead of the other way around: my grandmother’s generation would be beside themselves, I think. Of course, if they took a short lesson in economics then maybe they could appreciate the shift…maybe too late.
One of my Russian friends told me a story about their friend’s grandmother. She said that every time they visited her they would bring sausages. At the next visit, several months later, grandma would pull out these same sausages and put them on the table for everyone to eat. Turns out, she is still in the habit of hoarding in case society collapses or nuclear war breaks out or something. Apparently there is just no breaking the old people of these habits.
I’ve heard that many of the old people still have great reverence for Comrade Stalin. I guess Khrushchev’s de-Stalinization efforts were no match for the cult of personality. Lenin is, of course, popular also.
From what I’ve gathered, most Russians of my generation could care less about Stalin, Marx, Lenin, or the USSR. It is no more interesting to them than the politics of 20th century politics are to the average American 20 year old. “But guys, this was one of the most notable political undertakings in the history of civilization!”
What would Lenin do if he were growing up today? Well, if he were one of today’s youth, I doubt he would have ever fallen into radicalism. His brother would have never been executed, he would have never been exiled, and he probably could have never convinced Muscovites to stop eating at such exploitative establishments as МакДоналдс and Бургер Кинг.


Some relevant pictures