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.