Nablyudeniya Sankt Peterburga

Remont, Club Metro, Irina

2009-10-25T15:57:00.003+02:00

I wasn't going to write today, as I've been fairly more involved in the immediate these days, but I just finished reading an amazing bit of The Idiot by Dostoyevsky - the scene of Ippolit's "Explanation," along with the events at the Prince's party prior to and immediately following the reading of the suicide note. The Idiot is quickly becoming one of my favorite books. I sincerely hope the conclusion can live up to all complexities of the plot as it stands now.

I'm in that queer introspective, self-absorbed mood I always seem to come by the day after a night (or two) of drinking and sleep deprivation. Last night was a great experience; at the same time, not something I'd like to repeat in the near future. Ian (from CMC) and I met with Elvira and her three previous roommates from her university days. We started off at one of the numerous SПБ bars, where drank and talked in broken Russian and English. Another CMC student, Brian Winters, who is here on a different program, joined us with two girls from his program. After everyone had consumed about two liters of beer a piece, the two girls left, because they didn't seem to be interested in going to any clubs. We hurried to the metro, drunkenly ran down to one line, only to find it closed, so we rushed to another line and got on the very last train of the night. One stop and 30 minutes of walking later, we found ourselves in front of one of those clubs you always want to go to, always see in movies. The cover charge was a bit steep, but proved to be well worth it once we got inside. The club was a veritable hive of hedonism and decadence. Three stories of brushed steel, glass, strobe lights and lasers, full bars, cigarette maidens, and packed dance floors made it look like something out of a movie. It was the kind of place in which an action hero would find himself scouring the VIP rooms for the head of some criminal organization.

Because the Metro was closed until 6:00 am, we danced and drank (alcohol only sparingly) the next four or five hours away. It was one of the few times I've actually enjoyed myself dancing, probably because I was actually a better dancer than the silly eurotrash youth that were sweating on the dance floor. I kept thinking to myself that this was the other side of Russia. The same lax characteristic in the culture that allows for state corruption is, in my opinion, that which allows for such reckless debauchery on such a frequent basis. I loved it.

Still, my full enjoyment of the night was hindered somewhat by the fact that I haven't stopped being a hopeless romantic at heart. I've come to be able to rationalize against romanticism, even to find logical distaste in it, but my instincts will always be against the short term trysts that are so easy and tempting in places like Club Metro. On top of that, I felt guilty about even dancing with other girls since I've met Irina. We met at a much smaller club much closer to the center of the city when I was shouldering my way out to get some fresh air and some fresh tar. She was right behind me, also trying to make her way out, and our hands met. In my semi-drunken state I reasoned that I would act as if I were her escort for the night to lend greater credibility to our mutual struggle for freedom. It worked, and outside our contact continued, much to my naive surprise. She talked on and on about her job, her family, her friends, fueled only by the sparsest input I could muster from my limited understanding of her rapid-fire speech. Eventually I decided it was time to go, and we both headed back in. I grabbed my coat from the back of the club, and found her back at the bar with her friends. She didn't seem ready to leave, but was very eager to give me her number.

Honestly I wasn't expecting a person of her quality to be at Fidels, and to be handing out her number so easily, so, when I called her the next night to arrange a date, I was motivated more out of curiosity and desire for cultural experience than interest in her character. The sober person I encountered last Sunday night was an extremely intelligent, like-minded person. She's 22, graduated from university, working as an economist, and has her own place and a new car (bought on credit). We discussed Chekhov, Nabokov, Tolstoyevsky, American literature, Russian language, President Obama, the recent elections, and a lot more. I couldn't understand what she was saying word for word, but I caught enough of the general idea of each of her statements and questions to be able to clumsily formulate a cogent reply of my own. She's been working all week, so we haven't seen each other since, but when we talk on the phone she seems positively inclined to me still. It's not that I've given my heart over, or will at all to be completely honest, but I'd very much like for this to work out somehow in the last two months I have left. I want to get to know her, for her to know me as much as possible through my six year old Russian abilities, and to see as much of her side of the world as possible. If it doesn't work out, I won't be heart broken, but I will be distraught.

As soon as I get pictures from Elvira, and do it for the second time this week, I'll write about the Russian tradition of Ремонт (Remont).

Personal Space, Russian Formalities, and my Conjectures

2009-10-06T20:10:00.002+03:00

It’s been a while. A lot has transpired since I wrote those last two posts, including a train ride to Moscow, a train to Ulyanovsk (Lenin’s birthplace), a week-long cruise down the Volga, and a 36-hour train ride back up to St. Petersburg.

BUT I’ll save those accounts for later.

I promised наблюдения (observations), and that’s what this post is about.

A large part of what drew me to Russia in the first place was a particular feeling that I got when I was here four years ago. I think I’ve since been able to identify some sources of that feeling, but have by no means pinpointed everything. One of those sources is the multitude of differences between the population’s standards of familiarity in public and private spheres. Everywhere in the city, individual Russians rush around in somber faces, as if their destination or origin were some sort of mourning ceremony. Occasionally, a group of students, friends, babushkas, etc. will pass by displaying their characters more openly, but the eye of the public still keeps them guarded during their forays into the streets of Saint Petersburg.

Though eye contact with strangers is a fairly awkward event even in the States, the Russian behavior in regard to the phenomenon is even more intricate. In the States, one might smile embarassedly or even strike up a conversation with the interloper, even with the knowledge that the conversation will rarely stray from the superficial. On public transportation in Russia, whether it be a metro car, bus, or even a small shuttle (called маршрутка), eye contact leads only to both parties looking away as soon as one’s wayward gaze is discovered. Turning one’s head to look about causes more heads to turn - everyone wants to know who the weird guy is that dares to observe others in their standing comas. Normally the unengaged passenger boards his/her chosen method of transport, immediately places his/herself in a seat or unobtrusive stance, and quickly completes a survey of their surroundings. The immediate goal of the survey is not to judge the other passengers, though this surely must happen, but to find an object at which one may blankly stare without giving the impression that one is covertly spying on any other individual. Whether one is actually conducting said espionage is not important. Searching eyes may find their peers in people facing each other, but again the immediate downward or lateral gaze is kismet. Thus, once the journey is underway, any turning of heads is met with an immediate cascade of other swiveling craniums, for the serenity of the travelers’ retreats into themselves has been disturbed. Those whose meditations have been broken must satisfy their curiosities.

Of course, the intoxicated futbol hooligans and weekend revelers are not confined to this behavior. Indeed, they exhibit a much more forward and carefree attitude than in the states. If in a group, they will involve passersby in their conversations (generally with the aim of making the newly acquired interlocutor uncomfortable or of extracting money for cab fare); loudly consult with their fellow celebrants as to the sexual desirability of the unfortunate stranger; or simply invite the stranger to join them in their escapades. One could argue that the same behaviors are exhibited in America, but their practice is confined to a much smaller portion of the active population. Even then, this small percentage is far less brazen and sincere than its Russian counterpart. Despite their intimidating nature to a foreign observer, these shenanigans are for the most part physically harmless, and good-natured.

«Good-natured». It’s such a ubiquitous term when describing Russian behavior. Even the frustrated cashier that demands 20 more kopeeks, or two or five or ten more rubles from the confused, uninitiated student (who was sure they’d payed more than enough already) is only doing so out of good nature. It’s easier to hand back a convenient 10 ruble note, than count out 9 rubles 80 kopeeks in change, and it’s certainly easier to carry that note around than locate a suitable pocket for the aforementioned change. Cashiers of all kinds in Russia - late night grocery store clerks, metro booth dwellers, flower stand owners - all of them seem taciturn and gruff when compared to the peachy, chipper employees at Sprouts or In N Out. Again, it’s only Russian behavior. It’s the way things have been for decades if not centuries. Employees are not actually having a bad day and taking it out on some bumbling American, they’re simply performing as expected. The discomfort an American experiences at being treated so cursorily is no different than the discomfort a Russian faces in America when seemingly interrogated by an American cashier who demands to know just how said Russian is doing today.

The refusal of strangers in Russia to appear more happy than they are simply to put other strangers in their company at ease is in large part due to their greater sincerity in the private sphere. Russian professors familiar with their class of 5 students will make sure that their students have had their bedding changed, bring DVD’s and CD’s for a student who presented only a minor interest them, and inquire after the whereabouts of missing pupils out of genuine concern for their health, not simply to catch a skipper. Russian friends often will touch each other on the arm, shoulder, leg and so on for emphasis or to gain an audience for conversation. Not only is the touching, patting, and rubbing accepted between friends of the same gender, it seems almost necessary to convey sincere feelings. Certainly the same standards of private areas are respected, and friends do not always display their affection tangibly. The lack of a such a large personal bubble as we have in the States, perhaps even the lack of a personal bubble at all, is remarkable, and to me, endearing.

I could keep rambling on, but it’s almost 10 pm, and I haven’t done any homework yet. I’ll write about our awesome cruise through the south of Russia very soon.

Daily Life: Part II

2009-09-17T09:16:00.008+03:00

A day in the life:

The cell phone I purchased here is much better than the phone I had back home. It's a white Samsung slider that gets service everywhere, has a battery that lasts for a week, and has a very well thought out interface. It also comes with Ukrainian, Russian, and English language capabilities. I have mine set for Russian, though a lot of Russians text in English, so we have some interesting conversations with an American replying in Russian to a Russian's text in English, and so on. The Russian mobile phone system is also a much more simple and fair deal. To start with, you buy a phone and a SIM card, which comes preloaded with about 100 rubles. You pay only for outgoing calls and texts at a rate of 1 ruble per minute for local calls, and 1 ruble per text. You don't pay for incoming calls or texts, and there are little pay as you go machines in and around every metro station for adding money to your card. My phone even displays how many rubles I have left, updating right after a text has been sent or a call made. Prices are cheaper here if you consider the fact that you're paying the full price of the phone, and not getting a contract signing rebate like you do in the states.

Anyway, I digress, I told you that long story to tell you this one:
I use my phone as an alarm clock, because the alarm function is perfectly designed. You can save multiple alarms, choose which days they are active, and decide whether or not to allow the snooze function on 'em. Also, I can leave my phone on vibrate mode, and the alarm will still make noise. I have no motivation in the mornings, so I keep my 8 am M-F alarm with snooze disabled, and leave my phone charging on my desk [below], forcing me to get out of my bead [above] to turn it off.

My morning ritual begins with a smoke and some world news, after which I collect my towel and a change of undershirt and boxers, and head to the bathroom for a 10-15 minute shower. Luckily, my host family showers at night, so I'm not monopolizing the bathroom [below] with my long showers. Russians aren't too water conscious on the whole, so there's no bother there either.

After my shower, I come back and put my jeans and long-sleeve shirt on, and head into the kitchen. My host mother is usually gone by now, but there are pots of food and soup on the stove, so I fill up the hot water boiler, set it going, and light the gas under a couple pans. Everything is usually ready all at once, and my breakfast of hearty Russian food, usually a meat (beef, turkey, etc.) mixed with a starch (potatoes, rice, pasta). I love dipping the thick Russian bread into my soup, because it's so dense it acts like a sponge, retaining a lot of the soup without going completely mushy and dropping back into the bowl. Tea is consumed at every meal, and often in between. After my 15-20 minute feasting, I wash my dishes and go back to my room to collect my school bag.

The final step before heading out the door is switching from my тапочки (tapochki - slippers reserved for wearing around the house so as not to track in dirt/sludge) to my sneakers. The weather hasn't progressed to the point that I need to use my ridiculous insulated, Gore-Tex, rubber-grip-soled boots. As I understand it, there's going to be a middle period when neither are really perfectly suited to the extensive walking everyone does here. The solution is сапоги (sapogi), ankle-high leather shoes with a pointed toe. They're water-tight, formal enough for university, but not as big and ungainly as boots.

A couple turns of my key, the thick bolt slides back on the outer door [above], and I'm out in the stairwell [below].

I rarely see or hear anyone else on my way down. On the two occasions I have run into someone, it's been a fellow ACTR student who lives a floor below me.

Walking out this door, through that courtyard, and under the archway, I come to the intersection where Furshtatskaya meets Lityeiny.

Mornings are an rushed time here, and the cross walk leading away from my building doesn't have a light, so I stick a tentative leg out into the first lane of traffic, and eventually a car slows down enough for me to leap out in front of it, assuming the driver is alert and will stop for me. Usually by now, the lead cars in the neighboring lanes going in the same direction will have caught on as I continue my forward progress, and I can make it halfway across the street without stopping. Rinse and repeat from the beginning to handle the opposing traffic, and you're across the street.

[taken looking back across the street - well, forward really, because I took this on my way back at night, when the street was much less crowded, and my photographing would neither impede foot traffic nor give myself away to too many]

Chernishevskaya metro station is now just a 7-10 minute (or one-cigarette, for those measuring distances and times by more unorthodox means) walk down Furshtatskaya, which is one of the more beautiful streets in the city. Mirroring the nearby parks, there is a median in between single one-way lanes bordered by grass, trees, benches, and streetlights. As with all of the center of St. Petersburg, the buildings are juxtapositions of classic architecture, and modern demand:

I'm note quite sure what this building is. There are no signs on it, and it's been under renovation for as long as I've been here.

Recognize that store? I'll give you a close up.

For those who can't read Cyrillic, it's a transliteration of "Papa John's." There are ONLY three of them in the city. I haven't eaten there yet, because it's actually pretty expensive as far as fast food goes here, but I plan on it someday.

Just a night time shot of the median. You can't quite make out the benches, but the ornate railings, trees, and streetlights should be visible, and the relative width of the walkway apparent.

Taking pictures in the metro is forbidden for reasons unbeknown to me, so I can't show you that portion of my commute. There are separate entrances (вход) and exits (выход) to the small above ground portion of the stations where old ladies shell out tokens at 20 rubles a piece. Here you can also add money to your SIM card at the aforementioned machines, add money to your проездной билет (commuter card, same price as the tokens, just purchased in bulk and more convenient than stopping every time to buy a token), or pay for another month's use of your student commuter card, which is cheaper than the normal metro fare and allows free bus use.

I get off at the Маяковская station to a view of the vast intersection of Nevsky Prospekt, Ligovsky Prospekt, and a few other smaller streets. A short walk down Ligovsky - long enough to smoke a Russian cigarette, but too short for an American Spirit or Nat Sherman - brings me to 46 Ligovsky, the location of our satellite campus of the Russian State Pedagogical University Herzen.

This foreboding sheet-metal door opens into the courtyard below.

The buildings may seem a bit dilapidated, but no more so than anything else off the main streets. The interior of our building is well furnished with modern style classrooms, complete with whiteboards, Western style toilets, and photocopiers.

Well, that's all for today, and probably the next few days until I find something striking to report on.

Daily Life: Part I

2009-09-14T17:01:00.007+03:00

This is the easiest post to get out of the way, as it requires no abstract thought - not something I'm capable of after 5 hours of sleep on two successive nights.

Let's start with the apartment: It's really nice - it's in an upscale region within seven minutes walking distance of the Чернишевская (Chernishevskaya) metro station, which is one to two stops (to the northeast) away from the center of the city, and one stop away from our campus.

[Excuse my rudimentary Photoshop skills: The oval is the center of town. The purple dot is where I live. The metro station I've circled is the one I use to go to classes, because the campus is only a 5 minute walk away from that particular exit.]

The apartment building is a moderately sized concrete structure across from the southern end of Фурштадская Улица (Furshtatskaya Ulitsa) on Литейный Проспект (Lityeiny Prospect). To get into the central stairwell, I walk south under the archway of the apartment building opposite mine, to a big red door that opens to a magnetic disc attached to my huge house key. (In Part II, I'll explain and take pictures of my route to and from school, as well as document the school itself. I'll be sure to include the stairwell, the elevator I never use, the big red door, etc.) My host family's apartment is on the third floor, so it's no big deal to use the square staircase to get up there, especially given the lack of exercise I've been allowing myself. My key fits into a thin, wide slot in the thick metal outer door, and after two or three or even four turns, the bolt moves back, and I'm into the apartment. I've heard most families also lock their inner door, which looks a lot more like our domestic American doors, but mine never does. Anyway, so the door opens up to an entrance hall, where I exchange my street shoes/boots for my indoor slippers, and I trudge on through the hallway. On the left is my host mother's room, which I've never entered, only seen, and for this reason I feel uncomfortable photographing it. It's very clean, but full of plants and lots of furniture, primarily due to the additional necessity of being able to accommodate my host mother's mother. To the right is a little niche with the door to my room, and, to the left of that, the door to my host father's room. Again, I don't feel comfortable snooping around his room with a camera, though I have been in there, because the large family tv, DVD and VHS collection, family photographs, etc. are all there. The hallway ends in a narrow passageway leading off to kitchen on the left, with the separate doors to the toilet and bath areas facing you.

[The entrance.]
[The hallway]

[The most I've seen of my хозяйка's (host mom's) room]

[The kitchen]

[View of my room from the doorway]

[My bed, which is about 4 inches too short for me, but extremely comfortable. I slept on my back in the States. Now I sleep in the fetal position. It'll be appropriate once the nights start getting colder.]
[My work area. To the right is the immense wardrobe, which I didn't bother to photograph.]

My host mother works in a cafeteria somewhere, and my host father works in security, but based on the size and luxury of the apartment, I'm guessing neither of them are low on the company ladders. My suspicion is that my host mom was a cook of some sort at some point, because her cooking is so damn good, but I think she's risen through the ranks since then. My host father doesn't wear a bullet proof vest to work, and isn't exactly a young rough 'n tough guy, though he was in the Soviet army, and served in their little excursion into Afghanistan. They're both great people, and it's obvious they care about my well being. It's not uncommon in Russia for a host to make sure her guest eats his fill, doesn't go outside with wet hair or without his umbrella, and to cook for him. I've managed to persuade her to let me do the dishes, but it's still pretty apparent she's uncomfortable letting me do them if she's in the room with me. My only concern is that I don't feel like I'm spending enough time talking to them, and am more just using them for a place to stay, rather than a cultural exchange. I know I'm looking too much into it, because they're very hands-off, having already raised three sons. It manifests itself in different ways - the father's serious inquiries into why I haven't brought a girl home yet, the mother's habit of making two or three dishes and one or two pots of soup for me to eat at my leisure over the course of a few days. Based on some of the horror stories I've heard from other kids, about how they're little old host grandmother stays up 'till 4 am until the student comes back on a Friday or Saturday night; or how some families are in constant conflict due to arguments between angsty teenagers and their parents, I think I'm pretty well off. Sometimes I don't even see my host family for days at a time, because they're off enjoying the nice weather at their dacha (country home). They're also both smokers, so for them smoking indoors goes unquestioned.

I think I'm beginning to get too documentational (I know - not a word), and not enough observational, so I'll stop here. More to come tomorrow, or the next day.

Introduction

2009-09-13T18:24:00.003+03:00

My intent for this blog is (to try) to give my close friends a glimpse of what I'm experiencing in St. Petersburg during my semester abroad. I can't pretend to know what life is like for the denizens of St. Petersburg, so my goal for each post is to describe one or two intimate facets of my own life here, and/or to relate small, interesting phenomena, coupled with my own observations. I don't take my camera with me wherever I go, but if a post is premeditated enough, there will be pictures of what I'm describing. I'll also post pictures of our weekly excursions to cultural and historical landmarks when I get around to importing them from my camera.

Blogs are a naturally self-absorbed endeavor, as is apologizing regularly or at great length, but I can't resist making a blanket apology this one time in advance for going into too much detail in some posts, not enough in others, irregularity or tedious regularity of posts, etc. Hopefully this will end up being more than the stereotypical blog, at least as long as I'm in St. Pete. I'll make my first post in a few hours, after I've finished my homework for tomorrow.