I'm in Russia
January 29, 2007
Well, I PRAY TO GOD that the worst of the awkwardness is over. It has been a strange few days. Ehhh. It first got weird when changing planes in Warsaw. People, do not ever go to Poland. Granted I only saw the airport, but it was NOT nice. Nothing puts you at ease in a strange place like people in military fatigues and automatic weapons that look like they just killed their own brother in cold blood, not to mention the sandpaper-like consistency of the toilet paper. After arriving in St. Petersburg, I sat around the airport for 5 awkward hours as students trickled in. They were sprawled out all over the place sleeping with their mouths open. It was not pretty. We were all far too exhausted to small talk so instead we sat there counting stiletto knee-high boots. Russian women do not mess around when it comes to shoes. Neither do the men for that matter. They wear these horrible pointy things that look like crocodiles. Not attractive. Anyway, that night we pulled into a “resort” where we would spend two days doing orientation. You’re using the term “resort” pretty loosely when the hallways smell like cat pee and the rooms smell like mold. Aw yes, Russia. Lets just say the next 24hours were fairly comparable to the first day of middle school. Eh. Luckily my roommate was nice and perky and we hit it off and she had friends DVDs that we watched on my computer to shake the jetlag and the sinking feeling that we were completely out of our minds.
Orientation consisted primarily of recounting to us every possible scenario of our demise. One of my favorites was a story about a student who was offered a shot of vodka from a guy he was sharing a cab with. He refused. The guy insisted and insisted and told him that he was toasting his sons first birthday and was extremely insulted by his refusal. Eventually, the student took the shot and next thing he knew he woke up in the hospital barely alive with tubes up every open cavity and no wallet. That was one of about 2000 stories mind you. It is also a comforting thing to know that the police basically encourage robbery because they get a cut of it. Fabulous. Pray for me. Please.
Once they had us all thoroughly freaked out of our minds, it was time to meet our host family. I’ve got to be honest, I was pretty damn nervous. I think we all found a lot of comfort though in the fact that we were in the same boat. There are about six of us in the same-ish neighborhood and we were sweating bullets all the way. The anticipation of spending an entire evening staring at someone you don’t know and can’t communicate with is. …awful. My word it’s awful. Especially when you pull up to a building that looks like the Harlem projects and walk through a dirty dingy hallway and 5 locked doors to get there. But it’s over. I am living with a middle-aged woman named Svetlana and her 19-year-old son Misha. She’s really nice and actually speaks quite a bit of English. Misha has a euro-mullet and earrings and scooted out the door pretty quickly. The apartment is surprisingly pristine. Soviet exteriors are just really unfortunate. She made me an amazing dinner of fried everything and is letting me hide in my room, which has pink iridescent wallpaper, the bumpy plastic kind that makes a funny noise when you run your finger nails over it. It is clean, pleasant and flowery, and besides the fact that my door is essentially glass, I have no complaints. Oh wait, yes I do, I am doomed to 4 months of really bad hair. My host mother knocked on my door a few minutes ago and asked me when I wash my hair. I told her in the morning and she said “NO! In my house you will no wash in morning, only night”. Um, what? She then went on to explain that I will essentially die if I leave the house with wet hair. I asked if I could blow dry it really well and she said “No. Never.” Then I’m pretty sure she said something about my brain getting sick. . She then commanded me for the second time to change into more comfortable clothes. I was wearing jeans and a hoodie. I don’t get it. Oh, and she feeds her fluffy little dog with a spoon.
Well, I PRAY TO GOD that the worst of the awkwardness is over. It has been a strange few days. Ehhh. It first got weird when changing planes in Warsaw. People, do not ever go to Poland. Granted I only saw the airport, but it was NOT nice. Nothing puts you at ease in a strange place like people in military fatigues and automatic weapons that look like they just killed their own brother in cold blood, not to mention the sandpaper-like consistency of the toilet paper. After arriving in St. Petersburg, I sat around the airport for 5 awkward hours as students trickled in. They were sprawled out all over the place sleeping with their mouths open. It was not pretty. We were all far too exhausted to small talk so instead we sat there counting stiletto knee-high boots. Russian women do not mess around when it comes to shoes. Neither do the men for that matter. They wear these horrible pointy things that look like crocodiles. Not attractive. Anyway, that night we pulled into a “resort” where we would spend two days doing orientation. You’re using the term “resort” pretty loosely when the hallways smell like cat pee and the rooms smell like mold. Aw yes, Russia. Lets just say the next 24hours were fairly comparable to the first day of middle school. Eh. Luckily my roommate was nice and perky and we hit it off and she had friends DVDs that we watched on my computer to shake the jetlag and the sinking feeling that we were completely out of our minds.
Orientation consisted primarily of recounting to us every possible scenario of our demise. One of my favorites was a story about a student who was offered a shot of vodka from a guy he was sharing a cab with. He refused. The guy insisted and insisted and told him that he was toasting his sons first birthday and was extremely insulted by his refusal. Eventually, the student took the shot and next thing he knew he woke up in the hospital barely alive with tubes up every open cavity and no wallet. That was one of about 2000 stories mind you. It is also a comforting thing to know that the police basically encourage robbery because they get a cut of it. Fabulous. Pray for me. Please.
Once they had us all thoroughly freaked out of our minds, it was time to meet our host family. I’ve got to be honest, I was pretty damn nervous. I think we all found a lot of comfort though in the fact that we were in the same boat. There are about six of us in the same-ish neighborhood and we were sweating bullets all the way. The anticipation of spending an entire evening staring at someone you don’t know and can’t communicate with is. …awful. My word it’s awful. Especially when you pull up to a building that looks like the Harlem projects and walk through a dirty dingy hallway and 5 locked doors to get there. But it’s over. I am living with a middle-aged woman named Svetlana and her 19-year-old son Misha. She’s really nice and actually speaks quite a bit of English. Misha has a euro-mullet and earrings and scooted out the door pretty quickly. The apartment is surprisingly pristine. Soviet exteriors are just really unfortunate. She made me an amazing dinner of fried everything and is letting me hide in my room, which has pink iridescent wallpaper, the bumpy plastic kind that makes a funny noise when you run your finger nails over it. It is clean, pleasant and flowery, and besides the fact that my door is essentially glass, I have no complaints. Oh wait, yes I do, I am doomed to 4 months of really bad hair. My host mother knocked on my door a few minutes ago and asked me when I wash my hair. I told her in the morning and she said “NO! In my house you will no wash in morning, only night”. Um, what? She then went on to explain that I will essentially die if I leave the house with wet hair. I asked if I could blow dry it really well and she said “No. Never.” Then I’m pretty sure she said something about my brain getting sick. . She then commanded me for the second time to change into more comfortable clothes. I was wearing jeans and a hoodie. I don’t get it. Oh, and she feeds her fluffy little dog with a spoon.
posted by Kate at 5:00 AM
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