Back Pages Chapter Two

9.16

How many stupid mistakes can a girl make in one day?  For me, it was a case of hubris, overweening pride.  I had the day off, so I went down to the legendary American Center.  It’s little more than an office with a modest library, but they also host events and lectures.  The young lady working there encouraged me to email them and schedule my own lecture.  I didn’t have the heart to tell her I don’t really have email access these days.  She also hooked me up with an account so I took out a couple books on Teaching English as Foreign Language.  Then I walked from there to the American consulate, supposedly to introduce myself and get familiar with the staff, but really because I heard they have a great Thanksgiving dinner.  From the Consulate I go to an internet cafe which is near the metro and I even made some shortcuts on the way.

So here I am congratulating myself on navigating my way through Ekat but when I get home, I realize there’s a problem with my cell phone.  I had to turn it off at the Consulate, and now I have only one of the two codes I need to turn it back on.  These fuckin’ European phones with their SIM cards.  Because I have an early morning class tomorrow, I needed the phone tonight if only for the alarm clock.  Luckily there’s a phone store right around the corner from my house, and a young guy working there was nice enough to help me out.  Still I had to pay 90 rubles for a new SIM card, which means I got a new number and lost all the numbers that were stored on my phone, plus about 200 rubles’ worth of minutes.  

Then, already frustrated, I get home and something goes wrong with the lock on my door.  The key is supposed to make two complete turns in the lock; I got it to turn once and then it stuck.  I could neither lock nor unlock it completely, so I was effectively trapped in my apartment.  I alternately struggled with it and watched tv for about an hour and a half before I finally called my landlord.  Actually, that’s not true.  I tried to call both her and her daughter right away, but I had been too angry to put any more money on my cell phone and the house phone wasn’t cooperating.  So at about 9:30, already rehearsing the message I was going to leave on my boss’ machine about why I didn’t show up for class, I figure it’s still a Christian hour to call my landlord.  At last I get through on the house phone, and she promises to send either her husband or son-in-law to help me.  To my great embarrassment, at about 10 o’clock, Liudmila Korneevna herself shows up.  She unlocks it lickety-split and reveals the problem: the blasted rug was stuck in the door.  I feel lousy about bothering her over such a small, stupid thing, but at the same time, I really couldn’t have fixed this problem once I was in it.  Only somebody outside the door and with their own key could have saved me, in a word, only Liudmila Korneevna.  What’s even more embarrassing is that she already had to come to my rescue once because of a problem with the other key.  She must think I’m a grade-A moron.  It just proves what Woody Allen says in Annie Hall, “Academics can be absolutely brilliant and still have no idea what’s going on.”

9.17

It’s only ten past 2 and I’ve already had a day with many ups and downs.  I arrived for my first class in the department of Public Relations, a position improvised because my advisor in the English department is MIA.  So I showed up at 8:30 to discover they didn’t really have a place for me.  I went and sat in someone else’s class until they asked for volunteers to come for an extra English class.  Nine kids volunteered, so you would think they would all be enthusiastic English students.  Not so.  About two were anxious to speak, the rest were shy at best.  In fact, I am ashamed to say that one student who was absolutely unwilling to even try speaking English conclusively left my class.  She was really trying my patience and finally I said, “If you don’t want to learn English, you never will.  You don’t want to work, so leave.”  She said, “Udacha,” which means, basically “success,” and left.  I feel like a piece of shit and really regret doing that to someone on the first day.  Luckily for me and unluckily for her, we have another period together on Friday, this time with her whole class, so her exit might not be so conclusive after all.  Anyway I chugged through two periods and by the end, everybody was engaged and happily participating.  Now I just have to figure out how to create that kind of energy every day for the rest of the year.  I feel like Mr. Noblet in Strangers with Candy when he says, “Frankly, I’m out of information.”  The first year students are the hardest, especially in this department, because they have such a low level of comprehension that they barely understand directions, let alone lectures.  They also neglected to tell me when or what they didn’t understand, so it was up to me to notice when I lost them.  On Friday I have to teach all of them, maybe fifty students, and I really don’t know what to do.  Maybe I’ll start with the expectations of an American classes, like turning off cell phones and asking questions when you don’t understand.  Such things I took for granted...

Anyway after that I came home to find my neighbor Gallina’s door open.  She was waiting for a remodeling crew, but when she saw me come in, she invited me for tea.  Tea immediately became the biggest and best lunch I’ve had in Russia.  She served me herring, caviar, bread, noodles, cutlets and the most delicious little things somewhere between cakes and pancakes.  Actually, she wouldn’t stop serving me, and wouldn’t let me stop eating.  Even after I stuffed myself, she insisted I eat cookies, chocolates and an apple from her garden.  As accompaniment for the apple she read me a poem about gardening, explaining vocabulary and laughing throughout.  When she laughs she looks just like my late grandmother, but frankly Gallina is much more maternal than Bobbi ever was.  She even gave me some apples and home-made salsa-type sauce to take home.  Devoted readers may remember her first appearance as the woman who was unwilling to help me get into the apartment on my first night, but eventually softened.  I gave her a box of chocolates after that night, and I guess that did the trick, because now I have my very own Russkaya tyotya (Russian auntie).  

I have the afternoon off, and I was considering going to the art museum (I tried yesterday but it was closed), but I’m feeling pretty exhausted.  Since I don’t have to be in until tomorrow afternoon, I might read some Don Quixote and take a nap.  If I can’t fall asleep, then I’ll do some more lesson-planning.  I guess my priorities should be the other way around, but I gotta take care of numero me.  Anyway I’m quickly learning that when I run out of academic material, I can always fall back on acting games.  Party quirks anyone?

9.18

Sometimes living abroad means changing your expectations, or to put it more accurately, standards.  For me this is manifest in many things, like my diet and definition of “a good day.”  Today, my standards of laundry changed, especially whites.  I have an old Soviet washing “machine,” which is a big plastic box with a motor in it perched on the bathtub.  You need to fill it with water, add soap, plug it in and watch the lather build up.  I might be doing something wrong because the clothes themselves never move, only the bubbles.  Then when you decide it’s time to start draining, you unscrew a little cap on the bottom corner and watch the water flow out.  Of course, the soap remains, so I’ve been sticking my shower head in there to dilute the soap.  This isn’t very effective, so today I held each individual piece of clothing under the faucet to rinse the soap out.  I’m beginning to think it might actually be less labor-intensive to just hand-wash.  To get back to my original point of changing standards, doing laundry is for me no longer a matter of getting visible dirt out.  Some of my white socks actually look dirtier than before.  Instead, laundry is now the process of getting clothes to smell like soap rather than sweat.  

On the plus side, I finally got the onion that I dropped behind the stove.  I almost lost the vacuum head in the process, so eventually I had to scoot the stove forward and climb behind.  It’s incidents like this that really make me miss Ailey, Jessie and Maida.  Not that having roommates makes these problems any less aggravating, but with friends, such ordeals eventually become just funny stories.  I feel the same way about taking a spill; falling down always hurts, but it’s not in vain if there’s someone there to laugh at you.

Today I had another class in the Public Relations department.  I planned on giving them my Russian-American Perceptions lecture, but I was not prepared to teach the entire third-year section of the department.  This was somewhere between fifty and sixty students, plus all the professors who otherwise would have been teaching in that period.  It would have been fine, except they seemed to speak English even worse than the first-year students, or in any case tried even less to understand.  There was almost no class participation, only two or three students were anxious to speak.  After I gave them a modified and partly translated version of the lesson, I passed out postcards from Cleveland and had them write dialogues about cross-cultural encounters.  They really got into this, but when they got up to perform, I was shocked to see that no one in the “audience,” kept quiet and listened.  At one point there were calls for a girl to talk “Gromche” (louder) and I said, “Maybe everyone should be a little tishche (quieter).”  This got a laugh, but no practical response.  

When the period ended, I invited anyone who wanted to practice English to stay for a second period.  This was somewhat quite effective in weeding out the kids who had no interest or ability in English, but there were still some kids who not only did not want to participate, they said as much in Russian.  But I guess as in any class, the students who want to learn will do so and those who don’t won’t.  They want me to meet with this group every week, at least the volunteers, which is fine.  The only problem is that the professors want me to lecture, as if that would improve anyone’s English besides mine.  Actually, mine might become worse because I have to dumb it down for this group.  It’s especially hard for me in the Public Relations department, since I barely understand what that term means even in English.  Maybe I’ll just try to disabuse these kids of any racist/sexist/classist notions they may have.  So far I’m not doing so well in removing stereotypes about Americans.  Russians think Americans smile all the time, which I, in fact, do.  But I maintain that I personally smile a lot, even for an American.

Tomorrow will be a long day.  I have first-year PR students in the morning and second-year English students in the afternoon.  For the English students at least I have a textbook, but they are in fact more capable of doing fun and interesting activities than the others.  Without some kind of book or plan, I’m really just improvising one day at a time.  At this rate, I don’t know how I’ll make it through the year.  I’m going to have to start assigning homework.

Here’s another thing they don’t teach you in Russian class.  At the grocery store, you have to pay for every plastic bag you get, and bigger ones cost more than small ones.  Even when you buy bags, the cashier doesn’t bag your purchases for you.  Rather, she (I haven’t yet had a male cashier in a grocery store) puts all your items in a basket and after you pay you have to take the basket and your bags over to another counter and pack up.  Ironically, vendors at markets will bag your produce, without being asked and without charging.  In clothing stores or anywhere you buy more expensive items, you get a big sturdy bag for free.  This, and not environmental concerns, is probably why Russians tend to keep and reuse all the plastic bags they get.

9.19 

Today was a good day, especially as the Russian words  normalno (“normal”) and nichevo (“nothing”), imply “good.”  That is to say, today was pretty normal and nothing really happened, which is good.  I had an early morning class with the first-year PR students.  I thought it would be the same small group that had volunteered to practice English, but in fact it was the entire class.  This was difficult, because about 1/3 of them knew French and German but not English.  I had prepared speaking activities, not a lecture that could be translated, but when I voiced my concerns (basically that their presence was pointless for both me and them) to their professor, she assured me that it was still good for them to hear me talk.  Whatever.  I busted out my postcards of Cleveland and told them all about the city.  One girl asked if Clevelanders are “keen on breakdancing,” and I had to say, as politely as possible, that it was more popular 25 years ago.  Anyway I made it through the period, but also made the prof promise that she wouldn’t do that to me again, at least not without warning.

My classes in the afternoon were much better.  I was with two sections of the second-year English students, who were not only capable but eager to do speaking exercises.  Also I know I’ll be meeting with these groups every week, so we were able to do meaningful activities and plan for next week.  It made me a little nervous to have their real professor sitting in, but I just kept putting things in context of “the American classroom,” instead of calling her straight-up boring.  So these two successful classes put me in a great mood, but then I realized that I don’t have anything else scheduled until Tuesday.  This would’ve been a great weekend to go away, but my ATM troubles are making me feel broke as a joke.  Maybe I’ll talk to the other English teachers about being a guest lecturer on Monday or something.  Now if only I could figure out where to make copies or print computer files.

No big plans for the weekend.  I’d love to plan a lecture at the American Center on one of my free days, but without the internet I can’t A) schedule anything or B) talk about anything with real authority except maybe the Beatles or Brian Wilson.  Tomorrow morning I’m going to try and find the synagogue, which is also the new JCC.  Actually I wanted to go tonight, but they have no Friday night services, only Saturday morning.  I think it will be a good place to meet people, not to say “a nice Jewish boy,” but Rosh Hashanah is coming up and I’m hoping to get a dinner invitation.  I’ll also go to the market for my week’s produce.  Maybe I’ll lure Natasha over here to work on getting internet in my apartment and explain the washing machine and oven.  If the oven works, I’d love nothing more to take a pajama day, pump up the jams and bake some cookies.  If not, I’ll still do it, only I’ll eat a whole bag of store-bought cookies instead of a whole batch of home-made.  Pretty exciting stuff.

Incidentally, I’m getting really into Russian tv.  My favorites are a game-show called Taxi, the Russian version of Married With Children which takes place in Ekat and a couple other sitcoms that are dumb enough for me to follow.  Right now I’m watching a soap opera called Rizhaya (“Redhead”) that has instructively melodramatic music.  I can tell if the characters are feeling angry, sad, mysterious or sexy just from the soundtrack.  It’s kind of like Strangers with Candy in that way.  I only wish I could watch Degrassi, which would work really well in Russian.  “To-shto menye nado, znayu shto ya mogu” means something like “Whatever it takes, I know I can make it through.”

9.20

I’ve had the most lovely day and it’s only two o’clock.  I went out this morning to the synagogue/JCC.  It’s this brand new beautiful building, right next to the metro and, incidentally, circus.  When I walked in, I asked a cute old man where the services were held and an eavesdropping woman, Rosa, immediately took me under her wing.  She brought me into the prayer hall, got me a seat and the necessary books and then told me the basic story of her life.  I think she even invited me to her house, but I can’t be sure, she talked so fast she didn’t notice that I was catching only every fourth word or so.  Anyway I was surprised to see that it was pretty much an Orthodox synagogue, with a divider between the men and women.  Rosa wanted to introduce me to a professor, but was barred from entering the men’s section.  I followed the Russian translation of the service and listened for the odd Hebrew phrase I recognized.  The most beautiful moment was when the rabbi carried the torah around the congregation, the people didn’t just touch it with the corners of their books but stroked it.  One woman stood out in particular, because she lovingly pet the velvet case like it was a Siamese cat.

When the service ended, I discovered that Rosa had told the whole congregation about me.  An administrator invited me to come back tomorrow to learn about all the programs for young people.  Later she had me translate her Russian instructions to some young English-speaking Israeli women, which did quite a bit for my confidence.  Other people, like the aforementioned professor and even the rabbi, came to make my acquaintance.  I was herded into a banquet hall where there wasn’t just a kiddish with gross wine and grosser cookies, but a whole delicious lunch, with good wine and vodka.  I was just about to start eating when the rabbi asked me to come upstairs where the Israelis had invited me to have lunch with them.  My Hebrew is limited to ken, lo, Abba, Ima, sababa (“yes, no, Father, Mother, cool”) and they had varying levels of English, but we are all “strangers in a strange land.”  Chaia, Mushka and Hannali are university students who have come to Ekat to teach Hebrew in the local Jewish day-school and live in apartments in the JCC.  They are also Orthodox, hence not in the army, but were not at all judgmental of my secularity.  For them it was enough that I was there, young and friendly.  And imagine, I finally met people who knew even less Russian than I do!  It being Shabbos, I couldn’t ask for their phone numbers, but I promised to meet them  next week, same time, same place.

On the subway home I had another ego-booster when a woman asked me which stop was next and I knew the answer!  We chatted a bit and she didn’t even ask where I was from.  Apparently the less I say, the better I sound.  Another woman was grilling me, I could tell it was for biting my nails, and eventually she scolded me, but with humor.  “If you keep doing that,” she said with a smile, “soon you won’t have a finger.”  I also saw her offer a seat to an old drunkard and when he sat right next to him, she said, “No, sit over there,” and shoved him.  She was one funny babushka.  

Now I rather fancy a Shabbos nap, but it’s such a lovely sunny day, I think I’ll go for a walk.  On the one hand, I should quit while I’m ahead, because pessimistically I fear that a good day can only get worse.  On the other hand, once the sun goes down I’m pretty much stuck at home, so I should really go out while I can.  Ok bye.

***

I just disgusted myself as thoroughly as I’ve ever been disgusted.  After a lovely day (including a trip to the market), I set myself to making a yummy dinner of chicken and vegetables.  I should have known I would be punished for betraying my new friends with shopping, cooking and eating un-kosher food on Shabbos.  So, here’s the story.  I haven’t yet figured out where to buy non-frozen meat.  Last night my defrosted chicken wasn’t too bad, but a little tough.  Tonight I thought I’d try to cook it so it would be more tender.  I started by poaching this poor bird, and then I threw it in a frying pan with my make-shift sauce.  It fried for a long time, then I checked for doneness in the thickest parts and when it all looked white, I started eating.  I got through 1/4 the chicken before I realized parts were still raw.  Embarrassing.  Then I threw it back on the stove, kissing my hopes of tender meat goodbye, but more interested in not getting salmonella poisoning.  When it all looked done again, I started eating again, got through 1/4 again before I found big globs of blood.  Eating blood is a major kosher faux pas, so you would think I’d stop there, right?  Wrong.  I just rotated the portion on my plate and kept going.  When I felt full, I decided to save the rest, but to dismember the beast since big chunks of loose chicken look better than a 1/2 eaten carcass.  It was then that I discovered parts were still not cooked.  So rather than saving what was now a very small amount, I decided to eat the leftovers.  Big mistake.  I proceeded stuff my face, not even using silverware, but it tasted, and felt, wrong.  Yes, somehow after all that, I was still dealing with raw chicken, and now it was up close and personal.  I still can’t get that sick texture out of my mouth.  I think for my duration in Russia I might become a vegetarianka.  

Oh yeah, and no internet yet, because I ran out of money on my phone and was too lazy/proud to go back to the store.  Maybe tomorrow, the first day of my new, meat-free life.

9.22

All About the Benjamins

Today I got to witness and take part in a uniquely Russian cultural experience.  There was a meeting at school of all the professors of the English Language faculty, including the heretofore absent head of the department.  The meeting began and proceeded on an even keel; everyone reported on what’s going on in their sections and we planned an upcoming teachers’ conference.  Then somebody asked about how they were to pay for something-or-other, and they enjoined in a discussion of salary.  All of a sudden, chaos broke out.  Everyone was shouting about how little they got paid and how the school had no money.  Maybe there was even an announcement of further budget cuts; it was hard for me to keep up with what was going on.  One of the teachers turned to me and said, in English, “What a shame it is to live in Russia.”  The meeting concluded on a sour note and everyone filed out looking depressed.  I alone was amused, but I kept it to myself.  A couple professors, not acting in concert but individually, cornered me and asked if it was like this in American universities.  I could tell they wanted me to say that our schools are bottomless fountains of wealth, but I maintained that American teachers are also poorly paid and schools never have money.  Even at the university level, I explained, it takes years before a teacher becomes a full professor, and even then it’s not necessarily a lucrative position.  Nobody was comforted by this answer; on the contrary, they seemed disappointed.  Curiouser and curiouser.

After the meeting, I sat down with the department head Tatiana Alexandrovna to discuss my schedule.  We agreed that I would take on 13 hours a week of English classes by borrowing sections from the real professors.  This suited me, but I didn’t realize that now it’s up to me to track down these professors and decide with them the actual schedule of classes.  Today this search was fruitless, but I’ll try again tomorrow.  I also tried to find some English language books in the library, but was baffled and beaten by their organization system.  In one room is the puzzling card catalogue (no computers) and in another room, in fact on another floor, are the books.  I think you’re supposed to take the card and give it to a librarian, but I couldn’t find what I wanted, and so didn’t even try.  Ironically, I’m supposed to be doing a side project working with the library.  Maybe I’ll look beyond the Ped. Institute for a library suitable to my still-undefined purposes.

I came home after my two unproductive ventures and did some research for upcoming lectures.  My first two topics are to be the American Revolution and the Civil Rights Movement.  From the English department I got a book on American history, with a very helpful chapter on the Revolution and an offensively sparse one on Civil Rights.  It ends with the 1964 Civil Rights Bill, but says barely anything about Martin Luther King, like, for example, how he died.  It reminds me of a scene from the racism episode of Strangers with Candy.

Mr. Noblet: (showing a film of King’s “I Have a Dream” speech).  A moving vision of the future from Dr. Martin Luther King.  The tragedy, of course, is that the film is black and white.  Imagine how powerful it would have been in color.

Student: What happened to Dr. King?

Noblet: I’m not sure.

Luckily, I already know what happened to Dr. King, but I’m missing some of the major details, like where and by whom he was killed.  Let’s hope no one asks.

To return to my topic of cultural ideas about money, I’d like to discuss something I’ve noticed.  I’m addicted to this game show called Taxi, I think there’s an American version, but I’ll explain it anyway.  Pedestrians flag down a cab, agree on a price (which you always do before getting in the car in Russia) and sit down.  When the door closes, flashing lights come on and music plays.  The driver then turns around and explains that they are in the taxi that pays you, specifically for answering trivia questions.  If you get three questions wrong, you get dropped off where you are.  But if you get to your destination and are winning, you get the chance for one final question that, if answered correctly, will double your total earnings.  In the dozen or so times I’ve watched this program, which always has at least three different contestants in an episode, I’ve never seen anyone agree to that final question.  In some cases where there are a couple people in the cab, one wants to go for it, but the other always convinces him not to.  Now, maybe it’s just me, but I feel that it’s ok to gamble with found money, especially if you’ve been lucky so far.  Plus, for a game show, the prize money isn’t all that much.  I’ve only seen it get up to 12,000 rubles, or about $500 by the end of the ride. But everybody I’ve seen on this show would rather take what they can get than risk losing it all for the chance to win more.  Maybe one of my readers can catch the American version and let me know if they notice the same pattern.  Otherwise, I’ll just have to assume everyone here has internalized the old saying, “A ruble saved is a ruble earned.”

9.23

I’m in a ridiculously good, almost euphoric mood.  Today I taught only one class, a first year Advertising section, which usually has 5 students but today had only 3.  They had a textbook, plus energy and enthusiasm, and we all had a great time in class.  After that, I discovered the schedule of all the English teachers, so tomorrow I should be able to track them down and finalize my schedule.  When I was down at school, I headed downtown to return my books to the American Center.  The director was there so we scheduled my first lecture there.  Two weeks from today I’ll give a presentation on rock music and also plug the Rock Hall.  I found a bunch more helpful books, and lots of other books I want to read.  Once I work through the paperbacks I brought with me, I’ll donate them to the Center and start borrowing their books for my pleasure reading.  I was also able to go online for a minute, or rather an agonizing 40 minutes.  Almost none of my preferred websites worked, but I was able to read an email from my friend Jason, who said his grandparents are avid readers of my blog.  Hi Mr. and Mrs. Cieply!

On my way back from there, I stopped into the JCC to see if they had a schedule of events.  They didn’t have any extra copies, which turned out to be quite fortuitous.  While I was reading and copying down the schedule, a woman came in and asked if they offer English classes.  They explained that in the past they had, but this year they didn’t have a teacher.  If I were a cartoon, a lightbulb would have appeared over my head.  I introduced myself as an American and offered my English-teaching services to Ekaterinburg’s Jewish community.  An administrator and I decided to start a weekly English/American conversation club, actually beginning the same day as my lecture at the American Center.  My, but I feel important.

When I got home there was an even more exciting surprise.  The heat is on in my apartment!  As a matter of fact I’m sitting in boxers and a tank top right now.  Here in Russia they turn on the heat for the whole building; if it gets too hot in your individual apartment, you open a window.  I wonder if this happened today because when the director of the American Center asked if I had heat, I misunderstood and said yes.  Clearly, Ekaterinburg didn’t want to make a liar out of me.  One more small triumph: at the supermarket I bought milk-in-a-bag, because it was the only kind less than 3.5% fat.  Would you believe that my clumsy ass managed to pour it into a bottle without giving the whole kitchen a milk-bath?  Well, neither would I, but these things sometimes happen.

This evening I’ll take it super-easy.  Read some teachers’ books, watch some tv, eat some excellent chocolate ice cream.  Tomorrow I have a big day of teaching and hunting teachers.  This day certainly turned out better than it began, when I accidentally salted my coffee.  In another month, I’ll be running this country.

9.24

OMG On today’s episode of the Russian Married with Children, the father and son went hunting and guess what it’s called.  “Prevyed, Medvyed!”  An unwitting John Lurie reference if ever I heard one.  Amazing.  I wonder how serious he was when he asked if I could get him an art show here.  Or rather, I wonder if an art show would necessitate him coming here.  I think/fantasize about this possibility every day.  I gotta make friends with some gallery owners...

I had a minor victory today in the classroom.  I was telling the students why, in most casual situations, Americans don’t discuss sex, religion or politics.  This quickly turned into a political discussion, with the kids just as anxious to hear my opinions as they were to express their own.  It was then that one of the students expressed her gratitude for having a teacher with whom everyone could speak freely.  To be completely honest, she did point out that I’m not a real teacher, but she also acknowledged my position of relative authority.  It’s really amazing that this girl not only recognize but appreciates exactly what I’m trying to do: create an atmosphere where the students can and want to truly express themselves.  This more than made up for the awkwardness we all felt when I taught them the word schmooze and explained the meaning of “Yiddish.”  But even that turned out ok, because I used it as an example of why, in America, you can’t make assumptions about anyone’s religion.  Just wait till I teach them what it means to kvetch.

9.25

Today I finally got my schedule settled.  It took me two hours of staking out a professor, but I ultimately found her and got everything figured out.  I also rescheduled my American Center lecture.  It conflicts with one of my classes, but I’ll either have the other teacher substitute, or see if the class can come on an excursion to hear my lecture.  Today was also the school’s fall festival, a big kooky celebration called “Life-Yes! (Drugs-No!)”  The students had a parade, sports events, dance shows and concerts.  In general I was not very interested in the festivities, but it was nice to see all the students so excited.  The one performance I caught was a rap show by the two young gentlemen who carried my bags when I moved from the dorm to my apartment.  They were great!  And of course it cracked me up to hear two white Russian boys saying, “Yo, raise your hands!”  They were so good, in fact, that I wondered if the song wasn’t a cover, until I caught the lyrics “at the Ped. Institute.”  Straight outta ‘kat-burg.

After spending six hours at the school, I only taught for one hour.  But this was fine because about four times the number of students I had last week voluntarily attended my class.  They like me, they really like me!  I was nervous that I lectured too much and didn’t let the students talk enough, but walking out I caught one of them excitedly telling a friend about her English class.  She was embarrassed; it was really cute.  After class I asked the girls where I could go to buy some boots.  They gave me a lengthy explanation and even drew me a map, and then it turned out one of the students was going right by there, so we walked together.  It was great hearing her thoughts on foreign language study, especially because we talked the whole time in Russian.  Unfortunately, in the whole three-story shoe store, I couldn’t find a pair of boots I liked.  Scratch that.  I couldn’t find a pair of boots I liked in my size and price range.  Of course it’s still throwing me that prices here are in the thousands, but I really don’t want to spend much more than $100 on shoes.  But, to quote my friend Josh, it’s one of those things where...I mean, that’s cool, but at the same time...that’s crazy.

In Gallina Nikolaevna’s office I had the chance to check my email, if not to write leisurely responses.  Anyway I found out from my mom that when you google “Abbichka” (leave it to B to discover this), you get links, not only to all my friends’ blogs, but also to a Phil Spector website.  Awesome.  If only he knew that here in Uralmash there’s an electronics store called Elector Spector.  Let it never be said that Russia has lost that lovin’ feeling.

9.27

I thought Shabbos was great last week, and it was, but this week was even better.  They were so happy to see that I came back for more that I was invited for lunch at the rabbi’s house (funny how my stories about good experiences at synagogue are all about food).  At first I didn’t understand what the invitation was.  I thought it had to do with the Catholic school where a young woman in the congregation asked me to give English lessons, so when she started saying “Let’s go,” I said I couldn’t because I’d already promised to have lunch with the Israeli girls.  But when the rabbi intervened, I knew that wherever it was they wanted to take me, I had to go.  The rabbi, the young woman, a young man, a wisecracking old man and I walked through greater Ekaterinburg, all the while they pointed out significant buildings and monuments.  At length we arrived at the rabbi’s home, but we had to wait quite a while to get in because he wouldn’t use the front door’s electronic key.  Did I mention today, September 27, was the first snow?  The old man was ready to break down the door with his cane, but eventually a neighbor came out, affording us kosher entrance.

Inside we were greeted by the rabbi’s wife Marina and her friend.  I’m telling you, this apartment could have been a Jewish household in Beachwood, New York, Israel, Russia, anywhere in the world.  Everything from the smells to the decor to the fake wood-panelling made me feel at home.  We washed our hands, said the blessings and then commenced a never-ending feast.  First were the dairy dishes, every variety of salad and fish, including all my favorites: the best challah, lox, refried beans with nuts, a Russian beet salad puzzlingly called viniagrette and little pies filled with salmon.  The bean dish reminded me of what my mom calls beblach, and indeed, much of the conversation was about, if not in, Yiddish.  As a matter of fact I had asked why the Russian congregation kept wishing each other “Good Shabbos,” and they explained that I was actually hearing the Yiddish “Gut Shabbos.”  After the salads I was stuffed, but I wisely accepted a bowl of soup.  The words “fish and barley soup” don’t sound particularly appetizing, but this was the second-best soup I’ve ever had, beat only by Aunt Sandy’s matzo balls.  Of course it didn’t end there.  After clearing the fish dishes (they consider fish strictly dairy, not even pareve), Marina served meat and potatoes.  All of this we washed down with wine, vodka, seltzer and the couple’s homemade cranberry juice.  It’s times like this I wish I knew more than one Russian word for “delicious.”  For the first time in my life I didn’t have room for dessert.  The sweet little pies looked great, but I could barely swallow my tea.  As the meal progressed two more girls arrived, and just as the food seemed to be ceaseless, so they were able to make more and more room at the table.  

When we finished eating and said the post-meal prayers, the old man asked if they ate like this every Saturday.  “Oh no,” said Marina, “there’s usually much more.”  With the holiday coming up, she could only prepare a small, simple repast.  As if!  Once again I was in a situation where I felt unable to express my gratitude, but I think they understood.  When I thanked them for inviting me, they thanked me for coming, saying their door is always open.  They were as sincere in welcoming me as I was in thanking them.  I left together with the other young people, who asked if I would be having Rosh Hashana dinner there on Tuesday.  When I said I hadn’t been invited, they said in unison, “You’re always invited!”  

On our way back one of the girls gave me a tour of the Modest Mussorgsky Conservatory where she studies.  It was really cool, and much cleaner than the Pedagogical Institute.  She showed me photos and monuments of the famous professors, proudly but quietly pointing out which ones were Jews.  I’ll definitely be attending concerts there, and I hope she comes to my lecture on rock music.  She dropped me off at the metro and continued on her forty-minute walk home.  What a pro.  I have some guilty feelings about taking the metro on shabbos, but I have two excuses 1) I don’t know my way, but since it’s six stops I’m sure it’s far and 2) I’m not really shomer shabbos.  This evening, I’ll catch up on some reading, writing and if I get really ambitious, maybe laundry.  Frankly I’m so satisfied with today’s doings, I’m in no rush to frustrate myself with that stupid washing machine.  Maybe I’ll be selectively observant of the sabbath, and rest from aggravating household chores.  From each according to his ability, to each according to his needs.  Lenin said that.  Or was it McCartney?