Because that’s always the question: how can we be not us? How can I be not me?
Thus abroad, thus de Tocqueville.
What’s been up? I've been moved from the beginner Russian class to the intermediate one. Then immediately to the next one after that (for intermediate intermediates, I think). The class that is much farther ahead than I've ever been in Russian, and I've been doing my best to keep up. I might be the dumbest kid in the class, but I am also the one who is learning the most. The trade off?—dignity, of course. Always with the dignity.
Completely out of the blue, I was offered a job. Every Monday from here on out I'll get two groups of advanced English students, and I'll lead conversation sessions with them. I was given a list of things to talk about with them, such as “art, politics, utopias, environment, religion, vacation, foreign countries, stereotypes, food, etc”.
I had my first classes, and all my students were confused about there being any book for the course, and generally had no idea what we were supposed to be doing. So I just started a conversation about Russian Orthodoxy (for my first class) and peanut butter (for my second class) and let them take the conversation from there.
Peanut butter, interestingly enough, does not exist in Russia. Not proper peanut butter.
Yes, I get paid to talk with Russians about whatever strikes me as interesting at that moment. And the best part? I'm supposed to teach them how to debate and argue. That's right: I get to teach them how to argue about whatever I want to argue about. I have found a way to get paid to argue = my calling in life.
What's my pay? 300 rubles an hour, two classes, two hours each, so 1200 roubles a week (which comes out to a little less than 10$/hr, or, 10 cokes an hour, or more than enough money to feed a Russian family of 3 for a week—however you want to look at it.)
Speaking of arguments, I keep getting sick here and I've been trying to convince Tatyana that wearing a hat or not wearing a hat in cold weather has no effect on whether one gets a cold.
She argues: "I saw you yesterday. You went out in the cold without a hat, and now you have a cold!"
No! To "catch a cold" is a figure of speech. Multiple studies have proven that the reason people "catch colds" is because they are exposed to the cold virus; whether or not they are chilly at the moment of exposure makes no difference.
"Well, twice I've watched you go out without a hat, and twice you've gotten a cold now. I don't care what any doctor says, I've seen proof otherwise!"
At least she's not trying to bleed me to balance my humors.
Heck, maybe I need to be bled. Too much yellow bile, get the leaches! More like, too much phlegm. In my nose.
What do I miss when I get homesick? Driving, I always miss driving a lot. I remember back when I had my convertible, and I’d cruise home from school every day taking the coast from La Jolla to Del Mar – fantastic.
I remember driving around in my old red Corvair which only had AM radio; I got to the point where I started to rock out to country music like Juice Newton (“Playing with the Queen of Hearts / Knowin’ that it ain’t very smart / The Devil ain’t the only fool / Who will do anything for you”, John Michael Montgomery (“Life’s a dance, you learn as you go / sometimes you lead, sometimes you follow”), Conway Twitty (“Lord have mercy, Baby’s got her blue jeans on!”) and the Kendalls (“Heaven’s just a sin away / I can’t wait another day / I think I’m giving in”) all on AM 600 KOGO – “THE ZOO” followed by intermittent sessions with Dr. Laura, Rush Limbaugh, and occasional Jesus programming; god I loved late night with Art Bell, who has made me a real junkie for alien sightings and 2012.
Or eating a California burrito or having a beer and kicking it with the Del Mar Crew up on the ridge. Yeah, it’s always the people you miss. They'll be back soon enough.
I guess I don’t get homesick all that much. Not consciously at least. Usually when I’m anywhere that I’m not used to my dreams go crazy, but my dreams are always crazy.
But anyway, I go places so I can get perspective on where I come from. That's the whole point of traveling abroad. And you set out expecting revelations, and ultimately, there you are. Here I am.
Luff! luff, you may!—steady!—port! World ho!—here I am!
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Your Own, Personal Jesus
When I walk down the street, and I pass another person, I make eye contact. If I’m feeling really good, I’ll maybe add a smile, perhaps a “howdy!”, but at the very least: eye contact.
This seemingly meaningless gesture, usually done with little thought and almost automatically is actually immensely important. An enormous amount of information is conveyed simply by looking another human being in the eye. Without a word, I am communicating:
Which is why it discourages me so much that Russians do not make eye contact; most especially, they do not smile, and saying hello to someone you don’t know is absolutely out of the question. If you try to make eye contact with a woman, you will (if successful) receive a brief glance and an immediate redirection of her gaze, along with a tightening of all her facial features, often times accompanied by a frown (which, in most cases, was there before you tried to establish a moment of mutual-humanity—so you’ll inspire a deeper frown). If you try and make eye contact with a man you are basically challenging him to a fight; thus, you will either be met with the immediate redirection of his gaze (which, as far as I can tell, means submission, as with making eye contact with dogs) or be met with …other unpleasantness.
And let’s not even talk about smiling, because smiling, I'm told, is for fools. This concept, I guess, comes from the idea that everything in Russia is serious, unpleasant, and should be met with a face that is appropriately dismal. Thus, if you are smiling, you must be an ignoramus, or some foreigner [in my case, both], because no true Russian with true Russian problems would walk around with a pleasant, approachable look on his face unless he were really stupid, or really foreign.
For the most part, Russians don’t look at each other at all; they quickly shuffle down streets, staring at their feet, wrapped in coats, collars up to their noses, in silence. What is communicated when two such people cross paths?
First and foremost, there is a lot of crime in Saint-Petersburg, so everyone assumes everyone else is a bandit and tries to avoid all contact as much as possible. Here's my well-practiced and mastered "I'm-not-really-a-foreigner-I'm-really-a-Russian-and-a-badass-so-don't-mug-me" face:
But even I acknowledge the humanity of bandits. Heck, American bandits acknowledge the humanity of me, too.
My hypothesis is that the real source of this unfriendliness is the deeply ingrained Russian Orthodox mentality that permeates Russian society. For all Christians, the ultimate goal in life is to be like Jesus, emulate his virtues and his deeds, to care for each other, mercy, etc. For Orthodox Christians, the ideal is to be Jesus. I literally mean that the Russian Orthodox church teaches that Russians ought to be Jesus, that to live is to suffer horribly, publicly, and die for everyone else’s sins—
There is some perverted part of human nature that enjoys being unhappy, that likes pain (e.g. "I just needed a good cry.")—something that impels people to, given the choice to be happy or to be miserable, choose misery (i.e., Milne's Eeyore or, Dostoevsky's Marmeladov). The Russian Orthodox church has been playing this tune to Russians for over a thousand years, and there is a deep-set chord here that resonates in the Russian psyche. Couple a thousand years of oppressive, brutal monarchy [including Stalin and Putin] with a thousand years of teaching people to be satisfied with their bad lots (and the promise of a grand afterlife) and what you have is a system of complacency and acceptance of travesty where righteous indignation and active resistance should be.
Thus, a practical pessimism pervades the logic of the common Russian. He expects bad things to happen, waits for them to happen, and if—by chance—bad things don't come, he assumes they will in the next minute. What, historically, has ever proven otherwise for Russians?
Each sees his own suffering as the noble suffering of Jesus; each feels himself crucified and simultaneously relishes the crucifixion; he has been taught not to be like Jesus, but to be his own, personal Jesus.
This seemingly meaningless gesture, usually done with little thought and almost automatically is actually immensely important. An enormous amount of information is conveyed simply by looking another human being in the eye. Without a word, I am communicating:
- I am a human being.
- You too, are a human being.
- We together are human beings, acknowledging each other’s existence.
- Today, at this moment, our paths have crossed.
- We share this sidewalk as we share this community, and, macrocosmically, the world—we have duties and responsibilities towards each other.
Which is why it discourages me so much that Russians do not make eye contact; most especially, they do not smile, and saying hello to someone you don’t know is absolutely out of the question. If you try to make eye contact with a woman, you will (if successful) receive a brief glance and an immediate redirection of her gaze, along with a tightening of all her facial features, often times accompanied by a frown (which, in most cases, was there before you tried to establish a moment of mutual-humanity—so you’ll inspire a deeper frown). If you try and make eye contact with a man you are basically challenging him to a fight; thus, you will either be met with the immediate redirection of his gaze (which, as far as I can tell, means submission, as with making eye contact with dogs) or be met with …other unpleasantness.
And let’s not even talk about smiling, because smiling, I'm told, is for fools. This concept, I guess, comes from the idea that everything in Russia is serious, unpleasant, and should be met with a face that is appropriately dismal. Thus, if you are smiling, you must be an ignoramus, or some foreigner [in my case, both], because no true Russian with true Russian problems would walk around with a pleasant, approachable look on his face unless he were really stupid, or really foreign.
For the most part, Russians don’t look at each other at all; they quickly shuffle down streets, staring at their feet, wrapped in coats, collars up to their noses, in silence. What is communicated when two such people cross paths?
- I do not acknowledge your existence; whether you walked past me or not today does not matter.
- I have no respect for you as a human being or even as a fellow existing creature, you are merely another object in the background of my life.
- Only my own life and introspection is important, so important that I cannot leave it ever, not even for a second.
First and foremost, there is a lot of crime in Saint-Petersburg, so everyone assumes everyone else is a bandit and tries to avoid all contact as much as possible. Here's my well-practiced and mastered "I'm-not-really-a-foreigner-I'm-really-a-Russian-and-a-badass-so-don't-mug-me" face:
But even I acknowledge the humanity of bandits. Heck, American bandits acknowledge the humanity of me, too.
My hypothesis is that the real source of this unfriendliness is the deeply ingrained Russian Orthodox mentality that permeates Russian society. For all Christians, the ultimate goal in life is to be like Jesus, emulate his virtues and his deeds, to care for each other, mercy, etc. For Orthodox Christians, the ideal is to be Jesus. I literally mean that the Russian Orthodox church teaches that Russians ought to be Jesus, that to live is to suffer horribly, publicly, and die for everyone else’s sins—
There is some perverted part of human nature that enjoys being unhappy, that likes pain (e.g. "I just needed a good cry.")—something that impels people to, given the choice to be happy or to be miserable, choose misery (i.e., Milne's Eeyore or, Dostoevsky's Marmeladov). The Russian Orthodox church has been playing this tune to Russians for over a thousand years, and there is a deep-set chord here that resonates in the Russian psyche. Couple a thousand years of oppressive, brutal monarchy [including Stalin and Putin] with a thousand years of teaching people to be satisfied with their bad lots (and the promise of a grand afterlife) and what you have is a system of complacency and acceptance of travesty where righteous indignation and active resistance should be.
Thus, a practical pessimism pervades the logic of the common Russian. He expects bad things to happen, waits for them to happen, and if—by chance—bad things don't come, he assumes they will in the next minute. What, historically, has ever proven otherwise for Russians?
Each sees his own suffering as the noble suffering of Jesus; each feels himself crucified and simultaneously relishes the crucifixion; he has been taught not to be like Jesus, but to be his own, personal Jesus.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Published!
My first published article came out in the Bulletin from Johnny Cake Hill. Although it was really edited down (honestly, they took out all the information that was new and exciting!), I'm really proud to have published something. I recommend reading the complete version on my blog, which I've updated with all the good stuff (such as the discovery of multiple other artifacts from the Resolute timbers, previously unknown).
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Fed and Clothed
Tatyana, in addition to feeding me every day, has decided that I'm obsolete; so she bought me the following bunch of coats and shirts, and a single pair of white, womens' corduroy pants. Given I've never owned so many clothes in my life, I decided the occasion demanded a photoshoot.
No comment.
Please, sir!
Very blue.
I think my favorite, but dangerously close to being a used car dealer.
Sadly, this one doesn't have elbow patches.
Blue #2.
I need orange pants for this jacket.
This one could be ironed.
If you know what this is, you'll understand why it's such a travesty that it's too small.
I left out the orange jacket with tiger striped lining, only because I am not sure where I put it.
Total cost of clothes?: About $4.
No comment.
Please, sir!
Very blue.
I think my favorite, but dangerously close to being a used car dealer.
Sadly, this one doesn't have elbow patches.
Blue #2.
I need orange pants for this jacket.
This one could be ironed.
If you know what this is, you'll understand why it's such a travesty that it's too small.
I left out the orange jacket with tiger striped lining, only because I am not sure where I put it.
Total cost of clothes?: About $4.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Look both ways.
Crossing the street in Saint-Petersburg is a serious decision that needs to be made with the greatest care and vigilance.
In New York City, and in just about every city in America I’ve been to, one ought to look both ways before crossing the street, preferably do so in a crosswalk, and—ideally—when the little man is blinking green. However, if any of the aforementioned circumstances have not been met, you can still sue any asshole who runs you over for his house, his car, and his childrens' childrens' college savings.
The pedestrian has more than the right-of-way: he has the right-of-morality, of environmental superiority, ah—that we would all walk or bicycle, the world would be a safer, happier, conscientious, smogless place!
Not so in Saint-Petersburg. In Saint-Petersburg, if you are walking, it is because you are one of the low class bums who is too poor to get a cool car, and therefore must walk. It’s the logic of the horse and buggy days: the rich had horses and the poor walked. I, in my cool car, am of a higher class; thus I always have the right-of-way, and you, with all your uncool bipedal trumblings, ought to move your ass the hell out of the way.
Remember the Marquis from A Tale of Two Cities after trampling a man’s child:
Turn the news on just about any day of the week and you’ll hear reports of some unfortunate fellow who was run over. One young lady, maybe 25, was mid-step to get on a bus when the driver (perhaps intentionally) drove away. She fell down and both her legs were run over at the shins. Reporters recorded her as she called the bus company from her hospital bed, and the bus company told her that it would be “impossible” to figure out which driver was responsible (despite knowing the bus number, and the time she tried to get on the bus).
“Well, what are you going to do then? I'm going to lose both my legs" she asked.
“What do you expect us to do, would you like us to send you a fruit basket?” they mocked.
Let’s also not forget that it is completely legal to drink on the streets in Russia, and as far as I can tell, M.A.D.D. have yet to establish a branch here in Saint-Petersburg, so you run into stuff like this once in a while.
(This car met end was abandoned here in the middle of downtown Saint-Petersburg).
So look both ways. Because in Russia, drivers are drunk, entitled, and human life—like the ruble—is worth less.
In New York City, and in just about every city in America I’ve been to, one ought to look both ways before crossing the street, preferably do so in a crosswalk, and—ideally—when the little man is blinking green. However, if any of the aforementioned circumstances have not been met, you can still sue any asshole who runs you over for his house, his car, and his childrens' childrens' college savings.
The pedestrian has more than the right-of-way: he has the right-of-morality, of environmental superiority, ah—that we would all walk or bicycle, the world would be a safer, happier, conscientious, smogless place!
Not so in Saint-Petersburg. In Saint-Petersburg, if you are walking, it is because you are one of the low class bums who is too poor to get a cool car, and therefore must walk. It’s the logic of the horse and buggy days: the rich had horses and the poor walked. I, in my cool car, am of a higher class; thus I always have the right-of-way, and you, with all your uncool bipedal trumblings, ought to move your ass the hell out of the way.
Remember the Marquis from A Tale of Two Cities after trampling a man’s child:
I would ride over any of you [poor proletariat commoners] very willingly, and exterminate you from the earth. If I knew which rascal threw at the carriage, and if that brigand were sufficiently near it, he should be crushed under the wheels.Don’t expect a successful lawsuit either.
Turn the news on just about any day of the week and you’ll hear reports of some unfortunate fellow who was run over. One young lady, maybe 25, was mid-step to get on a bus when the driver (perhaps intentionally) drove away. She fell down and both her legs were run over at the shins. Reporters recorded her as she called the bus company from her hospital bed, and the bus company told her that it would be “impossible” to figure out which driver was responsible (despite knowing the bus number, and the time she tried to get on the bus).
“Well, what are you going to do then? I'm going to lose both my legs" she asked.
“What do you expect us to do, would you like us to send you a fruit basket?” they mocked.
Let’s also not forget that it is completely legal to drink on the streets in Russia, and as far as I can tell, M.A.D.D. have yet to establish a branch here in Saint-Petersburg, so you run into stuff like this once in a while.
(This car met end was abandoned here in the middle of downtown Saint-Petersburg).
So look both ways. Because in Russia, drivers are drunk, entitled, and human life—like the ruble—is worth less.
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