By the time I get up to my room, fall into bed, into fitful sleep, there's something very wrong, and there doesn't seem to be anything to do about it.
My head is throbbing, my legs are throbbing. Everything hurts; my hair hurts, my skin hurts.
Time passes.
I'm sweating into the pillows and sheets, a tangled, sweaty mess of fever. My throat has closed up long ago. It hurts to get out of bed, so I don't.
More time passes, and it occurs to me, sometime Wednesday that I could die here in this Shanghai hotel, with the neon lights and buildings outside, with the lights off, with no one calling. I imagine that maybe I have some brain-eating virus -- something has to be eating my brain, or I wouldn't be hurting, aching, throbbing like this.
I feel so helpless; I would never allow myself to access this level of pain in my normal life. On the second day of any fever, or once my throat closed, I would be in a doctor's office like that. I can't imagine trying to call down to the front desk and make my way through the language barrier to get a doctor; I can't imagine trying to navigage my way through a Chinese hospital. I'm a little bit afraid, but the pain is actually too overwhelming to feel much fear.
During the very bad parts, I moan little prayers to a god I don't believe in.
We fly back to San Francisco; I stumble out of the airport, sit on my luggage, smoke morosely. Lisa drives up, feels my forehead, says, "Oh my god, I'm taking you to the hospital."
We go to UCSF and because of my "recent travels" I get a private room and the nurses, techs and doctors all come in with masks on. I worry they will stick me in a scary quarantine room but they don't.
Six hours, one EKG, a chest X-ray and multiple blood tests later, they give me the happy diagnosis of a non-brain eating virus and dehydration. I get 2 liters of saline pumped through my veins, a prescription for codeine and we go home, to Lisa's home.
I stay in her bed for three more days.
I am so happy to be alive.
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Sunday, April 6, 2008
The Whole World Is Watching
I check Google News from the new hotel we’re at in Hangzhou. The top story -- the protests (over China’s human rights violations) in major European cities where the Olympic torch is making its way across the world.
I conduct an experiment here in the hotel internet cafe. I click on several of the news articles on the protest -- almost all of them come up. A few, however, give me what looks like a Page Not Found error. I Google "Tiananmen Square Massacre," and every single link comes up Page Not Found.
I can’t read Chinese, and I actually think the page reads an explanation of why I cannot view it.
The truth is, except for today’s village, the square has been my favorite part.
********************
I woke up sick this morning. Sore throat, body aches, fever. We made our usual frantic dash throughout the factories and took a nice canal ride. Today was actually the best day in spite of a hacking cough. We were allowed to roam for the tiniest bit of time in a small canal village. I walked through narrow streets and managed even, by pointing to the phrase "I’m sick" in my Chinese phrase book and coughing to prove it, to buy some inported cold medicine.
The village was beautiful and smelly and had little storefronts of fresh vegetables, little rooms that might have been houses or might have been restaurants, or more likely, a combination of both. I walked through the narrow alleyways, stepping aside to allow for the traffic of speeding bicycles. An old woman smiled to me and waved. "Ni hao," I said, returning her grin.
********************
I am not the only one breaking down from the crazy pace, the 141-thick group. Another man on our bus freaked out today, covering his ears with his hands to drown out the sound of everyone and skipping dinner, going directly to bed.
We’ve all had our moments. We muse about the fact that as a government-sponsored trip, we’re here only to see what the government wants us to see. We wonder if it is just the nature of organized trips to begin with. We talk about the consumerist quality of the trip even as we buy little hats from street vendors and silk scarves from the largest silk factory in China. ********************
I’m sweating; I have chills; my throat is raw.
The smog, the stress, the lack of sleep; the smog; the muggy weather; the night of semi-hard partying on our last night in Beijing and finally the intense, hard Chinese massage all pushed me over the edge. I didn’t think I’d be the one to get sick on this trip.
Didn’t think I’d be the one to turn down a night of exploring the neon-light streaked city outside.
I barely know what day it is, and I don’t know what city we’ll be in tomorrow. We are dragged or prodded onto bus after bus, hotel after hotel, shoved in round tables for meals, herded like cattle into factories and then marched back onto the bus.
********************
We’re so tired; we’d give anything to sleep till noon, wander for a few hours until we find tea, get lost and have to ask directions from a policeman, have strangers run up to us because they want to practice English.
We want to walk where no tourist goes and eat hot soup or find a dumpling stand. We want to go to a garden where there is not hundreds of Americans.
My friend Sarah’s dad said to me yesterday, "This entire restaurant is filled with white people. This is seriously the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen."
Me too.
I conduct an experiment here in the hotel internet cafe. I click on several of the news articles on the protest -- almost all of them come up. A few, however, give me what looks like a Page Not Found error. I Google "Tiananmen Square Massacre," and every single link comes up Page Not Found.
I can’t read Chinese, and I actually think the page reads an explanation of why I cannot view it.
The truth is, except for today’s village, the square has been my favorite part.
********************
I woke up sick this morning. Sore throat, body aches, fever. We made our usual frantic dash throughout the factories and took a nice canal ride. Today was actually the best day in spite of a hacking cough. We were allowed to roam for the tiniest bit of time in a small canal village. I walked through narrow streets and managed even, by pointing to the phrase "I’m sick" in my Chinese phrase book and coughing to prove it, to buy some inported cold medicine.
The village was beautiful and smelly and had little storefronts of fresh vegetables, little rooms that might have been houses or might have been restaurants, or more likely, a combination of both. I walked through the narrow alleyways, stepping aside to allow for the traffic of speeding bicycles. An old woman smiled to me and waved. "Ni hao," I said, returning her grin.
********************
I am not the only one breaking down from the crazy pace, the 141-thick group. Another man on our bus freaked out today, covering his ears with his hands to drown out the sound of everyone and skipping dinner, going directly to bed.
We’ve all had our moments. We muse about the fact that as a government-sponsored trip, we’re here only to see what the government wants us to see. We wonder if it is just the nature of organized trips to begin with. We talk about the consumerist quality of the trip even as we buy little hats from street vendors and silk scarves from the largest silk factory in China. ********************
I’m sweating; I have chills; my throat is raw.
The smog, the stress, the lack of sleep; the smog; the muggy weather; the night of semi-hard partying on our last night in Beijing and finally the intense, hard Chinese massage all pushed me over the edge. I didn’t think I’d be the one to get sick on this trip.
Didn’t think I’d be the one to turn down a night of exploring the neon-light streaked city outside.
I barely know what day it is, and I don’t know what city we’ll be in tomorrow. We are dragged or prodded onto bus after bus, hotel after hotel, shoved in round tables for meals, herded like cattle into factories and then marched back onto the bus.
********************
We’re so tired; we’d give anything to sleep till noon, wander for a few hours until we find tea, get lost and have to ask directions from a policeman, have strangers run up to us because they want to practice English.
We want to walk where no tourist goes and eat hot soup or find a dumpling stand. We want to go to a garden where there is not hundreds of Americans.
My friend Sarah’s dad said to me yesterday, "This entire restaurant is filled with white people. This is seriously the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen."
Me too.
Saturday, April 5, 2008
In Suzhou
The misanthrope arrives, not unexpectedly. The Americans are infuriating. I myself am infuriating. I drop drug comments all day long in an effort to shock and halt further conversation.
I’m so bad with people.
They make me nervous; they make me angry; they make me uneasy and fearful and, finally, they annoy the hell out of me.
There are about a half-dozen like-minded people on my tour bus (my friends and their families), and there’s an elderly lady who is my new hero. She can’t be a day younger than 70, and she walked with great speed through the never-ending tour of Beijing yesterday.
Our last night in Beijing was the best -- we drank and made friends with the owners of the hotel bar, which we were delighted to discover is privately owned. Only about 5 percent of businesses in China are not owned by the government. We drank expensive fruitinis and cheap Chinese beer. We took silly pictures of stuffed animals and I laughed to tears.
Today is a whole other story.
Our wake up call was at 4 am, to catch a 7:25 am flight to Shanghai. The plane. And then the new tour guide, squeaky voiced and over the top. We go to the Garden for Lingering, but we are not allowed to linger, really -- we are on a tight schedule. The crowds of our tour group and a few others is overwhelming. I get the beginnings of a panic attack. There are beautiful ponds, exotic rock formations, mosaics on the walkways, and there are so many goddamn tourists, I cannot think.
Emily, our new guide, (I had to hug Tom goodbye in Beijing and I kinda miss him), encourages us to stick together like sticky rice, and 80 percent of us ignore her and take off for a moment’s peace.
I cannot hear remarks about "they" and "them" anymore. I cannot listen to the mindless enthusiasm about the next government-owned factory complete with shop where the Americans must shop. God (or maybe Mao) forbid the tour company would actually drop us off in a real Chinese marketplace. Where we might, I don’t know, actually get to talk to some locals. Where we might actually get some idea of real life here.
She does not appreciate our rebellious American nature and tells us we are "broken" rice.
Our bubble is so tiny, so controlled.
I knew this, of course -- that was my greatest fear -- How am I going to be able to deal with travelling with people when I always travel alone?
I did okay for the first few days. Today, I couldn’t take it anymore.
I am so used to being alone; I need to be alone.
Various groups take off -- some go to the tour-sponsored dinner. Some run to Starbucks and ask in loud American voices, "Where can we get American food?" They come to China, they must have Starbucks, they must have Pizza Hut. It’s not for the kitsch factor; they really need it. My friends take off to find some place cool. I’m exhausted; I cannot go further this evening and I cannot fake acting normal when I’m thisclose to breaking down. I’m not used to people; I don’t surround myself by big groups; I have never done this before and I can scarcely believe my disposition today.
I am so, so fed up. It’s my least favorite part of traveling - meeting, with total inevitability, the kind of American I am trying not to be. The one who gets a kick out of getting a cheaper price on a purse, complete with a "Ha ha, how do they make a living?" The one who believes American Chinese food at the local Chinese buffet is "better" than what we’re eating.
But who am I to judge, really? A few days ago or was it yesterday, I’m all mixed up, a woman didn’t want to take my $5 American bill because it had an ink stain. I wondered aloud if it would get by the next waitress - that next waitress was right in front of me, and I was so embarassed, so full of shame, I covered my face in my hands and winced and said of myself what I think of so many of the 141 people on the chamber of commerce tour: I am such an asshole.
***************
On my first volunteer trip to Russia, Richard, my one-week buddy, skipped the free dinner almost every night because, as he said, "There’s just too many Americans here."
I didn’t take it personally and I knew he didn’t want company. But every morning, I loved to hear about his adventures the previous night.
In another time, another country, we never would have bonded. He’s from the south, in his 40s, married, Republican.
But the night he came up to my room, the smell of his jacket, and the look in his eyes when he spoke of a great ache to experience the culture of the city outside of the group is something I am remembering now, and I wonder how I will be able to achieve Richard-like exhileration here on this goverment-sponsored trip.
***************
When everyone breaks apart to explore the local American chains and others walk to find something authentic, I find myself so exhausted and short-tempered, that I visit the Chinese restaurant here in the hotel for my dinner.
The beautiful girl asks me if I’m alone and I say I am. As she leads me to the restaurant, I ask her if there are any Americans in the restaurant.
She stops, thinking I might be trying to meet somebody: "No, not here," she says.
"Oh thank god," I say, shaking with relief.
I eat alone, with a book and my phrase book. I order dumplings and meat steamed in bread. I got sick this morning so I eat every bit of ginger in the tiny bowl.
I’m not free -- I’m in the hotel. It’s beautiful; my bathroom has a bidet. I’m not free, but I have solitude now, thank god, thank god, just an hour away from the group. Away from the loud strangers.
I wonder if there is any way possible on this trip to experience the tiniest part of China. On. My. Own.
I’m so bad with people.
They make me nervous; they make me angry; they make me uneasy and fearful and, finally, they annoy the hell out of me.
There are about a half-dozen like-minded people on my tour bus (my friends and their families), and there’s an elderly lady who is my new hero. She can’t be a day younger than 70, and she walked with great speed through the never-ending tour of Beijing yesterday.
Our last night in Beijing was the best -- we drank and made friends with the owners of the hotel bar, which we were delighted to discover is privately owned. Only about 5 percent of businesses in China are not owned by the government. We drank expensive fruitinis and cheap Chinese beer. We took silly pictures of stuffed animals and I laughed to tears.
Today is a whole other story.
Our wake up call was at 4 am, to catch a 7:25 am flight to Shanghai. The plane. And then the new tour guide, squeaky voiced and over the top. We go to the Garden for Lingering, but we are not allowed to linger, really -- we are on a tight schedule. The crowds of our tour group and a few others is overwhelming. I get the beginnings of a panic attack. There are beautiful ponds, exotic rock formations, mosaics on the walkways, and there are so many goddamn tourists, I cannot think.
Emily, our new guide, (I had to hug Tom goodbye in Beijing and I kinda miss him), encourages us to stick together like sticky rice, and 80 percent of us ignore her and take off for a moment’s peace.
I cannot hear remarks about "they" and "them" anymore. I cannot listen to the mindless enthusiasm about the next government-owned factory complete with shop where the Americans must shop. God (or maybe Mao) forbid the tour company would actually drop us off in a real Chinese marketplace. Where we might, I don’t know, actually get to talk to some locals. Where we might actually get some idea of real life here.
She does not appreciate our rebellious American nature and tells us we are "broken" rice.
Our bubble is so tiny, so controlled.
I knew this, of course -- that was my greatest fear -- How am I going to be able to deal with travelling with people when I always travel alone?
I did okay for the first few days. Today, I couldn’t take it anymore.
I am so used to being alone; I need to be alone.
Various groups take off -- some go to the tour-sponsored dinner. Some run to Starbucks and ask in loud American voices, "Where can we get American food?" They come to China, they must have Starbucks, they must have Pizza Hut. It’s not for the kitsch factor; they really need it. My friends take off to find some place cool. I’m exhausted; I cannot go further this evening and I cannot fake acting normal when I’m thisclose to breaking down. I’m not used to people; I don’t surround myself by big groups; I have never done this before and I can scarcely believe my disposition today.
I am so, so fed up. It’s my least favorite part of traveling - meeting, with total inevitability, the kind of American I am trying not to be. The one who gets a kick out of getting a cheaper price on a purse, complete with a "Ha ha, how do they make a living?" The one who believes American Chinese food at the local Chinese buffet is "better" than what we’re eating.
But who am I to judge, really? A few days ago or was it yesterday, I’m all mixed up, a woman didn’t want to take my $5 American bill because it had an ink stain. I wondered aloud if it would get by the next waitress - that next waitress was right in front of me, and I was so embarassed, so full of shame, I covered my face in my hands and winced and said of myself what I think of so many of the 141 people on the chamber of commerce tour: I am such an asshole.
***************
On my first volunteer trip to Russia, Richard, my one-week buddy, skipped the free dinner almost every night because, as he said, "There’s just too many Americans here."
I didn’t take it personally and I knew he didn’t want company. But every morning, I loved to hear about his adventures the previous night.
In another time, another country, we never would have bonded. He’s from the south, in his 40s, married, Republican.
But the night he came up to my room, the smell of his jacket, and the look in his eyes when he spoke of a great ache to experience the culture of the city outside of the group is something I am remembering now, and I wonder how I will be able to achieve Richard-like exhileration here on this goverment-sponsored trip.
***************
When everyone breaks apart to explore the local American chains and others walk to find something authentic, I find myself so exhausted and short-tempered, that I visit the Chinese restaurant here in the hotel for my dinner.
The beautiful girl asks me if I’m alone and I say I am. As she leads me to the restaurant, I ask her if there are any Americans in the restaurant.
She stops, thinking I might be trying to meet somebody: "No, not here," she says.
"Oh thank god," I say, shaking with relief.
I eat alone, with a book and my phrase book. I order dumplings and meat steamed in bread. I got sick this morning so I eat every bit of ginger in the tiny bowl.
I’m not free -- I’m in the hotel. It’s beautiful; my bathroom has a bidet. I’m not free, but I have solitude now, thank god, thank god, just an hour away from the group. Away from the loud strangers.
I wonder if there is any way possible on this trip to experience the tiniest part of China. On. My. Own.
Beijing to Shanghai
The city is choked by smog.
I’ve not seen anything like it, not even in Mexcico City, or perhaps they’re tied. Our days are filled with live infomercials and gray skies. Our nights are filled by a 5-star hotel and the hotel lobby bar.
We walk.
From Tian’nmen Gate, we walk through an underground cross street and my eyes surprisingly, but not really, fill with dark gray water. I realize I miss Russia, I miss Moscow, I want to say "Spasiba," when I really should be saying "Shi Shi."
I realize that I look at a tall Chinese soldier and feel instead the quickening pulse that comes from walking by any Russian man.
I love the huge portrait of Chairman Mao; I love the big public square; I love Tom, our guide, who is a little bit communist, a little bit brainwashed like we all are by our governments, a little bit wise, a little bit shocked when two of us decide to opt out of the non-negotiable "optional" tour and strike out alone.
I feel so constrained, so trapped. I got lost today in the Forbidden City. I am the only person on our bus without a buddy, without a partner; I’m alone as I always am, and so when I stopped to squat in a public toilet, I got left behind.
When I left the bathroom and couldn’t find the group, I had an exhilerating few minutes of joy. I was free! I was outside of the box. The square inside the Forbidden City opened up to me. I saw an old Chinese man scream at his old and still smiling Chinese wife. How could she keep that amused smile on her face as she was being yelled at in public, I wondered? I saw young, god how young, soldiers marching. I was free, I thought. Free from the oppressive schedule, the merchants, every last one of them who accept my shitty US dollars. free from Tom overlooking us like a mother hen, free from the petroleum-guzzling bus, free from Lin with her camera, free from the complaining, irritating, loud, obnoxious Americans .... so free ...
And that’s when I realized that if I didn’t find my tour group pretty quickly, I was going to be totally fucked.
**************
I eat dumplings and duck. I don’t stray too far from the group, because they want to keep us in check, in a line, a number on a bus, I get it.
I buy surprisingly cheap souveniers. I tell a woman selling 7 purses for $10 that she is underselling herself. She can sell them for $5 apiece. Maybe she will come August when the Olympics are here.
Dear god, what are these people going to do when the Olympics are here? How will they explain the everlasting gray sky and factory pollution? Why would they even show anyone around town or even allow people to talk to foreigners when the story is the same as it is all over the world -- we are all controlled.
I drink tea. I am with people and this is not always a bad thing. Maybe I only breathe a little bit after the climb up the Great Wall. Maybe I pretend to sleep on the tour bus so I can think. Maybe my hands hurt right now and my contacts are falling out and I’m catching an early flight to Shanghai and I can’t really see the screen.
It’s still better than what’s going on at home.
I’ve not seen anything like it, not even in Mexcico City, or perhaps they’re tied. Our days are filled with live infomercials and gray skies. Our nights are filled by a 5-star hotel and the hotel lobby bar.
We walk.
From Tian’nmen Gate, we walk through an underground cross street and my eyes surprisingly, but not really, fill with dark gray water. I realize I miss Russia, I miss Moscow, I want to say "Spasiba," when I really should be saying "Shi Shi."
I realize that I look at a tall Chinese soldier and feel instead the quickening pulse that comes from walking by any Russian man.
I love the huge portrait of Chairman Mao; I love the big public square; I love Tom, our guide, who is a little bit communist, a little bit brainwashed like we all are by our governments, a little bit wise, a little bit shocked when two of us decide to opt out of the non-negotiable "optional" tour and strike out alone.
I feel so constrained, so trapped. I got lost today in the Forbidden City. I am the only person on our bus without a buddy, without a partner; I’m alone as I always am, and so when I stopped to squat in a public toilet, I got left behind.
When I left the bathroom and couldn’t find the group, I had an exhilerating few minutes of joy. I was free! I was outside of the box. The square inside the Forbidden City opened up to me. I saw an old Chinese man scream at his old and still smiling Chinese wife. How could she keep that amused smile on her face as she was being yelled at in public, I wondered? I saw young, god how young, soldiers marching. I was free, I thought. Free from the oppressive schedule, the merchants, every last one of them who accept my shitty US dollars. free from Tom overlooking us like a mother hen, free from the petroleum-guzzling bus, free from Lin with her camera, free from the complaining, irritating, loud, obnoxious Americans .... so free ...
And that’s when I realized that if I didn’t find my tour group pretty quickly, I was going to be totally fucked.
**************
I eat dumplings and duck. I don’t stray too far from the group, because they want to keep us in check, in a line, a number on a bus, I get it.
I buy surprisingly cheap souveniers. I tell a woman selling 7 purses for $10 that she is underselling herself. She can sell them for $5 apiece. Maybe she will come August when the Olympics are here.
Dear god, what are these people going to do when the Olympics are here? How will they explain the everlasting gray sky and factory pollution? Why would they even show anyone around town or even allow people to talk to foreigners when the story is the same as it is all over the world -- we are all controlled.
I drink tea. I am with people and this is not always a bad thing. Maybe I only breathe a little bit after the climb up the Great Wall. Maybe I pretend to sleep on the tour bus so I can think. Maybe my hands hurt right now and my contacts are falling out and I’m catching an early flight to Shanghai and I can’t really see the screen.
It’s still better than what’s going on at home.
Friday, January 25, 2008
Moscow
What can I say about Moscow.
Can I say how beautiful it is here? Can I say how it is a huge fairy tale city? Can I say that the towers of the Kremlin melt perfectly with the huge skyscraper of the Samsung building?
The city merges old buildings with new. It merges new money with old babushkas.
I fall in love with this city. I fall in love with Cortney and Adam, the other two volunteers. I want to touch them and I do. I touch them on their shoulders - they bring me to tears.
We sneak bottles of vodka and paper cups of coffee on to Red Square and toast. To the city. And to us.
We throw pennies, kopyeks, over our shoulders in front of the gates, as we've seen the others do.
We take each others pictures.
I forgot how nice it is to travel with friends, and the three of us have spilled our guts to each other the way people who are thrown together do. We tell each other intimate secrets. We hold each other and choke up when we speak of the children, and what they did to make us happy or so sad.
I feel especially close to Adam and this thrills me and excites me and makes me hopeful. Adam is much older than I am. And since Cortney goes to sleep early, the two of us go out for beers or coffee and we tell each other our stories and we make each other laugh. And when we walk down the street and our arms or shoulders touch .. or when he leans over my shoulder into my ear to point out a landmark ... I feel so hopeful. Adam is going through a breakup with his wife; he is older than me and is not really "available," but I feel so much hope. That some day, I will be loved.
Can I say how beautiful it is here? Can I say how it is a huge fairy tale city? Can I say that the towers of the Kremlin melt perfectly with the huge skyscraper of the Samsung building?
The city merges old buildings with new. It merges new money with old babushkas.
I fall in love with this city. I fall in love with Cortney and Adam, the other two volunteers. I want to touch them and I do. I touch them on their shoulders - they bring me to tears.
We sneak bottles of vodka and paper cups of coffee on to Red Square and toast. To the city. And to us.
We throw pennies, kopyeks, over our shoulders in front of the gates, as we've seen the others do.
We take each others pictures.
I forgot how nice it is to travel with friends, and the three of us have spilled our guts to each other the way people who are thrown together do. We tell each other intimate secrets. We hold each other and choke up when we speak of the children, and what they did to make us happy or so sad.
I feel especially close to Adam and this thrills me and excites me and makes me hopeful. Adam is much older than I am. And since Cortney goes to sleep early, the two of us go out for beers or coffee and we tell each other our stories and we make each other laugh. And when we walk down the street and our arms or shoulders touch .. or when he leans over my shoulder into my ear to point out a landmark ... I feel so hopeful. Adam is going through a breakup with his wife; he is older than me and is not really "available," but I feel so much hope. That some day, I will be loved.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Ending Things in Yaroslavl
I have only two more days here. Tomorrow is my last day at Children's Hospital. It will be a special day for me. I'm going to repeat the project that Richard and I did so successfully last time - paper picture frames and a photo session of each of them with a Poloroid camera. They're going to love it.
The way the organization works is this: We go to a placement (hospital, boarding school, shelter, elderly home, disabled center) with a translator, and first off we do a craft. The Russians believe in "labor therapy," and so we have them do a project. At the hotel, one of the office rooms is our Craft Room, and there are shelves of paper, tissue paper, ribbons, sequins, glue. We make mouses out of pipe cleaners, greeting cards out of construction paper. On Friday, I'm going to help the women at the mental hospital make felt purses with ribbon and fabric. They're not allowed to have scissors, so everything will be pre-cut, and we'll use pipe cleaners as a needle with yarn.
After the craft, then it's play time. Uno is very big here. The women at the hospital like cards and dominos. Today at the children's hospital, we played a game similar to Chutes and Ladders.
If the kids don't want to play games, we always bring crayons and coloring books and plain paper. Also Barbies and little toy cars for the boys.
We play for about an hour, and then it's time to leave.
**********
Last night, Nadia, the director, took us to a banya. A real banya, not the scandalous one I visited last year in St. Petersburg. Adam was the only man, and Cortney and I have body issues, and Adam does too (he says he thinks he's part Neanderthal on account of his body hair) and we were all pretty nervous and freaked out. We women stripped in one room; Adam was lucky and had a room to ourselves. Then we all emerged wearing only thin sheets.
Yes. That's it.
Now, Cortney and I were freaked out. Nadia and one of the translators have done this a bazillion times and guided us through the process. All of us hopped into the banya, which is a small wooden room with rocks in a corner. We sat there for several minutes until we began to sweat profusely. And then, we came outside. Outside meaning into the snow.
We were all very shy at first. We didn't look at eachother, and fiddled with our sheets.
But by our second round, we were throwing snow at eachother.
God, the exhileration! The beauty of the forest! There was fresh snow everywhere, and I understood why they said banya was best with fresh snow - after leaving the banya, your body retains the heat for several minutes. You can walk around outside, pulling up handfuls of fresh snow and rubbing it on yourself (or getting a snowball thrown at you) or you can throw it up in the air and it sprinkles down on you and feels amazing. Like you want to cry, it feels so good.
We steamed like dumplings outside, and we took pictures of each other. I never thought I'd allow someone to take a picture of me half naked in the snow, but I did.
Back inside the banya, the beating with birch leaves commences. And that feels good, but it also feels hot. It is the heat of like nothing imagined. The leaves of the birch tree are very wet and very limp, and they smack against your skin, but just whipping it up and down creates a tremendous heat that is nearly unbearable. When it does become unbearable, that is when it's time to leave and go back out into the snow.
**********
I feel a great connection with Adam and Cortney. We quickly bonded, having similar senses of humor and irony. We laugh like crazy, and we've cried together, though we've only known each other for 11 days. Every night we go out together, we have a great time. We have a great time getting lost. We have a great time humiliating ourselves in front of Russians who don't understand us. We have a great time gossiping about our translators, bitching about the high strung ones, praising our favorites.
We talk about our placements - Adam and Cortney have spent most of their time at a children's shelter and a boarding school and at an elderly home. I've spent most of time with the Children's Hospital and the disabled.
Adam and Cortney don't love the Children's Hospital as I do, mostly because, as Adam describes it, it's pretty "grim." It is probably 200 years old. The kids are messed up and some of them like Maxim, my favorite, are pretty bad. Adam and Cortney love working with the little ones at the shelter - some of them are as young as two - and I understand it. Toddlers are easy to love.
On Friday, my last day here in Yaroslavl, Adam and Cortney are going to accompany me to Moscow, and the three of us will spend the weekend there before I go back home on Sunday.
**********
On the way to the internet cafe tonight, Cortney said, "When you leave, what do you miss the most? The kids?"
"The kids," I said. "Yes, the kids. But also - at home in L.A., I don't feel like I fit in. Here, even though I look different and I don't know the language - for some strange reason, I feel like I fit in. I don't know what it is. I feel comfortable."
**********
Everything has been wonderful, everything. The kids, yes. But the food, my god the food. Cortney and I can't stop eating cheese. Every day at lunch, we are served strange salads and steaming pots of every kind of soup - cabbage soup, chicken noodle soup, potato soup, pea soup. They're fucking amazing. We get chicken Kiev, potatoes, steaks dipped in egg, kabobs, green beans floating in garlic butter. Homemade brown bread. Special Russian ice cream, thick and not too sweet.
**********
We spent the morning in Rostov, a neighboring city, famous for its enamal factory. We ate lunch in a monastery. We visited cathedrals. Cortney and I had to wear skirts and scarves over our heads. Adam said I look Muslim.
We climbed to the top of the monastery, overlooking Lake Nero. A car drove on the frozen lake. Even here in Yaroslavl, the rivers are frozen over and men sit out there ice fishing.
Russia is beautiful right now - it is covered in snow and the buildings rise majestically with the church towers bright against the white sky. The women all look like supermodels, wearing stiletto boots and fur coats. The men smell like cigarettes and something else that I can't put my finger on, but something that makes my heart beat a little quicker when I'm close to one.
**********
Today at lunch in the monastery, Nadia told one of the monks that I had been proposed to several times. This is an exaggeration - two men last week tried to pick me up, but I use the word "men" very loosely because one of them didn't look older than 18, and Cortney joked that he probably remembered me from last year because he was at one of the orphanages.
The monk gave me some advice. He said that 20 percent of Russian men are very good, and the other 80 percent are alcoholics. But 100 percent of Russian men have very big hearts.
I am so moving here.
The way the organization works is this: We go to a placement (hospital, boarding school, shelter, elderly home, disabled center) with a translator, and first off we do a craft. The Russians believe in "labor therapy," and so we have them do a project. At the hotel, one of the office rooms is our Craft Room, and there are shelves of paper, tissue paper, ribbons, sequins, glue. We make mouses out of pipe cleaners, greeting cards out of construction paper. On Friday, I'm going to help the women at the mental hospital make felt purses with ribbon and fabric. They're not allowed to have scissors, so everything will be pre-cut, and we'll use pipe cleaners as a needle with yarn.
After the craft, then it's play time. Uno is very big here. The women at the hospital like cards and dominos. Today at the children's hospital, we played a game similar to Chutes and Ladders.
If the kids don't want to play games, we always bring crayons and coloring books and plain paper. Also Barbies and little toy cars for the boys.
We play for about an hour, and then it's time to leave.
**********
Last night, Nadia, the director, took us to a banya. A real banya, not the scandalous one I visited last year in St. Petersburg. Adam was the only man, and Cortney and I have body issues, and Adam does too (he says he thinks he's part Neanderthal on account of his body hair) and we were all pretty nervous and freaked out. We women stripped in one room; Adam was lucky and had a room to ourselves. Then we all emerged wearing only thin sheets.
Yes. That's it.
Now, Cortney and I were freaked out. Nadia and one of the translators have done this a bazillion times and guided us through the process. All of us hopped into the banya, which is a small wooden room with rocks in a corner. We sat there for several minutes until we began to sweat profusely. And then, we came outside. Outside meaning into the snow.
We were all very shy at first. We didn't look at eachother, and fiddled with our sheets.
But by our second round, we were throwing snow at eachother.
God, the exhileration! The beauty of the forest! There was fresh snow everywhere, and I understood why they said banya was best with fresh snow - after leaving the banya, your body retains the heat for several minutes. You can walk around outside, pulling up handfuls of fresh snow and rubbing it on yourself (or getting a snowball thrown at you) or you can throw it up in the air and it sprinkles down on you and feels amazing. Like you want to cry, it feels so good.
We steamed like dumplings outside, and we took pictures of each other. I never thought I'd allow someone to take a picture of me half naked in the snow, but I did.
Back inside the banya, the beating with birch leaves commences. And that feels good, but it also feels hot. It is the heat of like nothing imagined. The leaves of the birch tree are very wet and very limp, and they smack against your skin, but just whipping it up and down creates a tremendous heat that is nearly unbearable. When it does become unbearable, that is when it's time to leave and go back out into the snow.
**********
I feel a great connection with Adam and Cortney. We quickly bonded, having similar senses of humor and irony. We laugh like crazy, and we've cried together, though we've only known each other for 11 days. Every night we go out together, we have a great time. We have a great time getting lost. We have a great time humiliating ourselves in front of Russians who don't understand us. We have a great time gossiping about our translators, bitching about the high strung ones, praising our favorites.
We talk about our placements - Adam and Cortney have spent most of their time at a children's shelter and a boarding school and at an elderly home. I've spent most of time with the Children's Hospital and the disabled.
Adam and Cortney don't love the Children's Hospital as I do, mostly because, as Adam describes it, it's pretty "grim." It is probably 200 years old. The kids are messed up and some of them like Maxim, my favorite, are pretty bad. Adam and Cortney love working with the little ones at the shelter - some of them are as young as two - and I understand it. Toddlers are easy to love.
On Friday, my last day here in Yaroslavl, Adam and Cortney are going to accompany me to Moscow, and the three of us will spend the weekend there before I go back home on Sunday.
**********
On the way to the internet cafe tonight, Cortney said, "When you leave, what do you miss the most? The kids?"
"The kids," I said. "Yes, the kids. But also - at home in L.A., I don't feel like I fit in. Here, even though I look different and I don't know the language - for some strange reason, I feel like I fit in. I don't know what it is. I feel comfortable."
**********
Everything has been wonderful, everything. The kids, yes. But the food, my god the food. Cortney and I can't stop eating cheese. Every day at lunch, we are served strange salads and steaming pots of every kind of soup - cabbage soup, chicken noodle soup, potato soup, pea soup. They're fucking amazing. We get chicken Kiev, potatoes, steaks dipped in egg, kabobs, green beans floating in garlic butter. Homemade brown bread. Special Russian ice cream, thick and not too sweet.
**********
We spent the morning in Rostov, a neighboring city, famous for its enamal factory. We ate lunch in a monastery. We visited cathedrals. Cortney and I had to wear skirts and scarves over our heads. Adam said I look Muslim.
We climbed to the top of the monastery, overlooking Lake Nero. A car drove on the frozen lake. Even here in Yaroslavl, the rivers are frozen over and men sit out there ice fishing.
Russia is beautiful right now - it is covered in snow and the buildings rise majestically with the church towers bright against the white sky. The women all look like supermodels, wearing stiletto boots and fur coats. The men smell like cigarettes and something else that I can't put my finger on, but something that makes my heart beat a little quicker when I'm close to one.
**********
Today at lunch in the monastery, Nadia told one of the monks that I had been proposed to several times. This is an exaggeration - two men last week tried to pick me up, but I use the word "men" very loosely because one of them didn't look older than 18, and Cortney joked that he probably remembered me from last year because he was at one of the orphanages.
The monk gave me some advice. He said that 20 percent of Russian men are very good, and the other 80 percent are alcoholics. But 100 percent of Russian men have very big hearts.
I am so moving here.
Saturday, January 19, 2008
KOPE-IN
The thing I have to remember about the Russian language is this:
1. Things that are prounounced similar in both languages (toilet, restaurant, nose) are written entirely differently.
2. Even though some words are written in the same alphabetical letters as English, they are pronounced entirely differently.
**********
Things are perfect for me, but for the personal matters of the other two volunteers. Thursday night, Adam got distressing news from a wife that apparantly wants to leave him, and Cortney spilled her guts and said her husband is divorcing her and has a 28-year old girlfriend.
What happens in situations like this is that I absorb the situation and it becomes my own. Until I forced myself to stop later that night, I found myself pacing my room and very anxious. I had to actually sit myself down and tell myself I was being incredibly selfish - to myself! - by making their problems my own. I read before bed and in the morning, we all woke up better. Adam has decided to stay in Russia anyways - after talking to his wife, he has decided she is confused. Cortney honestly has not broken down at all. Her strength is really incredible and Russians keep mistaking her for a movie star. **********
Today is a special day in the Russian Orthodox Church (what it is, I do not remember, except people get "baptized" by jumping into the river), and so one of the translators took us to the main Yaroslavl church and we stood through the latter part of the service.
How it works is this: You cross yourself with either two or three fingers, right shoulder first, before you enter the church, when you enter the church, and every time the priest says "Amen," which here, sounds like "Ah-mun." You also buy a thin stick of a candle, cross yourself and light it, cross yourself again. You may also kiss the glass of the picture of your favorite icon (Mary and Jesus are very big), but this I did not do because I could think only of the germs and bacteria on that glass. When I lit my candle, I said a prayer for the young boy outside the gate of the church who was begging. That is when I felt an overwhelming sense of my own atheism - I did not believe for a minute that the world, the universe, god, whatever, was going to do a fucking thing for him. I knew this in my bones. My soul, though I don't believe in "soul."
It came to me (an American thought), that I could simply give him money, a large sum, and that would ensure many things - 1. that the prayer that I said was not in vain and 2. here is the hard part, that I only realized afterwards, a thought so shameful, it hurts me to write it.
So that I would not feel so helpless, so that I would feel better about things, so that I would feel better about myself.
I looked over my shoulder, as though I was a criminal. What I was about to do was strictly against the rules of the organization I am with. I walked towards the boy, and with one last furtive glance, dropped the note in the outstretched bowl. His hands were red. He did not look up. I hated myself truly at that point, because what is the fucking point of any of this?
Am I like the Americans I hated last time? The awful rich women who liked to drop money on developing countries because it made them look good?
Am I like the women I hate, the ones who pose for pictures with AIDS babies and orphans because I like the way I look in those pictures, like someone holy, like Princess Diana?
I was struck by a choking lightening flash of terrible guilt and impotence. I pretty much reeled away from the boy as though he had actually struck me, and stumbled through the snow, up the icy ledge and I hid behind the church for several minutes until I pulled myself together.
I've had these thoughts before. But only now, writing it, does the entirety of the shame seem so fucking gross and true.
In order to come here to work with kids, I had to take some blood tests. I went to my doctor and handed her the paperwork, and she asked what I was going to Russia for, and when I told her, she said, "You're so good, you're making me cry."
"I'm not good," I said with meaning. "It's fun for me, I like doing it."
Well - I do like doing it. I like Maxim, the bad teenage boy who always hits this little girl. She cries, I hold her. But I hold him, too. It's not his fault he grew up badly. He's likely only re-enacting what he's seen for years at home.
I like Kola, and was kinda sad that Thursday was his last day at the hospital. I liked him because he offered me his gloves on the same day that he picked up big sticks and made awful, machine gun sounds with them.
Right now, though, do you know what I am remembering? I am remembering having pity for the little boy this morning, and I feel a kind of rage against myself now, because I am afraid that my "kindness," my "good deeds," are really nothing very much more than ego boosts.
And if this is true, then I do not know myself as well as I thought, and I don't know if I really like myself all that much either.
1. Things that are prounounced similar in both languages (toilet, restaurant, nose) are written entirely differently.
2. Even though some words are written in the same alphabetical letters as English, they are pronounced entirely differently.
**********
Things are perfect for me, but for the personal matters of the other two volunteers. Thursday night, Adam got distressing news from a wife that apparantly wants to leave him, and Cortney spilled her guts and said her husband is divorcing her and has a 28-year old girlfriend.
What happens in situations like this is that I absorb the situation and it becomes my own. Until I forced myself to stop later that night, I found myself pacing my room and very anxious. I had to actually sit myself down and tell myself I was being incredibly selfish - to myself! - by making their problems my own. I read before bed and in the morning, we all woke up better. Adam has decided to stay in Russia anyways - after talking to his wife, he has decided she is confused. Cortney honestly has not broken down at all. Her strength is really incredible and Russians keep mistaking her for a movie star. **********
Today is a special day in the Russian Orthodox Church (what it is, I do not remember, except people get "baptized" by jumping into the river), and so one of the translators took us to the main Yaroslavl church and we stood through the latter part of the service.
How it works is this: You cross yourself with either two or three fingers, right shoulder first, before you enter the church, when you enter the church, and every time the priest says "Amen," which here, sounds like "Ah-mun." You also buy a thin stick of a candle, cross yourself and light it, cross yourself again. You may also kiss the glass of the picture of your favorite icon (Mary and Jesus are very big), but this I did not do because I could think only of the germs and bacteria on that glass. When I lit my candle, I said a prayer for the young boy outside the gate of the church who was begging. That is when I felt an overwhelming sense of my own atheism - I did not believe for a minute that the world, the universe, god, whatever, was going to do a fucking thing for him. I knew this in my bones. My soul, though I don't believe in "soul."
It came to me (an American thought), that I could simply give him money, a large sum, and that would ensure many things - 1. that the prayer that I said was not in vain and 2. here is the hard part, that I only realized afterwards, a thought so shameful, it hurts me to write it.
So that I would not feel so helpless, so that I would feel better about things, so that I would feel better about myself.
I looked over my shoulder, as though I was a criminal. What I was about to do was strictly against the rules of the organization I am with. I walked towards the boy, and with one last furtive glance, dropped the note in the outstretched bowl. His hands were red. He did not look up. I hated myself truly at that point, because what is the fucking point of any of this?
Am I like the Americans I hated last time? The awful rich women who liked to drop money on developing countries because it made them look good?
Am I like the women I hate, the ones who pose for pictures with AIDS babies and orphans because I like the way I look in those pictures, like someone holy, like Princess Diana?
I was struck by a choking lightening flash of terrible guilt and impotence. I pretty much reeled away from the boy as though he had actually struck me, and stumbled through the snow, up the icy ledge and I hid behind the church for several minutes until I pulled myself together.
I've had these thoughts before. But only now, writing it, does the entirety of the shame seem so fucking gross and true.
In order to come here to work with kids, I had to take some blood tests. I went to my doctor and handed her the paperwork, and she asked what I was going to Russia for, and when I told her, she said, "You're so good, you're making me cry."
"I'm not good," I said with meaning. "It's fun for me, I like doing it."
Well - I do like doing it. I like Maxim, the bad teenage boy who always hits this little girl. She cries, I hold her. But I hold him, too. It's not his fault he grew up badly. He's likely only re-enacting what he's seen for years at home.
I like Kola, and was kinda sad that Thursday was his last day at the hospital. I liked him because he offered me his gloves on the same day that he picked up big sticks and made awful, machine gun sounds with them.
Right now, though, do you know what I am remembering? I am remembering having pity for the little boy this morning, and I feel a kind of rage against myself now, because I am afraid that my "kindness," my "good deeds," are really nothing very much more than ego boosts.
And if this is true, then I do not know myself as well as I thought, and I don't know if I really like myself all that much either.
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