Goodbye Africa

I spent my last day in Ghana at an orphanage about 20 minutes away from Kokrobite Beach, where I stayed the last four nights. There are a ton of volunteers in Ghana, and a good portion of them were at the beach resort this weekend for the live music they have on Fridays and Saturdays.
This girl Alex, yet another Australian, is actually living and volunteering at the orphanage, and I was pleased with the invite.
I realize more and more that I know nothing - for instance, when I was in the orphanage in Yaroslavl, Russia, I remember thinking to myself that it was crumbling and third-world.
As it turns out, not even Ghana is considered truly third-world, and this despite the fact that the toilets were big holes where the waste goes god knows where, and flies, jesus, the flies swarming and the smell so awful I felt I would vomit.
I visited Naomi, the owner of the orphanage, who sleeps on a mattress on a floor and somehow manages to feed, clothe and educate 75 children with help from volunteers and private donors.
And I told her that perhaps I would come back to volunteer - she said it is $400 a month, part room and board, part donation to the kids ...
But I knew that I could never live there. I could never do something like that.
I am naive, yes. In Russia, the kids had clothes and running water and flushing toilets.
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But all in all I am sad to be leaving, not just because I dread the daily grind I am about to find myself in once again, but also because I know I could have spent more time with the locals ... I spent a lot of time on my own, writing and reading ... I wonder what other things I could have learned from the people that the hotel owners seem so interested in keeping away.
In Accra, there are actually hotels and "spots" where locals are not allowed.
Supposedly this is not exactly legal, but no one cares too much one way or another.
There was, I think, a bit too much tension between the beach hotel and the local villagers ... who know they are not welcome in the courtyard unless they have money to waste at the bar, and few of them do. And so there it was, again - the bottom line guilt.
**********
Spent the afternoon swimming in the beach, talking to Barbara and playing with the kids. Shopped for souveniers for my family - beads and handmade purses for my sister in law and grandmother. A small drum for my nephew.
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I wonder, when I get back to L.A., if I will remember that I hate my job now. I wonder if I will remember to save money and postpone a $1000 a month apartment so I can just get the hell out of there. I have met so many people on this trip who did just that ... saved money and dropped out of the rat race to travel around Africa for pennies.
I wonder if I will remember that my job is simply not important. And never was.
I wonder if I will remember Casey, the Peace Corps volunteer, Alex from Australia.
My chest is badly sunburned and I smell not that great, and I wonder if I really will come back like I said so many times this past week.

Seventh Day in Ghana

Jesus Christ, an advenure. From Accra to Kokrobite, to Cape Coast and Elmina and Kakum National Park. Hiking and making flubbing mistakes.
Meeting highly opinionated anti-American tourists. The woman called "your people" ignorant, naiive, short-sighted.
She was an awful woman.
The locals who call us Obruni.
Barbara and her children, Amy and Jeremiah. And David, the local Rasta man from Nigeria.
And the volunteers from everywhere.
Christ, an adventure. Broken down buses, buses always late, trying to navigate the local transportation, paying money that caused the awful Australian woman to call me a fool.
Swimming in Atlantic. The full moon so bright behind the cloudy sky. The moon so bright.
The heat, my God, the heat. Sweat pouring everywhere always. Sweat pouring like I've never thought it could pour, literally pour.
Barbara and her beautiful kids. The little boy Jeremiah. They live in a ... I can't describe the houses here. They are mud houses. They are sticks with palm leaves as roofs. They are small stone one room houses. The smell of sewage. The goats and chickens and children running amuck.
And every single Obruni I've met has a very opinionated answer to Africa's problems.
I am tired of hearing of white people who think they have all the answers.
I prefer to spend my time with David and Barbara, the local villagers who have nothing and who (which none of the other tourists can believe) have asked me for nothing. They haven't asked me for a cent.
Which made me buy a few bags of groceries.
The popular sentiment of today: handouts are useless, they help no one. The person is the same tomorrow. Billions of dollars of aid has gone to Africa and it hasn't done anything good. What they need is education, what they need is empowerment.
What Jeremiah looked like he needed was a big meal.
**********
I sleep in a hut and my showers are with buckets of cool water. The toilet ... wow, the toilet. At least there's a seat cover.
The food spicy and good.
The roosters wake me up at 3:30 am.
**********
I thought that since Ghana is the model of African Union's push to stabilize the continent, that it meant there was at the very least running water and food for everyone who lives here.
I was wrong.

Landing in Africa

The plane touches down 45 minutes early, to the delight of my new friend who sits beside me, juggling two babies while telling me about the beautiful richness of his homeland. And how happy he is that an American is travelling there on vacation, "just because." He tells me that Bill Cosby has a house in Ghana, but I imagine people like Bill Cosby have houses everywhere.

Turns out I was dead wrong about Ghana -- it is third-world, or "developing" or whatever euphemism is used to describe a place where there may or may not be toilets available at the local pub.

Had an eye-opening experience yesterday at the local arts market, where I was led down an alley and in every other corner, there was a family watching me, and he pointed to beyond a concrete wall, and when I walked past the wall -- what was I expecting? -- I saw just a floor and some more concrete wall. And large openings in the concrete floor that served as drains. I think I actually said, "OK!" out loud, in shock.

It is warm here and for that I'm grateful. The wind and icy temperatures of New York were punishing and at one point last Friday, I couldn't even feel my face any more.

Here, it is very tropical and moist. I visited two museums and walked around a bit. Nobody is that surprised to see a foreigner - I saw three of them yesterday at the bank. One of them was a full-on ex-pat, a short white guy in his mid-fifties, wearing a brown and white local dress with a matching cap. However, I am the recipient of many kissing sounds and inquiries regarding my marital status, but I have not received any outright proposals as the guide books promise, and I wonder if, like in America, there are two types of girls: the type you marry, and the type you ____ and if even in Africa, I am the type of girl you ____.

Lodgings are a bit ... run-down. I have a room to myself. I wish I hadn't booked a room to myself, but I'm only spending two more nights here in the city before I leave to the beach hut I've been dreaming about.

Little girls with outstretched hands - remind me of Mexico. I press some coins into her tiny hand.

I compose a letter to Marcel in my head, the beautiful man at the piano bar on 51st St and 8th Ave. I write it like this: Dear Marcel, I don't know if you remember me, but we talked for a small while outside the piano bar, and you told the guy who was begging for change that you had been where he was: poor. And you told me that you taught high school history and you came from Brazil, and you found your way out of poverty through sports at the University of Kansas, and you asked me how long I was staying in New York and I said that I was leaving in two days, and you looked a little disappointed, and that's why I didn't give you my number, because you said, "People come and go all the time," but I wonder if you believe that maybe happiness and love are possible, even with a stranger? If you believed, then I would believe too. Your eyes were dark and beautiful that night, and I think I might have fallen in love with you; you looked like the person I dream about being in love with.

Here in Accra, the noises of the taxis so different and yet so similar to New York, I feel not at all a part of things, but somehow very separate and I start to crawl inside of myself, and I dream about work and I think too much and I walk back to the hostel and surprisingly, only get a little bit lost, and the smell of burning sage and sewer is overwhelming.

I have big travel books of all that I am supposed to see, but I find myself here and I don't know where or how to go.

And Then Good Things Start to Happen

The Connecticut leaves are golden. The days are rainy and some nights are frozen and others nearly balmy; though I haven't visited the park yet, I imagine what it will look like - yellow everywhere with hints of red. It's on my agenda for Saturday, my last day in the city.
Things improved dramatically on Tuesday, my second night in the East Village. I met a girl named Jayde from England, who is here after graduating from design school. Loneliness caused desperation and in this state, I fairly flung myself on this girl, who said she hadn't yet visited any bars because she is here on holiday alone, and hasn't felt confident enough to visit any nightspots - Oh, come with me, I said. We'll go out. I have been very lonely - I had spent too much time in midtown, where there are too many tourists traveling in couples and families.
And we did go out. We brought a Brazillian girl named Danielle with us. We drank overpriced drinks and listened to live music. We took a cab all the way uptown and navigated the subway back downtown.
Last night, we had coffee and cake at a nearby shop. An Austrailian woman fron the hostel joined us and we were four girls, sipping lattes and eating muffins on a cold evening in November in a cheap shop and I was extremely happy. I almost got enough sleep last night.
Today is my last day working in our Connecticut office, and I'm glad that at least it's a sunny day. Working from here has been stressful. I wish I could think of a better word. I wish I could write how sometimes, I get so frustrated at work that I need to put my head in my hands and take deep breaths and let a few tears leak out to relieve pressure.
I wish I could write about my daily headaches and the stiff tendonitis that leaves my hand muscles hard and aching.
I wish I could write about how hard I work and how quickly I fall into place with the bottom line: Make more money. Make more money.
I want to write about my boss who did everything he could think of to persuade me not to apply for a job opening in a different department, and when I finally said I wouldn't, acted like he could have cared less to begin with, and how goddamn infuriated I was, and how I implied he owed me some fucking gratitude, to which he said: Take a vacation.
On Monday I will be in Accra. It will be hot. I will be confused and discombobulated and jet lagged. But for 11 whole days after today, I am going to do my best Not to Think About Work.
So much left to do that I have not done - gone to the park, gone ice skating, called my friend Randy's friend Patty, bought my family gifts, have yet to visit the Empire State Building.
Was surpised to find that nearly every foreigner I've met wants to visit Ground Zero. Though I am not a New Yorker, one of the girls asked me about it, and I squirmed uncomfortably - I've got no wish at all to see that spot, none at all. I do not want to go where so much blood was shed.
I told her something that was part truth and part lie: It feels like a very long time ago that it all happened. And I cannot remember what things were like before it. I can't remember that things weren't always like this.

Saturday Night Blues

Walked for hours in MOMA. Smile when I recognize Picasso across the gallery. Wince at Monet. Wore the wrong shoes; blisters by 4 pm.
Walked for hours in Times Square. Remembered the van Gogh I loved, the starry night, the first piece of art i ever really liked, and then was made to feel foolish by art majors in college who called it pop.
Walked for hours from the post office by Madison Square Garden; shipped home a bunch of stuff I won't be needing anymore.
Seriously contemplating ditching the shoes that gave me blisters - if I believed in god, would that be a sin?
**********
Brunch in cafe. Blinking tears.
You thought you loved someone. You thought they loved you back. They didn't.
**********
Had a disturbing thought while walking down the street - I will never leave L.A. I won't move here. I couldn't leave my nephew.
I know that's bullshit - I know it's not true.
But for the moment I thought it, it was true.
**********
I go to a coffee shop and order a large coffee and a strange Spanish pastry. I notice someone sitting alone. He is about 40. He has sandy hair and he is scribbling in a notebook. A journal, it looks like. I beg him silently not to leave. I say in my head: Don't go, don't go, please stay right there, and look at me and love me love me love me.
By the time I sit down, he's already left.
**********
When I was a child, I told myself I would never become a girl who needed a boyfriend. When I was 14, I told my best friend I never wanted to get married.
Nobody tells you what it's like. I guess because they didn't know - who would I have known, at that age, to tell me what it's really like?
Who would have been able to tell me how to behave when one is the only single person at a party?
Who would have told me what to say when a colleague asks me, "Are you with someone?"
Or how to respond when a relative asks, "So when are you going to get married?"
Who was there to tell me not to take it personally when someone says, "Don't worry, you'll find someone?"
Or how happy people are for you when you're dating someone. How they think it's the magic potion that will make you normal?
**********
For instance, I remember writing to an old friend very briefly when I began dating my last boyfriend. All I wrote was that I was seeing someone and he was nice. And when she wrote back ... it was a strange letter that said, in part, "I'm glad you found someone to make you happy, he seems like he's really good for you."
And I thought, "What the fuck?"
**********
I hate that half the time, I believe so strongly in the concept of Self, that I dismiss completely the idea that anyone needs to be with another person. When I'm in this mood, I pity women who have never been on their own, feel sorry for women who have never traveled alone or lived alone or even gone to the movies alone.
And then there's the other half of the time.
That looks at couples holding hands and thinks so often that couples often look very much alike. They have the same color skin; they have complementary features. They dress similarly. They look like they belong together.
That's envy.
**********
I cringe inside when I think about meeting someone and falling into a routine because I've been in relationships, and here is what I know about them:
1. Relationships demand compromise.
2. You can't be selfish.
3. You can't expect the other person to be everything for you.
4. You have to accept the person as he is, even if parts of him are deeply flawed.
5. No matter how much someone loves you, they will hurt and disappoint you, and you have to live with that.
**********
So. Here I am, in New York. Supposed to be having the best time of my life, like I did last year. And who knows, maybe for a few hours at the Lenox Lounge a few nights ago, I was having the time of my life. Maybe I was this morning, looking at all the art. Maybe I was at the weird French restaurant, writing in my journal.
Here I am, living my dream - "living" in New York. Working on the East Coast. Taking the train every morning to Connecticut. Making my way back. Going to bars and clubs and Broadway shows and movies and cafes.
If I'm living my dream,
Then why do I feel so goddamned fucking lonely?

Harlem Nights

One of my East Coast coworkers asked me if I was coming in tomorrow, and I said "Of course," and then realized what he was implying -- I should have taken some time off.
My job is stressful. It's not supposed to be, and my boss doesn't want it to be, and the basic fact is that I've re-invented the department to the delight of nearly everyone ... but another fact is that perks (like getting people to say yes to me working out of Connecticut for 2 weeks) are connected to characteristics that cause me much grief in the workplace. Even telecommuting.
**********
Spent the evening at the Lenox Lounge in Harlem. Beers, chicken wings and great music. A man named Ron asked me to dance, but I said no, because I couldn't.
I love Harlem. I love the grit and the dirt and the jazz and the diverse people - white, black, hispanic, asian -- they are all there, all at the same time, on the subway, on the streets, helping a clueless tourist find her way home.

Harlem Nights

One of my East Coast coworkers asked me if I was coming in tomorrow, and I said "Of course," and then realized what he was implying -- I should have taken some time off.
My job is stressful. It's not supposed to be, and my boss doesn't want it to be, and the basic fact is that I've re-invented the department to the delight of nearly everyone ... but another fact is that perks (like getting people to say yes to me working out of Connecticut for 2 weeks) are connected to characteristics that cause me much grief in the workplace. Even telecommuting.
**********
Spent the evening at the Lenox Lounge in Harlem. Beers, chicken wings and great music. A man named Ron asked me to dance, but I said no, because I couldn't.
I love Harlem. I love the grit and the dirt and the jazz and the diverse people - white, black, hispanic, asian -- they are all there, all at the same time, on the subway, on the streets, helping a clueless tourist find her way home.

November in New York

How do you measure desire when you identify it? I like to use scales of one to ten in life (how am I? on a scale of one to 10? oh, i'm a six today, thanks!).

I think maybe I saw desire today off the scale.

But there is the possibility of misunderstanding; we have all been there. You mistake friendliness for desire. You mistake kindness. You mistake happiness.

But I think I saw something today in someone's eyes, and then I knew for sure when his eyes scanned the front of my body a few times, and I held eye contact and waited for the scanning to end, and it did, and then we locked eyes and it has been a long ... long ... long time since anyone has looked at me like that.

Admittedly got off to a rocky start here in New York. My hostel is not really a hostel at all, but more like a glorified shared short-term co-op. It's nice. It's too nice for me. To reverse paraphrase Candace Bushnell - the address on 42nd Street and 8th Avenue sounds like it should be disreputable, but is actually extremely upper class. I share an elevator and breakfast room with rich people ... anyone who lives in this type of building is rich. Very new rich. Tiny dog rich.

I am moving downtown on Saturday.

Failure to find an apartment near work (two rental applications rejected, likely due to other applicants making more money than me) in Santa Monica led me to make an unusual request of my boss on October 25 - let me work out of the Connecticut office for a couple of weeks before my vacation. I'll pay my own way, stay in the city.

He didn't think I was serious until I sent him an email with bullet points. Then he asked his boss, who asked her boss, who asked the VP in the Connecticut office and it was my birthday, so everyone said "Sure, why not?"

And here I am.

Finally hit my stride today - took the 7:39 train to Connecticut, walked to the office in the rain. South Norwalk is a beautiful little toy town, with toy bars and a huge toy police station. Our East Coast corporate office used to be the old city hall.

Left work at 5:10 pm, not wanting a repeat of what happened yesterday (I got sucked and guilt-tripped into working until after 7, which gave me the 7:40 pm train back to the city, which landed me pissed off and drunk by 11) and went to a business to business networking event just a few blocks away from the condo.

Met new and interesting people - I met a capitalist, a real estate agent, a writer, a headhunter, a financial advisor and a personal trainer. I ordered a $13 drink that was too strong (I could only take a couple of sips before giving up).

I walked back to the condo and sit here on the 15th floor overlooking 8th Avenue. The buildings so high and bright, the long lines of cabs, people heading out of the city, on their way home from the long-houred jobs that give them houses in the suburbs, lofts in the city.**********

The look of desire I hadn't seen in so long, the look of desire that only comes when you yourself feel attraction toward the person who feels it (if you don't feel attraction, then that look of desire is not desire at all, but just "gross") - the look of desire that some part of me thought I might never see, that look that took me by surprise, so shocked, it lasted no more than two minutes timed. Maybe three. I didn't even recognize the look for what it was to begin with, because I just had not seen it for so long.

The moments go by so fast, you want to bottle them. Put them in your pocket, so the next time you're cold and lonely and sad and wish you were dead, you could bring out that bottle like a bottle of drugs, and be dragged back to that one moment when a very beautiful man looked right at you and liked what he saw.

Last Day in Russia

I spent my last day in Russia roaming the streets of downtown Moscow. I got lost twice in exactly the same way. Had coffee and eggs off of Red Square.

Visited the former State Department Store (GUM), which used to be a government building with small stores, each selling rations of something different -- one for bread, one for meat, and so forth. It was notorious for being consistently understocked.

Now, it's a big mall with Dior, Louis Vuitton, and more.

St. Basil's Cathedral was just as luminous as I imagined. Tower after tower, intricate painting in every color. Covered my head with my scarf upon entering, which is according to Russian Orthodox tradition, even though none of the other tourists did. The inside was freezing.

According to historical documents and legend, Ivan the Terrible commissioned the cathedral to be built, and then, after it was done, gouged out the architect's eyes so he would never be able to build something more beautiful.

Went to the ballet that night. Got dressed up in my sparkly blue dress. Found the Bolshoi theater, but my ticket, though issued through Bolshoi, was actually at a theater in the Kremlin. I was trying to communicate with a woman who spoke a bit of English when two Russian girls came up to her and they seemed to have the same problem as me -- they'd got the theater wrong.

It was somehow decided that they would take me with them, since I didn't know anything, and that is how I ended up running, in heels, after two Russian girls all the way from the theater to the Kremlin. They were pros, and kept looking back and motioning for me to hurry up.

The lit-up cathedrals and big red walls of the fortress were so beautiful that night. Moscow looked like a big fairy tale, castles mixed with electonic billboards, tiny bakeries in kiosks across the street from the Hard Rock Cafe.

Coming home, I had a layover in New York, and it was there that I called my sister-in-law to confess hysterically what had actually occurred in the banya in St. Petersburg. I couldn't keep it bottled up a secret anymore; it was too delicously, shamefully, wickedly shocking to keep to myself. Let's just say what happened there is totally legal in Russia.

Much to my dismay, I was unable to repeat my smuggling escapade (I managed to get a big bottle of Mexican shampoo and undeclared chocolate when I came back from Mexico City last month.) No, they were having none of that at the airport in Moscow. I went though three, count them, three metal detectors AND my bags were manually searched.

The man who searched my bags found a lighter, and looked at me like he was very disappointed in me. "No," he said.

"I'm sorry," I cringed.

"You are going to America," he said. "Please do not buy any alcohol in duty free."

"No alcohol?" I said loud enough that other people turned to stare.

He just shrugged.

In duty free, I attempted to buy vodka in two stores, only to be dismissed when they realized where I was going. In New York, I saw that it would have done no good; my bags went through another metal detector, and one of the guys saw something he didn't like. He fished out a tiny container of juice and gave me that same look.

"I forgot about that, really, I'm sorry," I said.

"There's one more thing we saw in there," he responded, unwrapping a souvenier flask I bought for my dad, and actually unscrewing it to make sure there was nothing inside.

Walking through customs, the guy I handed my card to pointed to my duty free bag. "What kind of food do you have in there?" he said, with meaning.

I clutched my bag to my chest. Oh no, they were not going to take my stuff. This is what actually came out of my mouth:

"Food? What food? I don't have any food."

"Don't lie to me!" the man bellowed with his New York accent.

My mind spun wildly. I might as well tell the truth.

"Chocolates," I said sadly.

"OK! You can go. Just don't lie to me," he reminded me.

He looked really amused. I hustled to the gate, still clutching the bag of chocolates.

The Train to St. Petersburg

I took the overnight train on Friday night and was kind of scared. Nobody spoke English. All signs were in the Crylllic Russian language. Thank god for universal numbers.

I stopped a girl and asked in Russian, "Hello, can you help me?" She just stared at me. I whipped out my unintelligible ticket and she pointed toward the 3rd-class carriage.

I smoked a cigarette, anxious. There were military men idling about, intimidating in their dark green coats, brass buttons and big Russian hats.

Finally, I entered the carriage.

I sat down on the nearest bed and brought out my ticket again, trying to decipher where I was supposed to go. The woman in charge came over and said some things loudly that I of course didn't understand.

One thing that is very different about the Russian people is that they require significantly less personal space than Americans. That means they get right up close and talk in your face.

I have memorized the following phrase: Ya ni pani ma hyoo Parushki. Izviniti!

"I do not understand Russian. Sorry!"

She grabbed my coat sleeve and pulled me toward my bed. Pointed at the number and at my ticket.

The three people sharing my car looked at me with interest. I just stood there and said "Good evening. Hello. Good evening." Seeing that I was clearly clueless, they took charge. One of the men grabbed my backpack and hoisted it into the space above my head. One of the ladies helped me purchase sheets to rent and actually made my bed for me. I felt very very foolish but also very grateful. I said "Spasiba! Bolshoye Spasiba!" (Thank you! Thank you very much!")

One of the other men pointed at me and said something. "Ya ni pani ma hyoo. Ya ni pani ma hyoo. Izviniti," I said, because that is almost all I know how to say.

He pointed at me and said "India? India?"

Ah, now I understood. "Nyet," I responded. "Amerikanski." (I doubt this is the right way to say it).

The man's face registered complete surprise. "American?" he said, like he couldn't believe it.
"Dah, dah, American," I said in a whisper. But of course it was no good. I could hear whispers of "Americanski! Americanski!" up and down the beds of the train carriage.

The next morning, the ladies gave me tea and the man gave me cigarettes. Using my phrase book, pointing to some words and making several gestures of linking arms and pointing to my finger, to the amusement of everyone in the room, he asked me to marry him and take him home to America.

The Russian Banya

Visited the Kazan Cathedral this afternoon and lighted some candles for good luck. Saw great modern art in the Russian Museum and could not find the "Soviet Art" because my Lonely Planet from the library is hopelessly out of date.
The Hermitage Museum was overwhelming; I have never been in a museum that big. It is housed in what they call the Winter Palace, and it takes up an entire square block, lining the streets with huge white ivory decorations and mint green paint.
Last night, after the college kids from the volunteer program (who I met up with on Saturday) left to go back to Yaroslevl, I finally cut loose a bit. We did celebrate St. Patty's Day over pints in an Irish bar, but of course I have been dying for vodka and found some good stuff at a local cafe.
After that, I wanted to go to a banya. Hopped in a taxi and when we got there it was closed. Of course the taxi driver had a friend who had a banya.
Stripped down, wrapped myself in a sheet, wondered why I was not given branches to beat myself with (that is the traditional banya experience) and was grateful when the man in charge offered use of the lukewarm pool instead of the ice cold one that is traditional.
The steam room was not unbearable and dipping into the pool was really nice.
He offered a massage, which I accepted, which was very unexpected, a bit more personal than I might have originally planned for, and which doubled the price. (My only complaint about St. Petersburg -- the prices can inflate up to 10 times the normal amount once the merchant realizes you're a tourist. They basically rise up to Western prices, which accounts for the 500 ruble taxi drive I took from the train station that I later learned should have cost only 100 rubles.) Of course he offered a ride home, playing taxi, and spoke with sadness about his hometown of Lebanon and how he wants a wife and cannot find a "nice girl" here in Russia. He spoke decent English and said, "They only want money."
"In America, too," I said.
"Dah, everywhere girls want money," he said, looking very tired.
Then he asked me for my phone number.
Tonight, it's the overnight train to Moscow.

Last Days

I am so sad to be leaving and the fear of being overcome with tears has been eating at me all day; I have succeeded in swallowing it down. Saying good-bye this morning was hard, though the children are accustomed to seeing us come and go. I got a nice picture of Luba leaning back in her chair.
Today's craft was, in our director Nadia's words, "a hit." We took Polaroid photographs of them and had them make little frames covered in glitter and sequins. They loved it; they love having their pictures taken, and it was especially important for me and one of the other volunteers to be able to "give back" a photo for all the ones they gave us by posing. As soon as someone spotted a camera, all the children began to pose like crazy. Dasha would always magically appear in my lens when I took a picture of other kids.
We finally got to play outside today. The kids were bundled up and we all got to hang out in the cold playground.
When we were leaving, I spotted a little boy on the third floor. Behind the bars on the old, white, crumbling building. He waved at me. And I waved back and choked up.
It was hard also to say good-bye to Richard, a volunteer with whom I fell a little bit in love this week, despite the fact that he is 49, has a thick Alabama accent, and is of course married with three kids. We felt like comrades, since the two of us were the only "short timers" on staff, and both sweated and fussed and panicked over our projects and a small problem we had with another volunteer. Yes, I will miss Richard, with his Bill Clinton accent and nose.
I will be forced to say "Dasvidanya" to the others tonight at dinner. I have already promised Paul and Ally that I will come back.
Tonight, I take the overnight train to St. Petersberg and walking through the streets this afternoon, buying postcards and snapping away like mad on the camera borrrowed from the office, I cannot help but feel a very deep and painful aching to stay.

Freezing in Yaroslavl

There is a girl here at the organization who also keeps a blog, called "Freezing in Russia." http://debrasmith.blogspot.com/index.html
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From the moment the children ran up to me and the other volunteers on Monday morning, I have been dreading leaving Yaroslavl. And tomorrow is my last day. I will be honest here; I do not want to leave. In fact, I will be plain and say that I would give almost anything to be able to stay just a few weeks more. I want to say, Please, Time, for God's sake, slow down. Please. Just a little more time is all I want. Just a little more time.
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The volunteer organization I am with (Cross Cultural Solutions) visits children in the orphanages here in Yaroslavl, and plays games with them, teaches them how to make crafts and gives them as many "happy memories" as they can.
There is a couple here from England, Paul and Ally. They came here last February for three weeks, went back to England and promptly quit their jobs, sold their house, and moved here to volunteer for a year.
That is the kind of effect the children here have on you.
Even though Paul and Ally told me what to expect, I was still so stunned when the little ones came up to me, not knowing me at all, and were all smiles and cuddly hugs, and kept saying, "Zavoot? Zavoot?" ("Name?")
There is Dasha, the tiny elfin star of the group -- at about 5-years-old, she is the youngest and fussed over by the other children.
There is Lula, a little girl that up until today, I thought was a boy. She loves Dolphins.
And then there is Luba.
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Luba was the first person to come up and hug me and greet me on Monday, and even now, remembering that moment, I choke up.
The children are in the hospital because they are either mentally ill or have run away from other orphanages. Yes, some of the kids look like they are emotionally messed up. One of them sadly sports a black eye. Luba is over medicated but still has a shining smile.
I expected them to be impatient with us, because we don't speak Russian and they don't speak a bit of English except for the stray word or two they've picked up from other American and UK volunteers (Hi, Mine.)
But they're not impatient at all. Rather, they are the most patient people I have ever met. They wait their turn. They explain games to me over and over again. They teach me how to do the craft and the language barrier does not throw them into fits of anger and rage like I imagine I might if I were in their shoes. Instead, they mime and call for the interpreter to communicate.
Why are they so patient and sweet? Who taught them to be so patient in the face of our ignorance? The hospital looks leftover from a turn-of-the-century asylum. Crumbling walls, drafty rooms, creaking floors. And still the children bounce up to us, hug us and tell us "Dobriy Utra!" (Good morning)
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On Tuesday, I came to work prepared with a whole 48 hours worth of phrases on crib sheets in my pocket. Shortly after we arrived, we heard a terrible screaming and weeping from a child in another room and the children working on the craft project, studiously paid attention to the paper butterflies. The energy of the room took a dive.
Luba wasn't there, and I wondered if it was her, and I ached and hoped it was not. I was relieved to see Luba waltz in later (and even later, the girl who had been screaming came in and was eventually coaxed into playing a game with another volunteer).
Luba flashed me her smile. Same light brown sweater from the previous day; I would come to know and look forward to seeing that light brown sweater the following days as well.
I caught her eye and she smiled at me and gave me a little wave.
We're not supposed to pick favorites, of course, though we are all human and it is perhaps not possible. I played with the other children, but from the corners of my eyes, I watched her and was most likely visibly pleased when she and an older girl named Nadia came down on the floor with me to play jacks.
Luba showed me how to toss the ball and grab a jack. I never played jacks when I was a kid, and I just didn't get it. Luba showed me again. And again. I tried and missed. Uncoordinated. Finally, I got the ball in the hair, touched the floor and grabbed the jack.
Luba looked so pleased for me. Though so medicated, her eyes clearly shone as they met mine with deliberation, and she nodded at me and smiled her approval and said, gently, "Dah. Dah."

Culture Shocked in Russia

Today is my second day in Yaroslavl. And things are very different.

Nobody smiles. If you smile, people think you are crazy or retarded.

People also do not hold open doors for each other. It is seen as a sign of weakness. Therefore, doors will slam in your face if you let them.

Much like I was laughed at in Mexico a few weeks ago, I was also laughed at last night at the market as I tried helplessly to buy three packs of Marlboros, since I stupidly neglected to buy any at the duty-free shop in Atlanta. I was shocked to find that they only cost 28 rubles here, the equivalent of a dollar. But the cost of humiliation is immeasureable.

There are rather strict rules from the volunteer organization: One, no alcohol during the work week. Since I am here in Yaroslavl for only one work week, that effectively means no drinking the entire time I'm here. This is because the orphans we will be working with are oftentimes the victims of abuse and neglect by parents with alcoholism.

Two, no drugs.

Three, no sex.

Well, it's "no sex with hotel staff or workplace staff," but basically, they want us to be on good behavior and not fuck up the six years of good faith efforts they've made in this community.
This city alone has 13 orphanages. I have been assigned to a children's psychiatric ward.

Tomorrow is my first day.

The snow is melting off the sidewalks near the kremlin in Yaroslavl. Boots clickety-clack on the street. Every car is dark with mud. The tram is leftover from Soviet days and everyone who rides the tram seems leftover from Soviet days as well.

The men really do wear those big hats.

I'm blinking away jet lag and trying to remember how I cope with new situations sober, find that my brain is simply not working right.

In the car on the way from Moscow yesterday, I kept dozing off, and while I slept, I found myself stubbornly dreaming of my life in Los Angeles. And every time the car would hit a bump or jerk me awake, the sites of snow outside the windows and the Russian chatter on the radio hit me like a slap across the mouth, and I kept looking around me in a state of total and complete shock.

Adios, Mexico

Internet service was not at the tip of my fingers due to unforseen circumstances involving the work schedule of my hosts. Snippets from my journal:

Basilica de Guadalupe - Feb. 21 - Very peaceful inside the antiqua Basilica. Some people were walking on their knees toward the front of the new church. Some people were crying. People crossed themselves right and left. I felt the place was obviously very magical, but I felt "more" at the pyramid site at Cuilcuilco. I think the people here really believe.

Chapultepec - Feb. 22 - Museum of Modern Art (pretty disappointing), the Zocolo (impressve). Tacos. Coffee. Street merchants everywhere. Downtown very European.

Zactepec - Feb. 23 - Hard to get a moment alone. The price one pays for company. Have to admit I am grateful to be visiting someone. People who know the ropes and are usually available for translation. Tonight we leave for the weekend.

Cualta - Feb. 24 - I will be sorry to leave the Hotel Espana, with its bright orange and white paint, deep orange ceramic tiles, plants everywhere and the refrigerator of juices, sodas and cervezas by the front desk. I love it here. . .walking through the streets last night, past the old church and children were begging on the streets; I didn't feel any overwhelming sense of sadness, though, and I don't know why. I usually do these days.

Amecameca - Feb. 25 - Our driver took us to the base of the mountains. El Paseo de Cortes. A man with a basket was selling sweets, and it was hot this morning, sun beating down, the volcano smoking so close, the white frost glowing. This man with a basket walked up to me and said something I didn't understand, and I shook my head. And as he walked away, I thought about him. I saw that he was going to spend the rest of the day walking up to tourists and asking them if they wanted to buy something. Everyone in Mexico seems to be wanting to sell you something, anything. The man walked away from me and hitched his backpack over his shoulders, and the basket was carried on his left arm, and he walked a few hundred feet away and set down the basket and scanned the parking lot.
All of a sudden, he broke my heart.
I ran toward him. "Senor, senor, por favor," I called in my poor Spanish. But I didn't really want anything, so I asked for one of the few things I could pronounce: "Tienes chocolate?" He fished out a Nestle bar, and then I saw some peanuts, and I took those instead. "Cuantos?" I asked, and he said, "Siete." Seven pesos, the equivalent of about 70 cents. I reached into my bag for a 10 peso piece, and handed it to him, waving my hand in protest as he looked for change. "No cambia, gracias, gracias, Senor," I said. I walked away from him so he would not see the tears begin to crawl and then run. I walked away toward the spot where the tourists like to get their pictures taken in front of the active volcano, and I sat down on the steps with my bag of seven-peso peanuts, and the tears would not stop.

La Ciudad de Mexico

My fourth day in Mexico City. The city: very smoggy, somewhat dirty, spread out like Los Angeles, not compact. Cars and buses and taxis everywhere.

The neighborhoods: Coyocan, where I am staying, very earthy and cool. Tlaplan, very artsy and peaceful. San Angel, like the Beverly Hills of this city.

My hosts are, of course, going to steer me clear of the really bad parts.

Grafitti everywhere, even in "bueno" neighborhoods (but not in San Angel). Yes, grafitti everywhere and that can make one forget that one is in a middle class neighborhood.

Food and drink on almost every corner: agua fresca, corn, tamales, tacos. Everywhere. These people are serious about food. They are not messing around.

Beautiful haciendas. Very ugly streets.

Today, we visited a magical pyramid that lives in the city and climbed to the top. A view of the volcanos and mountains, but not a very good view; so much smog. It is choking the city.

We also visited two museums dedicated to Frieda, and I am sorry, but I don't like her art and cannot get past the unibrow. I know how that sounds, but I don't like it.

What I do like are the dozens, hundreds, maybe thousands of altars dedicated to the Virgen de Guadalupe. I have loved the Virgin and often will get a small rosary or postcard with her image. They are everywhere. They are all in homage to her. This is why: if something really really bad is happening to you or a loved one, and there is no hope of a cure -- let's say, for instance, you are in a car accident and the doctors say you're going to die -- someone, either you, or one of your loved ones will make a deal with the Virgin. You ask her to save you, and promise something in return. The most popular "promesas" seem to be either making a pilgrimage to her church, or creating a public altar for her.

I like this information, I like to keep it handy just in case.