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According to historical documents and legend, Ivan the Terrible commissioned the cathedral to be built, and then, after it was done, gouged out the architect's eyes so he would never be able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