Please Don't Stop the Music

I realized that I should not have survived these past 2 years of college. With 40 hour work weeks, balancing some 4-odd jobs at times, along with 17-18 credits freshman year and an under-the-table 21 credits sophomore year, I should have passed out from exhaustion and my heart should have stopped after the first month. But I realize, now that it's gone, what saved me from my mortality and human limitations: my violin.

For the past 11 years of my life I have been playing in an orchestra. In short, I can't remember a life without it. It was my sanctuary from the hectic and ever-present cloud of deadlines and stress that shrouded my head. As Nancia D'Alimonte, our fearless maestra of the GW orchestra said, "Leave your baggage at the door." And I did. I left all my work, tears, and mania at the door and could finally focus on one thing instead of 12--one thing into which I channeled all my energy. The music wasn't always wonderful, but it was a collection of focused spirit. It took the weight of the world off my shoulders, and instead we held it as a collective. Maybe that mentality explains my attraction to Russia's коллектив. Those 2 hours each Monday and Wednesday saved my sanity. While orchestra added to my overall workload and decreased my amount of free time, it was a priceless gift. Ironically, because in two years I never received credit for the class but instead audited it, it was the class I attended most frequently; I've only missed 4 classes in two years.

The same went for practicing my violin. The most emotionally trying periods of my life have been resolved while slogging away in a practice room. The basement underneath Phillips Hall is speckled with little havens where I can go and lock myself away. It is a place of expression and release. Like orchestra, practicing gives all my energy and emotions a treadmill on which to exhaust themselves. Repeating a 4 measure excerpt for 3 hours sucks every thought into those 32-64 notes.

And then that release valve was shut. I thought taking Leopold to Russia would be a mistake; it'd get stolen, broken, ruined by the weather, and would be a hassle to get through migration. I'd have to insure it, as well as possibly get my violin its own visa. So it's sleeping soundly in a room in Fredericksburg, while I'm pining away in Moscow. I'd be fine--how long can a semester really be? Now I've gone four weeks without orchestra or practicing, and my mental stability is fraying. I'm going to school and working 8-8 or 8-9 each day, and I'm mentally fatigued from speaking Russian all day. It's amazing how draining it is to have to mentally prepare and stumble over every single word or thought.

The worst is when I torture myself with Tchaikovsky. I've been listening to Tchaikovsky's 2nd Symphony "Little Russian" constantly, reliving my glory days when we played it in orchestra. I recognize if I've played songs by bowings: If I think "down up up down up up down down down down" when I hear it, I've played it. The more I listen, the more my hands itch for a bow and notes. My bones are shifting in my skin, and you, my love, are gone. Everything is slightly skewed in my world. Music class is awful too. As soon as our professor sits at the piano and starts moving his hands across an instrument that he loves, I feel a jealous pang and have to hold back an explosion of god-knows-what-kind-of-crazy. And the ancient recordings of forgotten songs nearly move me to tears.

But alas! All is not in vain! I've decided to hound every Russian I know, until I get an answer. "Where can I rent or borrow a violin? Is there an orchestra somewhere that I can join once I obtain a violin?" I've hit a lot of walls but finally I found someone who can help today. One of the Russians who frequently attends our (mandatory for us) American-Russian Club because he wants to work on his English has given me a solution. His sister plays the violin, and he thinks she has two! Or at least she would know how to get one. Also, she used to play in an orchestra at a music school for kids. He said they usually take anyone who wants to play, and they meet Sunday nights. I nearly melted with joy! Finally, I can find my release once again. Not only will I be able to again pursue my passion, but I'll also meet more Russians, learn vocab that I'd find nowhere else, and learn about the Russian music-teaching strategies. It's an experience I cannot miss!

I was babysitting (this summer. Not Russian kiddies, but shmadorablies in DC). We were making clay things. I was feeling inspired.

I promise to return to my normal rantings next post. We're going to a school tomorrow to see what the Russian elementary school system is like. I can't wait to be shamed by 5 year olds; it will provide excellent blog-fodder.

Babushka-isms

"Zhenya, don't sing in the kitchen! It is prohibited in our religion for foreigners to sing or hum in the kitchen! Go on the balcony and do it."

Now I know she's just messing with me...crafty crafty woman.

Babushka-isms

"Zhenya, you are from America, from civilization! You aren't from Africa! Why don't you ever make your bed? Is this what they do in America? You say you want to be a diplomat. Maybe you'd be a good diplomat in Africa."

My frustrated response: "They have beds in Africa too..."

If I were Lenin...

Friday was a big day for Lenin (in Jenny world. Zombie Lenin probably had better things to do). We went on a lovely little lengthy excursion to Lenin's house outside of Moscow. It was an amazing relief to leave the city for a bit and to see the Russian countryside. The bus ride from one of the ends of the metro lines (green. but no one really cares about those details) only took us about 20 minutes out of the city. The great thing about Moscow is that it was basically plopped down in the middle of a lot of foresty treesey fun, so it's easy to escape the ur-banality of life. I completely understand why almost all Russians have country homes.

Today, fearless readers, you get a treat! PICTURES! I shall apologize in advance for my mediocre (crappy) photography skills. I've got better things to do than learn an artform/have a decent camera. I go on the internet! The bus drops us off at a quaint bus stop. Ohhhhh Eastern Europe. Notice the photographer's artistic choice to take the picture at a slight angle, in order to symbolize the crooked nature of Russian society and their attempts to reform. It also hints at man's own mortality because no matter how hard you try to sit on those bricks, you still slowly slip down the bench of life and end up at your final destination. I swear it means that...just buy it!

So after the bus drops us off in the middle of nowhere, we trek through a classic scenery of abandoned eastern european buildings and cars being consumed by nature. The cute little homeless beasts were skittering about, interested in the foreign creatures who were prancing all over their romping grounds. After a 10 minute walk, a looming building sprouts from behind the trees. Out of nowhere BOOM! A big ol' shrine (museum) to our comeradeasino.

However, this turned out to be the end of our journey, and not the beginning. Instead we walk down a cute country path to his not-Moscow home. On that path we met an adorable kiddy-dog and some real-life adorable Russian kiddies. It took all of my self-control (and firm grips of the other excursees) not to tackle the kiddies, kidnap, and raise them as my own shmadorablies.

So if I were Lenin...this would be my house. A quaint cottage, really nothing fancy. I really want to live the life of my prole comrades, so I can commiserate and understand them

If I were Lenin...this would be my quaint view when I rise in the morning. Oh look, I can wave to my neighbor! Howdy neighbor! (Lenin looks like Mr. Rodgers in my mind here).

If I were Lenin...this is what I would make visitors to my home wear to see my house-museum. I like it when my guests look like duck-platypus-dorks. They're the latest rage in oppressed-citizen fashion.

If I were Lenin...this is where my guests would stay, so they don't forget their own impending doom. Mortality should never be forgotten. That is one fierce wolf. And in the winter you can curl under it and play the popular Soviet game "Stay warm while pretending to be a scary wolf-person". Another thing that's all the rage in the oppressed-citizen circles.

If I were Lenin...this is where I would have a nice little snack. Perhaps it'd be a nice loaf of stale bread. Or perhaps a 5-course pheasant feast. Who knows. Since I'm a fan of a working lunch, I'd make sure to bring along some maps and evil plots to take over the world. Or write a curt letter to my main squeeze, the Sta-sta man. That would be my pet name for him.

If I were Lenin...this is where I'd keep my main world-domination plots. Hanging on the wall. This map would be my favorite, because I can plot and plot and plot about how to vanquish those silly silly German-folk. What a thorn in my side they are. (The map says it's a "Political Map of Germany")

If I were Lenin...this is where I would creepily put my death mask and death...gloves? for all to see. Probably for when I arise as a zombie and I need some cool stone hands because mine have rotted away. True story! Well...only probably zombie...but the rotting hands are completely true.

If I were Lenin...this would be my favorite book. I'd highlight all over it and draw little hearts on my favorite pages.

If I were Lenin...this is where I'd put all my fun artifacts and early USSR documents. But the most important part would be the ginormous statue of me hanging out in a chair. "Proletariats sit in chairs right? They've gotta have a chair!", I would think.

Toilet...

Forgot to do the sacrificial toilet dance today to satisfy the Gods. They punished me by breaking some wire in the toilet while my babushka was out for the weekend. eff. I'm going to be homeless again, I just know it. Though it's TOTALLY NOT MY EFFIN FAULT.

Non sequitur #2

Russians can somehow even make chocolate terrifying.

In Russia, baby soul stares into you!

Babushkas

Dear Inna Borisovna. Please stop yelling at me to show you 'care'. I'm sorry I wear too many clothes in a week (ie a pair of pajamas, 2 pants, and 2 shirts). I'm sorry I'm a slob/not OCD about lining up my shoes perfectly when I take them off. Before I continue my rant, let me stop and say that she is an extremely adorable and kind lady. I like her very much, and she's very caring. It's the Russian way to yell at people when they do things wrong or to say even the smallest things that bug you. I, who try to avoid conflict at all times until the situation is too unbearable and I have to send a text suggesting you go live in Mitchell with all the free toilet paper you want, will never make a good Russian. But I can make an excellent American bride for a rich, handsome, Russian Jew named Mr. Darcyvichovaberg. But honestly, I am very pleased with my home-stay situation, and most of this is overblown/tongue-in-cheek.

I've been trying to be the perfect host-daughter, I really have. I've been making my bed (SHOCKING!), staying relatively tidy, and trying to remember all the house rules. But even after all my hard work, I still get the gentle "Is this how ALL Americans leave their shoes?". Russian babushkas have perfected the art of nagging. Let's list, by room, all the things I do wrong.

Bedroom: I use way too many clothes. See 2 paragraphs ago. I put my computer on the desk. Where the heckamonga am I supposed to put it? I use too much lighting. Judging from the batcave which is my room (even more than in Munson or the basement this summer. it's THAT bad), Russians love blindness. I had one overhead light and the lamp on my desk on in order to do my homework. Dearest darlingest mummsie, you've taught me well, SEE! I wanted to make sure not to promote cataracts and wrinkles and blindness and all the other things you told me doing work in the dark would do. But of course, Inna shuffles over, points to the ceiling light and chuckles--"Zhenichka! You left the light on! Is that what they do in America. Haha (while it was an adorable grandmotherly chuckle, I'm sure she was thinking in a maniacal evil-villain laugh)." They're tricksy like that. So there I was, left to squint painfully at the glaringly white paper, illuminated by a small soviet light bulb.

Bathroom: I have been very good about all my bathroom rules. Mind you, the bathroom is different from the toilet room. Because Russia is simple like that. Showering is a strict regiment, that I do wrong each time. Apparently I am a poor showerer. I ALWAYS wipe down the tub until it is as dry as the Sahara, as told, yet of course it's never dry enough--"Oh Zhenichka, what do they do in America? They must have mold everywhere (again, insert grandmotherly chuckle/evil genius)!" Then there's always some article of clothing/rag/rug that I have to hang out on the balcony to dry. I should live on the balcony. I'd get yelled at less frequently. The washing machine is a sacred shrine that I, the silly clumsy American, am not allowed to touch. Also, I am always responsible for when the door is left open and the cat climbs in the tub and poops. But I'll save a special section for that monster-devil. I think she likes to have someone around to blame all the problems on (sound familiar? MARY!?). Between me and the cat, all she has to do is sit around and fix all of our dumb messes in her perfect apartment.

Toilet: I've already chronicled my love (hate) of Russian plumbing. Mostly I just get yelled at for the entire Soviet plumbing system, and how sometimes the water doesn't stop running. It's not my fault she forgot to tell me that I need to 1) sing it a lullaby, 2) bring it flowers, and 3) sacrifice my first-born to the omnipotent Toilet Gods (I must show my respect for their great powers via capitalization) to make the friggin toilet not explode (eew). Also, the toilet is the food trashcan, in not a gross way. RUSSIANS DON'T BELIEVE IN TRASHCANS. Tis odd. I get yelled at when I don't put my uneaten microscopic molecule of food in the toilet.

Kitchen: There is only rule to follow in the kitchen: You will eat everything in front of you, and then beg me for more until you burst like a pubescent boy's pimple (yay imagery!), or I will yell. I know this is to show her love and affection for me, but honestly I cannot physically eat that much. Also I can't bring myself to tell her that, while I like oatmeal, I don't like hers. She makes it with cheese and butter, and it's too much fo' me. Russians LOVE their oil and butter and cheese. They seriously can't get enough dairy: mayonnaise (put a stop to that before it started. I don't do mayo), yogurt (oh god. so much yogurt), cheese, cheese, milk, cheese, some cottage-cream-cheese-russian concoction called tvorik (doused with sugar of course?), and cheese. It's a fat kid's best dream/worst nightmare. I'll be surprised if I avoid a coronary this year. But her food is pretty derrrrrrricious.

The Cat: Stipan (Styopa, or Styopichka) is a demon creature. It looks at you wiff it's cwute widdle eyes and says "herro! I'm just a little lemur-kitty here to cuddle". But then he strikes. Not only does he scratch on my door and the furniture all night (about which I get in trouble), he also leave cute widdle kitty-crap presents in the tub for us to find in the morning. How considerate. Today he broke a vase. While these are obnoxious and all, it wasn't until HE ATTACKED MY FACE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT that I realized how serious my situation had become. He, the devil incarnate, decided that my cheeks were going to be his new playground at 4 am. I have 2 theories. He 1) was trying to slit my throat with his widdle clawclaws or 2) He was trying to suffocate me. He attempts #2 quite often when I'm doing homework/on the computer/trying to relax. "Hmmmmm," he thinks, rubbing his paws together sinisterly, "her chest/face looks like the perfect place for me to rest my poor aching butt. It's had such a hard day, being slept on and all."

 This is the face of evil. Wook at dat faceeeeee!

Ah, what a tortured life I lead.

Advice

Dear diligent followers (of which there are none). Never evereverever try to keep up with a Russian while drinking. Nothing good can come of it. Nothingnothingnothing. Sorry mom. My liver is ready to abort this mission. There WILL be a white flag on this door. I will put up my hands and surrender. You win this time, vodka.

Non sequitur

I predict Meghan McCain is up to something. She's been the gem of NPR and the Daily Show recently. Could be, who knows? Somethings coming.

Oh What a Circus, Oh What a Show!

Moscow is a circus. As you walk down any street you can see stores that look like bizarre caricatures of real-life shops (I blame communism), with huge flashing lights, bright garish colors and ridiculous fonts. Even stranger is the music these stores emit. Half is various assortments of Russian pop and rock and the other half is either actual carnival music or outdated American songs (and by outdated, I mean 60s and earlier). Combine the music, signs, and street vendors, and you've got yourself a Big Top Spectacular. Now if only I can find the bears on unicycles.

My experience with Moscow nightlife only confirmed my circus-suspicions. So a few of us went out to a "discotheque" with one of our peer tutors and her friend. This discotheque turned out to be a strange dance/concert/variety show thingy in the auditorium of our university. Although it was with students from the university, it SCREAMED middle-school dance. It's first offense: it started at 6. They had to close the curtains to make sure daylight didn't stream onto the dance floor. As soon as we enter, we're greeted by the song from Rocky (wtf) and we go sit down in the audience with everyone else. After some strange, what I'm assuming was MC speech and raucous laughter from the audience (Our eyes were glazed over for most of the speaking part. Not only is young people russian harder to understand for us, but a microphone only muffles and blurs their speech into a fuzzy "blerrrrrrrrrrshmashmablrerefe"). Luckily that finally ended, and we joined in the universal language of "Gettin down and boogeying". The dance floor was hilarious. I'd like to commend Russian men for being confident enough to dance amazingly and hiptastic. The girls were okay. A little too Jersey Shore "I'm too cool to move" for me, but there were some wild cards. The best part was the little circles that everyone was dancing in. Soon the little ones were engulfed in one huge circle, which generally served as a stage for the men to put their hipcat moves on exhibition.

The Rocky music played once again, which was our signal to get the eff off the dance floor and to shuffle back to our seats. A few students (we think) sang and were divas and awesome. One did a great rendition of 'New York, New York', save her "start spreading zeeeee news" line. Shmilarious. Then the tightrope walking CLOWN came out. WHAT?! See! Moscow=circus. So the clown walks on stage to scary creepy clown music, and hoists himself up on a line, and shuffles around a bit. Then the music changes to Titanic-sinkingwe'reallgoingtodieandtherewillbealargeexplosionsoon epicness. Which is of course the appropriate background music to what he was doing: rolling out what looked like tinfoil-covered tires and juggling them. Audrey and I were terrorified/confused, and of course the russians who invited us had left to walk a friend home to the metro. When the clown exited after a roaring applause (is this normal at college dances?), a really awesome band came out and did an amazing set of Michael Jackson, Queen, Maroon 5, U2, and some russian songs. They were called the W (dowbul Yooo in Russian pronunciation) and the lead singer was smokin'. Though it was extremely ridiculous and odd, it was still pretty fun. Okay Russia, that's +1.

Then Matt, the other GW kid in Moscow, and I decided to go to a club with the tutors, which was all fine and dandy until they confusingly pushed us off the metro car and left. After being confusingly abandoned, we decided against the club; we really wanted to go with the russians and not be "those americans". Instead, we decided to explore the area that we had been thrown into, not unlike an unwanted puppy in a shoe box. We grabbed some food, drink, and hookah at this nice restaurant with an indecipherable name. Our inability to read the name had nothing to do with the actual russian, but with the stupid circus-ey font. CIRCUS. But it was a cool place.

Here comes the problem. The metro friggin closes at 1 on weekends. SERIOUSLY Moscow, what the heckamonga is wrong with you? Even DC, the snoreyest of all snorey big cities stays open till 3. When we checked the time at the restaurant it was 1:30. Okay, so we'll take a cab, nbd. Actually, we found out it is a big deal. Considering we didn't want to be buried alive in a ditch on the outskirts of town, or stabbed violently to death, we didn't hire the many gypsy cabs waiting outside the restaurant, but instead decided to call a cab; it's the legit way to not die in Moscow. Of course, being the ritards that we are, neither of us had decided to write down the number of any cab companies when Jon, our illustrious Resident Director, gave them to us. Luckily I used my "I'm a poor poor sad nice little girl. Please help me. I'm pathetic" face to get the number for a cab from some girls who were calling one for themselves. They set it all up and we began to wait. This was around 2ish. Of course, what should slowly walk up to us while we waited but a PONY being walked by some gypsy woman. This pony and its pissed off real-horse friends were being dragged around the streets while the women accosted drunk people for money to ride their probably satanic skull-crushing horses. CIRCUS! That being said, we were tempted to jump on the horses and gallop home on them, instead of waiting for the infernal cab company. After 3 am rolled around and no word from the cab, we were faced with a dilemma. Do we risk being somehow accosted, molested, kidnapped, shanked, shot, or robbed by the inevitable psychotic cab driver or do we wait 2.5 hours for the metro to reopen? We shuffled off to a (thank god it was there!) 24 hour Shokolodnitsa, which is basically the Moscow version of Starbucks/any coffee chain and food and alcohol to await our trip home. Finally, 5:30 rolled around and after paying a disgruntled and bleary-eyed waitress (love Moscow customer service) we jaunted over to the metro. The train didn't arrive until 6:10ish (RUDE), but by that time Matt and I were so tired, it didn't even register that the train was being RUDE. We finally crawled into our respective beds around 7, after surviving a 6pm-6am excursion through the city of Moscow. Ponies, clowns, and possible death. I rest my case.

ABCs: First Impressions

A is for Arab food: Yesterday we discovered a delicious food stand. We have been warned to avoid street food, for reasons ranging from temporary intestinal discomfort to sudden and violent death. However, I will risk Ebola and all other deadly diseases for the delicious шяурма (basically looks like a gyro-taco) that we’ve found at a food stand near the university. For a mere $3, I get a derrrrricious taco-gyro goody (and believe me, in Moscow that’s cheap) and a drink. Not that Russians especially fancy Arabs. Goal for the trip: become a regular and order my “usual”. In short, I need to make Arab friends, as well as Chechen and Gypsies.

B is for Belorusskaya Station: The closest metro station to our university (МУМ). The station building is a beautiful kelly green with white trim. All in all, the architecture in Moscow is astounding. Stepping off the train into the station is a whirlwind of beauty, which is tainted only by the scattered clusters of policemen (see P). Not only is the outside of the station absolutely lovely, but the interior is a pure swirl of marble. Cold and solid, like the people.

C is for City Day: Day of the City, or День Города in Russian, is Moscow’s special “we’re awesome” day. Hear that St. Petersburg?! It was pretty cool. We schlepped around the city until we stumbled across Red Square (actually, all the drunkards were stumbling. We were walking normally. There were a lot of stumblers though). Of course, Red Square was swarming with the Moscow Po Po, and they wouldn’t let us American swine past the gates. Luckily we (our Russian student-guides, actually) found our way to St. Basil’s Cathedral just in time to watch the fireworks. Tres pretty, though I was fairly certain the city was going to catch on fire. They actually were thinking of cancelling, because of the heat and the fires this summer. So many people died, that they felt guilty celebrating. But if Russians stopped celebrations just because a lot of people died…let’s just say everyone would oft themselves then and there.

D is for Death: There are many ways you can die in Moscow, including but not limited to: death by water, rape, gypsy cabs, police brutality, assassination, kidnap, food poisoning, vehicle accident, etc. This section is especially aimed at you mother. You should definitely continue worrying. I know I am.

E is for Eggs: So Russians are big on telling you about your fertility. We (two other hooligans in our group, actually. I’m already forming a collective mentality!) were scolded for sitting on the ground, because it would ruin their eggs. Scolded by strangers. Russians are nice like that. Odd.

F is for Finland. It’s kinda nearby to Russia. My host-babushka’s friends are going to Finland, so we’re playing babysitter to their cat. Stepan is очень shmadorable.

G is for Ground: The ground of Moscow is narsty-farsty. Extremely. Nuff said. Putting your bag/coat/any belonging on the ground is a major taboo, and old ladies will come and yell at you.

H is for Hozaika (Okay, that’s a sucky transliteration, but I had no better H): That’s Russian for woman of the house, or landlady, or some lady with power in the home. My Хозяйка is an old woman named Inna Borisovna. She is hilarious. She hassles me and tells me I eat badly (what?), don’t know how to dress, and to sit up straight. It’s the way to show me she cares. So cute. So frightening. Also she’s a geochemist. So yeah, shmamazing.

I is for Internet: Internet is old-school shady here. Really the only way to do internet as a traveler or temporary student is to go to McDonalds or a coffee chain and use the free wifi there. Unless you’re awesome like me and have neighbors with unprotected wifi. Suckas.

J is for Jenny: So I try russofying my name into Zhenya, but Russians don’t like that. In fact, at Starbucks (whoops…I caved. It’s my home away from home. DON’T JUDGE!) I ordered as Zhenya when they asked my name so they could call it when my chai was ready. I heard them bounce the name around a lot, but finally when I got my chai DJENNI (in Cyrillic) was clearly printed on the side. What the heckamonga? Or they insist on calling me Jennifer, which is a capital offense. If I end up in an international court, it will probably be because I assaulted someone for using my given name.

K is for Kapitalism: Just kidding. I don’t have anything for this letter. K is a stupid letter. So is Q and X. Z sucks too.

L is for Lenin: Dude, this guy is everywhere. I live on Dmitraya Ulyanova street, which is the name of Lenin’s brother. The university is on Leningradsky Prospekt. The metro stop before mine (Akademicheskaya) is Lenin Prospekt. He haunts the metro like a bum (of which I’ve seen much less than DC btw). He creeps a lot. MVP would be proud (JERSEY SHORE REFERENCE. That’s for you, mom. You’re not supposed to understand).

M is for Men: Don’t look at them. Don’t make eye contact with them. If I hear some creepy man saying “devushka krasavitsa” one more time, I’m going to turn around and shank him. The gender gap is extremely wide here. On the other hand, women also get flowers ALL THE FRIGGIN TIME. In fact, if they don’t have a constant stream of foliage, they think their man don’t love them no mo’ and they gots to find another. So you win some, you lose some.

N is for Not America: Russia is not America. Who knew?

O is for Opera: I have yet to go to one here. I hear they are smashing though. Our Russian film teacher has theatre and artsyfartsy connections, so maybe I’ll shmooze him (hear that Liz?!) and convince him to get me free stuff. In a non-creepy way. Russian teacher-student relationships are like that. They’re our drinking buddies.

P is for the PoPo: If there’s anything worse than the rampant crime, gypsies, and drunken hooligans in Moscow, it’s the people who are supposed to enforce the laws. Stay away. Just…stay far far away. The Police can stop you at anytime and ask for your documents. If they’re feeling especially frisky that day, they can make up a random fine, even if you’re perfectly legal. This is their secret popo code for “Gimme yo money. Bribe me so I don’t beat you with my popo stick”. I have yet to experience a document check, but let’s hope it’s in the middle of rush hour on the metro, and not in a dark alley late at night.

Q: See K

R is for Rush Hour: Holy crap. The Moscow metro is RIZONCULOUS! It’s like someone transplanted the entire population of London and New York and said “Go at it!”. Needless to say, much brutality is needed to get a spot on any train. Luckily I have enough DC metro cred to muscle my way through. Liz, you should SEE IT! Makes WMATA look like child’s play. Also it’s ridiculously pretty. Everything is marble, and the station interiors look like you stepped off the train and into a museum.

S is for: Okay so I know I should have something for S, like Soviet or Socialism or ShBarackObamaisadirtySocialist (hiya teabaggers), but really I’m getting very lazy and need to do my Russian homework. I suppose the Russian part is redundant. BECAUSE IT’S ALL IN FRIGGIN RUSSIAN. Ay dios mio, what have I gotten myself into?

T is for Toilet: Soviet (honestly, let’s call a spade a spade) plumbing leaves much to be desired. We were welcomed to Moscow for the first night with a broken toilet. Let’s just say plumber is not a good look on me. Especially after 3 days. That stuff gets narsty. I’ll leave it at that. Though happy to say water pressure is better than I had this summer (hear that JoAnn? Aka slumlord).

U,V,W,X,Y,Z: No one really likes these letters. They’re virtually useless in a “ABC’s of…” list, so I’ll spare you all (hi mom, Liz, and Regine) the pain of my ramblings.