Her: What's your last name again, I forgot?
Me: Durina...
Her: "Oh that makes sense. You know what дура is, right?"
Me: "...как дурак" ["like durak?" Durak is an idiot...see here for great list of possible translations. http://translate.google.com/translate_t?hl=&ie=UTF-8&text=basically%0D%0A&sl=ru&tl=en#ru|en|%D0%B4%D1%83%D1%80%D0%B0%D0%BA]
Her: Of course like дурак. That's a good last name for you.
Me: *gasping for air from shock/laughter*
I love her.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Babushka-isms
Babushka: What's that?
Me: It's a bracelet.
Babushka: That's terrible. It's so ugly. You look like a gypsy. Take it off at the dinner table!
Me: ...okay.
Babushka: And you want to be a diplomat! Diplomats don't look like gypsies!
I'm waiting for the day I look like a Chechen. New goal.
Me: It's a bracelet.
Babushka: That's terrible. It's so ugly. You look like a gypsy. Take it off at the dinner table!
Me: ...okay.
Babushka: And you want to be a diplomat! Diplomats don't look like gypsies!
I'm waiting for the day I look like a Chechen. New goal.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Things You Shouldn't Do Unless You Are Jenny Durina
I've decided to start a new segment, because I feel like I get away with a lot of stuff that our fearless RD tells us we shouldn't do. I know this will catch up with me soon, so I'll relish in the moments of freedom now.
Things You Shouldn't Do Unless You Are Jenny Durina: Give sass to the Moscow Cops at 1 am.
Why You Shouldn't Do It: The Russian PoPo are notorious for being sneaky little buggers and extorting bribes from people all the time. They usually claim there is a fine for something, and they just charge however much money you have. We were advised to take 1 of 2 courses of action when confronted with this situation. 1) Argue and start crying like a baby until they lose interest and leave you alone. 2) Pay them. Option 1 is used when it's daylight and you're around a lot of people, Option 2 is used when it's nighttime and the PoPo stick is looking extremely menacing in the pale glow of the evil copper's eyes. Our main advice, however, was to never speak or make eye contact with the police. It is very forbidden to speak/argue/smart mouth a cop.
What I Did: So a few of us are in Red Square around midnight or 1 am and it starts snowing. It's more-or-less the first real snow we've seen in Russia. The atmosphere is romantic and lovely and christmaseyrainbowsareshootingoutofoureyes so we start dancing to celebrate being in Russia by St. Basil's Cathedral in the snow. We are the only ones there. Then a cop car housing 2 bellicose PoPos drives up and stops next to us. Here my innate diplomacy skills kick in.
Coppas: Why are you dancing? What's the holiday? You shouldn't be dancing!
Me: IT'S THE FIRST SNOW! That's why we're dancing! IT'S THE FIRST SNOW!
Coppas: MUMBLEMUMBLEMUMBLEMUMBLE (I could glean that it was not okay for us to dance in Red Square. Disrespect or something. Probably they were just protecting us from Zombie Lenin's nightly lurch around the city).
Kelsey, my brave warrior-ess: Uh huh, okay. Yeah. We understand. Uh huh. Okay
Coppas: *drive away in a fury
Later...
Me: Kelsey, what the heck did they say?
Kelsey: I have no clue.
Things You Shouldn't Do Unless You Are Jenny Durina: Give sass to the Moscow Cops at 1 am.
Why You Shouldn't Do It: The Russian PoPo are notorious for being sneaky little buggers and extorting bribes from people all the time. They usually claim there is a fine for something, and they just charge however much money you have. We were advised to take 1 of 2 courses of action when confronted with this situation. 1) Argue and start crying like a baby until they lose interest and leave you alone. 2) Pay them. Option 1 is used when it's daylight and you're around a lot of people, Option 2 is used when it's nighttime and the PoPo stick is looking extremely menacing in the pale glow of the evil copper's eyes. Our main advice, however, was to never speak or make eye contact with the police. It is very forbidden to speak/argue/smart mouth a cop.
What I Did: So a few of us are in Red Square around midnight or 1 am and it starts snowing. It's more-or-less the first real snow we've seen in Russia. The atmosphere is romantic and lovely and christmaseyrainbowsareshootingoutofoureyes so we start dancing to celebrate being in Russia by St. Basil's Cathedral in the snow. We are the only ones there. Then a cop car housing 2 bellicose PoPos drives up and stops next to us. Here my innate diplomacy skills kick in.
Coppas: Why are you dancing? What's the holiday? You shouldn't be dancing!
Me: IT'S THE FIRST SNOW! That's why we're dancing! IT'S THE FIRST SNOW!
Coppas: MUMBLEMUMBLEMUMBLEMUMBLE (I could glean that it was not okay for us to dance in Red Square. Disrespect or something. Probably they were just protecting us from Zombie Lenin's nightly lurch around the city).
Kelsey, my brave warrior-ess: Uh huh, okay. Yeah. We understand. Uh huh. Okay
Coppas: *drive away in a fury
Later...
Me: Kelsey, what the heck did they say?
Kelsey: I have no clue.
Babushka-isms
Her: Zhenya, you don't know how to go to sleep! What's wrong with you?
Me: Huh?
Her: This is how you go to bed: you take off your clothes (insert taking off clothes gestures and partially actually taking off clothes...weird), put on pajamas (gesture gesture gesture!), and curl up (gesture) in the blanket, and then you go to sleep.
Me: (sarcastic thoughts: REALLY?! WHAT A NEWFANGLED IDEA!)Yes, I always do that when I go to bed.
Her: No you don't. You do it wrong.
Me: How the heckamonga do I do it wrong?
Her: *walks away without saying anything else*
It's good to be home. I'd like to state: I'm American, not special needs. While it is often difficult for an elderly Russian to distinguish these two things apart from one another, I am sure they are not the same.
Me: Huh?
Her: This is how you go to bed: you take off your clothes (insert taking off clothes gestures and partially actually taking off clothes...weird), put on pajamas (gesture gesture gesture!), and curl up (gesture) in the blanket, and then you go to sleep.
Me: (sarcastic thoughts: REALLY?! WHAT A NEWFANGLED IDEA!)Yes, I always do that when I go to bed.
Her: No you don't. You do it wrong.
Me: How the heckamonga do I do it wrong?
Her: *walks away without saying anything else*
It's good to be home. I'd like to state: I'm American, not special needs. While it is often difficult for an elderly Russian to distinguish these two things apart from one another, I am sure they are not the same.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Hiatus
Shall be gone starting tomorrow at 10 pm (Moscow time. 8 hours ahead of DC. For those who aren'ts so good with the maths, that's 11 ahead of California). I shall be cruising the Volga looking for a Russian English Jewish Musician/Ballerino (RAHM) to husband. This expedition will last approximately 1 week (6 days and 12 hours, to be approximately precise), and on said cruise (I'll be on a boat an' going fast an') I will be without le interweb. I'm sure you're all crying softly in your lonely corners thinking "Why God? WHY? How will I get through life without Jenny's constant complaints and hilarious banter?" Fear not, dear readers! Imagine all the tales I can accumulate in an entire week on a boat with ample amounts of alcohol and boredom! And strange new places. I always do dumb/embarrassing things in strange new places. Cast your woes aside, dear readers, for I shall return with an arsenal of vignettes.
Now: Something to think about while I'm away. I know I'll be thinking about it.
Now: Something to think about while I'm away. I know I'll be thinking about it.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Infernal Dance of the Metro Commuters
It's high time I wrote about ye olde transportation here in Moscow, namely about the metro. I was reminded today that I have yet to address the metro system after a particularly harrowing experience with train doors.
But first, a general overview:
The metro is GORGEOUS.
This is what a more-or-less average ceiling looks like--an extensive art project tiled so as to resemble heaven. In the words of one of my classmates [about this station, Mayakovskaya], "I want to have babies with it". As soon as you step off the train, you walk into what seems like a museum's atrium and there is often a statue or two greeting you at some entrance (probably of Lenin. They seem to dig that dude or something). The entire interior is marble, with matching sets of marble columns that line the platform. Some of the walls of the platforms, like at Pushkinskaya, are engraved with extensive cameos of people or scenes pertaining to whomever or whatever the station is named after. Further, at Pushkinskaya, there is a smattering of engraved quotes emblazoned on the walls. I have yet to go to the newest station, Dostoyevskaya, but I can hardly contain my excitement; I've heard it's hauntingly beautiful. Then there are the couch-seats that I encountered yesterday on my way home from Moscow State University, or the museum cars that have actual art exhibits inside the trains. These aren't silly prints that look like adds, but fully framed art works inside glass cases mounted on the train walls. Also the metro is surprisingly free of trash, albeit the lack of trashcans. But that's a city-wide phenomenon; there's not very much trash on the streets, but I have yet to find any sort of receptacle. Where does it all go? Do I eat my candy wrappers? Do I line my coat with my trash to keep me warm? Or do I just not consume anything? My vote is for the nice crinkly wrapper-lining.
The next important Moscow-metro characteristic is the volume of people. Holy cow, there are a lot of them! Moscow's population ranges from 10-20 million people, depending on who's counting. For instance, I have been invited and encouraged by the government to participate in the census. They even go as far as to inform me that "Census takers will not request documents such as passports, visas, etc." Anyhoo, people. HOLY YOWSAS! Rush hour is like the A.D.D child of New York City on meth and a London crack addict. There are about 50 bajillion people (pretty sure they import them just to overcrowd the metro) all running around trying to be big-important-like and thinking they are the пуп-земли--poop-zemliy--center of the universe. I have been punched by an unhealthy amount of people (hint: getting punched by a stranger in the metro once is not healthy), and too many strangers have grabbed my shoulders and shoved me aside. Every time I leave my house to brave rush hour I ask, "Will I be trampled to death today, or will the sheeple let me live another day?" Sometimes I baaaaaa quietly to see if anyone responds. They don't. However, there's a coolio-bopper sort of rhythm to the metro: If you're part of the chosen flock, you all sync to each other's footsteps and join in the Infernal Dance of the Metro Commuters. Here Stravinsky, write THAT.
Then there are the crazy babushkas. Old Russian women are FIERCE and will make sure you know, as referenced to in previous posts. God forbid you be the person sitting down when a babushka gets on a full train. Not only will she demand your seat, but you will probably be caned so as to not forget your insubordination and idiocy. Not that I blame them. On the contrary, I aspire to one day be as able to instill fear in the heart of a nation like these small hunched women do.
Once you've decided to try to squeeze your way into a car, the (not)fun begins. Riding the metro requires a person pass three dangerous trials, not unlike those in Indiana Jones in "Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade", including the last one where you age really quickly and all your flesh falls off as you turn almost-instantaneously into dust. That hasn't happened to me. Yet.
The First Trial: The Guillotine
Not only are there about 20 people (first accurate number, besides the Moscow population) trying to squeeze into an already packed car at each set of doors, but the metro is also on a very prompt time schedule. Trains arrive about every 1.66 minutes, so they are all on a very tight schedule. Therefore, it is a mad dash to play people-tetris before the doors angrily and decisively slam closed. Today, I made the mistake of trying to get onto a train as the doors were closing. These aren't some sort of cute slow-closing doors like on the DC metro, but instead evil jaws that snap shut on the weakest victims. I call them the "Guillotine" because if there were dull blades on the doors, they would slice me in half without the slightest hesitation or resistance. I was caught between them and luckily was able to maneuver my bruised shoulders all the way through. However, my purse and foot was caught, and I tried desperately to pry the door open with my bloodied fingers. I was trapped, awaiting my horrific death. Channeling the power of the annoyed passengers (one dude was pissed the train wasn't moving, so he pushed the doors huffily), I grandiosely took my final breath and in one super-human feat of determination, squirmed my entire person+purse through the jaws of death.
The Second Trial: The Angry Rave
During rush hour, it is rare not to play the "Oh hello stranger, let's press our bodies up against each other!" game. Even worse, they keep the metro heated to a frigid BAJILLION degrees Celsius (mewmwemwemwemew....that's the sound of my American vocabulary slowly dying. Not with a bang. That's my poor attempt to emulate a whimper. Via blog). So now I'm pressed up against this creepy old man who has really bad B.O. Excellent. I often imagine what would happen if I passed out or lost my balance and fell while on the metro. I have narrowed it down to 3 possible scenarios. 1) There would be mass violence, as my fall would take down at least 7 angry babushkas. 2) No one would notice, except when someone's stiletto got stuck in my trampled flesh. They'd probably be annoyed by that. 3) They'd call the police and have me deported or jailed for disturbing the peace ie their commute. In this scenario I also get tuberculosis.
The Third Trial: Exiting the Train...of Life
Getting off the train is also a fun little dance. First, you do a fancy little sacrifice and dance to the Metro Gods, who are super chummy with the Toilet Gods. I like to call this dance the "Metro Shuffle N' Hustle". If you are in the middle of the car, or worse sitting down, you have to tap about 20 zillion people on the shoulder and ask if they're getting off at the next stop. This is to ensure you can get off the train in time to escape the ever-alert Guillotine. If the person is not getting off, then you do a fun little awkward-rub-up-against-each-other so you can switch places. This dance gets harder the more sardine-like you are packed. For instance, today I got hit by 3 babushkas because I had to squeeze past them doin' the Metro Shuffle N' Hustle.
All-in-all I feel the system separates the weak from the strong, and ensures a highly effective schedule. This all being said, I love the Moscow Metro. Not only is it an adventure and I feel accomplished each time I exit alive, but there are so many interesting people. Also, I don't ever wait longer than 2 minutes for a train. Eat it, WMATA. I'm fairly sure if there was ever "track maintenance" like that in DC, there would be riots in the streets, mass mutiny, and general chaos.
*Salutes* General Chaos!
But first, a general overview:
The metro is GORGEOUS.
This is what a more-or-less average ceiling looks like--an extensive art project tiled so as to resemble heaven. In the words of one of my classmates [about this station, Mayakovskaya], "I want to have babies with it". As soon as you step off the train, you walk into what seems like a museum's atrium and there is often a statue or two greeting you at some entrance (probably of Lenin. They seem to dig that dude or something). The entire interior is marble, with matching sets of marble columns that line the platform. Some of the walls of the platforms, like at Pushkinskaya, are engraved with extensive cameos of people or scenes pertaining to whomever or whatever the station is named after. Further, at Pushkinskaya, there is a smattering of engraved quotes emblazoned on the walls. I have yet to go to the newest station, Dostoyevskaya, but I can hardly contain my excitement; I've heard it's hauntingly beautiful. Then there are the couch-seats that I encountered yesterday on my way home from Moscow State University, or the museum cars that have actual art exhibits inside the trains. These aren't silly prints that look like adds, but fully framed art works inside glass cases mounted on the train walls. Also the metro is surprisingly free of trash, albeit the lack of trashcans. But that's a city-wide phenomenon; there's not very much trash on the streets, but I have yet to find any sort of receptacle. Where does it all go? Do I eat my candy wrappers? Do I line my coat with my trash to keep me warm? Or do I just not consume anything? My vote is for the nice crinkly wrapper-lining.
The next important Moscow-metro characteristic is the volume of people. Holy cow, there are a lot of them! Moscow's population ranges from 10-20 million people, depending on who's counting. For instance, I have been invited and encouraged by the government to participate in the census. They even go as far as to inform me that "Census takers will not request documents such as passports, visas, etc." Anyhoo, people. HOLY YOWSAS! Rush hour is like the A.D.D child of New York City on meth and a London crack addict. There are about 50 bajillion people (pretty sure they import them just to overcrowd the metro) all running around trying to be big-important-like and thinking they are the пуп-земли--poop-zemliy--center of the universe. I have been punched by an unhealthy amount of people (hint: getting punched by a stranger in the metro once is not healthy), and too many strangers have grabbed my shoulders and shoved me aside. Every time I leave my house to brave rush hour I ask, "Will I be trampled to death today, or will the sheeple let me live another day?" Sometimes I baaaaaa quietly to see if anyone responds. They don't. However, there's a coolio-bopper sort of rhythm to the metro: If you're part of the chosen flock, you all sync to each other's footsteps and join in the Infernal Dance of the Metro Commuters. Here Stravinsky, write THAT.
Then there are the crazy babushkas. Old Russian women are FIERCE and will make sure you know, as referenced to in previous posts. God forbid you be the person sitting down when a babushka gets on a full train. Not only will she demand your seat, but you will probably be caned so as to not forget your insubordination and idiocy. Not that I blame them. On the contrary, I aspire to one day be as able to instill fear in the heart of a nation like these small hunched women do.
Once you've decided to try to squeeze your way into a car, the (not)fun begins. Riding the metro requires a person pass three dangerous trials, not unlike those in Indiana Jones in "Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade", including the last one where you age really quickly and all your flesh falls off as you turn almost-instantaneously into dust. That hasn't happened to me. Yet.
The First Trial: The Guillotine
Not only are there about 20 people (first accurate number, besides the Moscow population) trying to squeeze into an already packed car at each set of doors, but the metro is also on a very prompt time schedule. Trains arrive about every 1.66 minutes, so they are all on a very tight schedule. Therefore, it is a mad dash to play people-tetris before the doors angrily and decisively slam closed. Today, I made the mistake of trying to get onto a train as the doors were closing. These aren't some sort of cute slow-closing doors like on the DC metro, but instead evil jaws that snap shut on the weakest victims. I call them the "Guillotine" because if there were dull blades on the doors, they would slice me in half without the slightest hesitation or resistance. I was caught between them and luckily was able to maneuver my bruised shoulders all the way through. However, my purse and foot was caught, and I tried desperately to pry the door open with my bloodied fingers. I was trapped, awaiting my horrific death. Channeling the power of the annoyed passengers (one dude was pissed the train wasn't moving, so he pushed the doors huffily), I grandiosely took my final breath and in one super-human feat of determination, squirmed my entire person+purse through the jaws of death.
The Second Trial: The Angry Rave
During rush hour, it is rare not to play the "Oh hello stranger, let's press our bodies up against each other!" game. Even worse, they keep the metro heated to a frigid BAJILLION degrees Celsius (mewmwemwemwemew....that's the sound of my American vocabulary slowly dying. Not with a bang. That's my poor attempt to emulate a whimper. Via blog). So now I'm pressed up against this creepy old man who has really bad B.O. Excellent. I often imagine what would happen if I passed out or lost my balance and fell while on the metro. I have narrowed it down to 3 possible scenarios. 1) There would be mass violence, as my fall would take down at least 7 angry babushkas. 2) No one would notice, except when someone's stiletto got stuck in my trampled flesh. They'd probably be annoyed by that. 3) They'd call the police and have me deported or jailed for disturbing the peace ie their commute. In this scenario I also get tuberculosis.
The Third Trial: Exiting the Train...of Life
Getting off the train is also a fun little dance. First, you do a fancy little sacrifice and dance to the Metro Gods, who are super chummy with the Toilet Gods. I like to call this dance the "Metro Shuffle N' Hustle". If you are in the middle of the car, or worse sitting down, you have to tap about 20 zillion people on the shoulder and ask if they're getting off at the next stop. This is to ensure you can get off the train in time to escape the ever-alert Guillotine. If the person is not getting off, then you do a fun little awkward-rub-up-against-each-other so you can switch places. This dance gets harder the more sardine-like you are packed. For instance, today I got hit by 3 babushkas because I had to squeeze past them doin' the Metro Shuffle N' Hustle.
All-in-all I feel the system separates the weak from the strong, and ensures a highly effective schedule. This all being said, I love the Moscow Metro. Not only is it an adventure and I feel accomplished each time I exit alive, but there are so many interesting people. Also, I don't ever wait longer than 2 minutes for a train. Eat it, WMATA. I'm fairly sure if there was ever "track maintenance" like that in DC, there would be riots in the streets, mass mutiny, and general chaos.
*Salutes* General Chaos!
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Shmadorablies and GNOMUS
I almost kidnapped a small child dressed as a gnome. After much restraint, I was satisfied to just steal its soul via photography.
"But why oh why, Jenny, were you around children-GNOMUS?" Well sit down, my flock, and I'll spin you a tale of fairytales, artistic expressioin, and eerily prophetic PE classes. Our excursion this week was to go to a Russian school (K-11, I think) and to see differences, similarities, yadda yadda. I left home at the crack of dawn (7:15. maybe not the crack...) to go see some commie kiddies running around like hooligans. When we arrived, we chose classes to sit in on and to participate. I have discovered that my language ability makes me a semi-competent 3rd grader. Frankly, I was pretty proud I could keep up with the littluns.
First Period: 3rd grade Art class!
I totally got an A for the day. We made cute felt flower drawings, and the teacher told me "Молодец!", meaning "Great job, you child-genius!". Proud. The main difference that I noticed throughout the day, was that children aren't completely encouraged free expression. The art class was very structured: each step of the project was regulated, and color choice was limited to 2 of 3. Much different from my artsy-fartsy everyoneisageniusandtshejustneedstoletitcomeflowingoutofherdarlinglittlegeniusfingers education. I have to say I noticed increased productivity the Russian way. At the end of the class I was swarmed by all the kiddies asking me questions about myself...in English. They wanted us to eat breakfast with them, but alas we were off to our next class. The life of a student is so difficult.
2nd Period: PE
Because our Math class was canceled, two of us decided to sit in on the 1st grade PE class. Main difference between American and Russian PE: Russian PE is physical education. They learned stretches, ran, raced, and practiced hand-eye coordination by throwing a tennis ball and catching it. Again, it was a collective effort rather than a class of individual expression; namely, there was no game-playing. The teacher looked exactly like a stereotypical Russian gymnast coach. At any moment I was expecting her to make us swear we would never reveal the secrets of olympic success she had taught the children. I suspect she was secretly a recruiter there to find the next student who will raise Russia to her previous competitive prowess. After Plushenko disgraced the country, it was time for a new generation to wear the mantel of glory. That's what I got from the 1st grade PE class. And "DOH LOOK AT THE WIDDLE TUBSTER RUN!"
Between 2nd and 3rd period, we went to the library for a presentation. The librarian was quite sweet and told us all about how the kiddies love to read and about their extensive collection. Then she introduced her magical library gnome helpers (ps....that phrase is now in my active Russian vocabulary). They recited a library-rhyme and my brain almost exploded from cuteness overload. That library kicked Gelman's ass. And it was less oppressive.
3rd period: 3rd grade Literature--fairytales!
I reunited with my friends from 1st period, and when I entered the class room I was greeted by a chorus of "Zhenya! It's Zhenya!". I was totally the popular girl at the school that day. Unfortunately, literature fell on Jenny-nap time, so I had to concentrate all my effort on my eyelids. Therefore I didn't learn a lot about Russian fairytales. However, at the end of class, all the kids ran up to us and gave us their candy and a picture they had drawn for us, and random toys. Like I said, popular. Again, it took every ounce of self-control not to TACKLE them all.
Cuteness aside, I noticed the Russian kiddies were always excited about class. Maybe it was because there were foreigners watching and they wanted to show off their brilliance, but there was never an awkward "c'mon kids, start paying attention and answer some questions". It was rare to see a class without at least 4 hands in the air at all times. Also, it was funny to see what happened when a kid did something wrong. In art class, for instance, if a boy made a bad flower, the teacher would tell him "That's awful. That's a pretty bad flower." It's part of the Russian mentality in general; nothing is sugar coated and everyone says what they think. As said in earlier posts, I make a terrible Russian. Though I have to say, something must be working. Russian universities is where I start having serious problems with the education system. But that's a subject for a different post.
"But why oh why, Jenny, were you around children-GNOMUS?" Well sit down, my flock, and I'll spin you a tale of fairytales, artistic expressioin, and eerily prophetic PE classes. Our excursion this week was to go to a Russian school (K-11, I think) and to see differences, similarities, yadda yadda. I left home at the crack of dawn (7:15. maybe not the crack...) to go see some commie kiddies running around like hooligans. When we arrived, we chose classes to sit in on and to participate. I have discovered that my language ability makes me a semi-competent 3rd grader. Frankly, I was pretty proud I could keep up with the littluns.
First Period: 3rd grade Art class!
I totally got an A for the day. We made cute felt flower drawings, and the teacher told me "Молодец!", meaning "Great job, you child-genius!". Proud. The main difference that I noticed throughout the day, was that children aren't completely encouraged free expression. The art class was very structured: each step of the project was regulated, and color choice was limited to 2 of 3. Much different from my artsy-fartsy everyoneisageniusandtshejustneedstoletitcomeflowingoutofherdarlinglittlegeniusfingers education. I have to say I noticed increased productivity the Russian way. At the end of the class I was swarmed by all the kiddies asking me questions about myself...in English. They wanted us to eat breakfast with them, but alas we were off to our next class. The life of a student is so difficult.
2nd Period: PE
Because our Math class was canceled, two of us decided to sit in on the 1st grade PE class. Main difference between American and Russian PE: Russian PE is physical education. They learned stretches, ran, raced, and practiced hand-eye coordination by throwing a tennis ball and catching it. Again, it was a collective effort rather than a class of individual expression; namely, there was no game-playing. The teacher looked exactly like a stereotypical Russian gymnast coach. At any moment I was expecting her to make us swear we would never reveal the secrets of olympic success she had taught the children. I suspect she was secretly a recruiter there to find the next student who will raise Russia to her previous competitive prowess. After Plushenko disgraced the country, it was time for a new generation to wear the mantel of glory. That's what I got from the 1st grade PE class. And "DOH LOOK AT THE WIDDLE TUBSTER RUN!"
Between 2nd and 3rd period, we went to the library for a presentation. The librarian was quite sweet and told us all about how the kiddies love to read and about their extensive collection. Then she introduced her magical library gnome helpers (ps....that phrase is now in my active Russian vocabulary). They recited a library-rhyme and my brain almost exploded from cuteness overload. That library kicked Gelman's ass. And it was less oppressive.
3rd period: 3rd grade Literature--fairytales!
I reunited with my friends from 1st period, and when I entered the class room I was greeted by a chorus of "Zhenya! It's Zhenya!". I was totally the popular girl at the school that day. Unfortunately, literature fell on Jenny-nap time, so I had to concentrate all my effort on my eyelids. Therefore I didn't learn a lot about Russian fairytales. However, at the end of class, all the kids ran up to us and gave us their candy and a picture they had drawn for us, and random toys. Like I said, popular. Again, it took every ounce of self-control not to TACKLE them all.
Cuteness aside, I noticed the Russian kiddies were always excited about class. Maybe it was because there were foreigners watching and they wanted to show off their brilliance, but there was never an awkward "c'mon kids, start paying attention and answer some questions". It was rare to see a class without at least 4 hands in the air at all times. Also, it was funny to see what happened when a kid did something wrong. In art class, for instance, if a boy made a bad flower, the teacher would tell him "That's awful. That's a pretty bad flower." It's part of the Russian mentality in general; nothing is sugar coated and everyone says what they think. As said in earlier posts, I make a terrible Russian. Though I have to say, something must be working. Russian universities is where I start having serious problems with the education system. But that's a subject for a different post.
Lost in Translation
Babushka: "There was a bus crash in Thailand and there were a bunch of our [Russian] tourists on it"
Pause: Thanks to Mumble-Mcmumble pants, I only caught the words "bus in Thailand" and "tourists". This was NOT due to my language inability, but do to my I-don't-have-supersonic-hearing ability. So I do what I normally due. I've gotten tired of the "I don't understand" face, and have now started gauging what people are saying via tone and words I pick up, and adjust my grunts and head nods of acknowledgment accordingly. Therefore, when I heard the "bus of our tourists in Thailand", I assumed it was a humorous story. C'mon....TOURISTS! They get into all sorts of hysterical situations (as this blog amply exhibits). So I respond.
Me: "hah"
Babushka: "WHY ARE YOU LAUGHING? A lot of people died, a lot of Russians! What's so funny about those people being hurt or dead?"
Me: meekly and confused "tourists..."
Pause: Awkward silence/look of horror on my babushka's face.
Me: trying to save face finally "Maybe I didn't understand you. One more time, please?"
Diplomacy is clearly my strongest suit.
Pause: Thanks to Mumble-Mcmumble pants, I only caught the words "bus in Thailand" and "tourists". This was NOT due to my language inability, but do to my I-don't-have-supersonic-hearing ability. So I do what I normally due. I've gotten tired of the "I don't understand" face, and have now started gauging what people are saying via tone and words I pick up, and adjust my grunts and head nods of acknowledgment accordingly. Therefore, when I heard the "bus of our tourists in Thailand", I assumed it was a humorous story. C'mon....TOURISTS! They get into all sorts of hysterical situations (as this blog amply exhibits). So I respond.
Me: "hah"
Babushka: "WHY ARE YOU LAUGHING? A lot of people died, a lot of Russians! What's so funny about those people being hurt or dead?"
Me: meekly and confused "tourists..."
Pause: Awkward silence/look of horror on my babushka's face.
Me: trying to save face finally "Maybe I didn't understand you. One more time, please?"
Diplomacy is clearly my strongest suit.
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