Photos from the Dacha

Yesterday Tatiana got out the photo album and showed me probably a hundred and fifty pictures from the dacha. (A dacha a country house––usually no more than a cabin––which most Russian families maintain for weekends and holidays). The actual theme of the album is the ongoing renovation that the Shcheptiskos are doing to their dacha. In the ‘before’ pictures, we see a little cabin, overgrown with tall grasses on the outside and excessively spare on the inside. Then come a montage of ‘work’ photos, including my favorites––the babushka photos (don’t forget to stress the first ‘a’ in pronunciation). Babushka is either not working, or doing work that appears to be completely irrelevant to the greater project. In one, she’s plowing an impossibly large garden so far from the dacha in the distant background that it can’t possibly be part of their property. Babushka, see that field? Go plow it. Last come the “after” photos, though as I’ll talk about another time, its Russians never actually finish their remonty (renovations). The album got a little dull by about the second hundred, but I decided not to care. Part of the deal when you go to Russia, and live as a guest in a Russian family is that you look through photo albums from the dacha and take in the little cupcake stories. In return, among many things, you get to laugh at the thought of hoodwinking a babushka.

Tatiana

Tatiana is a deceptively mean-looking woman. Imagine a 5'3" blond Leona Helmsley and you're about as close as you can get without a photograph. It’s all in the narrow eyes and prominent brow (think "Brain" from Pinky and the Brain), and the determined way she purses her lips when she's working, as thought waiting for a pretense to blow her lid. The first couple times I saw her smile I thought I detected something sinister and insincere, but like all my other first judgments, I was completely mistaken. Over the past five days I’ve come to appreciate this sweet, tough, and loving woman who worries about her husband's health, takes her son out to buy new clothes for school, dotes on Vasya the cat and is exactly what I was looking for a in a host mother––friendly, interested in talking to me, happy to cook my meals, and "chill" enough to give me space when I need it.

By the Gulf of Finland

I've been without internet for a few days and a lot has happened. It will take me a few days to get back up to speed. I had planned to post from the hotel while waiting to be escorted to my host family. With three escorts, and twenty students living at far as an hour from the hotel, I expected it to be a long time, and it would have been, except Brian decided there was time for a run before the scheduled drop offs and asked for a volunteer. I accepted.

We snaked through the Petersburg streets. The man behind the wheel was a stranger to us both, a nice-looking, middle-aged man in Western clothes and rimless glasses. He looked like he belonged in the passenger seat. He drove swiftly (deft, like most city drivers), and kept on making these preparatory harrumph sounds as if he was about to say something. But conversation never happened––I simply couldn't say anything, and Brian's mind needed to be elsewhere. We drove over the bridge to Vasilevsky Island, and down the main drag. In Russia, there are Russians everywhere and they do practically everything like Russians. Further from the city center, the densely packed five to six story buildings gave way to crumbling (well let’s hope not) Soviet-era high-rises. The Gulf of Finland emerged in the distance, and then the car slowed and pulled up beside a 30-story structure. In my first thought I questioned the building's stability. Have a look at the picture. It’s one of those semi-gravity defying structures like that famous office building on I-95 in New Haven. I dragged my bag to the entrance and into the tiny, barren lobby. Brian and I crammed into an elevator the side of a small industrial refrigerator and up we went. Within no time, we were standing before a blank brown door in a cold, concrete hallway. Brian gave three loud knocks, a pair of feet went into action, I had a mini out-of-body experience, and then the door opened to reveal Tatiana S.

All's Well

We landed at Pulkovo Airport in the outskirts of St. Petersburg on Thursday morning, "Back in the USSR" bumping through my earphones (I had always been a dream of mine, even though it's hokey). Now two eye-opening, delirious days have past and it's time to post. There's so much I want to write about: gigantic dancing fountains, a party at the US consulate, and one exceptional stroke of luck. Unfortunately I have to pack up and get ready to move in with my host family now. I'll do my best to post by the end of the day (or by 4pm EST).

Time to go

Enough talk and warnings and primers. I've heard just about all I can absorb about the college, the city, AIDS, skinheads, and a little nasty STD called molloscum which a program participant once contracted (google it at your own risk of being grossed out. A whole phylum of soft bodied invertebrates is right there in the name!). It's time to jump in. I'm as prepared as I can be.

I've learned about my host family too: they are Tatiana, her husband Sergei and her 14 yr old son Sergei. They live on the 20th floor of a building on Vasilevsky Island, about 45 minutes from the College via public transport (which is a very misleading indication of distance. As the crow flies, its no more than 4km). The program director told me that they are really awesome, but I'm not going to built up expectations for myself. I am excited to meet them.

One of the things we've learned about during our orientation has been culture shock. There's this thing called the culture shock curve, which is horse-shoe shaped and communicates the following graphically: in the beginning, a visitor to a foreign culture is in the honeymoon stage, where everything in a foreign country is new and fascinating. Then comes hostility, after which the curve bends upward to humor and finally the "at home" stage. Most people go through all of them, or some of them––the time frame depends on the person. It occurred to me yesterday that one or more of the following is true for me: I've already been through all of them in the last week, all the times I've been mad at Russia, then laughed at what seemed scary or annoying; or, I go through them all on a daily basis, but usually out of order––first comes hostility, then at home, then humor, and maybe a little honeymoon. My point, I suppose, is that its a stupid system. We'll see.

Orientation

Orientation began early at 8:15 breakfast. The Kline dining hall is poorly designed in two ways––first, there is too much redundancy at the stations––at lunch there were three different stations serving some kind of pasta. But more importantly, its the fact that the serving area and the dining hall are across the hall from eachother––so at just about every location there are people with trays full of food going one way and freshman going the other way. Yes its freshman month at Bard; most of them look very young, and very self-conscious. Bard is famous for its "alternative" kids––meaning they dress "differently." To the optimist this is an indication of free-spiritedness, creativity, and liberal politics and perhaps it is. But I wonder what really separates these people from the ones I go to school with at Williams, where the "alternative" kids are known as "girl with shaved head" or "boy with green hair" and that's enough. These things aren't said in a derogatory way––its just the sad fact that they're different and we don't know their names. Anyways the funny and revealing thing about today is that for the first time in my life I saw an entire dining hall filled with almost all "alternatives"––tight black pants, dapper hats, ironic ties, piercings, urgent facial hair. But the looks on their faces was not––oh wow I'm home, look at all these people just like me, it was, "oh shit, this is awkward, where do I sit, I hope nobody sees that I don't know where to sit." Maybe my eyes just seek out the insecure looking, or possibly project it onto them, but I'm pretty sure what happened was that, when grouped together, they splintered faster and more surely than a winning Nepalese coup and for the same reason––they were never on the same page. Kids who dress in tight black pants are not created equal. But again, why this difference between the Williams and the Bard students? Any ideas?

Enough of that. I'll write about orientation tomorrow.

Arrival at Bard

Its been a very thick day. Now my stomach aches from hunger, with no relief in sight. But before I go scrounging I wanted to put down the most significant moments of the day.

I heard my grandfather Swyer's voice for the first time today on a cassette tape recording of a speech he delivered in the middle-late 80s to a Catholic group in Albany. You have to understand that my grandfather is a man of great significance to me. He is a mythic hero––a rags to riches hero, a philosopher-king hero, a leader, a builder, a thinker. In all these ways I strive to imitate and honor him.

I wondered beforehand what his voice would sound like. What if it was tinny like Theodore Roosevelt's?
Then we listened. Through the speakers, came the echoed voice of an old fashioned man. His cadence and tone reminded me of Nixon––but unlike Nixon, grandpa wasn't juking, dodging or covering. He was talking about the meaning of life, literally––was it my luck, or did he always talk about the meaning of life? And on the day when the grandson knew only in infancy was leaving on such a journey. He jumped from reference to reference, quoting bishops and poets––he spoke with poise and eloquence and command. He even cracked a few jokes––well received. I couldn't follow him, so I don't know if he was funny or whether his speech even made sense.

My parents drove me to Bard. We sat before the undulating metal and glass facade of the Gehry building. We looked at eachother and away, held eachother and let go. I read the poem my father wrote for me and felt as I do sometimes––like a skipping stone, hurtling through the air senselessly without eyes or ears, then suddenly in the most profound living moments coming into contact with the surface of the sea. What a mystery and a joy––that carved words and sentences can do that. I need to learn to write like he does.

Here we go

Family, friends, and wierdos––welcome to my blog, I'm honored. I'm leaving for Bard College tomorrow where I'll be in orientation for three days, before boarding a Lufthansa flight to St. Petersburg––the northern former capital of Russia and home to 4.6 million––where I plan to live and study for ten months. Stay tuned.

Here we go.