My thoughts.

I don't really have a fancy introduction paragraph for everything I want to say, so I guess I will just write. This isn't going to be organized, and it probably won't be moving. These are just my thoughts, and I want to get them out of head.


I feel like the reason why I have been drawn to Russia is because I want the important people in my life to understand that no matter where we are from, we are all the same. We all have needs. We all cry. We all feel pain. I want people to understand that being different doesn't make someone a barbarian. 


For the first time in a long time, I am ashamed. I am ashamed because a few weeks ago I almost threw in the towel and gave into what certain people have been telling me all along. I decided to believe that this place isn't worth fighting for. That it's hopeless. That the people here don't even respect themselves, so why should I. I don't want to write about the things I've seen and felt. I don't want people to feel embarrassed and I don't want people who don't understand this place to pass judgement.


All I can tell you is that I was wrong. This place is worth fighting for. These people don't deserve to be given up on.


When I think about all the hate and hopelessness in this world, it brings me to tears. But more importantly it makes me want to do something about it.


People have told me that my degree is pointless. People I desperately wanted to support me didn't. Unfortunately, it is so easy to forget all of those people who have supported me. But this place. It makes me a better person. It chips away at my hardened heart. And if that is all I ever get out of this entire experience, then so be it.

Lost in Nizhni: Part 2

As I hopped onto the 2t so many thoughts flooded my mind.

Everything is fine now!
...I am still going to let Zhenya have it when I see him.
THANK GOD I AM FINALLY ON THE RIGHT BUS.
I have nothing to worry about now.
Wait...WHY IS MY BUS ON A HUGE BRIDGE CROSSING OVER THE RIVER!?!?!

 I had never been to the university before, but I had an inkling that I was not supposed to be forging the mighty Volga. I took a moment to gather my thoughts, which at this point consisted mainly of,"dfslk**&^dflsPANICkdjflskd&^*5??mfWHYGODlskjdsdfjhskdjfhPROFANITYf!?!?!?"  Now, the last thing you want to do in a situation like this is to let everyone around you realize that you are a panicking foreigner who has no idea what she is doing or where she is going. With a heart on fire and a face like stone, I picked up my phone and called my supervisor. In calm, softly spoken English I asked if  I was supposed to be on a bridge crossing the river. Unfortunately, her response was neither calm nor soft spoken, and in a panic she kept telling me to speak louder. Between the angry looking Babushka- yes, I capitalize Babushka because they demand that much respect- and the questionable man with the gold tooth staring at me from the back of the bus, I really did not want to speak any louder. Once again, I asked if I was supposed to be on a bridge crossing the river. Once again, she yelled into the phone demanding I speak louder. By this time, it was taking every last ounce of my strength to keep myself from screaming into the phone in crystal clear English, "I AM ON A &**%%$! BRIDGE GOING OVER THE *#&$(%&( VOLGA. NOW WHAT THE *#&$ AM I SUPPOSED TO DO? IS THAT LOUD ENOUGH FOR YOU? IS IT?!?"

Well, I did not do that. And mom, I am so sorry. I can read your thoughts and I know that right this very second you are thinking "Honey, you shouldn't even think those words." I am sorry, mom. I was thinking them.

Like I said before, I opted out of screaming a string of English profanity into the phone, and instead, I calmly told her I would get off of the bus and call her back.

I would like to take this moment to bring you back to my senior seminar class where we read a story about poor, poor Pnin. Pnin was a hapless professor who moved to America from the Soviet Union. Now, Pnin was a very intelligent man, but for the life of him, he just could not get the hang of life in America. Small tasks proved to be a challenge, every piece of American technology he came in contact with was an unconquerable beast, and his grasp of the English language was less than mediocre. We call these incidents, whether they be big or small, "Pninian Moments."

There is one scene in the book that I feel draws a strong parallel to my current situation. Poor, poor Pnin had been  desperately trying to get his driver's license, but every time he tried, something went horribly wrong. He would stop on green, go on red, think stop signs were unneccessary, etc. Well, the DMV finally passed him. Whether it was out of pity, or if they were just tired of putting their lives in jeopardy during each test, I do not remember. But the fact is, Pnin got his license and was now ready to hit the open road.

I consider the scene describing Pnin's journey to be a literary masterpiece. I realize, Dear Reader, that you probably have not read this book and probably never will, so I will help you paint the picture in your mind. I would like you to think of Pacman...a little ball of a man following food and only staying on track because it keeps running into walls. You could also picture a bowling lane lined with bumpers as an 8 pound ball ricochets back and forth, still somehow only managing to knock over two pins once it reaches its destination. The scene is told from an aerial point of view. All you can see is this tiny, stick shift car making it's way through the woods, bumping along dirt roads, hitting pot holes, barely missing branches, and making every wrong turn possible. Picture it. Now, replace Pnin, the old car, and the woods with me, the 2t, and the city of Nizhni Novgorod. I was experiecing the Pninian moment of all Pninian moments.

I hopped out of my seat with the greatest of ease, casually pressed the button notifying the driver that the next stop was the one I wanted, and patiently waited for the bus to come to it's usual screaching halt. And yes, I am still on the bridge.

Once we crossed the bridge, the bus came to a stop, and I stepped off, still looking calm as ever even though my internal emotions probably resembled a burning sky scraper in the middle of a hay field doused in gasoline. Dozens of fire firefighters are running around trying to save some stupid cat from the top floor, but everything is looking hopeless. I was that cat.

I called my supervisor to tell her I was off the bus and was now standing on the side of a busy road that looked like it led to the industrial district. There was a lot of , "STAY RIGHT WHERE YOU ARE!"s going around, but news travels fast and my host dad was now beeping in on the other line. I answered and tried to explain to him where I was and what the road signs said, but at that point I was in such a state of panic that I probably wouldn't have even recognized the English alphabet, let alone the Russian. My supervisor was beeping in, so in broken Russian-which was probably completely in English at this point- I told Sergei I would call him back. My supervisor asked where I was. I looked to my left, I looked to my right. About 1/4 of a mile down the road to my left was a beautiful cathedral. About 1/4 of a mile down the road to my right was a big hotel with the words Park Hotel written in English. Once again, she told me to STAY RIGHT THERE and that her and Ilya were on their way to get me. Well as soon as I got off the phone, I realized that the last thing I wanted to do was to STAY RIGHT THERE, because people were gathering, men were watching, and at this point I just wanted to accept my fate and jump into the river. Once again, I looked to my left: Jesus. I looked to my right: English. I chose English.

I rushed toward the hotel, calling Sergei first. I told him what I saw and he explained that he was coming to get me. I called my supervisor who kept asking me the name of the hotel, to which I kept answering,"Park Hotel. It is just called Park Hotel. I don't know what else to tell you." For some reason, she could not accept that it was simply called Park Hotel, much to my dismay. I was about to completely give up, fall on the sidewalk, and let Russia take me, but then something beautiful happened. Right before my eyes appeared  a huge statue of Lenin with a kind, outstretched hand welcoming me to the hotel. I told my supervisor what I saw and she knew exactly where I was. She was coming to get me. In that moment, I knew that Russia had been through years of hell and bloody Revolution, because God knew that one day there would be a stupid American girl lost in Nizhni Novgorod, and her only hope would be a jolly statue of Lenin towering over her at a height two times that of her house. I never thought Lenin could make me feel so warm and fuzzy inside. But he did. I also realize that everything I just wrote is very offensive and completely insensitive to the Russian plight, but it is what I felt and there is no changing that.

Unfortunately, it didn't register in my mind that two seperate parties were on their way to get me until I sat down in the hotel lobby. I tried to text my supervisor to call Sergei and tell him not to worry. My text didn't go through. I tried to call her. My call couldn't go through. Why? Because my phone had run out of minutes. I just sat there, trying not cry. I am pretty sure every last fiber in my body was fighting to hold back the tears. I pulled out my journal. In a mixture of English and Russian letters, I wrote:
I am sittinг in a hotel in the middle of Nizhнi Нoвгoрod because Yevgen leфt me this morning. I am writing in order to not бreak дown in tears and make myself look obвiouс. But my cellphone ran out of minutes. This is literaллy my worst nightmare. I have no iдea where I am. I am trying not to кry. My stomache hurts. I have to пee. Everyone probably hates me. I want to kiлл Yeвg-
And then it cuts off, because at that moment I looked up and saw my supervisor and Ilya walking through the door. I flew to them without inhibition and told her that she had to call Sergei because he too was on his way to get me. She called him, explaining that everything was fine and that they had me and that I was unscathed. Well, I was physically unscathed, but my mind was in shambles. The 20 minute ride to the univeristy in the opposite direction was all kind of a blur. All I really know is that we got there and I did not kill Yevgen.

Now, Dear Reader, I took the time to write all of this out to tell you one thing: there are some things you don't pray for. You don't pray for humility and you don't pray for patience. As soon as you ask God to bestow such blessed characteristics upon you, you will be put in a situation that requires your fair share of patience or a situation that makes you feel 3 inches tall. That morning I learned that there is one more thing you don't pray for. The previous night, as I lay in my bed suffering from a language barrier-induced breakdown, I prayed that God would help me find the beauty in every situation, no matter how terrible. Well, as I skyped with my mom that afternoon, constantly pausing for breath during my story because we were both laughing so hard, I realized that God gave me exactly what I asked for.

Thanks, God. You have such a great sense of humor.

Langauge Barriers. Lost in Nizhni: Part 1

So, when you think a directionally-challenged devushka tells you she is on the bus with her host father, always double check and make sure you heard her right. Don't make assumptions.


Monday morning was my first day of class at UNN. Everything was going to be fine. I knew I was supposed to take bus 2 all the way to the university, but more importantly, I knew I wasn't going to have to do it alone, because Yevgen- known as Zhenya from here on out- is my neighbor.


You see Zhenya is my classmate from the University of Florida- a fellow member of the Gator Nation, if you will. Zhenya lives with his very own babushka a few buildings down from me. Zhenya also has an impeccable command of both English and Russian. Zhenya happens to be a foot taller than me, thus seeing the world from a point of view that I will never know. All in all, Zhenya is my Russian-American savior. Or was.


Now, if you know me, you know that although I am a very intelligent woman, my internal compass is slightly off-kilter. I can ride along with you to the same place approximately 1,783 times and still be blissfully unaware of my surroundings. It isn't until I am faced with the challenge of finding my own way that I rise to the occasion. Unfortunately, "rising to the occasion" often results in my getting lost and calling my best friend or one of my poor family members who are obligated to help me find my way and put up with all of my nonsense about how, "These roads are so stupid," or about how, "These directions are just all wrong." False. I am all wrong. The directions are usually right.


Zhenya and I were supposed to meet at approximately 9 am Monday morning in order to catch bus 2 together. I was so happy. I bid farewell to my dear host father, Sergei, as I bound down our uneven stairs, en route to my and Zhenya's pre-established meeting place. After a few minutes of waiting around I called Zhenya, making  sure I had not been forgotten. Zhenya answered, explaining that he and his babushka had had an untimely run-in with his neighbor's cat (if I remember correctly) and that he was now about to step out. I then explained to him that I was waiting outside. He simply said "Okay." I breathed a sigh of relief. I had not been forgotten. Five minutes went by. Seven minutes went by. I began to impatiently tap my foot, as women so often do when a male counterpart is royally screwing up their plans.


After calling Zhenya about four times to no avail, I received a text message saying, "On the bus." I don't know if I can really explain the hellish rage that filled my heart as I read those three little words. All I can compare it to is the wave of irrational anger that comes over me when I am experiencing one of my notorious bouts of hunger rage. However, seeing as I look like an American and the questionable man standing about 10 feet away from me was beginning to take note of my situation, I decided to keep my cool. I had two options. I could call Sergei, who would have gladly accompanied me on my journey to the university, thus ensuring my safety, or I could be a big girl and go alone. I am 22 years old. I like to think that I am independent. I like to think that when given very specific directions, I can follow them. I like to think a lot of things.


So there I was, furious with Zhenya, standing at the bus stop trying to ignore the stares I was getting. I could take either the 2 or 17. I hopped on the 2, feeling rather successful, but also feeling like I was about to vomit all over the ticket fairy who was impatiently hounding me for bus fair. Every bus here is equipped with some poor, unfortunate soul whose one objective in life is to make sure every person on her crowded, sweaty bus has paid their 15 rubles and recieved their ticket. I don't really know what they are called, nor do I particulary care, so I've decided on the title of ticket fairy.


About 10 minutes into my journey I began to feel uneasy. I had been squeezed into the middle of bus, unfortunately at eye level with about 17 different pairs of Russian under arms. Furthermore, the bus was not making announcements about the next stop, as had been promised, and I was beginning to become engulfed by an all-too-familiar wave of panic. In spazztic, broken Russian, I frantically asked the poor girl standing next to me if this bus was going to the university. Much to my dismay, her response was, "Which university?" Much to her dismay, my response was a blank stare. She decided it would be a more efficient use of our time if she just showed me, so we got off at the next bus stop, and she told me to take the 1.


Well, I knew I wasn't supposed to be on bus 1, because apparently I know all about the Nizhni bus system. I don't. In hindsight, I could have taken the 1 and probably avoided this whole fiasco. But the fact is I didn't, and you wouldn't be sitting here reading about my misfortune if I had.


Here I am, panicking on the phone with Cindy who is desperately trying to calm me down, explaining that I just need to get back on bus 2. Zhenya is calling me on the other line, also explaining that I just need to get back on bus 2 and that he thought our last conversation had gone something like this:
"I'm waiting for the bus with Sergei," said I.
"Okay," said he.
Well, dear reader, if you have been paying attention, you know our actual conversation went nothing like this. Now, here I am standing at some random bus stop in Nizhni Novgorod waiting to get on the bus that I had just gotten off of.


I would like to take this moment to address anyone who has ever complained about the RTS in Gainesville, myself included. Good Lord, shut your mouth. Next time you see that 20 roll around the corner with the words "Oaks Mall" scrolling across the ticker, you better thank your lucky stars. That tin can on wheels might as well be a solid gold chariot sprinkled with diamond dust being pulled by magical unicorns, and that bus driver yelling at you to "stay behind the yellow line" might as well be Tim Tebow. It's true. Just shut your mouth.


There is a saying in America that it's the little things in life that count. A smile can brighten someone's otherwise gloomy day. Little, intricate details can turn something ordinary into something beautiful. This saying should be taken more seriously, because there is a huge difference between bus 2 and bus 2t.

Third Time's a Charm

I've been to Russia a couple of times before, and surprisingly enough, I still sing its praises. I admit that I've also dropped a few less-than-kind lines about it as well. You would think after navigating its streets on two seperate occasions I would get the hang of it by now. Third time's a charm, right? Wrong. But we will get to that later.

The flight here was definitely a bonding experience. You know, the uncomfortable kind that no one can escape, thus enabling you to find comradery in shared misery. Kind of like high school in Ocala.

We flew from Orlando to the airport in Newark, which is unfortunately riddled  with "Property of New Jersey" products, as if people like to advertise that they are from the so-called Garden State and are proud of it. We left our now-more-than-ever beloved US of A and made our way to Frankfurt, Germany, where we were to spend a glorious 12 hours exploring my fatherland. Well, the first 6 hours were glorious. We ate bratwurst, drank German beer, and saw much more of the countryside than expected when we realized we took the train in the opposite direction of the airport. The last 6 hours were a little less glorious and a lot more grumpy. Long story short, we made it to Nizhni Novgorod, Russia around 4 am local time and headed the hotel in which we were to stay until Sunday morning.

After a refreshing 6-hour mid-morning nap, we mustered up some strength and explored the area around the hotel. The city is beautiful and we all immediately came to the conclusion that Nizhni is, in fact, much more loveable than Moscow. I also decided that this would be a cake walk compared to last summer. I chuckled to myself as I recalled the frantic skype sessions I often had with my family last summer when I was sure Moscow would be the end of me, as if my entire future henged on me finding some mysteriously vague part of myself I thought I had left here many years prior. For some reason, whenever I think about Russia, I imagine myself blissfully frolicking through an open meadow filled with flowing waves of post-Soviet grain. The mild sun is shining down on me as the humidity-free breeze blows through my perfectly straight hair. Well, I don't know why this is the picture I paint in my disillusioned mind, because that has never actually been my Russian experience and probably never will be. I've walked through one field-which resulted in something that I so affectionately call "chub rub"- and my hair still looks like I stick keys in light sockets for fun.

All that being said, Sunday morning rolled around with the arrival of our host families who we were all secretly terrified of. Let it be said that we were all probably much more terrified of the inevitable feeling of inadequacy that was about to wash over us than we were of our families themselves. But, we had arrived in Russia and there was no turning back now.

My host family is wonderful, although I have a feeling that they never expected a 5'3 American girl to be such a terrifyingly difficult specimen to handle. Especially when she gets lost in the city on her way to her first day at the university. But that's for the next post. All I can say is, don't make assumptions and always stay on bus 2. Always.