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.
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.
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