-a wise and contradictory man, Lev Tolstoy.
Since I have been back I have been sleeping and eating a lot. That and being eaten by mosquitoes. I currently have 9 on my left hand and wrist and about 8 on my face—the only two parts of my body uncovered the other night. I should go out and buy a fumigatori. I’ve met the other brown students who are on the same summer program I did last year, along with this girl Maya, who graduated from Brown a year ago and is off to grad school next year. I actually ran into her in Kiev randomly enough and found out she was helping out with the summer program. We’ve hung out a fair amount, but I doubt I will be spending much time with the other Brown students. Personality differences. And they just seem extremely young and not all that interested in the city. There have also been some other random friends and acquaintances around. This girl Naomi from my program last semester was in town for a few days after taking the trans-siberian railroad across Russia for a month. So I hung out with her, a friend of hers who traveled with her on the trans-siberian, a random Russian friend of hers, and my former Resident Director, Margaret. It was surprisingly nice to see old faces. I really miss my few friends from the program last semester, but life is getting by. A couple of my professors from Brown are also here—namely my old Russian teacher, Lynne. And more should be around in early or mid July. Research has gotten off to a slow start largely because many of my contacts have been out of town. But I’ve gotten access to a few good libraries and archive collections, in particular the Theater Collection, which is right near the Ballet school and the Alexandrinsky Teatr. Not having classes has also allowed me to see more random things in the city. Maya and I have checked out some various exhibits and new bars and cafes, gone to some concerts, and drank a good deal of wine, since she is quite the wine connoisseur, even on a tight budget.
I’ve also been to two more Eiffman ballets—Tchaikovsky and Chaika (The Seagull, based on the Chekhov play). I actually enjoyed The Seagull, which I wasn’t expecting to. Eiffman’s use of music still irritates me, but the ballet was less “proppy” in general and more about dancing than drama. His choreography was more innovative and I think he did a better job at pacing. The random hip hop dance break thrown in was pretty unnecessary, even if funny. Perhaps it is just the mental state I’m in right now, or that I had just spent 5 hours at the Vaganova School of Ballet that afternoon, but I was actually emotionally moved by the work. The dancers were fantastic and really handled the different styles—classical, to contemporary, to modern. The dancer who portrayed Nina was particularly excellent. They were also appropriately expressive without being tacky. I’m not sure how Chekhov would’ve felt about the ballet, but that’s ok.
So to back track… I was able to get a hold of one of my contacts from last summer who is an archivist of Blok and who works at the Vaganova School of Ballet. She was able to get me into the ballet school last Saturday to watch some classes and rehearsals. It was the last day of classes, so there were some demonstration classes going on. I watched one class of girls who were in level 7. Some were quite good, but like my complaints of Mariinsky dancers, their turns and jumps were a little weak. Feet, legs, and extensions, arms and adagio work were lovely though.
Later in the day Mariinsky dancers came by for rehearsals—some for the performance of swan lake that night. I got to see the company warm up class and then he pas de deux from the second act rehearsed, along with four swans. Later there was a rehearsal of Don Quixote as well. It was enjoyable.
It had been a long time since I had been around dancers so up close and a long time since I had watched class. It wasn’t as sad as it could have been. I feel further away from that past self I suppose even than last summer. I certainly miss dancing though and wondered what it would’ve been like had I continued on that path of a professional career. I wonder if I would have been happy. As I watched them doing their barre exercises I just wanted to jump right in. Although I am in dreadful shape right now. My body has changed a lot. It was weird being there, kind of like revisiting yourself. To that extent it was hard. It was interesting wandering around the school. It is enormous. All the studios have raked floors, which I hadn’t realized. The studio I watched the most in is quite well known. You’ll know it if you’ve ever watched Children of Theater Street. It’s the wood studio with the high ceilings that has a catwalk type balcony thing on the second level to observe from above. It was pretty odd to be sitting in that room watching classes, seeing the dancers stretch, chat, sprinkle water on the floor, adjust pointe shoes. Dancers are all pretty much the same, no matter what language they happen to be speaking. It was funny to be able to understand the teacher’s screechings and the criticisms of other dancers in Russian though. I saw a bunch of the studios and classrooms, which was neat. The complex is gigantic.
(look, mom, I'm alive!)
After rehearsals I found Olga. She asked me if I were interested in maybe taking just barre or something, which was hilarious to me. The thought of taking a ballet class when it’s been nearly 5 years since I quit is a pretty funny one. But I guess my drop in weight was enough to convince her that I looked ballerina-like enough to still sort of be one. If she had asked me 5 years ago, it would have been a yes. But the thought of seeing myself in tights and leotard right now makes me wince. She was able to help me out as far as research though. She paved the way for my getting access to the Theater Collection and even helped me find some things I was looking for.
In other news, last saturday was the big Red Sails festival, when everyone stays up all night celebrating white nights, wandering the city and the metro (supposedly) opens earlier at 4am. The festival is based off of this Russian legend about a young girl (if I’m remembering this properly) who is told by a fortuneteller that she can only marry a prince who will come sailing down the river with red sails. She grows up more and this boy falls in love with her, but she tells him she cannot marry him because she is waiting for her prince with red sails. So the young man outfits his boat with red sails and comes down the Neva to win her heart. Very sweet. So Maya and I headed off to Dvortzoviy Ploshad at around 11:30. Nevsky was mostly closed down to cars. It was completely bizarre to be walking on foot down the middle of Nevsky prospect. The streets were mobbed with people and there were already bottles, broken glass, and garbage everywhere. Not too much vomit yet though, thankfully. It was pleasant and then got insanely moshpit like once we got to palace square--the one right in front of the hermitage, between it and the government building with the big odalisque of the angel and the cross. A huge concert stage was set up and the square was decorated with red sails.
It was lovely but crazy. Eventually Maya and I made our way over toward the Neva. Getting out of the square was ridiculous. We walked through the small park next to the hermitage, which was full of people, including a good number of men all lined up peeing in the bushes. Not so pleasant. We then got swept up in this river of people going along the Neva. People were already lined up to watch the ships come in. We walked for hours and hours. I have never been in so much “traffic.” I kept waiting to get punched in the face. After, we went back to Maya’s house to drink soviet champagne and relax a bit.
Along the Neva:
Mars Field:
I stayed there till about quarter of 5, since I figured I’d miss the big lines at the metro that was supposed to open at 4am. Maya lives a bit behind Ploshad Vosstaniya, so I walked to Vosstaniya first. Huge mass of people, so I walk to Mayakovskaya, not far away down Nevsky. The metro is not open. I wait a bit and hear an announcement that the metro will open in 45 minutes. I decide to just walk to the Nevsky prospect metro stop since I’d rather not just stand around waiting among scores of irritable, hung over people. I was in a pretty bad mood as it was. Just one of those weekends where everything feels off, when the air seems to be full of lumps. The metro is still closed when I get to Gostiniy Dvor and then Nevsky metro. I keep walking… There was broken glass everywhere, even though clean up had already begun. Revellers still wandered the streets and one had to avoid the pools of vomit and sometimes blood. The sun was of course up and it was already warm. I crossed the square in front of the hermitage from the night before. They had all these dump trunks picking up the garbage, whizzing around like iron-beetles.
I just kept walking in my exhausted-zombie state, to the bridge over the Neva, past the Rostral Columns, over another bridge to the Peter and Paul Fortress, and eventually to the metro stop Gorgovskaya. I walked about 2 hours and was happy to see that the metro was finally open. It was an interesting night.
On the bridge. That's Peter and Paul Fortress in the background.
In some not so happy news, Lev Lazarich died. You may remember him vaguely from an old post of mine. He was the one to joke about his name being like Tolstoy’s—hence the quote at the beginning of this post. He had been sick for a while, so it was not a huge surprise that he would die, but it was still sudden. He would always go out and do things, help others, give himself even though he was so ill. He came by Alla’s fairly frequently, often to fix things around the house and help out because Alla has no husband around anymore. He was just in last week to fix one of the cabinet doors that keeps breaking. He would always stay for tea and joke around with me and Alla. I don’t think they were ever really lovers in the physical sense, but it was clear that they felt a lot for each other, and that he at least loved her. His death has led to a number of conversations about love, life, men, etc., conversations, which, of course, are accompanied by alcohol. When Russians are sad, they drink. Alla came into the kitchen randomly the other day and said to me, “You know what Liza, I’ve been thinking about love a lot. It doesn’t matter if you’re never loved back. All that matters is that you love, to know you have that in your soul. A love beyond passion, beyond sex, beyond novelty, beyond excitement. There are so many people in the world who have never loved, who have never known what love is, even if they have been loved themselves. I think that is the most frightening thing, never to love or to KNOW. It didn’t matter to Lev whether I loved him or not, what mattered to him was to love. To have someone to listen to him, to understand him, was enough. It is good that you love, it is not weakness, it is not shameful, and the object never matters, does it? I never truly loved Lev, or my first husband. Both were attractive, smart, kind, good to the core. Yet I didn’t love them. You can be so smart, attractive, unique, incredible, and be unloved, because love doesn’t work that way. So like the legend, we all must wait for our princes, to come on ships flying blood red sails. Just look around, keep your eyes open. There is someone waiting.” It is maybe a little fitting that Lev died on Saturday, the festival of the Red Sails. Alla was at the dacha all day Saturday, bringing home flowers on Sunday. She found out only Monday afternoon about Lev when her son in law came by the house to show her a home video from their vacation. She had him call Lev’s house to see whether he were ok since she was used to having him call everyday and she hadn’t heard from him. She couldn’t call herself because “he has a wife and kids.” Alla seems to be handling it pretty well. I also had some bad news that Monday, so I brought home some wine and we later broke into Alla’s cupboard of cognac. She tells me all these things about her own life, about her friends, her family—very personal things. Tragic stories that would put Anna Karenina to shame. She says to me, “I can tell you all these things because you’re from a different world, we’re speaking between different languages and cultures.” She is an incredibly strong person, and very fatalistic and accepting of things. She often tells me, “I have had everything in my life, Liza. What have I to be afraid of anymore?” She has a pretty cynical but realistic view of life, like a lot of Russians. That’s why when bad things or unexplainable things happen Russians just seem to shrug their shoulders and say “that’s life, nothing to be upset about.” It was upsetting though. Alla couldn’t even go the funeral. But Lev had asked her to lay two lilies at his coffin, so we are going to go to the cemetery.
So the weather has been decidedly dreary. It pretty much rains every morning, which makes me not want to get out of bed, ever. There will be some patchy sun, and then it rains again in the evening or afternoon. The weather forecast is never correct. One is either freezing or baking. It is annoying that at home I am actually colder in July than I was in January. The heat is off, of course, and there is something about this concrete bloc housing that traps in cold and dampness, which would be great if it were like 90 degrees out. I sit around in bed wearing my old long johns under my flannel pj pants and sometimes even my winter hat while being munched on by mosquitoes. Please tell me how that makes sense. I love the absurdity of Petersburg. So it has been hard to really enjoy the white nights, seeing as it has been rather cloudy and cold. White nights over bloc housing aren’t quite so romantic either. But that’s ok.
It has been interesting watching the people come alive this time of year. Russians are entirely different people when the weather is decent, especially during white nights, which seem to act as some kind of aphrodisiac. Either that, or my mosquito bitten face and emaciated state are a draw (not so likely), seeing as I’ve gotten a lot more (unwanted) attention from Russian men than I ever have before. By far my favorite is the chess master who tried to pick me up while I was buying ballet tickets at one of the kassa’s on the street. He was a very (undeservedly) bold young man. You know you’re in trouble when your pick up lines consist of “I went to chess academy 6 days a week,” “I’ve been to America, New Jersey, it was great,” and “I will give you the email address I keep especially for girls.” Although he did have a masters in philosophy and excellent English, the red suspenders and unfortunate splattering of facial really weren’t getting me. He did offer me free chess lessons though. Maybe some other time.
Despite all the madness of summer in Petersburg, I think I’m starting to get more homesick at this point. But it’s a strange breed of homesickness, because I want to go home, but feel like I can’t. It seems like it would be almost harder to be home than to be here. I’ve been gone now for over 5 months, and haven’t even been able to call my brother since January. It is almost the fourth of July. I miss bad American food, like take out pizza and fried dough from the Topsham fair and chicken wings and a whole host of other very unhealthy American delights. But I also love Russian food still. It was funny how good sour cream on salad tasted when I just got back. I’ve had crazy bliniy cravings, which are satisfied by the 24 hour bliniy stand outside my metro stop. It will be weird being home in another month or so. Anyone up for Infinite Tacos? I knew I was already starting to miss America when I was in the Crimea and seeing Roosevelt’s signature on the Yalta Conference documents made my heart ache with national tenderness. I also miss the English language. I would love to watch some American movies right now, or even just read. My host mom and I were talking about American literature the other night. She has some Salinger in Russian, so it might be amusing to try to read Catcher in the Rye in Russian, especially with how the translator tries to render Holden’s slang and voice. Unfortunately I only have left with me two books in English: Nietzsche and the Bible. Which is actually pretty amusing. I have been missing the English language so much that I’ve been reading both of them. I had read the new testament cover to cover last January since I had only read chapters at random or to aid with papers as far as references. So I’ve started with the old testament now, which I know pretty well from Hebrew School and Temple as a kid. I had the beginning of Genesis for my Torah portion. It is funny how many times I’ve read it in different contexts. I’ve had to read it a number of times at Brown for different types of classes as well. It is always interesting and I always see it differently. It was funny reading it this time, and I had a conversation with someone about this, seeing the character of God. He seems so young. He knows everything that will happen yet he is still so disappointed. He is at once the biggest cynic and the biggest hopeful. He is so horrified and disgusted at his own creation, but he knew it couldn’t be any other way. It seems as if man’s sin has tainted everything he sees before him, everything he had tenderly loved and brought into being. His heart seems broken by the reality of the world, and he feels responsible for it. It is strange to see God so pained, so young even, as if still learning. He knew it was to be and that people and the world were that way, yet he couldn’t help but be disappointed, as if he hoped it could somehow be different. It is only later in the bible that he seems to realize that he can’t keep wiping out the earth, a city, or even a person. One must accept things, even God. Nietzsche has been fun to read in contrast. I brought him along with me as supplementary reading for my research, since Nietzsche was so influential in turn of the century Russian art.
Besides food, English, and America, I’ve been missing dancing more lately. Maybe just because I am researching it, because I’ve been to a number of ballets, or I was just at the Vaganova School, or because I feel slightly claustrophobic here. Ballet studios were always so nice. Tons of space, beautiful slanting light. I miss going to class hours before other people and just sprawling on the floor in the patches of warm light. Lying on the floor is not something you do here in Russia, sitting on it is weird enough. I miss that feeling where your body just seems to extend into space, as if verticality and gravity were nothing, that all your limbs were so supple that it made no difference what was an arm a leg a neck a bone a ligament. Everything just opens up in your body. I miss space. I miss dancing. Having my back break and my spirit slowly sapped was like having someone step on your throat. Words are such a poor and cumbersome language. Few of you reading this, if anyone still is, have ever seen me dance. Not long before I was injured I was just starting to get into modern dance, I was at that point where my body was strong and supple enough and confident enough to move, to let go of things, of rigid ballet technique, to fall and yet catch itself. I miss moving. That tension in your body, where everything to your fingertips is sensate and aware. I am looking forward to space. I might try to rent a studio when I get home, even just to lie in it.
I was blessed or cursed with my dad’s body. We’re scrawny and small but can take a good beating. Perhaps I’m just slightly masochistic, hence the ballet and obsessive stretching. Perhaps it is telling that I continued to dance on a broken back for a month before I decided to finally see a doctor. I started running two weeks after I quit. I am currently in the worst shape of my life physically. I was addicted to doing something physical. There is no better feeling than being sore and then working out all those spots, stretching them out. You can feel every tendon in your body. You feel more alive, aware with that little bit of discomfort, something that can distract your mind from its own thoughts just enough. It was like that when I had to diet some for dancing. When your body is on that edge of hunger, starvation. I sometimes feel bad for this brittle body of mine. And now it has to suffer more in this Petersburg climate. It did give me a “screw you” in Istanbul though when it finally decided: enough. Being really sick for two days in Turkey, even in the mansion-like apartment of my friend, was no fun. So I haven’t really been able to have any alcohol, besides wine, since I’ve been back. My body used to be so good. No real hangovers, no throwing up. And then, BOOM. That seems to be the way with my body, and me. Good, good, good…. BOOM! Can you get back up? I ignore things too long, maybe. That’s how Russia is though, and life, for which you can find nice little metaphors. I feel like as soon as I finally catch my balance, learn how to stand again, the ground once again lurches beneath my feet. Small, random example, or your little life metaphor: I was having a bad day last weekend and happened to be walking down Nevsky with Nadya (my formerly ‘paid friend’/tutor), and this rugby-player sized woman just slams into me, going between Nadya and myself, knocking the wind out of me with her elbow and forearm, having thrown her whole weight into me. I was doubled over for a good minute and I got some nice bruising on my ribs. I’ve never had anything like that happen to me before. Maybe she didn’t like the look of us, or maybe she was just having a bad day too. Nothing like those days when life already sucks and then it just decides to punch you in the face. It’s almost comical, even. That’s how Russia is. I’m going to punch you in the stomach today just so you don’t forget that life is random and cruel and there’s no reason for any of it, so don’t even try to make sense of it. It was just too perfect that it was funny, and while I was doubled over I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I almost wanted to scream out into the Petersburg swarm, “Is that all you got for me today?! BRING IT!” Things are starting to become hilariously and horrifying predictable at this point, even in their unpredictability.
I can certainly understand pedestrian rage though. Walking in Petersburg in the summer, especially on Nevsky, is like rush hour in Boston, but on foot. There’s a whole technique to passing people, to crossing flows of human traffic, to controlling your road rage. I find myself infuriated walking around, being assaulted by people, feeling suffocated. I might just start body slamming people too. But I doubt it.
In other news, Olya is home from Moscow. Her wedding is this upcoming weekend, so there has been a lot to do. She is marrying an American, actually the resident director from Moscow. I’ve met him a number of times and he is a great guy. His parents will be arriving later this week from the states, and I will be kind of babysitting them while Jon and Olya are on their honeymoon, since neither knows Russian and Alla’s English isn’t that great. In the last few days I’ve had to help Olya with all kinds of wedding stuff. It’s crazy because she’s only a year and a half or so older than I am. It is hard planning other people’s future happiness, but I am sure the wedding will be a lot of fun. The other night we had to put together music for the restaurant. She wanted classical, which I have a decent amount of that Patrick had randomly given me over the years. We went cake tasting the other day and finally picked out her cake. She had all these cut outs of cakes and flowers and things she liked from American bridal magazines that her soon to be mother in law sent her. We also ordered the limos and picked out flowers for the bouquets and on the cake, and even set up a gift registry online for her so her American friends can get them stuff. They are not having the traditional Russian wedding, which would have been pretty cool to take part in. It should still be interesting though: the whole wedding palace, driving around to all the sites in the city, boat ride, etc. etc. I will definitely put up pictures. (FYI I have put up a lot of random pics from the spring on Flickr. Trip stuff will come in due time.) So this weekend should be absolute insanity and I’m sure I’ll be sent off on all sorts of random errands, or at least just working as a translator for the few lost Americans who’ve decided to cross the Atlantic and Europe to come.
And I will end with a story of why I love Russia.
So I made myself go running the other day. It was the first time I’d really run in a long time, something like over 6 months at least. I ran a little bit first semester at Brown, but I was just so busy and unmotivated. I actually ran once here in April, but was so exhausted that I stopped after like 20 minutes. Running between bloc housing was too depressing. My physical health is not that great at the moment. I have gained a good amount of my former weight back, but I have yet to kick my mild smoking habit and I’ve managed to catch a cold or something. Or perhaps it is just that Petersburg has decided to crawl into my sinuses and throat, making my nose run and me cough and generally feel exhausted. The pollution is wretched in my district—lots of big busy streets and factories. But I busted out the one pair of shorts for running I brought and welcomed my bloc housing with open arms. It was actually decent weather out this past weekend. Warm enough, but not too warm--sunny more or less. The bloc housing is still pretty grim, although more green now. Avoiding puddles, mud, dog crap, broken bottles, needles, stray dogs, garbage, and drunks makes it a whole lot more exciting! I ran to Udelniy Park, which is about a 15 min run from my house if you loop a bit to avoid Bogatirsky as long as possible. I have to cross some busy streets, in particular in front of the metro, where there are trams. I got some weird looks. Girls running in Russia is not exactly what you would call common. There is of course no sidewalk along the busy street that gets me to the park, so that was even more exciting.
I finally made it to the park though. It was mucky in parts, but incredibly green. I felt like I had suddenly been transported into some primordial Russian forest. There were some genuinely gorgeous sections, in particular, this one huge hallway of tall, tall birch trees all lit by “afternoon” (quarter till 9pm) sun. There is not a lot of underbrush in Russia, so you get all these majestically tall trees and then green, green small grasses and meadows underneath. Beautiful. Perfect for picnicking, which a few people were doing. There were some nice fields with lots of people sitting, kissing, partying, generally hanging out. Some parts were pretty sketchy on the perimeter, which I avoided. Eventually I found my way into this semi-clearing with some benches, where there were a bunch of musicians playing accordions and guitars with old people dancing and sitting and standing around, some joining in the songs—all folk songs or old soviet era stuff. I had gotten somewhat lost in the park and it was getting late, so I figured I’d ask someone how to get back to Bogatirsky prospect. I asked this older couple sitting on a bench. The guy then starts asking me all these random questions, kidding around. “Are you Vietnamese?” “No.” “Georgian?” “No, I’m American.” “What are you doing in Russia?” “You study Russian? Super!” “What state are you from?” “Maine.” “Michigan?” “No, Maine. It’s in the north.” “Oh, we are too. From Siberia.” “So what’s your name? Matilda?” “No. Elizabeth.” “OH! Leeeeza!” “So what are you doing running around here all alone? Where’s your man?” “I don’t have one, I’m just running by myself.” “Well, be careful, there are bears in Russia, you know?” (Laughter.) “So did you come to Russia to find a husband? You know there are LOTS of Russian millionaires.” (More laughter.) This goes on for about 5 minutes of random questions and kidding around before he finally tells me how to get out of the park. As I’m trying to leave (for the 4th time) since the mosquitoes are eating me and Alla is probably already worried, he stops me again and invites me to have a drink with them. I said no, but by the third time he asked (it is proper to refuse something till the third time you’re asked in Russia), I couldn’t help but give in. So I had my shot of vodka with them and then continued on my run. Who could turn down such an offer? Nowhere else would you go for a run and break it up by drinking vodka with strangers. Sometimes I just love Russia, and then there are those other times you get punched in the ribs. But I’ll take what I can get. Thankfully I was closer to home than I thought, since running on vodka isn’t the greatest when I already felt pretty sick from running that long. I ran for over an hour, which I was pretty proud of myself for considering my health generally sucks and that I hadn’t run in over 6 months. It burned pretty badly, but sometimes you just don’t care. I got home tired and tipsy.
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