in some ways i am jealous that Magda gets to live with a flat-mate,her apartment is far bigger then Sveta's and because of their similiar ages (Magda is a misleading 26, Anastasia is 21 or 22) the arrangement isnt awkward at all. Magda seems really happy that Anastasia choseto host her because of their 'similar interests' rather then any financial bonus. Magda spent a year or something in France, she can speak French- which Anastasia is learning becasue she met her parisian boyfriend at an EVS work camp. Anastasia's father arrived to sit with us, i think he was checking up on Magda who moved in the night before, he brought cookies, muffins and chocolate which made me go 'awwwwww' inside. Although I explained earlier about how much i hate Russian men, i only hate them in multitudes, alone and vulnerable they are actually really amusing.
especially when they are middle aged, with girth. like the man i was squished up beside today on the way home, who smiled as i silently laughed at how ridiculously packed the bus was, how i was being pushed further and further away from the entrance and would probably never be able to get off- and catching my eye made some probably witty comment in Russian. Her father had brown hair, a jovial Russian belly, a waxed moustache and big red cheeks. He shyly ate awayat the sweets and attempted to communicate in rusty english, i think very nervous. but it was sweet that he tried. after about thirty minutes of conversation, which Anastasia translated, including the economy crisis, urban versus countrylife and some reflection on an apparently famous Polish author, that should have got the nobel award, he left. whispering to Anastasia at the door, out of sight, that she was very lucky to have met us. i slept over, and in the morning we went to the first day of our on-arrival training. this entire week has been on arrival training. Practical games, roleplays and theortical seminars on socialization, team building, public relations skills etc.which has been actually quite interesting. our trainer, Natalja- who hates to be mistaken for Natasha- which she later explained is because of it's association with a famous russian Prostitute, or the amount of russian Natashas thatholiday in Turkey for sex, is another one of those remarkable people i have been so lucky to meet. She is a very charismatic woman, but not charismatic in that flippant way, but because she is just very intelligent. To be honest, me and Magdakind of joked about her appearance, but only because she tends to wear t-shirts that are too short, and lets her belly protrude freely over the rim of her trousers, completely unaware or at least unabashed. Apart from that andwhat is maybe unkept hair i think she carries the authority of beauty that doesnt wither with age and is all the more potent becasue her vivacious eyes are always animated. she is a pyschologist who works for Sfera (my hosting organisation that we later learned is Russian for 'sphere'alluding to 'planet' as it is an NGO that exists to promote and iniatiate volunteering, particularly on an international level) with a fluent efficiency of english, or at least ability to communicate. She used the word 'cool' alot, and didn't alienateherself because of age, participating in the boys' drinking rounds because she was 'strong' and could handle it. She is also very enthusiastic about polish sweets, and the three latest volunteers (for whom she repeated everything in russian)brought some souvenir sweets- which by the way, are so good! And when a volunteer insisted on prolonging discussions with his reflections on 'how not to be afraid' or the 'egyptian question'which he studied at university, she flashed her eyes at me in a subtle mirth and excused the fit of giggling i couldnt control- which of course, i apologized for later. group dynamics definately improved as the week continued, of course to beginwith we were all amiable in that polite cooperation, but after various roleplays, games and truth or dare at 2am in the morning- and some crazy dancing; Iskren's moonwalk,
i dont just 'like' Gwen the wandering cyncial frenchwoman with a hoarse throaty accent- that pronounces my name 'Ra-chelle' and has been to every country in Asia barr 2, or Artur the undecided polish professor for whom 'philosophy is a lifestyle' t
hat smokes like a chimney, smiles mischievously, and teased me with temptation as the manifestation of 'narcotika' and then chided me as my conscience- in Russian, during our drama exercise, or Iskren and Magda. They have even achieved that status where, even if i dont like them, i still do. we evenvisited a matrioshka factory, which was interesting enough. 
The other three volunteers where really nice, its a shame that our interection was limited to 'kak de la?' 'hiroshaw spaseba', 'prejatna poznakormetza' etc. but they, along with Kasia, Artur, Magda and the polish association have definately left me with the impression that i would like to visit Poland one day.
for me however, the best thing about the training was our three day escape from the city. we drove for two hours, past little settlements of wooden 'dachas' -like huts, that are supposedly very cosy, and a gradually whiter and whiter landscape, into a forest. it was like finally catching my breath.
for me however, the best thing about the training was our three day escape from the city. we drove for two hours, past little settlements of wooden 'dachas' -like huts, that are supposedly very cosy, and a gradually whiter and whiter landscape, into a forest. it was like finally catching my breath.
i hate the city, and in that space, away from the confines of a tiny apartment with a lovely family, the never ending bustle and stares of the street, where there is a sky that you can see and seems so much closer, i just felt better. on the first night we watched some russian comedy from the eighties, a parody of Russian folklore that was acually a really good insight into the russian ideal. Russians are farming village people, the videos i watched in my childhood are pictures of russia, the picture of a braided goosegirl in greenforests where bears roam and mushrooms grow, where it snows in the winter and families crowd together around a modest fire, where there are ballerinas and orphans, is actually Russia. and the books i read, about 'hard' life, and leagues of immense wood, landscape and land to transverse, is actually russia. but to be honest, i hate what its becoming. that saturday night i had also stayed over at Magda and Anastasia's, and she invited us to her friends party in the suburbs.
after taking a busfor about thirty minutes, until we reached the 'suburbs' which is still more over crowded then anywhere in Belfast, i got in a car for the first time in the weeks that i have been here. her friend Masha picked us up in her black land rover and drove us to her house- the first house i have also been in since i arrived. i hate to use that word again, but it was beautiful. her parents built it so it is very new, and what must be very expensive- with marble floors and a spiral staircase.i think her family are the 'new money' everyone raves bitterly about, and although the house itself wouldnt be much bigger then my own, in Russia its price tag definately is. stepping into that house was like stepping into a new dimension. her friends are the new generation, that smell good, are glamourous and play loud obnoxious music. Masha had orchestrated the entire party (of about twelve people) in order to ensnare 'her love' who she raved about, and guaranteed that i would notice when he arrived- eventually, after some hesitation on his part, Luif arrived- and she contracting in excitement everytime he turned away, introduced me to this 'muscian' barely my height, completely unintriguing.
what was intriguing, was firstly Luba, a 21 year old that went on and on and on about America, she spent four months there on a work and travel programme, and now speaks with a very americanised accent that she is self confessedly proud of (everyone at the party attend the linguistic faculty so speak fluent english) and was even wearing a white t-shirt she had printed "Obama"on. After a few drinks she expressed loudly how much she loves Obama; he's such a good orator and has a sexy smile, and her general enthusiasm for democracy. Of course she wants to get out of Russia asap, because she hates it here, and firmly believes that freedom of speech is a facade- she even knows a student that was expelled or suspended because she expressed controversial ideas during her journalism studies. And then there was Anton, Luba's best friend who accompanied her to America, and also wants to leave Russia. 'metrosexual' everyone warned us before he arrived- and yes, probably quite effeminate. we talked about the social standards for his generation, and with a snort of disgust or else wry acceptance he pointed at his clothes and told us that brands are all that are acceptable if you are a russian, which cost your arm and leg. In russia what you wear is how successful you are he told us. he works as an editor in a fashion magazine, and is therefore prevented from writing about politics or anything with substance; but doesnt care as long as it pays. this also means though, that he is on a perpetual diet and that the mini-skirt, v-neck, big boot wearing, wannabe model russian women dont impress him because he 'knows' fashion. he also works as a PR manager and hates how much he has to smile. Anton is intelligent enough to know that the superficiality of his clique is degrading, and 'intelligent' enough to realise he has to accept it to survive. although it would be easy to disdain these youths as desperate spectres of american capitalism, who would willingly even eagerly trade their own heritage for flashing lights, as i may have concluded earlier... who can blame them? how can i turn up my nose at people who want more then tiny apartments, and the constant unpredictableness of their existence, a life of 'survival'?
after taking a busfor about thirty minutes, until we reached the 'suburbs' which is still more over crowded then anywhere in Belfast, i got in a car for the first time in the weeks that i have been here. her friend Masha picked us up in her black land rover and drove us to her house- the first house i have also been in since i arrived. i hate to use that word again, but it was beautiful. her parents built it so it is very new, and what must be very expensive- with marble floors and a spiral staircase.i think her family are the 'new money' everyone raves bitterly about, and although the house itself wouldnt be much bigger then my own, in Russia its price tag definately is. stepping into that house was like stepping into a new dimension. her friends are the new generation, that smell good, are glamourous and play loud obnoxious music. Masha had orchestrated the entire party (of about twelve people) in order to ensnare 'her love' who she raved about, and guaranteed that i would notice when he arrived- eventually, after some hesitation on his part, Luif arrived- and she contracting in excitement everytime he turned away, introduced me to this 'muscian' barely my height, completely unintriguing.
what was intriguing, was firstly Luba, a 21 year old that went on and on and on about America, she spent four months there on a work and travel programme, and now speaks with a very americanised accent that she is self confessedly proud of (everyone at the party attend the linguistic faculty so speak fluent english) and was even wearing a white t-shirt she had printed "Obama"on. After a few drinks she expressed loudly how much she loves Obama; he's such a good orator and has a sexy smile, and her general enthusiasm for democracy. Of course she wants to get out of Russia asap, because she hates it here, and firmly believes that freedom of speech is a facade- she even knows a student that was expelled or suspended because she expressed controversial ideas during her journalism studies. And then there was Anton, Luba's best friend who accompanied her to America, and also wants to leave Russia. 'metrosexual' everyone warned us before he arrived- and yes, probably quite effeminate. we talked about the social standards for his generation, and with a snort of disgust or else wry acceptance he pointed at his clothes and told us that brands are all that are acceptable if you are a russian, which cost your arm and leg. In russia what you wear is how successful you are he told us. he works as an editor in a fashion magazine, and is therefore prevented from writing about politics or anything with substance; but doesnt care as long as it pays. this also means though, that he is on a perpetual diet and that the mini-skirt, v-neck, big boot wearing, wannabe model russian women dont impress him because he 'knows' fashion. he also works as a PR manager and hates how much he has to smile. Anton is intelligent enough to know that the superficiality of his clique is degrading, and 'intelligent' enough to realise he has to accept it to survive. although it would be easy to disdain these youths as desperate spectres of american capitalism, who would willingly even eagerly trade their own heritage for flashing lights, as i may have concluded earlier... who can blame them? how can i turn up my nose at people who want more then tiny apartments, and the constant unpredictableness of their existence, a life of 'survival'?
me and Magda whispered together in the front room very tempted to just get completely drunk because we were so intimidated, but in the end- these kids were as open and welcoming, if not more so, then anyone back home. There was also Sebastian, perhaps the least presumptious looking party member with a mop of brown hair, the only one my age, who is a DJ at a local club and lives in a 'bedsit' that he hates.
but every forty minutes i would sneak to the bathroom for as long as would be normal for someone to need to pee, and missed Sveta and Sirosha, and dare i say it, home. Im perfectly fine here, daily things are more familiar, i dont stand to be humiliated by the stares anymore... but i dont love anyone. i dont understand people. i mean it in more then a cultural barrier way, i mean it spiritually. most of my friends at home arent christians anymore, but at least my very close ones are or were, and they see beyond the flashing lights, or get lost with me in them. of course volunteers want to help people, and to escape whatever fishbowl of mentality it is at home, but the things they are escaping from or searching for are things i cant even comprehend because they are so much older then me, or look from a completely different perspective. to be honest, i tend to find myself the group leader, i suggest my opinion or the antics, i turn off the lights and turn up the music, i propose the event, i drag them to run around the building in the middle of the night, but it is wearisome. during the training, me magda and gwen stayed up til 2am talking. the conversation turned to 'greatest fear' etc. and for a moment i had to double check, as a participant in this emotionally loaded discussion amongst two restless mid/late twenty year olds from Poland and France- offering advice and suppourt! of course life takes its toll, maybe they are just more weary then me, and i in my youth more enthusiastic then them, but to hear that someone has travelled the world running from a problem is not glorious or awe-inspiring or romantic, its just sad. and almost infuriating. it makes me miss having someone to love. someone to admire and see the endless potential in, and therefore be lost with, without losing self respect. it makes me realise how dearly i love where i come from, and who i come from; my friends and family, and i know most of it is cultural indoctrination; but i wouldnt want to be from anywhere other then northern ireland. where nature lies down to sleep with us, and the sand is so cold and wet. Russians are like dwarves, they are fierce and weathered and brawny; they would smoke pipes and have mushroom hats and live in caves, but irish people are like elves. with fiddles and jigs and laughter, and as i am not completely deluded- pettiness. amongst europeans, russians and even the english i tend to notice how much i laugh compared to everyone else, i dont think this is a character trait, i think this is a bangor trait. i think this is a glenlola trait.
And next time i embark on an 'adventure' (although that word makes me want to be sick, as adventure isnt something you go looking for!) i am going to bring someone i love with me, because its true that life is about people, and without someone to share it with- it might as well have never happened. its reduced to lonely folly. we make music to dance to together, we write books for others to read, we paint pictures to be seen, we invite others to heaven. life isnt a secret and i think this is my lesson (among others). so anyone who wants to can read this. And if you are my friend and want to go to Siberia or Alaska you must tell me, as although i would like to go with someone, i am not scared of being alone, and this isnt to say i cant make friends where i am.
im apprehensive of writing these things firstly because they are terribly sickening humiliatingly sentimental, secondly because i dont want to name the monster. i know though that i wouldnt want to be anywhere else, and there are momentsof assurance, when goosebumps prick my skin in recognition of that timeless creature, completely possessing one moment in time so that it can hardly bare to contain it- and seems to stretch out into eternity, such as tonight, as i walked home from the bus. usually it is so dark i cannot see where i am going, and last night i stepped into a huge puddle; but the winter snow has started, everything is white, and under the streetlights the park opposite where i live glimmered in the dark, the entire road sparkled in this bright mistiness that seems to rejuvenate everything, children were laughing and playing as two old men strolled around talking with their ridiculously adorable fur hats, and i smiled. im not going to be scared of being homesick, because if you look hard enough it is wonderful here, instead it will be what will drive me when i want to give up, that one day soon, im going home.
p.s. what did whoever wrote Siberian Barber think he was going to achieve by condemning unsuspecting young girls such as myself (who didnt even want to watch the film!) to all the soul draining elements of that qualifying, heart aching response to what is in fact, a great tragedy (minus the cliche emotional scars of the herorine).
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