22.12.08

a good portion of my time here is spent on buses, or waiting for them. and man, nothing can break your heart like a bus. as minutes upon minutes turn into three quarters of an hour, and despite your hope accelerating at every number; 64 never arrives. Being the translink veteran that i am, and having the mother that i do, of course by now i'm used to waiting in vain. But not in minus twelve! It's really beginning to get cold, and when you've been waiting for fortyminutes man you feel it! I understand now why russians are so crazy, the freeze is like fever. it causes you to behave competely irrationally, to act out instincts you would never contemplate in reality (and i do say reality, because thecold is a whole other place. even for russians.)- i stood at the busstop desperately trying to pull another pair of gloves over the ones i was already wearing, dancing around like i was dreaming- despite the crowd surrounding me. I understand now how stranded travellers can turn to cannibalism. Your pulse starts to slow down and you fall into this daze where you begin to lose your mind- as your limbs turn to lead you just stop thinking reasonably. and start acting desperately. logically, when a bus is so full that the doors wont shut and there is absolutely no room for you, you can spare another fifteen minutes to wait for the next safer less chlostrophobic option- but its just too cold! sometimes i feel like i could cry from the temperature.
The majority of the volunteers have returned from Helsinki; (where they discovered there isn't a problem with rats; but rabbits!) they left for three weeks to renew their visas. Andrea described her culture-shock at 'order and rules', because as Darina told me 'there are no rules in this country'. Anything is possible in Russia. Despite communism's anti-individualism, i think they have totally flexible even vague standards of behavioural 'norms' here. People act as they like, they arent limited by some general order of things; this morning i watched old women run through moving traffic-- and that cant even be a generalisation- just because these old women did it, doesnt mean tomorrow other old women will. its just totally unpredictable. and the complete lack of logic or rationality attributes to the absence of structure, real authority, co-operation, manners, respect, but also to their openness. Anything goes, and thats the aggravating beauty of it. I remember one of Dostoevsky's conclusions,that i probably have completely misunderstood (but if im right) he was arguing that the existence of God is proven in man's complete irrationality. Because we do not always pursue our personal benefit therefore we are totally unpredictable and because of that- transcend explanation, evolution and animals. its what proves we have souls. If we were creatures of evolution, surely we would be in a constant state of personal evolution- rather then self destruction i.e. history is not progressing; crimes are still as foul, people still as lost. In our innate flaw God's glory is revealed. Not because He made us flawed, but i dunno- just cause. Just cause we need Him. And although russians can reallly realllllllly aggravate me, this is such a russian attribute; it is so obvious here. And if Dostoevsky was not russian, he would not have written that. Russia is huge, abundant in natural resources and educated talented people, and yet still such a mess. Theyve just cocked up. But not because there is something wrong with them. In fact, i cant help but to wonder if its because somethings right with them. There is such a sort of anarchy here, noone seems to know what their priority should be. obviously in heaven there is order, but its not the type of order dictated by materialism and self preservation- it is just an acceptance of the indisputable authority; an innate response to His soveignity; a form of worship. And if materialism and conquering the world hasnt moved Russia into order, is it because the only thing that can- is submission and worship? is Russia still so lost, because they dont have Christmas? I mean, did Dostoevsky embody Russia in his Idiot? the helpless fool that couldnt function in reality only because he was too good for it? Does Russia just want more then what it should logically pursue? And is left behind, panting and sweating and cursing?
This place has been in a continual state of disrepair; it still hasnt had enough time to just gather its pieces back together and breathe. They are still just working out how to be happy- nevermind materialistic, greedy and ambitious. And that vulnerability is so obvious in the hopelessness incarnate in alcoholism. Russians just dont know how to be happy; and understandably its usually out of their hands. Their lives are so far, the product of economic and political turmoil. and as Natasha- who accompanied Almira and I to Fantastika yesterday explained, that helplessness- and the identity crisis brought about by the collapse of the Soviet Union has led men to the bottom of the bottle. They became abusive husbands and fathers; boys were raised without rolemodels and grew up lacking responsibility or aspirations, they became the obnoxious fruitcakes roaming russians streets today; that leave alone in their wake, single mothers and abandoned sons. Of course there are decent russian men in the world, but she assured me that this is the common story. women are left behind, and forced as they have been throughout generations- to be strong. the fierce babushkas who shove you around on the bus are just aging soviet women, tough because theyve lived through every bump of Russia's recent journey, including the funerals of their conscripted sweethearts. And of course these single mothers dote on their only sons, who grow up spoilt by affection and attention- and the prize of four or five women competing for the security of a partner. I have to reiterate, its not that russian men are innate scoundrels or that they will all grow up to be- i know plenty of perfectly normal russian men, and overheard Sveta severly rebuking Sirosha for not doing his homework, its just that there seems to be a general failure of men around here- to be men. But maybe its just because there arent so many of them. Either way, women pick up the pieces. I am really beginning to respect them, they are a whole different kettle of fish. so beautiful and smart and determined, juggling their figures with their kids with their jobs with the weather. or their price tags with their rent with their diets with the weather. they really dont give it a rest, and even if it is frustrating, you have to respect them for it. Nowhere else in the world, can women still be so feminine and sexually suggestive, in freezing cold weather.
p.s. the economy crisis here is grim, on one particular street- where i have been warned not to visit, there is a factory which fires 200 people a day. In every discussion i have with a russian about the future, they answer 'depending on the economy' or, 'if i still have my job'.

21.12.08

Had the strangest dreams last night, that i was in some forest in Alaska, working as a ranger or something. This heard of small elks attacked me in my tree house and dismantled it with their huge ass horns. and nearby this huge terrifying owl chained to a branch kept going for me. i was cold, lost and alone, being attacked by elks and this huge, crazy beady eyed bird- when, as i sealed my body against the wooden planks, it occured to me, that i was living the adventure ive read of and dreamed about, honestly it didnt make me feel any better; but it did sustain me. Ive always thought thatadventure isnt something you should go looking for, it happens to the unsuspecting- it draws the hero out of the humble; like the hobbit- it makes a slave into a king, or a king into a slave aka Moses. Ive always thought that its foolish,not to mention a bit desperate, to make 'adventure' an ambition. But more seriously (and from less of a moral stance) id also concluded that if adventure is for humble people, being unhumble willjust exclude you from the lottery. but really its just the way people are; like the little mermaid or pocahauntus, or belle from beauty and the beast, or mulan. they dont just dream of adventure, they flipping sing about it! so i suppose theres nothing wrong in conceding that for all this time, ive wanted my own. not some feeble day trip to the beach, but a real epic adventure that stretches you to the limits of what you are, and breaks it, so that you come home scarred and softly spoken- but only because youve braced yourself against leagues of vast landscape and confronted a monster. when i was twelve i cried over dragons, because they didnt exist which meant that a magic pirate ship wouldnt sail into my room in the middle of the night and kidnap me, thereby propelling my life into action and adventure. neither was i going to develop a magical ability to shape shift,which i actually sat up and waited for in such downright lunacy once i hit puberty. obviously now, in an alien country surrounded by an alien language, i question my sanity in wanting such things. but adventure is part of why im a christian- its the ultimate battle of good vs. evil. and yet im realising the funniest thing about it, despite the ballads and poems and paintings- that in reality adventure is totally unglorious. it should be the last thing we want. i should fear God rather then invite Him into my life. Its like mistaking a lion for a lamb, or standing under lightning hoping to be electricuted.of course God is a lamb, but man more then a lamb. a wild untameable lethal thing. a lion we can only gawk at and should flee from. Today, after spending the day with Almira in "Fantastika" (a newly opened shopping centre, which is like America landed in Nizhny; another three storied, flashing lights, pristine floors, towering statues of voluptuous women, glass lifts, fountains dimension) as we drove home she told me that if she had known how hard it would be to follow Jesus, she would have to question her sanity in choosing it again. Of course, that isn't to say she regrets it, or isnt joyous, she just told me in such a chilling sincerity that her heart has been broken for her faith. Of course we associate Jesus and Acts with so much glory, with the miracles and mystical resurrection, the floodingHoly Spirt and all the hallelujahs and rejoicing angels, and thats all true- Jesus' glory is more then deserved, but is there really anything glorious about a disciple's life? about being crucified upside down? is there anything appealing about that? about being stripped to your raw trembling bones, and buckled before God? so that you can only pray for enough strength to ascend the alter? And in Russia? Where there are so few christians to encourage you, where the prospect of choosing between faith and financial stability is a reality,where 'waiting for God' doesnt mean relaxing into hope- but swallowing economic turmoil, broken families, persecution and -30 degrees. I mean, there is adventure happening all around us, there is holy revolution manifesting in back allies and basements- drug addicts being cured, alcoholics healed, prostitutes freed- but its miracles for the sick and dying, and diseased, or just mediocre. its salvation for ugly people, and less then ugly people; completely unremarkable people. and really there is no promise of more then where you are. Its real. its people that could be overweight, have body odour, and probably some hateful character trait. its real sweat. its decisions that arent sexy or appealing. its real bloody sacrifice, and singularity, and scars, and probably lonelieness, and definately persecution and alot of waiting. and homesickness, and racism. what sane person would choose that? But what sane logical person would choose delusion? would believe in a lie? would drink up the matrix? who would build their house on sand? This is an unglorious adventure for unglorious people. But its also beauty that blossoms inside of them. its transformation and metamorphisis. its joy even at minus whatever, its a flower in the desert. its following Jesus out of the tomb, and out of the cacoon. I spent the entire day talking about God with Almira, and am so in awed that you can develop such kinship with someone you barely know, from a completely different country and culture! Like my other friend Tamara- who speaks very little english but holds hands with me, and links arms as we walk; conversing feebly in russian, english and french! And today in church i sang beside Sara, from Sweden, and David, from Malaysia- whose favourite hobby i discovered, is fishing! What a Legend.

20.12.2008

Today on the (thankfully not-so-busy; its saturday) bus i spied on people in their cars; a girl plaiting her hair, a couple stroking each other's hands in the back seat, a lone driver smiling absent-mindedly etc. and then i looked around me, at all these exhausted people, snuggled up in huge fur coats and hats, refuging from the cold and the working week. the last time i felt that weariness was on the bus from the airplane to the air port, with these tired russians preparing to re-enter life. I love that about buses, its the same at 5pm on translink to donaghadee. where you literally share a moment of blessed emptiness with all these people, that pass into your life for the briefest most grace filled moment; where you can just sit back together, and watch the world go by. The skies were blue today because the temperature is dropping; it's -11 degrees, and on wednesday i was officially the coldest i have ever been in my life. but saturdays are always so less hurried and vicious, and the snow makes the streets cleaner. I am more optimistic, and in the most pathetic submission to my innate girliness i bought some stuff- just to make me feel better. I got shampoo and conditioner, soap, a hat and ring. I've started to wear more jewellery, but i think thats the 'creativity' coming out in me, that takes care of the frills and details and sparkle, when there is such an absence of colour(or my vanity of course! :P) But expanding your belongings is a nice anchor, especailly because i dont know when i will leave Sveta, and if i cant change the circumstances- my attitude is just going to have to. i have officially claimed this room as my own, and accidentally set fire to Muzik doing it! He jumped up onto the desk and his tail caught onto my scented candle! Luckily I put it out; he hadn't even noticed, and no one else did but gosh -_-

And the oddest thing happened today as i walked down Bolshaya Pokrovskaya, timidly looking into shop windows. i passed a Chinese 'Cafe', and it made me feel so much better. Like if i went to eat in there, i would be home. Its the same as how i would imagine feeling if i saw a British flag, or even a Red Hand of Ulster. I will be the first to admit i am the most unchinese half chinese person ever, but i miss chineseness! i want to hear them nattering in that unceremonious chat, that has such expressive even rude pitch. And today, as i stood waiting for bus 64 (that demon bus that allllways takes aaages) i watched agroup of foreign asian students getting home from the christmas celebration at vineyard.

How heart warming to hear them complain loudly, talk energetically and see them skip around in the cold- as russians stood around completely unmoved- staring at them.

The student Christmas Celebration at Vineyard was a great event, i went with Sara and am so glad we did. We didn't speak to many people, although i finally got to chat with Ian- the Malaysian i have favouritised from afar for weeks, because of his curious appearance and quiet demeanour, and general 'friend appeal' to me lol. There was a service of songs, a video and brief talk,

students singing Silent Night in Russian; David conducting

and then food (never been so delighted to eat noodles from a paperplate Belfast Chinese Christian Church stylie) and then...dancing! And of course, there were two polish nuns- that sang for us.

The atmosphere itself was worth it, i got the bus home buzzing, from just having been in a room full of so many colours, and the closest thing to 'banter' available, and generally people that just wanted to be happy. I also overheard someone talking about me in cantonese. He told his friend to let the 'girls first' in the queue to get our coats, and when i replied thank you and asked him if he was from china or hong kong, i watched the ground open up beneath him. He was malaysian and had said in cantonese he wouldnt speak in malaysian because, misconstruing my nationality and percieving my laughter, he had realised i understood- just the wrong language. He had been saying 'hoe lang', that i was pretty. I dont think ive been told i am beautiful more then any other girl has, or deserves to be, and although i dont believe i am extraordinary looking by any means, i have been complimented more then usual here, and am beginning to wonder how many times someone needs to be told they are beautiful before they start believing it, and stop being so foolishly insecure. But the insecurity is that every worldy 'you're beautiful' is empty and meaningless, even condemning. Its like the cherry on top of your prostitution- or the receit for having sold your worth to an audience. that only when you have paid enough for your clothes, cemented on make-up, tamed your hair, exposed and sweated and starved enough, tweezed and preened and corsetted until you are a puppet, giggled and flirted like an imbecile, can you be beautiful. and even then its only a temporary and vague beauty, because i promise you, that just around the corner is someone more alluring, and enticing, willing to sweat harder and give away more in order to secure that next rung of hotness, or perhaps even worse, just a goddess born to be better. Of course, i have neither the will power nor the will to go to such extremes, but all around me i see it, and honestly am awed by these perfect dolls, so coy in their tight designer clothes and leather boots. But hard as it is to accept for more then an Ugly Betty's consolation, there is only one vindication. there is only one God your soul waits to hear 'you are beautiful' from. Because until you know you were made to be beautiful, how can you believe it? Until the only source of beauty you can esteem, esteems you- how can you esteem yourself? So why should i give away my worth when ultimately i only want one man to gather it into?

But I should be thankful for how i look, not because i think im beautiful, but because my origins are so hard to place. Although i have groaned on and on about how facist russians are, im beginning to realise that the community, although ex-soviet union, is actually quite mixed. there is alot of Tartar blood here, and its the Tartarish men that look at me so hard; i think i am mistaken as one of them. in reality my face is much more broader then Tartarish women; there is my 'strong' chinese jaw-line and cheek bones, but my eyese are round enough and my hair is coarser, and my skin isnt typically chinese. At a passing glance i can be anything you want; i've been called nearly everything, recently even jewish. and will always remember this black guy i spoke to briefly, at a club in Belfast- he asked me where i was from and upon my answer replied; "youre mixed-race? that means black''. At home i know i annoy my friends with the novelty of every new identity, but here its not just cool, or a way to bloat my 'im exotic' ego, its an actual life saver. it means im not paralysed by fear everytime i'm shoved or looked at too long. Two weeks ago one of my german friends told me that if she was me, she would be terrified- but it is seriously the most blessed fateful coincidence that i can look like im from anywhere. I really feel God's assurance in it, andbuzzing with cheer after the Christmas celebration, i noticed that on the door in the hall outside this apartment, which leads to the stair case and lift, there is a cross scratched onto the little patch covering the peep-hole.

Man, God has got my back! And I know that He has chosen me, He has even predestined the way i look. but for too long i've relied on that- like a fish dragged along behind some fishing line. but love is a decision; and maturity is choosing back. I choose to believe i am beautiful because God thinks so, and because He drew me out eons ago. I choose Heaven. And i will also always always always always always x eternity remember the iranian missionary that visited Kings, the small unglorious plus forty year old with a balding head, who i think i overheard talking to himself, but have to confess falling in love with for about a week, when he spoke in a voice shaking from the depth of his passion 'i will take off my shoes and chase God every day of my life'. The beauty i want, is in the perfect act of Christmas; the joy that brings people together in an even unconscious act of worship and rejoicing, in the God who manifested Himself as nothing more thena human being, and not only a human being, but a human being who gave up any right of destiny to become the destiny of this world. I love Christmas more then i can say, more then i knew. There is something so deep in me that wants to rejoice until i dont even understand why i feel this strongly. and pathetically translate as the 'christmas spirit'. Like the ember God planted deep deep inside of me is alight, because it joins with Heaven in celebration. God how can i even comprehend what you have done? how many ideas until i overflow or gagg, or retch with vacant words, that would not so much as catch the meaning of it. That couldnt even whisper or hum the beauty in it. there is no beauty i could produce that isnt only a stale withering pitiable copy, desperate for Heaven. i could try to draw maybe, but it would be crap. i could dance probably, but it would be very unsightly and i would lose my mind. if i sang it would just become a shriek, an unbearable convulsion of my spirit. I have felt like such a blasted stump for so long, like the beauty of it extinguished me, because it is so irreconcilable to life, and ultimately who i am. But man my stump is smoking. If there is no beauty in me, and ihave shut my mouth so that i cannot consume your heart until it beats in my chest, i will respond Lord. I will respond and respond until the beauty is imprinted in me. i will chase You down. I will catch you and then feast, until i am fat and we are one. Please Christ in me! Christmas every day. Mate, seriously, think about it. Beauty. More then beauty. CHRISTMAS.

Yay! Russia!

I am afraid I've given people the wrong impression- i was just tired in my video, and quiet in case Sveta and Sirosha were asleep! And generally i like to whine... but I am happy!

Merry Christmas!

17.12.2008

I need to rant, because i miss home. Not because i am homesick, in fact, it literally feels like some 'switch' has taken place in my head- where Bangor just isnt my life. Its really wierd, becoming as familiar with the tiny building elevators as a translink bus; exchanging High Street for Bolshaya Pokrovskaya. Of course there are still the mysteries and insecurities, but generally it feels like the type of air i breath now isnt Ulster, its Nizhny. Like im morphing from a freshwater fish into a saltwater one, or something. But i do need to rant, because there is one thing that is making me miss home. Making me pine after the hail, the damp bus seats, the carol sevices, the mince pies, our old tree lights that fizzles Jingle Bells, my sister's festive efforts, cars that drive past playing "All I Want for Christmas", candles, selection boxes, Christmas T.V, Love Actually, pillow case stockings, wandering around the Flagship centre, the Bloomfield lights; even the anti-climax, just Christmas in general. and that is, the lack of Christmas. Since the Soviet Revolution, Christmas has become a memory for Russians. It's on the 7th January, and even then, is immensely overshadowed by New Years. They have even totally deranged the meaning of the Christmas Tree by turning it into a 'New Year's Tree'- that are only public decorations. I dont even care about my birthday. I can turn 19 at any time of the year. It's Christmas that i miss. You can argue that the west has lost the meaning of Christmas by turning it into a sort of commercial celebration- and although to an extent that's true, its also not. I dont think its money, or materialism, that unites the entire community in festive cheer. There really is something special about the 25th December, beyond the superficial frivolity of it all. There is something so optimistic about it, that i miss so much. And more then optimistic, there is this spirit of fellowship that really brings people together, that convinces you it would be tragic to spend Christmas day alone, without a friend or your family. Because although it is only 24 hours, there is that once a year magic you really dont want to miss. where for these 24 hours, you should celebrate with someone you love. Apartfrom this one beezer horse and carriage set i nagged my dad about for six months when i was six or so, which he never said 'yes' to, but had waiting for me on Christmas Day (except better; if you pulled the horses' tail, it would walk!) my memories of Christmas rarely involve what i actually got. I remember pulling crackers with my sister, and never winning because she knew 'the knack'. I remember the smell of the Christmas Tree and hanging glass baubles i was afraid to hold too hard. I remember the wrapping paper we had to clean up. And the huge blow up snow men people erect in their front gardens. I remember my granny's living room, with the fire lit and her tiny tree in the corner. Being hyper with my cousins and running riot while our parents drank wine. I remember hearing 'Santa' shuffling presents into our pillow cases, and lying dead still, sweating from terror, in case i was discovered awake, and became the criminal who shattered the illusion. I remember sleeping in the same bed as my sister and brother, and trying to creep downstairs at 3am. Bangor radiating with christmas lights and couples. And someone you knew wearing christmas tree earrings. So you can say Christmas has lost all meaning and is just that jackpot time of the year when you get to write out your list, but its not. If society can join together in the depth of winter, to celebrate- and even to spend money, despite all our daily worries and struggles, surely there is something to celebrate for. Surely there is some magical spirit that moves at Christmas time. And a reason to give presents and sing thank you and be merry, that just brings out the best in people. I love you Christmas. I miss you. Terribly. And the worst thing about it is, its so easy to continue in your absence.

I'm listening to "Miss You Most at Christmas Time" by Mariah Carey, and its so freaking true.

http://link.brightcove.com/services/player/bcpid1348279714?bclid=1348242277&bctid=1321241857

I am alive!

nb/ 12.30 am, and i meant 'big deal'

14.12.2008

i have made three discoveries. the first, is that its not that Russians hate me, Russians just hate life. When I am on a bus, and the conductor glares or throws change at me, she is not specifically victimising me. She is just venting her generally bad mood. She will similarly snatch eleven roubles from the next passenger, who in return, will flash a deathly look and then shove someone. its like a vicious circle, or pay it backward. its not that foreigners are specificallytargeted, its just that being foreign is the most obvious thing to hate you for. My russian friends are also appalled by the hostility, they hate buses and the street as well. They suffer as much, or else more- because at least it surprises me.Last night i met a girl whose russian boyfriend was killed by a gang of skinheads three years ago, because he was good at playing the guitar. and of course the police did nothing.
My second discovery, is that 'native english speakers' are like gold dust here. Seriously i've become hot totty. There is the English Language Company where i have been invited, if not pressed, to visit at least twice a week, in order to sit in on classes and converse with students. I really like this place, it's as close to home as i'll get in Nizhny; with people that can speak English everywhere, flags (ok, maybe australian- but still), where everyone knows my name and offers me green tea and biscuits, and one young lady in particular, a lovely softly spoken girl with practically perfect english, who lived in England for a few years and 'dreams' of it, seems particularly taken with me. As well as offering conversational english classes, The English Language Company organises 'work and travel' schemes in the USA and Australia. They've invited meto their 'New Year' celebration on the 25th December (Russian Christmas is 7th January; but is still very overshadowed by New Year's), and i look forward to the two classes i participate in. There is the less developed group (who still speak very good english), of three boys and two girls, fashionable students maybe a couple of years older then me- who may become my door into 'young Russia' and its social life, and then the more developed group that meetson a Friday morning, four russian girls- the oldest 24, with whom i indulge all of my whimsical girliness, and marvel- that wherever you are in the world- girls have on thing in common; boys. Apart from the ELC, there is the English Club, who have rearranged their meeting times to Saturday mornings so it wont clash with my Sunday church plans. Magda came with me this week, and whispered to me in the toilet that when she arrived, she felt like a mosquito, Valentina- the administrator, greeted us with "Rachel! So nice to see you! Come sit beside me!" and then, as we left, declared, "Please come back Rachel! We like you very much!". The English Club has ten loyal members, that at least try to attend every meeting in the "English Pub" (which serves Russian food) and then some other more flippant visitors. They are organising a "Western Christmas Celebration" on the 24th December, which following Valentina's "meeting programme" (including a detailed structure for our discussion on 'Winter Memories'; which she had also phoned two days beforehand to prepare me for); we discussed from 12.15-12.30. Magda and I will give presentationson Western Christmas Traditions, we will play games, sing carols, eat, drink and be merry. The conversation, having spiralled from global warming to natural landscape and religion, inspired a few of the members to suggest that Valentina or Vlad organise an excursian to visit the Devava monastary- where there is apparently healing water. I drank a free cappochino, savoured the idea of visiting Russian country side and a miraculous monastery, and tried to be interesting. And then there is LSC, one of the most prestigious language centres in Nizhny Novgorod. Their English Teacher, an American (with a Russian wife and children), is leaving town, and desperate for a 'Native English Speaker' they contacted SFERA aboutme. On Friday night, Darina and I took a bus, turned some corners and then entered the very clean and spacious Language Centre. We were greeted by a lovely woman, with perfectly fluent english and an american accent- Tatiana, the most delightful dignified and gracious Russian lady with shining brown eyes and greying hair (whose son has been to Northern Ireland!), she has spent years working with Americans- developing her precise grasp of english. She sat down with Darina and I, complimented me on my accent, and 'english of an educated person', exclaimed about my misleading height but 'young face' and enquired about my weekly schedule. the LSC want to hire me as a professionalenglish teacher, with a salary, class and private pupils! I dont know wheter to gulp or to shout in a ridiculous fit of laughter, "only in Russia!". I am going to be a paid english teacher, in one of the most prestigious language schools in the third biggest cityin Russia! I shall begin teaching on the 6th January, and we are going to meet to discuss my salary and their teaching methods. Of course, this sort of thing is actually prohibited for an EVS volunteer, but SFERA will 'look the other way' and Darina only warned me not to tell the other volunteers. Of course she doesnt know what all the other volunteers know, that in fact, both Marianne and Gwen have paid jobs teaching french. As for my final discovery? There is nothing wrong with just wanting to be happy. It occured to me last night, when at about 12am we were sitting in Sara's kitchen, having finished the 'traditional russian meal' we prepared under the supervision of Martina's mentor, we got onto the topic of wheter vampires are hot. Maybe one year ago i would have agreed with Sara, that they are attractive, and although i stillthink that they (or at least the idea of them; with their chiseled bone structure, mysterious auras and glistening white skin aka Lestat in Queen of the Damned) are aesthetically exquisite it is only from the point of view of an artist. Now i think that vampires would just be so exhaustingly complicated. They would just sit brooding in the dark struggling with a carnal versus carnivorous desire for your body, with eternities of emotional baggage, and the prospect of amiserable immortality. What is attractive about that? whats wrong with some hopeful individual that can hold your hand in the sun shine and eat ice cream with you, and be happy? What is wrong with just wanting to be happy? And when you realise that really, wanting to be happy is just as respectable, more enlightened and even humble, then any noble struggle for meaning you realise that really, happiness is meaningful. Happiness is empowering. Loving yourself,loving everyone around you and being happy is just as worthy a goal, just as catalyctic a transformation and just as wise a destination, as well, anything. So now i just want to be happy. And i wish the bus conductors wanted to be too, instead of making everyone miserable.