A day in the life of a year in Moscow: Russification

Thanks Granddad for the Victory!

One month after our friendless and earwig-infested beginnings, we seem to have had an October Revolution of our own. We are settled, dare I say it, with something resembling a life, job and friends and Friday tradition (breakfast in GUM, no less). If settled is when you find yourself ordering Blini (pancake) sushi and knowing where to get the best “Beezness Lanch” (Loodi kak Loodi, incidently) then I am possibly there. The obshejitye (residence) has elevated itself to new heights garnering more parties, cultural disparities and miscommunications. To the anomaly of third floor inhabitants we can now add: the man who talks to himself, a balladeer, 3 Belgians, Japanese, German, Frenchman, Chinese, 4 Italians and an ever multiplying number of Koreans (with very strange sleeping habits, non-existent we suspect).

International comradery of 3rd floor

sushi making

To say we have successfully infiltrated the student body suggests an active role on our part. Adoption is possibly a better word (Diddly-eye for being Irish!) Students of the Literary Institute have proved to be just incredible- friendly and forthcoming and defiant of every Russian stereotype I had come to expect. With overtures immediately followed by invitation of some sort has meant no end to the progulki po gorodye(like walking tour of city), invitations to ‘guest’ and cultural experiences, of both the high and ‘folksy ‘ kind (we getting down with r peeps in other words). Being students of the Lit, the invitations are little more interesting. Last night or friend invited us to cinema to watch cartoons which he had drawn (however thwarted last minute by the projector guy not turning up). Excitingly, we were smuggled into the Russian obschejitye to see how the other half live. We did not find paucity but a party, a hookah and an invitation to Rostov,which was to come into effect almost immediately.

Alya at Tsaritsino

Between these junctures, we have had time to ‘take in Moscow’, the excuse for which was extended by my first visitors from home (yes, I think there’s a distant memory of that place somewhere... ) You only hope that when you have three days to communicate ‘Moscow’ that your visitors would get to encounter almost being knocked down by a manic motorist, crazy pavement driving and wily law bending with the militia on Red Square. Luckily, they got to experience this and some sights as well: the Bolshoi, Lenin, Yeltsin, Tsum, the Metropole, the Kremlin, MSU, the Arbat, Novodevichy Monastery (my autumn visit) and Ismailovskiyi Market (NOT complete with dancing bears and Soviet memorabilia as the guide book promised, but as it transpires, this was possibly NOT the famous Ismailovskiyi Market but a couple of stalls I came across near the metro station. Sorry folks!) With a bit more time (but I don’t think they minded too much) they could also have experienced 24 hour clubbing (and face-control of course), ska-punk gigs (I have to say I was suspicious of a gig full of skin-heads offering discount to foreigners, but I shouldn’t have been) and the intimacy of 5am in Red Square with just Lenin and a lone guard.

Novodevichy Convent

Former KGB Headquarters-
R+M seem more impressed with Dyetski Meer
(toy shop, which is equallly as formidable really)

...and we somehow stumbled upon Yeltsin's discreet and
modest place of rest

GUM, Red Square and Morleys at night

Having foreign guests over is a cogent reminder of the need to speak Russian. Although Roger seemed to survive just fine with just ‘peevo’ (beer), dealing with tickets, hotels and train stations requires a certain confidence in the language, a confidence which thus far has not been instilled by having to reading from school textbooks and being made to painstakingly repeat sentences in seminars. While on occasion you can surprise yourself by discussing Max Weber, or by successfully defending your innocence to a Babushka (whether the washing up was ours or not is not important. It is all practice), there are always those days when you inadvertently order 3 Mcflurry’s in McDonalds and finish beautifully by telling the waiter to F off(Stoboi) , rather than ‘I’ll have it to go’(Soboi).

Cathedral of Christ the Saviour

Sand Sculpting World Championship at Cathedral of Christ the Saviour

Not surprisingly, our current lack of language brings us no closer the enigmatic Russian soul. Although if I had to make a guess at this point I would say it has something to do with a devotion to literature and alcohol. The combination usually goes like this: our friend Sasha telling us on the way to a bar that he could only speak like a 19^th century novelist after he spent a month locked up just reading Dostoevsky; having beers with friends in the park of the meeting place for ‘Master and Margarita’ in Bulgakov’s famous novel, being invited to drink in between lectures on a Monday morning, or my favourite and most Russian day of all with our poet friend, Maxim: watching Soviet movies with intermittent shots of vodka and dressed herring cake, followed by poetry readings (that meant us stumbling through in our terrible Russian as well), after which Maxim and friend, Dima argued about politics and the Russian mentality, to be tied up nicely with the combination of minus temperatures, moonlight, a small orthodox church and ‘Russian Champagne’.

Aforementioned day with Maxim, Julia and Nil

Cleary quite far from Russian soul, we often find ourselves out of our depth, even when linguistic abilities allow some mutual understanding. Conversations too often dwindle into questions of marriage, strong men and children. When I suggested to an comrade the possibility of not having children he laughed ‘Visegda bugut dyeti’ (there will always be children) Our lecturer, who perhaps at home might be referred to as a little tapped, insists that we shall have Russian husbands before the year is out. This could well be another case in which Russia just knows, just as it did when I typed Ireland is the greenest country into Google Translate (Translation: Russia is the greenest country). I was told that the metro station would not accept my student card application as my hand writing was not Russian enough. At the counter the lady tipexed out my password ( which was in numerals) to something more to her suiting (after 8 failed attempts and more than 5 hours of queuing I was not going to question). Here you bend to Russia; Russia does not bend to you. When our inferior western immunity rendered us unfit, at first, to survive in Moscow, as miserable bouts of food poisoning and flu proved, the standard counsel was: nado priviknut (you need to get used it). So this month when I lost 2 phones and ended up with a broken I-pod and laptop, I just learned to get by. When it is the coldest winter from 1000 years word has it, you live with that too... And so when Russia hands you lemons, you take them, perhaps to use in your vodka sometime.