Toodles

Well, a couple things...

A) Sorry for no new wall posts in a few days. I wish I could blame it on school or just being so busy, but it was really just pure laziness. So, I'll make it up to you guys next week. Which brings me to my next point...

B) In less than two hours I'm boarding a train for St. Petersburg (only a 24 hour train ride, shouldn't be too bad). A Russian train ride is an experience in and of itself, so think of this a research for the blog. However, I will not be updating this blog for at least the next seven days. That being said, I need to finish packing! Nothing like waiting till the last minute...

Chris

Day 25-26

On the subject of War Memorials: I was on my run today and I came across, hidden in this decrepit garden, a memorial to all the citizens of Voronezh who were killed in 1942. Only 1942, and this memorial had easily 5,000 names inscribed on it. This merely got the ball rolling in my head about this phenomenon here in Russia. On an earlier run, I had crossed a railroad bridge onto a rather inaccessible little island in the middle of the Voronezh River. Sure enough, in the middle, right next to the tracks was a memorial to the Sergeant, Corporal, and ten Privates of the Red Army who had died taking the bridge back from the Germans during the Second World War. The astounding thing about this, and the other 30 or so War Memorials and two eternal flames in this city, is that always, no matter how remote, insignificant, or otherwise seemingly unimportant these memorials are, there are always fresh flowers there. Always, no exceptions. Not just small groups or bouquets of flowers either, these are full on, professionally done wreaths of red, white and blue flowers. So, anyways, after mulling over these memorials for some time, I thought about our War Memorial in Jacksonville. Voronezh and Jacksonville are similar in many ways: both are cities of roughly a million people, they are both situated on a large river, and… well, that’s where the comparisons stop I suppose. Anyhow, so our War Memorial in Jacksonville (as I recall, it’s been some time since I’ve last seen it) has inscribed on it the names of all our war dead from every conflict that the United States has been in. This includes both World Wars, Korea, Vietnam, etc. and, Jacksonvillians out there, correct me if I’m wildly off the mark, but there can’t be more than 500 names on there. Voronezh, a town with similar numbers of people, with similar numbers of young men, lost ten times that number in only 1942. We decry the story of the Bedford Boys, when an American Infantry company consisting of men all from the small town of Bedford (Virginia I believe) was nearly wiped out on D-Day. In one fell swoop, one American town lost most of its young men. And here I am in a city where not only were most of its young men were killed, then in 1943 was nearly completely destroyed when the Red Army shelled it for nearly a week (I’ve seen the pictures, this place was wrecked). Gives one some perspective, especially when you consider that this tragedy is shared across the nation. Then you realize why there are fresh flowers on all of these monuments and why the Great Patriotic War is still such a large part of the national psyche here.

Voronezh Moment of the Day

Well, sorry for the buzz kill, sad post that I just imposed on you. Luckily I should be able to lighten the mood a little bit with a description of our daily experience in Russian bars. Normally those of us who go out do so in order to interact, practice Russian and experience culture. This is best accomplished, not by being proactive, but by sitting at a table with a few extra chairs and some beer, speaking English and the Russian bros will actually come to you. I don’t use the word ‘bro’ lightly. For those of you who are unaware of this semi-recent slang, a bro is always a youngish male who drinks too heavily, is loud, bold, and is down to party. It’s not exactly an endearing term, but it fits these Russian men perfectly. We’ve run into all types, from the off-duty cops of several weeks ago, to Goths, pot-heads, middle aged men drinking away their sorrows, college students, a Russian congressman complete with Brooks Brothers suit and gun wielding bodyguard. They all have one thing in common though: they all want to increase their cache amongst their fellow Russians by being the guy who’s got the American friends. Today, I checked my phone only to realize that I now have the numbers of more Russians than I do of Americans, Brits, Hungarians, Estonians, French, etc. That is indeed a scary proposition. Anyhow, so around nine o’clock or so, we are invariably joined by 2-8 Russian men of the type described above (I’m not forgetting to mention women; they are a completely different story). I will herein give one example of an average night. So, we are joined by Pavel, Sasha, and Ivan, three men in their late 20s. Only Sasha spoke any English, and it was not a whole lot (think Kindergarten level),(also, Ivan knew some English but it was limited to him yelling our curse words way too loud). Anyways, we are in our element, talking about what we can (mostly limited to the most mundane of subjects) and generally just laughing at our inability to communicate and generally having a really good time. At some point I was talking to Sasha about Florida and he got it in his head that I must be a surfer. I said in Russian, “No, I’m not a surfer, but I do have friends who surf.” This apparently came out as, “Yes, I am a surfer from Florida. Additionally, I would like the strongest most disgusting shot this bar sells and then use it to drink to that fact.” Because that’s what happened. The shot, appropriately named “Biet na litzo” or “Punch to the Face” consists of half Vodka, one quarter Absinth, and the rest, what else but Tabasco sauce (there’s a shot similar to this at another bar named “The Ambulance is on the Way.” Sign me up…). Hooray. I believe it’s also sold commercially because of its remarkable ability to dissolve concrete. Anyways, we drank to surfers and Russia and I spent the next five minutes chewing on lemons and chugging beer to try to get the taste of burning hair out of my mouth. So, the night concludes around one o’clock when the bar closes and we all exchange phone numbers and promise to see each other again (this rarely happens, although we have seen Pavel a few times and we’re going to the theater with him this weekend). Thus, we’ve all had a wonderful opportunity to practice our Russian and make new friends, which is what this is all about I suppose. Endnote: this is the night that I saw the man get beat by the cops. An eventful evening all around I’d say, but, shockingly, by no means unique. ER.

Day 25

“Religion is the opiate of the masses.” –Karl Marx. Religion here in Russia has a long and troubled past, riddled with controversy and this last century, virtual annihilation. During the Revolution, ensuing Civil War, and the early communist years, the Communist regime went on an orgy of destruction, killing priests, burning cathedrals, stealing and selling ornate church property and priceless icons. Many of Russia’s most famous cathedrals were destroyed in perhaps the greatest artistic tragedy of the 20^th Century. A significant number of cathedrals weren’t destroyed, but were spared in order to be used for more mundane purposes (the largest cathedral in Moscow was an indoor swimming pool for 70 years). Since the fall of the Communist regime, it is once more in the vogue to be religious, but it is perhaps the most shallow belief system in the world. The Patriarch of the Russian Orthodox Church has been restored to his previous position of power and regularly features on the news here (replete with his blue, jewel studded garments and crown, it makes the Pope look like a pauper). Any politician worth his salt here is also seen at these services, devoutly crossing themselves in rhythm to the chanting. Aside: there have been no modernizing forces on the Russian Orthodox Church. Services are carried out exactly the way they were 400 years ago and the last time the Church tried to evolve with the times and lost half of their believers (this separatist sect, the Old Believers, still exists today, mostly in Siberia). The service is conducted in Old Church Slavonic, an ornate and heavy language with 100 some odd letters that is entirely unintelligible to the average Russian (much like Catholic Latin). This serves as a serious barrier to church attendance as the Church desperately tries to become a force in daily Russian life after a 74 year hiatus. Churches are being built everywhere with a combination of state money (there is no separation of Church and State in the Russian Federation) and “private donations.” I, myself, have seen three new churches/cathedrals being built during my wanderings of Voronezh. It is aesthetically pleasing and very neat so see, but every Russian that I’ve asked has expressed the opinion that these churches, once built, will likely remain empty on Sundays. Rampant cynicism is another barrier that affects the church’s stature here in Russia. Anatoly Ivanovich was talking about the construction of all these new churches and revealed to us that the “private donations” were in fact companies attached to the Church in order to make money for this purpose. However, it was recently discovered that these companies were selling alcohol, cigarettes, and were engaged in a number of shady business dealings. With such deals, the Russian Church is shooting itself in the foot, and perhaps it may never recover the prestige it had pre-revolution.

Voronezh Moment of the Day

So, short story, and I am completely at fault for not having a picture of this, but c’est la via (I taught this phrase to Olga Arkeedevna today at dinner, I know, I know, I’m so cultured: teaching French in Russian). Well, I was walking down Prospekt Revolutsii (walking towards Lenin Square between Karla Marxa and Fredricka Engelsa Streets. Yes, Russia’s Communist past is never very far from mind) and I saw a faded paper posted on a light pole. It had the word NOTICE! written at the top and from a distance I could tell there was a picture there. Thought I: “Nice, it’s a Russian wanted poster, and I’m going to keep an eye out for this guy.” As soon as I got within range though, I noticed that the picture was of a stereotypical babushka complete with head shawl, withered face, and stooped stature. Still thinking this was a wanted poster I went in to read it, wondering how many cats or children this woman had drowned to make the Russian police interested in her. However, after reading a few lines, I realized that this was no wanted poster. It was a lost babushka poster. The description: She had left home four days ago, she had grey hair and a cane, she was born in 1939, and she was wearing a floral head scarf and about seven layers of grayish clothing. It was exactly the same format and type that you see all over suburban American neighborhoods, only those are usually directed at the return of Fido, Señor Paws or Chairman Meow. The real tragedy is that that description fits literally every single babushka that I have ever seen in this city, picking up bottles, sweeping the streets, begging for alms, or simply attempting to walk from place to place in the city (there are NO Russian retirement homes). Good luck to Fyodor Fyodorivich in recovering his babushka.

Day 23-24

Under the headline of today’s Izvestia (so far as I can tell Russia’s main/only newspaper) “Why Should Russia Bail Out America?” lies a pretty good idea of how Russians have reacted to Obama’s scrapping of the missile shield in Poland. Like giddy school children who’ve finally beaten the overbearing bully across the pond. They’ve managed to turn Obama’s conciliatory proposal to work jointly with Russia to make a “sleeker” missile shield into America saying: “we can’t do this on our own and we need help.” Classy. Well, you can hardly blame them (well I suppose you can). Anyways, I say “Russians have reacted” and by that I mean, “the Russian Press has reacted.” The Russian populous is, I’d say, even more blissfully ignorant than the average American. I was given a satisfactory reason for this from my friend Sasha (short for Alexander, of course). He said: “When you’ve been force fed the party line for 70 years, it’s singularly unpleasant to then be called upon to read two sources of news and then have to decide which one is the party line.” Make sense? No, it didn’t to me either… So anyways, Russians have managed to avoid this unfortunate dilemma by merely reverting to one single source of (most likely) state approved news. The big news agencies also have the advantage of being able to draw their stories from non-assassinated journalists, a luxury that many alternate news sources cannot boast of (sorry, quick Putin dig, couldn’t help it… I mean, sure, he saved a helpless cameraman from a Siberian Tiger last year with his bare hands, but he’s not THAT big of a deal). As I’m writing this, I also realized that I have never seen a single city newspaper in my time here, unless it’s simply hidden under all the Cosmopolitans at the news stand. But, in all seriousness, there is not a whole lot of variety out there as far as news goes. I’ll try to do my best to get the Russian perspective on news from now on.

Voronezh Moment of the Day

Staring: the act of looking intently at someone completely without tact, regardless of whether or not they can see you back. Considered rude in America, a matter of common practice here in Voronezh. I can’t tell whether everyone does it, or whether it’s just SO shocking to see two Americans talking in a café that you have to turn your whole body around in your chair so that you can get a good long look-see at the biggest spectacle since Sputnik flew over. I was flattered for the first week, but today was the tipping point. I was in the café with one of the Brits and at some point during our stay, everyone turned to stare at us at least once (yes, some did need a second glance to confirm that their ears weren’t deceived). There’s nothing like seeing out of the corner of your eye a couple at a table literally stop eating and talking to turn and look at you with slack-jawed surprise. I mean, I understand that this isn’t Disney World, but for goodness sake, did the two girls next to us really need to jerk their thumbs at us, take occasional peeks then jabber excitedly to each other? Apparently so. I imagine it would be even worse if it was more discreet, but I have a 30 dollar bet that at some point a Russian walks up and takes a picture of us. I think I’m going to win too. That’s it, just a little pet peeve that may explode into full blown mania at some point. As we say here: ER (eto Rossiya; this is Russia).

Day 21-22

I was walking home tonight after an enjoyable liaison with some Russian friends of mine (discussion topics for this evening: stereotypes, esoteric science, the quantum physics behind the world being a hologram, and the evils of consuming alcohol. You’d like them mom…) and I was thinking about how much I enjoy the city centre here in Voronezh. It’s really quite pleasant, many boutiques, restaurants, parks, etc. In a word, everything that should be in a city’s downtown. It’s all very Western; tree-lined avenues, McDonalds, beautiful architecture, the works. However, when one gets on a bus and goes not five minutes in any direction, it’s a different world. The third world, really. The roads begin getting worse and the parks more poorly maintained, the shops less inviting and the apartments go from Russian to Soviet. My tour book of Russia has this to say about Voronezh, “There’s little to draw you to this city on the Don River, unless you are a motorist in need of a break on the long journey south to the Crimea. The city center is pleasant, but stay for more than an hour and the industrial underbelly of Voronezh will become readily apparent.” Well, it took me more than an hour, but on a few of my runs and on my most recent excursion to find a decent football match in this city, I feel that I’ve truly discovered the “industrial underbelly” of this city. But I feel that I’m misrepresenting Voronezh. It isn’t industrial in the sense that there are factories everywhere belching smoke, etc. It’s simply a giant economically depressed ring around the façade that is the beautiful city center. It’s always hard to tell in Russia what is poor and what is middle class but ridiculously dirty and poorly maintained. Take my family for example: I’m not one to enquire about these things, but I feel as if I am living in an upper middle class environment (I mean, we’ve got Tupperware and a washing machine, let’s be real here). However, the street I live on is like the surface of the moon only with large piles of trash and sand every 20 or so meters (and the biggest and most intimidating pack of stray dogs I’ve ever seen). An odd juxtaposition. Likewise, almost all of my classmates live in Soviet style apartment buildings that make you want gouge out the eyes of the architect who imposed them on society. However, you walk inside and you step into beautifully furnished, quasi-modern apartments. It’s most bizarre. So, I suppose the point I’m trying to make here is that outside of the city, it resembles what I imagine the area surrounding Chernobyl looks like: rotting infrastructure, packs of stray dogs, heinously deteriorating block apartments, bizarre statuary. However, I couldn’t pass judgment on the economic climate of this place with any certainty whatsoever. Sorry for the lack of a point in this post, but it happens.

Voronezh Moment of the Day

So, somewhat tired of walking the mile and a half to meet my friends every day, I decided yesterday to take the marshrutka or little yellow 15 passenger buses that are so ubiquitous in the city, making up the majority of its public transit system. It’s only eight rubles, about 30 cents, and they go literally everywhere. So, first, I utterly fail to open the bus door (Ok, there’s two handles on the outside and when the one I grabbed totally failed to open the door, I panicked and just yanked repeatedly on it instead of trying the other one. It had to be opened from the inside by a totally NOT amused passenger). At the next stop, an old man gets on and a few minutes later asks me for the time. Now, beyond the hours and thirty minute intervals (4 o’clock, 4:30, etc.) Russian time telling is my kryptonite. I stumble through telling him it’s 6:41, in the process completely exposing myself as a foreigner (bear in mind he wasn’t there for the door incident). So, he asks me where I’m from and I reply: America. Of course, he’s a retired teacher of English and he gets really excited. He speaks very good English and is VERY excited about meeting an American. We get off the bus and he explains that he’s going to the theater and asks if I wouldn’t walk him there. Of course I acquiesce and I walk the distance to the theatre with this tiny old Russian man gripping my arm like a drowning man to a life ring. All the while he’s telling me not to go out at night alone, not to drink or smoke, and not to hang out with those bad Russian boys. I bring the man to the theatre and he insists that I come to see a play with him some time. I give him my number (the man doesn’t have a telephone, only his neighbor’s…) and we part ways with a hug and a kiss on the cheek. We’ll see where this ends up! I am incapable of doing anything here without making friends it seems.