Day 11-12

So, I was going to write about my day to day schedule, but that was before dinner tonight. So, during dinner, my landlord (for lack of a better English term) handed me a postcard from some English friends of theirs (maybe?). Well, anyways, the letter is in perfect English and my host family, who speak no English (except for food words, which my landlady knows better than I do) wanted me to translate it for them. I made it through the first line (Dear Olga and Gena- that’s a hard ‘g’ by the way) and then realized that there was no way I was going to be able to read this letter in Russian off the cuff. So I retreated to my laboratory and with liberal help from my dictionary and textbook, turned out something that perhaps resembled at least in passing the original letter. Anyways, I told that story to tell this story: So I was reading them this letter in Russian and on the TV was some news about the unveiling of a new statue of dissident Russian folk singer Vladimir Vysotski here in Voronezh. The statue was of a shirtless dude with a guitar but I thought I recognized the name from somewhere. A quick check of my iPod confirmed that I did in fact one of this man’s albums in my music collection. I told this to my landlord (leaving out the fact that I’d accidentally bought this album in Brighton Beach thinking it was a Russian Hip-Hop group) and he got really excited. He took me into the living room and dug into his vast record collection, finding his several Vladimir Vysotski albums. We ended up sitting in the living room, listening to Vladimir Vysotski vinyls, reading his Vladimir Vysotski books, attempting and failing to converse about Vladimir Vysotski’s life, work, and the reason his statue was in Voronezh of all places (I did find out he wasn’t born here, but that’s about it). At some point, he said, “Keep the books and read them, it’s much better than that Maxim Gorky trash you’re reading.” Shocked silence. I ask why it’s garbage. I get nothing but a dismissive and disdainful wave of the hand. End of conversation. I am indeed reading the short stories of Maxim Gorky, an author noted as a personal friend of Lenin’s and a darling of the early Soviet era. Putting two and two together, I suppose appreciating dissident Russian culture in the living room, then retreating to my room to appreciate quasi-communist Russian culture is not ok.

Voronezh Moment of the Day

So, there we were, at the Kid’s Park, enjoying the carnival atmosphere on a Tuesday night (not a kid in sight at 11:00 at night), and we decided to ride the roller coaster. The roller coaster is named American Gorky. I don’t think that name is referring to the Russian author, but a quick check of the dictionary lists ‘gorky’ as a hill or hillock. So, the name remains completely inexplicable. Like most everything else here… Anyways, so we get in this little four person car (Imagine at this point a county fair ride. Now remove all the paint and replace it with rust. Remove all lighting and safety features. Insert trash lazily blowing through the park. Insert Carney who watches each ride go with a mixture of fear and amusement. Good, got it). The roller coaster was clearly designed for children and not four full grown American youths. Within seconds of starting, it’s apparent that we are pushing this system to the max. This thing is simply going too fast to be safe. This is highlighted by the time we crest a high point and jump the tracks only to come slamming back down onto them. When it comes time to stop, it’s clear we aren’t going to be doing any of that. We barrel into the platform area, the Carney jumps clear, we slam into the car in front of us doing about 15 mph, hitting it so hard it shoots onto the track and starts its run sans passengers. We pile out shaken but unhurt. So, of course, like responsible young adults we leave that place immediately, walk directly… no, he won’t… to the ticket hut and buy another ticket for the American Gorky.