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.