I apologize to friends and family for not writing about Russia sooner. But every time I sit down to narrate this country, my mind becomes so jumbled with information I can't sort out just what it is I want to tell.
First of all, Russia is not China.
First of all, Russia is not China.
Of course it isn't. Culturally the two don't even face each other, except maybe for sharing internationally unpopular dictators and a flair for going Red. What I mean is that this experience with ILP is far different from the one I had in China because this time around I'm a Head Teacher, I'm married, and a college graduate. Also, I'm drastically poor, something of a battle to deal with in one of the most expensive cities in the world. I bought a towel yesterday and it cost $13. And it isn't even a big towel.
What to tell you? A girl in another group got robbed by a band of gypsies yesterday. They took her passport after sitting on her in the metro. It was a group of teenage girls--the one who sat on her was covered in a blanket. Our girl assumed she was handicapped and moved for her to take her seat, then was shocked to find the girl's hand in her purse. She chased the girl off the metro once they exited the car and found the group standing in a circle admiring the just-stolen passport. She approached them and snatched it quickly out of the girl's hands, who then called her some Russian expletive and slapped her. She slapped her after she stole her passport.
The apartment my husband and I live in in Idaho was originally a hotel in the 1920s. It has some great history behind it, one story being of a woman in 1975 who got angry with the landlord and abducted his master key in order to brand a hot iron into the carpet of every unit. To this day, any unit that hasn't replaced its carpet has a huge iron mark in its bedroom or living room. Ours ended up being hidden under our bed so I never really got to show it off to friends, but as Seve and I were packing up our things for storage I rediscovered the relic. It was amazing to me that pieces of this woman and her anger still remained after so many years. I'd like to think I can leave a similar footprint behind in Moscow. Not the bitter housewife variety, but a mark similar to the one Moscow's made on me so far.
I'm sure the girl who had her passport stolen would like to leave her mark by slapping Moscow across the face. But instead she laughs off the experience, something easy to do when you were actually able to grab your passport out of the thief's hands who took it. Perhaps she'd feel different if the girl had gotten away. I admire her bravery in approaching the culprit, in living out a story that will be shared with generations after her.
Why I chose this story to introduce you to my time in Moscow, I don't know. Let me tell you a little about life as Seve and Jules in Russia: We live in the heart of Moscow in the fifteenth floor of a sixteen-floor apartment. We're 20 minutes from Red Square and have been there four times. We ride the metro daily and eat out at blini stands. No one knows we're foreigners until we open our mouths to speak. Moscow is fashionable and sexy. The women tower over me. The city is gloomy and glittering at the same time. I miss the exotic quality I felt in China; Moscow is easy to confuse for New York sometimes.
What to tell you? A girl in another group got robbed by a band of gypsies yesterday. They took her passport after sitting on her in the metro. It was a group of teenage girls--the one who sat on her was covered in a blanket. Our girl assumed she was handicapped and moved for her to take her seat, then was shocked to find the girl's hand in her purse. She chased the girl off the metro once they exited the car and found the group standing in a circle admiring the just-stolen passport. She approached them and snatched it quickly out of the girl's hands, who then called her some Russian expletive and slapped her. She slapped her after she stole her passport.
The apartment my husband and I live in in Idaho was originally a hotel in the 1920s. It has some great history behind it, one story being of a woman in 1975 who got angry with the landlord and abducted his master key in order to brand a hot iron into the carpet of every unit. To this day, any unit that hasn't replaced its carpet has a huge iron mark in its bedroom or living room. Ours ended up being hidden under our bed so I never really got to show it off to friends, but as Seve and I were packing up our things for storage I rediscovered the relic. It was amazing to me that pieces of this woman and her anger still remained after so many years. I'd like to think I can leave a similar footprint behind in Moscow. Not the bitter housewife variety, but a mark similar to the one Moscow's made on me so far.
I'm sure the girl who had her passport stolen would like to leave her mark by slapping Moscow across the face. But instead she laughs off the experience, something easy to do when you were actually able to grab your passport out of the thief's hands who took it. Perhaps she'd feel different if the girl had gotten away. I admire her bravery in approaching the culprit, in living out a story that will be shared with generations after her.
Why I chose this story to introduce you to my time in Moscow, I don't know. Let me tell you a little about life as Seve and Jules in Russia: We live in the heart of Moscow in the fifteenth floor of a sixteen-floor apartment. We're 20 minutes from Red Square and have been there four times. We ride the metro daily and eat out at blini stands. No one knows we're foreigners until we open our mouths to speak. Moscow is fashionable and sexy. The women tower over me. The city is gloomy and glittering at the same time. I miss the exotic quality I felt in China; Moscow is easy to confuse for New York sometimes.
I guess it's here that I should mention we're crazy in love and having the time of our lives.
