Well, I should have known it was bound to happen eventually:
I have been sucked into that giant vacuum cleaner of time known as facebook. And somehow, I am living to tell the tale.
My foray into facebook did not begin with some great quest to keep track of good friends, or get hold of people I had, for various reasons, lost touch with or let drop out of mylife. It began, strangely enough, with an effort to learn more about a graduate program in New York I am trying to learn more about.
After contacting the admissions office representative in charge of Long Island University's dual degree program with NYU, I was encouraged to look up a group of current program students active on facebook. And so I joined.
Little did I know, however, that in short order, nearly every single person I have met so far in Moscow would find me on facebook, that I would quickly start looking up every name I could remember from high school and Columbia, and within a week would have more than 41 friends and "friends" on facebook.
The surprising thing is how many of these people I only vaguely remember. Two days after joining facebook, I found myself trying to place a "friend" whom I will call B.S. Who was B.S.? I knew I had met this person somewhere, someplace, sometime. The smile he was smiling he was smiling then, but I couldn't for the life of me remember where or when. It took two whole days for me to realize he had been the roommate of someone I had been friends with at Columbia. B.S. and I had spoken maybe three times in our entire life, and once I had my diploma in hand, I never expected to hear from him again. Yet somehow he had found me on facebook. That I suppose is the amazing thing about facebook; people you never thought you would see again--indeed, people you would probably never want to see again--can stay in touch with you forever.
There's also something vaguely disembodying about using facebook. Already I can see the potential for a facebook page to substitute for real communication. Thanks to facebook, I didn't have to contact--heck, I didn't even have to have contact information for--B.S. to find out that he's a fan of Calvin and Hobbes and the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation. Anything you want to know about anyone, useful or othewise, it seems possible to learn on facebook. So why bother with such old-fashioned means of getting in touch with people as letters, e-mails, or phone calls?
25 June 2008
22 June 2008
The End is Nigh
As I have noted before, the selection of English-language books in Moscow leaves a lot to be desired. There is no shortage of traditional British and American classics. If you want a copy of Bridget Jones's Diary or Scarlett (the sequel to Gone With the Wind), you can find it. We have dictionaries and grammars aplenty, "For Dummies" books and technical manuals galore. But beyond this, there is nothing.
Nonetheless, the last time I was in John Parson's (a small independent bookshop), I spied a text I can only see as a sign that the complete, utter end of our civilization is nigh:
There is now a Complete Idiot's Guide to the World of Harry Potter.
Yes, you read that right. There is a Complete Idiot's Guide to a series of children's books.
Now, I am now snobbish about either Complete Idiot's Guides or Harry Potter. Though I've not yet read the books myself, I am glad that Harry, Hermione, Ron and company have children--and not a few adults--reading more than they would otherwise. I don't doubt the value of Complete Idiot's Guides to anyone who wants to know more about HTML, French cheeses, or the Catholic Church.
But for goodness sakes, people--if you want to know more about the world of Harry Potter, read the d****d books. They're written to be comprehnsible for ten-year-olds, for crying out loud!
Nonetheless, the last time I was in John Parson's (a small independent bookshop), I spied a text I can only see as a sign that the complete, utter end of our civilization is nigh:
There is now a Complete Idiot's Guide to the World of Harry Potter.
Yes, you read that right. There is a Complete Idiot's Guide to a series of children's books.
Now, I am now snobbish about either Complete Idiot's Guides or Harry Potter. Though I've not yet read the books myself, I am glad that Harry, Hermione, Ron and company have children--and not a few adults--reading more than they would otherwise. I don't doubt the value of Complete Idiot's Guides to anyone who wants to know more about HTML, French cheeses, or the Catholic Church.
But for goodness sakes, people--if you want to know more about the world of Harry Potter, read the d****d books. They're written to be comprehnsible for ten-year-olds, for crying out loud!
21 June 2008
A Hairy Subject
The other great excitement of my week, aside from meeting Konstantin and being taken on a tour of the Armory, was getting my first haircut in Russia.
Now, I know that doesn't sound terribly exciting, but before anyone asks me why I am writing about this, please try to picture getting a haircut when you and your barber or hairdresser literally do not speak the same language, and you have little ability to tell him or her what you want. That's what I finally experienced this week.
I had last gotten my ears lowered a couple of weeks before I left America, thinking it would be good to present a reasonably professional appearance upon arrival. But a combination of lack of money and not knowing where to find a good barber had prevented my getting a haircut in Russia thus far. A week and a half ago, I asked one of the Russian staff at my school where I could find a good haircut nearby. She had mentioned a place a couple of buildings up the road, and the following Sunday, I went there only to find it closed. When I returned on Monday, I discovered, first, I needed to set an appointment to have a haircut; and second, that it was the kind of high-end salon where a haircut might well cost a week's salary. I decided to pass.
Looking around my neighborhood, I had seen other hair salons, but I never seemed to find one that was opened when I passed by. I thought I might end up in the same situation I was in during my stay in Taiwan--when I failed to get a haircut until just before leaving, because I didn't know where to find a barber and didn't know what to ask for once I was there. I did not relish the thought of going three months at a time between haircuts, but neither did I relish the thought of trying to cut my own hair at home in the bathroom.
Wednesday morning, however, luck intervened. I had just finished teaching my first Business English class and was on the way back to the Metro when I spotted a hair salon that was unmistakably open. Being sick of having messy hair--I tend to get a haircut when I look in the mirror and wonder, "what's that animal on top of my head"--I decided to go in.
I managed to arrange a haircut on the spot for a mere 250 rubles (about $12 American), much less than the place I had been told about on Novoslobodskaya. While I was unable to tell my hairdresser much about what I wanted done, I did get across "short, short," and she started snipping away.
While she worked, we talked a bit. She got to learn that I am American, that I have a high opinion of the beauty of Russian women (I actually have no particular opinion about the beauty of Russian women one wayor the other, but I have learned Russians expect Americans to admire Russian women, and so I play along), and that I have been in Moscow a scant six weeks. All of this I got across to her in fractured but comprehensible Russian.
When she had finished cutting and shampooing my hair, I took a good look in the mirror. I was pleased with the results, though my standards are low; I justed wanted to look roughly the way I do when I get out of the barber's back home. This she had achieved. I paid her and returned to my school's resource basement, where several people complimented me on my haircut and one other male teacher even said he would go to the same barber I had used.
Now, I know that doesn't sound terribly exciting, but before anyone asks me why I am writing about this, please try to picture getting a haircut when you and your barber or hairdresser literally do not speak the same language, and you have little ability to tell him or her what you want. That's what I finally experienced this week.
I had last gotten my ears lowered a couple of weeks before I left America, thinking it would be good to present a reasonably professional appearance upon arrival. But a combination of lack of money and not knowing where to find a good barber had prevented my getting a haircut in Russia thus far. A week and a half ago, I asked one of the Russian staff at my school where I could find a good haircut nearby. She had mentioned a place a couple of buildings up the road, and the following Sunday, I went there only to find it closed. When I returned on Monday, I discovered, first, I needed to set an appointment to have a haircut; and second, that it was the kind of high-end salon where a haircut might well cost a week's salary. I decided to pass.
Looking around my neighborhood, I had seen other hair salons, but I never seemed to find one that was opened when I passed by. I thought I might end up in the same situation I was in during my stay in Taiwan--when I failed to get a haircut until just before leaving, because I didn't know where to find a barber and didn't know what to ask for once I was there. I did not relish the thought of going three months at a time between haircuts, but neither did I relish the thought of trying to cut my own hair at home in the bathroom.
Wednesday morning, however, luck intervened. I had just finished teaching my first Business English class and was on the way back to the Metro when I spotted a hair salon that was unmistakably open. Being sick of having messy hair--I tend to get a haircut when I look in the mirror and wonder, "what's that animal on top of my head"--I decided to go in.
I managed to arrange a haircut on the spot for a mere 250 rubles (about $12 American), much less than the place I had been told about on Novoslobodskaya. While I was unable to tell my hairdresser much about what I wanted done, I did get across "short, short," and she started snipping away.
While she worked, we talked a bit. She got to learn that I am American, that I have a high opinion of the beauty of Russian women (I actually have no particular opinion about the beauty of Russian women one wayor the other, but I have learned Russians expect Americans to admire Russian women, and so I play along), and that I have been in Moscow a scant six weeks. All of this I got across to her in fractured but comprehensible Russian.
When she had finished cutting and shampooing my hair, I took a good look in the mirror. I was pleased with the results, though my standards are low; I justed wanted to look roughly the way I do when I get out of the barber's back home. This she had achieved. I paid her and returned to my school's resource basement, where several people complimented me on my haircut and one other male teacher even said he would go to the same barber I had used.
Konstantin the First
Of all the ways my experience in Russia has so far been vastly better than my experience in Taiwan, none is more important than that I have had better luck meeting people and making friends. Right now, my circle of friends mostly consists of fellow English teachers at my school. My opportunities to make Russian friends have so far been rather limited, given the small number of hours I am teaching. But this week I had a stroke of luck in meeting someone Ithink will be my first real Russian friend.
Like most strokes of luck I have had in my life, this one began with something bad happening. Tuesday afternoon, all of the photocopiers in our resource basement went on the fritz just as I had to prepare a lesson for the following morning that involved giving a grammar quiz. If the quiz had not been essential--it's a standard part of starting any new class--I would have simply planned around it. But under the circumstances, I had to find another photocopier, and fast. Someone suggested that I go over to our central school, a couple of blocks up the road, and use the photocopier there. And so, an hour and a half before I was due at a lesson an hour away, I set out to use the central school photocopier.
The way up to central school from the resource basement involves crossing a busy stretch of Novoslobodskaya Street that is far from any intersection or crosswalk. There is an underpass nearby, but when I am in a hurry, I rarely take it. Rather, I wait for traffic to clear a little before crossing to the middle of the street, then wait for the cars going the opposite direction to clear before proceeding the rest of the way. Not a particularly safe way to cross the street, I know, and one I would never use Stateside, but my time in Taiwan proved it necessary, and so far my time in Russia is proving much the same.
As I was standing waiting for traffic to clear enough for me to venture to mid-street, a man about my age with a goatee came up and started talking to me. I am approached this way in the street not infrequently, but the people who approach me are usually obviously beggars or tourists wanting directions. As he was too cleanly and neatly dresed to be a panhandler, I assumed he was a Russian tourist and told him that, unfortunately, I don't speak any Russian.
Immediately, he replied in English, asking me whether I was an American. I told him I was and, crossing the street with him, got into a conversation with him somewhat muddled by his poor English. When I told him I was an English teacher, he seemed very interested and said a lot of things, switching between Russian and English, the jist of which seemed to be that he had studied English for a while and was eager to learn more. I motioned for him to follow him to my school, thinking the school might be able to arrange lessons for him, which is what I understood him to want.
When we got to the school, I got a Russian to inquire as to what kind of lessons he wanted. It turned out that he was not looking for lessons at all particularly but just wanted an English speaker to talk to. The school does not arrange for such things formally, I was told, but it was up to me to decide whether I wanted to make some kind of arrangement with him. As he seemed nice enough, I decided I might as well--this seemed as good an opportunity to start making Russian friends as any. He told me his name was Konstantin, and I told him mine was J.R. We exchanged telephone numbers and agreed we would speak later in the week, since I had a class to prepare for and couldn't really speak right now.
Two days later, I called him. We made an arrangement to go see the Armory at the Kremlin together for Saturday morning.
Saturday duly came, and I met Konstantin in the middle of the Novoslobodskaya Metro station platform. This was a first for me as well; in Moscow, the middle of a Metro station platform is a common meeting place, but I had yet to meet up with anyone at one. We exchanged greetings and proceeded on to the Kremlin.
I will write more about the Kremlin Armory in a later post, as I do not have the space to do it justice here. Konstantin was a most attentive host as we went through the Armory, helping me to get an English audioguide and pointing out things as we went along. We spent about an hour in the Armory, then went to wet our whistles at a little cafe in the Alexander Gardens, adjacent to the Kremlin.
Over drinks, we exchanged life stories. Konstantin is a lifelong Muscovite, a couple years older than me. He works in chemical engineering and, it turns out, has ambitions of establishing a life abroad, so discontented is he with the rampant corruption in Russia. I was surprised to find out he was married with a five-year-old daughter; I had not thought a married man and a father would have time to show a stranger famous sites in Moscow. But I gather Konstantin really wants to meet people who speak English, and I am very glad to have an opportunity to speak with a "real" Russian. Before taking leave of each other, we made an arrangement to meet again next Sunday to go see the Kremlin's diamond collections.
And so real contact with Russians begins.
Like most strokes of luck I have had in my life, this one began with something bad happening. Tuesday afternoon, all of the photocopiers in our resource basement went on the fritz just as I had to prepare a lesson for the following morning that involved giving a grammar quiz. If the quiz had not been essential--it's a standard part of starting any new class--I would have simply planned around it. But under the circumstances, I had to find another photocopier, and fast. Someone suggested that I go over to our central school, a couple of blocks up the road, and use the photocopier there. And so, an hour and a half before I was due at a lesson an hour away, I set out to use the central school photocopier.
The way up to central school from the resource basement involves crossing a busy stretch of Novoslobodskaya Street that is far from any intersection or crosswalk. There is an underpass nearby, but when I am in a hurry, I rarely take it. Rather, I wait for traffic to clear a little before crossing to the middle of the street, then wait for the cars going the opposite direction to clear before proceeding the rest of the way. Not a particularly safe way to cross the street, I know, and one I would never use Stateside, but my time in Taiwan proved it necessary, and so far my time in Russia is proving much the same.
As I was standing waiting for traffic to clear enough for me to venture to mid-street, a man about my age with a goatee came up and started talking to me. I am approached this way in the street not infrequently, but the people who approach me are usually obviously beggars or tourists wanting directions. As he was too cleanly and neatly dresed to be a panhandler, I assumed he was a Russian tourist and told him that, unfortunately, I don't speak any Russian.
Immediately, he replied in English, asking me whether I was an American. I told him I was and, crossing the street with him, got into a conversation with him somewhat muddled by his poor English. When I told him I was an English teacher, he seemed very interested and said a lot of things, switching between Russian and English, the jist of which seemed to be that he had studied English for a while and was eager to learn more. I motioned for him to follow him to my school, thinking the school might be able to arrange lessons for him, which is what I understood him to want.
When we got to the school, I got a Russian to inquire as to what kind of lessons he wanted. It turned out that he was not looking for lessons at all particularly but just wanted an English speaker to talk to. The school does not arrange for such things formally, I was told, but it was up to me to decide whether I wanted to make some kind of arrangement with him. As he seemed nice enough, I decided I might as well--this seemed as good an opportunity to start making Russian friends as any. He told me his name was Konstantin, and I told him mine was J.R. We exchanged telephone numbers and agreed we would speak later in the week, since I had a class to prepare for and couldn't really speak right now.
Two days later, I called him. We made an arrangement to go see the Armory at the Kremlin together for Saturday morning.
Saturday duly came, and I met Konstantin in the middle of the Novoslobodskaya Metro station platform. This was a first for me as well; in Moscow, the middle of a Metro station platform is a common meeting place, but I had yet to meet up with anyone at one. We exchanged greetings and proceeded on to the Kremlin.
I will write more about the Kremlin Armory in a later post, as I do not have the space to do it justice here. Konstantin was a most attentive host as we went through the Armory, helping me to get an English audioguide and pointing out things as we went along. We spent about an hour in the Armory, then went to wet our whistles at a little cafe in the Alexander Gardens, adjacent to the Kremlin.
Over drinks, we exchanged life stories. Konstantin is a lifelong Muscovite, a couple years older than me. He works in chemical engineering and, it turns out, has ambitions of establishing a life abroad, so discontented is he with the rampant corruption in Russia. I was surprised to find out he was married with a five-year-old daughter; I had not thought a married man and a father would have time to show a stranger famous sites in Moscow. But I gather Konstantin really wants to meet people who speak English, and I am very glad to have an opportunity to speak with a "real" Russian. Before taking leave of each other, we made an arrangement to meet again next Sunday to go see the Kremlin's diamond collections.
And so real contact with Russians begins.
Another Note on Blog Moderation
This is just a quick note to announce that I will no longer be accepting completely anonymous blog comments. I know some of my regular readers (such as my mother and Leah Silberman Jenner) tend to post as ""anonymous" because they have trouble getting Blogger to let them log in, but then sign their name at the bottom of their posts. This is completely fine and acceptable; these comments will still appear on my blog. But after a truly obnoxious, totally anonymous comment reached me today, I feel I have no choice but to start rejecting comments from people unknown to me, who are unwilling to divulge their identity.
15 June 2008
Water, Water Everywhere
One thing you do a lot of as an EFL teacher is going over names of basic household objects. This often involves matching games with nondescript little cartoons of the objects in question, be they combs, clothes hangers, or dishwashers. After a while, you think you know these cold.
Well, apparently I don't, because, for the first five weeks I was here, I failed to recognize a washing machine in my own apartment.
Now, by way of justifying my own intelligence, the machine in question looked nothing like the washing machines I've used all my life back home. This one was small enough to fit under the sink. Moreover, nothing on it identifed it clearly as a device for washing clothes. The brand name is "Samara"--not Maytag or anything else that would be known in the West. I had mistaken it for some kind of clothes hamper my now ex-roommate used to keep his dirty linens in.
I only discovered it was a washing machine today when my toothbrush fell behind it. This made it necessary to move the device, in the process of which I discovered it had an electrical plug. Intrigued, I took off what I had thought was the lid of the hamper and saw a small fan-like device. Immediately I guessed this was for agitating water in the wash.
When I returned from various outings, I decided to give the machine a whirl. I put in all of my dirty socks, some detergent, and hot water (the machine needs to be filled with water manually) and turned the dial. For about 20 minutes, it agitated my socks, after which I rinsed them out manually in my sink and repeated the process with my underwear.
The machine lacks the convenience of a conventional washer. As I have noted, it has to be filled with water and emptied out manually. It doesn't give a rinse cycle, nor does it do anything to wring out clothes once it is finished washing them. Its small size means that it can, at most, wash three or four shirts at a time. It also has a tendency to slosh water on the floor if you fill the machine up too far, so that I ended up with water all over my bathroom floor.
Nonetheless, it's a vast improvement over having nothing, the situation I thought I was in the first five weeks I was here. My socks do at least come out really clean after a run through this device, something I cannot say for my attempts at hand-washing up to now. Over the coming week, once I purchase some clothes hangers, I intend to put every piece of clothing I own through the machine at least once, and get the massive pile of sordid cloth on my bedroom floor taken care of.
Well, apparently I don't, because, for the first five weeks I was here, I failed to recognize a washing machine in my own apartment.
Now, by way of justifying my own intelligence, the machine in question looked nothing like the washing machines I've used all my life back home. This one was small enough to fit under the sink. Moreover, nothing on it identifed it clearly as a device for washing clothes. The brand name is "Samara"--not Maytag or anything else that would be known in the West. I had mistaken it for some kind of clothes hamper my now ex-roommate used to keep his dirty linens in.
I only discovered it was a washing machine today when my toothbrush fell behind it. This made it necessary to move the device, in the process of which I discovered it had an electrical plug. Intrigued, I took off what I had thought was the lid of the hamper and saw a small fan-like device. Immediately I guessed this was for agitating water in the wash.
When I returned from various outings, I decided to give the machine a whirl. I put in all of my dirty socks, some detergent, and hot water (the machine needs to be filled with water manually) and turned the dial. For about 20 minutes, it agitated my socks, after which I rinsed them out manually in my sink and repeated the process with my underwear.
The machine lacks the convenience of a conventional washer. As I have noted, it has to be filled with water and emptied out manually. It doesn't give a rinse cycle, nor does it do anything to wring out clothes once it is finished washing them. Its small size means that it can, at most, wash three or four shirts at a time. It also has a tendency to slosh water on the floor if you fill the machine up too far, so that I ended up with water all over my bathroom floor.
Nonetheless, it's a vast improvement over having nothing, the situation I thought I was in the first five weeks I was here. My socks do at least come out really clean after a run through this device, something I cannot say for my attempts at hand-washing up to now. Over the coming week, once I purchase some clothes hangers, I intend to put every piece of clothing I own through the machine at least once, and get the massive pile of sordid cloth on my bedroom floor taken care of.
14 June 2008
Why the Trains Run On Time
One of my frequent commentators (who makes frequent, substantiated claims of being my mother), has asked a few intriguing questions about the fall of the Soviet Union, and about the freedoms Russians enjoy or don't enjoy today. I felt an answer is order, to give my readers a better impression of where Russia seems to be today:
1) Why did the non-Russian republics break away from the Soviet Union? Why didn't the Soviet Union simply evolve into one large, free and mult-ethnic republic?
Throughout the Soviet period, Soviet leaders gave lip service to the equality of non-Russians within the Soviet Union. But the facts on the ground were very different. The Soviet state actively suppressed non-Russian ethnic and cultural expressions. Although Lenin himself had considerable non-Russian ancestry (a fact hidden in official Soviet histories and biographies) and Stalin hailed from Georgia, considerable discrimination against non-Russians occurred in the Soviet government. Non-Russians were often denied education in their native language and could not reach the highest levels of the Soviet bureaucracy.
In addition, most of the non-Russian peoples of the Soviet state had come into that state as a result of conquest. The Baltic States (Latvia, Lithuania, and Estonia) had been functioning, independent democracies when the Soviet Union conquered them during the Second World War.
Ukraine had a longer history as a subject people, having long been under the grip of tsarist Russia. During tsarist times, the Russian government often actively suppressed any expressions of Ukrainian culture and nationalism, at times even going so far as to prohibit book publication in the Ukrainian language. Moreover, during the early 1930s, Ukraine suffered a horrendous famine--largely kept hidden from the non-Soviet world--in which something like three million Ukrainian peasants died. The famine was exacerbated by Stalin's policies to the point that many historians consider the famine to be an act of genocide.
When the glasnost era came in the 1980s, non-Russians had their first chance in years to express openly their feelings about the way they had been treated in a Russian-dominated Soviet state. The non-Russian republics felt they had little chance of seeing their liberties protected in a Russian-dominated Soviet Union. And so the union ultimately dissolved.
2) If Russians are so free, why do the trains run on time?
From what I gather, they do and they don't. I have commented on the service quality of the Moscow Metro, which is a great source of civil pride within Moscow and which is maintained in exceptional order. The Moscow Metro functions as well as it does because the city has no other choice. The Moscow Metro serves twice as many passengers as the New York Subway and the London Underground put together. What I have heard about long-distance rail service in Russia, however, indicates that it has a much lower quality of service. Although trains usually do arrive "on-time" on long-distance lines, this has more to do with arrival times being set much later than they would be in Western countries than with any promptness of service. It is not uncommon, I hear, for trains to sit idly in the middle of nowhere for long periods, because of repair problems or to maintain a schedule.
On another level, though, I fail to understand the question. I simply do not understand how democracy and quality rail service are incompatible with one another. The United States may choose to neglect passenger rail service, but this does not make it an inherently freer country than Japan, the European Union, or Taiwan, all of which are functioning democracies, and all of which have excellent rail service.
3) Are Russians maintaining their "communal" traditions?
In many ways, Russia has always had a more communitarian culture than Western Europe or America. Much of this has to do with the nature of Russian agriculture. Russia has about half the growing season of France or Germany. What this means is that Russian farming has traditionally been labor-intensive. In America, we think of farms as family affairs, but in Russia, farming was undertaken by a whole village acting collectively. It was important for a farmer to be able to call on his neighbors when the crops needed to be brought in quickly.
I'm not sure what specific traditions my mother was referring to in asking this question, but it does seem that communitarianism remains a strong value in Russian society.
1) Why did the non-Russian republics break away from the Soviet Union? Why didn't the Soviet Union simply evolve into one large, free and mult-ethnic republic?
Throughout the Soviet period, Soviet leaders gave lip service to the equality of non-Russians within the Soviet Union. But the facts on the ground were very different. The Soviet state actively suppressed non-Russian ethnic and cultural expressions. Although Lenin himself had considerable non-Russian ancestry (a fact hidden in official Soviet histories and biographies) and Stalin hailed from Georgia, considerable discrimination against non-Russians occurred in the Soviet government. Non-Russians were often denied education in their native language and could not reach the highest levels of the Soviet bureaucracy.
In addition, most of the non-Russian peoples of the Soviet state had come into that state as a result of conquest. The Baltic States (Latvia, Lithuania, and Estonia) had been functioning, independent democracies when the Soviet Union conquered them during the Second World War.
Ukraine had a longer history as a subject people, having long been under the grip of tsarist Russia. During tsarist times, the Russian government often actively suppressed any expressions of Ukrainian culture and nationalism, at times even going so far as to prohibit book publication in the Ukrainian language. Moreover, during the early 1930s, Ukraine suffered a horrendous famine--largely kept hidden from the non-Soviet world--in which something like three million Ukrainian peasants died. The famine was exacerbated by Stalin's policies to the point that many historians consider the famine to be an act of genocide.
When the glasnost era came in the 1980s, non-Russians had their first chance in years to express openly their feelings about the way they had been treated in a Russian-dominated Soviet state. The non-Russian republics felt they had little chance of seeing their liberties protected in a Russian-dominated Soviet Union. And so the union ultimately dissolved.
2) If Russians are so free, why do the trains run on time?
From what I gather, they do and they don't. I have commented on the service quality of the Moscow Metro, which is a great source of civil pride within Moscow and which is maintained in exceptional order. The Moscow Metro functions as well as it does because the city has no other choice. The Moscow Metro serves twice as many passengers as the New York Subway and the London Underground put together. What I have heard about long-distance rail service in Russia, however, indicates that it has a much lower quality of service. Although trains usually do arrive "on-time" on long-distance lines, this has more to do with arrival times being set much later than they would be in Western countries than with any promptness of service. It is not uncommon, I hear, for trains to sit idly in the middle of nowhere for long periods, because of repair problems or to maintain a schedule.
On another level, though, I fail to understand the question. I simply do not understand how democracy and quality rail service are incompatible with one another. The United States may choose to neglect passenger rail service, but this does not make it an inherently freer country than Japan, the European Union, or Taiwan, all of which are functioning democracies, and all of which have excellent rail service.
3) Are Russians maintaining their "communal" traditions?
In many ways, Russia has always had a more communitarian culture than Western Europe or America. Much of this has to do with the nature of Russian agriculture. Russia has about half the growing season of France or Germany. What this means is that Russian farming has traditionally been labor-intensive. In America, we think of farms as family affairs, but in Russia, farming was undertaken by a whole village acting collectively. It was important for a farmer to be able to call on his neighbors when the crops needed to be brought in quickly.
I'm not sure what specific traditions my mother was referring to in asking this question, but it does seem that communitarianism remains a strong value in Russian society.
12 June 2008
Left, Right, Left
As I've mentioned before, this week is a short teaching week at my school. Ден Россйя (Russia Day), a relatively new holiday celebrating the day in 1990 that Russia's parliament formally declared Russia's independence from the Soviet Union.
There isn't much to say about Russia Day itself. Orginally named, and still sometimes called by Americans, "Russian Independence Day," the old name seems to beg the question: "independence from what, exactly?" Unlike the other former Soviet republics, Russia cannot really claim to have gained its independence from the Soviet Union, having been the creator and enforcer of the Soviet state in the first place. Russians themselves don't seem to know what to make of or do for the holiday. In time, I imagine it will become something like Labor Day in the United States--a holiday for the sake of a holiday.
Wednesday, the day before Russia Day, I heard through the grapevine that there would be a surprise birthday party for one of my school's other teachers that evening. Because of the holiday, I had no reason not to go, though I had yet to meet this particular teacher, and though I knew this would be a typical twentysomething party focused on drinking, drinking, and more drinking.
The party was to take place at the birthday boy's apartment, located a 10-minute walk from the very southern end of one Metro line. I went down there with a whole group of my school's teachers as I didn't want to get lost, arriving around 11:00 PM. The party itself was not particularly exciting, and as I felt suffocated in the small apartment and barely able to breathe for all the smoking, I eventually asked two of the other attendees to help me get a taxi home, the Metro having shut down for the night and my Russian not yet being up to the task of enabling me to handle this myself.
Until then, I had yet to take a taxi in Russia. Muscovite taxis differ signifcantly from their New York counterparts. There are "official" yellow taxis in Moscow, but not nearly enough of them, and they do not dominate the streets the way New York cabs do. It is quite common for drivers of inconspicuous Ladas and Toyotas to stop and pick up fares on the streets, a la gypsy cabs back home. When using such a cab, one arranges a price with the driver before getting in.
The good Samaritans who helped me get a cab was a nice German man who is in Moscow working for a bank, and his girlfriend, a genial Englishwoman who writes for an English-language newspaper. Since it turned out we were all headed in the same direction, we agreed to go in one cab and split the cost of the ride. The German fellow haggled with the driver, and a price of 500 rubles (about $20) was finally agreed upon. I got into the front seat, my fellow travellers into the back.
A short discussion ensued about my Russian abilities. I made clear that, while I am trying to learn Russian and look forward to lessons once my schedule settles, I know little at the moment. But I also made clear that I could give basic directions--"right, left, right" to the driver, an important point since my fellow travellers needed to be dropped off first.
In time, my fellow travellers reached their destination. As they had given the driver the general vicinity of where I lived, he got me to the nearest Metro station, and I gave him "left, right, left" from there. Luckily, we were headed in the right direction; I would have been at a loss as to how to tell him to turn around. My "right, left, right" came out garbled, but he understood me reasonably well. I soon found myself home, safe and sound, at 2:30 in the morning.
This is a far cry from my experience taking cabs in Taiwan. There, I generally took a cab when I returned home from Taipei late, after the busses had stopped running for the night. As I spoke not a word of Chinese, I was forced to give the driver a business card with my school's address on it (the school being only two blocks from my apartment). I guess there was more than one street with the same name in Taoyuan, because the drivers invariably got lost trying to find it; I don't think they were playing a game of "gyp the American", because they always got lost in exactly the same way and attempted to drop me off at exactly the same wrong address. So it's a relief to be able to give basic instructions to a Russian cabbie.
There isn't much to say about Russia Day itself. Orginally named, and still sometimes called by Americans, "Russian Independence Day," the old name seems to beg the question: "independence from what, exactly?" Unlike the other former Soviet republics, Russia cannot really claim to have gained its independence from the Soviet Union, having been the creator and enforcer of the Soviet state in the first place. Russians themselves don't seem to know what to make of or do for the holiday. In time, I imagine it will become something like Labor Day in the United States--a holiday for the sake of a holiday.
Wednesday, the day before Russia Day, I heard through the grapevine that there would be a surprise birthday party for one of my school's other teachers that evening. Because of the holiday, I had no reason not to go, though I had yet to meet this particular teacher, and though I knew this would be a typical twentysomething party focused on drinking, drinking, and more drinking.
The party was to take place at the birthday boy's apartment, located a 10-minute walk from the very southern end of one Metro line. I went down there with a whole group of my school's teachers as I didn't want to get lost, arriving around 11:00 PM. The party itself was not particularly exciting, and as I felt suffocated in the small apartment and barely able to breathe for all the smoking, I eventually asked two of the other attendees to help me get a taxi home, the Metro having shut down for the night and my Russian not yet being up to the task of enabling me to handle this myself.
Until then, I had yet to take a taxi in Russia. Muscovite taxis differ signifcantly from their New York counterparts. There are "official" yellow taxis in Moscow, but not nearly enough of them, and they do not dominate the streets the way New York cabs do. It is quite common for drivers of inconspicuous Ladas and Toyotas to stop and pick up fares on the streets, a la gypsy cabs back home. When using such a cab, one arranges a price with the driver before getting in.
The good Samaritans who helped me get a cab was a nice German man who is in Moscow working for a bank, and his girlfriend, a genial Englishwoman who writes for an English-language newspaper. Since it turned out we were all headed in the same direction, we agreed to go in one cab and split the cost of the ride. The German fellow haggled with the driver, and a price of 500 rubles (about $20) was finally agreed upon. I got into the front seat, my fellow travellers into the back.
A short discussion ensued about my Russian abilities. I made clear that, while I am trying to learn Russian and look forward to lessons once my schedule settles, I know little at the moment. But I also made clear that I could give basic directions--"right, left, right" to the driver, an important point since my fellow travellers needed to be dropped off first.
In time, my fellow travellers reached their destination. As they had given the driver the general vicinity of where I lived, he got me to the nearest Metro station, and I gave him "left, right, left" from there. Luckily, we were headed in the right direction; I would have been at a loss as to how to tell him to turn around. My "right, left, right" came out garbled, but he understood me reasonably well. I soon found myself home, safe and sound, at 2:30 in the morning.
This is a far cry from my experience taking cabs in Taiwan. There, I generally took a cab when I returned home from Taipei late, after the busses had stopped running for the night. As I spoke not a word of Chinese, I was forced to give the driver a business card with my school's address on it (the school being only two blocks from my apartment). I guess there was more than one street with the same name in Taoyuan, because the drivers invariably got lost trying to find it; I don't think they were playing a game of "gyp the American", because they always got lost in exactly the same way and attempted to drop me off at exactly the same wrong address. So it's a relief to be able to give basic instructions to a Russian cabbie.
10 June 2008
Connected at Last
Last night, after my second class observation of the day ended, I walked over to the mall a few doors down from my school's central offices. There I went into a store called Eon and bought a card for internet service, paying all of 545 rubles (500 rubles worth of internet value and 45 rubes of profit for the store).
I took the card home, used my computer's WiFi system to find the service provider's network, and entered my information. It took 20 minutes to get fully registered and for the system to recognize me, but I was eventually able to pull up my e-mail, Amazon, and a few other sites. For the first time on the road, I could access the internet on my own computer.
The quality of the service leaves something to be desired. Pages take forever to load, and the service disconnected once last night as I was trying to blog. But at least it gives me a source of internet independent of my school's operating hours that does not cost a small forture, as internet cafes in Moscow seem to.
I took the card home, used my computer's WiFi system to find the service provider's network, and entered my information. It took 20 minutes to get fully registered and for the system to recognize me, but I was eventually able to pull up my e-mail, Amazon, and a few other sites. For the first time on the road, I could access the internet on my own computer.
The quality of the service leaves something to be desired. Pages take forever to load, and the service disconnected once last night as I was trying to blog. But at least it gives me a source of internet independent of my school's operating hours that does not cost a small forture, as internet cafes in Moscow seem to.
08 June 2008
Making Connections
This past weekend, I've had a couple of major advances in my connectivity in Russia.
First, someone I met at synagogue showed me how to add money to my cell phone. My account had been out of money for about a week, but I didn't know how to put any more money on it. The system in Russia is actually simpler than in the States; instead of a recurring contract, you pay as you go at terminals that look like ATMs. It turns out they're fairly simple to use. Why can't things work this simply Stateside?
Second, having gotten a paycheck, I was able to go out and buy an electric adaptor for my laptop. It took two salespeople and some looking in a dictionary to get everything set up, but I now am able to plug my laptop into a wall and use it, at least. For the time being, I still rely on a local internet cafe for the actual internet connection. But it's possible to purchase internet cards that work similarly to phone cards and connect wirelessly from anywhere in Moscow. This coming week, I'll ask my director of studies or another teacher where I can purchase these, and I'll really be back in business.
The only downer in all of this is that my computer adaptor can't charge by battery. What this means is that I can plug my computer in and use it anywhere, but I can't disconnect from the electric source and use the internet in, say, the Alexander Gardens. Ah, well. I expect to use my laptop mostly at home, in my school's resource center, and occasionally for a class. I figure total mobility is less than critical.
First, someone I met at synagogue showed me how to add money to my cell phone. My account had been out of money for about a week, but I didn't know how to put any more money on it. The system in Russia is actually simpler than in the States; instead of a recurring contract, you pay as you go at terminals that look like ATMs. It turns out they're fairly simple to use. Why can't things work this simply Stateside?
Second, having gotten a paycheck, I was able to go out and buy an electric adaptor for my laptop. It took two salespeople and some looking in a dictionary to get everything set up, but I now am able to plug my laptop into a wall and use it, at least. For the time being, I still rely on a local internet cafe for the actual internet connection. But it's possible to purchase internet cards that work similarly to phone cards and connect wirelessly from anywhere in Moscow. This coming week, I'll ask my director of studies or another teacher where I can purchase these, and I'll really be back in business.
The only downer in all of this is that my computer adaptor can't charge by battery. What this means is that I can plug my computer in and use it anywhere, but I can't disconnect from the electric source and use the internet in, say, the Alexander Gardens. Ah, well. I expect to use my laptop mostly at home, in my school's resource center, and occasionally for a class. I figure total mobility is less than critical.
07 June 2008
Back to Russian
One thing that's taken a back seat since coming to Russian has been, oddly, my study of Russian. The first I was here, I was focused on settling in; the second and third weeks, on teaching; and since then, on looking into grad schools. I have been more interested in going out and actually being in Russia than in going over aspect pairs and case endings.
The second week I was here, however, I did go in and take a placement test for Russian lessons. I placed into "elementary" (the beginner level), as I had expected. Soon thereafer, I was told there is currently no class available at that level but was offered the chance to take private lessons at what I deemed an outrageous price. Naturally, I decline.
Over Scrabble today, however, one of my fellow teachers said that he too is looking to start some Russian lessons at the elementary level. He and I could probably form a class together and split the cost of private lessons in half. We have decided to go in on Monday and ask the RFL (Russian as a Foreign Language) Department about it.
The second week I was here, however, I did go in and take a placement test for Russian lessons. I placed into "elementary" (the beginner level), as I had expected. Soon thereafer, I was told there is currently no class available at that level but was offered the chance to take private lessons at what I deemed an outrageous price. Naturally, I decline.
Over Scrabble today, however, one of my fellow teachers said that he too is looking to start some Russian lessons at the elementary level. He and I could probably form a class together and split the cost of private lessons in half. We have decided to go in on Monday and ask the RFL (Russian as a Foreign Language) Department about it.
Clowns, Cowboy, Cubs, Colleagues, Cryers, and Culture Vultures
Although my experience teaching in Taiwan was limited, and though my time teaching in Moscow has barely begun, I have noticed a few things about my fellow teachers. My general theory is that EFL teachers fall into a few distinct categories, based on their overall personality and reasons for coming to teach English abroad, which I call clowns, cads, cubs, colleagues, cryers, and culture vultures. A brief description of each follows.
1) Clowns: The clown (perhaps better called the misfit) is someone who, for whatever reason, just doesn't fit in well back home, or in a typical 9-5 jobs. Think Wilkins Micawber transferred halfway around the world, and you will get an idea of what I mean by a clown. He has an exuberant personality and loves to teach. Whether he is any good at doing so is another question.
2) Cowboys: Similar to clowns in the sense that they don't fit readily into a "proper" job back home, cowboys are in other ways 180 degrees from clowns. A cowboy comes abroad to drink, mix with the local women (or men--but I find it's usually heterosexual men who fall into this category), or engage in other less-than-appropriate behavior while drawing a salary. He tends to be of the philosophy that work is the scourge of the drinking classes, as his beer-tainted breath at 8:00 Monday morning indicates. In more professional ESL/EFL settings, the cowboy doesn't last long, but in some areas he will be tolerated because of the serious shortage of more qualified personnel.
3) Cubs: This category comprises kids just out of college, usually teaching abroad for an adventure or a break from school (a path I now wish I had chosen when I was just out of Columbia) before graduate school. Cubs may or may not show dedication to teaching while they are abroad, but they at least speak the English language well and are at least several cuts above the cowboy.
4) Colleagues: This category consists of serious, lifelong ESL/EFL teachers, of whom I have met a few at my current school. Eventually, they tend to migrate into managerial roles, as teaching in and of itself doesn't really pay enough to support a family. Many end up as principals of schools or in teacher training. I consider this to be about the rarest group in ESL/EFL teaching.
5) Criers: These are people who come abroad to escape some sort of unhappiness back home--a failed marriage, a family they despise, or general unemployment (at the start of my EFL career in Taiwan, I fit the bill of this category pretty well). They may or may not be any good as teachers, but their desire not to return to Nebraska, Newcastle, or New South Wales generally gives them an incentive to do whatever it takes to stay where they are.
6) Culture Vultures: These are people who are very enthusiastic about the culture of their host country. Their motivation is usually to transcend the status of mere tourist in the country and extend their stay. They are generally harmless and can make good teachers with proper training.
1) Clowns: The clown (perhaps better called the misfit) is someone who, for whatever reason, just doesn't fit in well back home, or in a typical 9-5 jobs. Think Wilkins Micawber transferred halfway around the world, and you will get an idea of what I mean by a clown. He has an exuberant personality and loves to teach. Whether he is any good at doing so is another question.
2) Cowboys: Similar to clowns in the sense that they don't fit readily into a "proper" job back home, cowboys are in other ways 180 degrees from clowns. A cowboy comes abroad to drink, mix with the local women (or men--but I find it's usually heterosexual men who fall into this category), or engage in other less-than-appropriate behavior while drawing a salary. He tends to be of the philosophy that work is the scourge of the drinking classes, as his beer-tainted breath at 8:00 Monday morning indicates. In more professional ESL/EFL settings, the cowboy doesn't last long, but in some areas he will be tolerated because of the serious shortage of more qualified personnel.
3) Cubs: This category comprises kids just out of college, usually teaching abroad for an adventure or a break from school (a path I now wish I had chosen when I was just out of Columbia) before graduate school. Cubs may or may not show dedication to teaching while they are abroad, but they at least speak the English language well and are at least several cuts above the cowboy.
4) Colleagues: This category consists of serious, lifelong ESL/EFL teachers, of whom I have met a few at my current school. Eventually, they tend to migrate into managerial roles, as teaching in and of itself doesn't really pay enough to support a family. Many end up as principals of schools or in teacher training. I consider this to be about the rarest group in ESL/EFL teaching.
5) Criers: These are people who come abroad to escape some sort of unhappiness back home--a failed marriage, a family they despise, or general unemployment (at the start of my EFL career in Taiwan, I fit the bill of this category pretty well). They may or may not be any good as teachers, but their desire not to return to Nebraska, Newcastle, or New South Wales generally gives them an incentive to do whatever it takes to stay where they are.
6) Culture Vultures: These are people who are very enthusiastic about the culture of their host country. Their motivation is usually to transcend the status of mere tourist in the country and extend their stay. They are generally harmless and can make good teachers with proper training.
Payday
This afternoon, I stopped by my school to pick up my first paycheck. It was a little short, but I was told this is because the school always pays slightly in arrears, and the time period reflected in my paycheck does not count the full month I have been here but only the period in May. I will not get the final week caught up until my final week when I leave, at the end of my contract.
Nonetheless, I left the office with almost 19,000 rubles--about $700 U.S. That will be more than enough to keep me going until the next paydate, on the 23rd. My career as a diligent saver of rubles can officially begin.
One nice thing I found out, though, is that a rumor I had heard about in-company work proved to be true. In-company teachers are paid an extra $2.50 per academic hour they teach in-company. This resulted in my getting all of an extra $16.50 this paycheck (because most of my work so far has been covering for teachers in regular schools, not in-company work). But over the long term, this should be a good supplement to the $1000 a month I am being paid to teach English in Moscow.
I had a bit of time explaining myself when I challenged a charge against my pay for the landline phone in our apartment. On my arrival in Moscow, my roommate informed me that this phone had not been working the whole time he had been there, but that it was still being charged for. I brought this to the attention of the pay office and said I did not think I should have to pay for phone service I was not getting. Once I was able to speak to someone who understood my objection, it was agreed that I would not be charged this fee (admittedly, all of 150 rubles, or about $6 a month) until phone service was restored in the apartment. Contrary to what my roommate had told me, he had not complained about this repeatedly, but only twice, and action had been taken on both complaints. Nonetheless, I was promised someone would be out on Monday to check the line in the apartment.
The remainder of payday I spent playing Scrabble with a couple of fellow teachers in our central school. I actually won one game--a first for me--and came close to winning another. It was nice to have some socialization with other teachers. One of the best points of my school, I think, is that there is a real sense of camaraderie among teachers, directors of studies, and other Anglophone staff.
I also spoke briefly with my own director of studies (DOS), who told me he had arranged a series of class observations for me next week. This past week, there wasn't a lot for me to do, as this is the time a lot of students go on holiday, and no classes were scheduled for me. I had one hour of tutoring last Monday morning but was otherwise free.
Instead of going out to explore Moscow further, however, I hung around in the school resource center, because my contract states that, when I don't have a full teaching load, I can be assigned administrative work. In order to put my best foot forward, I felt it was best to put myself where I could be reached should any such work be required. None was, but I got to chat up other teachers quite a bit.
Next week will be somewhat busier, however. All told, I will be observing six different teachers over three days (next Thursday and Friday are a holiday in Russia). So at least I am seeing my school's stated commitment to teacher development actually being applied.
Nonetheless, I left the office with almost 19,000 rubles--about $700 U.S. That will be more than enough to keep me going until the next paydate, on the 23rd. My career as a diligent saver of rubles can officially begin.
One nice thing I found out, though, is that a rumor I had heard about in-company work proved to be true. In-company teachers are paid an extra $2.50 per academic hour they teach in-company. This resulted in my getting all of an extra $16.50 this paycheck (because most of my work so far has been covering for teachers in regular schools, not in-company work). But over the long term, this should be a good supplement to the $1000 a month I am being paid to teach English in Moscow.
I had a bit of time explaining myself when I challenged a charge against my pay for the landline phone in our apartment. On my arrival in Moscow, my roommate informed me that this phone had not been working the whole time he had been there, but that it was still being charged for. I brought this to the attention of the pay office and said I did not think I should have to pay for phone service I was not getting. Once I was able to speak to someone who understood my objection, it was agreed that I would not be charged this fee (admittedly, all of 150 rubles, or about $6 a month) until phone service was restored in the apartment. Contrary to what my roommate had told me, he had not complained about this repeatedly, but only twice, and action had been taken on both complaints. Nonetheless, I was promised someone would be out on Monday to check the line in the apartment.
The remainder of payday I spent playing Scrabble with a couple of fellow teachers in our central school. I actually won one game--a first for me--and came close to winning another. It was nice to have some socialization with other teachers. One of the best points of my school, I think, is that there is a real sense of camaraderie among teachers, directors of studies, and other Anglophone staff.
I also spoke briefly with my own director of studies (DOS), who told me he had arranged a series of class observations for me next week. This past week, there wasn't a lot for me to do, as this is the time a lot of students go on holiday, and no classes were scheduled for me. I had one hour of tutoring last Monday morning but was otherwise free.
Instead of going out to explore Moscow further, however, I hung around in the school resource center, because my contract states that, when I don't have a full teaching load, I can be assigned administrative work. In order to put my best foot forward, I felt it was best to put myself where I could be reached should any such work be required. None was, but I got to chat up other teachers quite a bit.
Next week will be somewhat busier, however. All told, I will be observing six different teachers over three days (next Thursday and Friday are a holiday in Russia). So at least I am seeing my school's stated commitment to teacher development actually being applied.
05 June 2008
The State of Brooklyn
Some identities come and go with time. I've managed largely to let go of my sense of myself as a kid who grew up in New Jersey. Even my sense of myself as a transplanted Midwesterner dried up after a while in New York--except when I was appalled by how brazenly New Yorkers discussed money and real estate.
But I am beginning to suspect my identity as a Brooklynite may be permanent.
That identity was not one I ever thought I would really stumble into. After I graduated from college and started looking for work in New York, I had no intention of leaving the borough of Manhattan. And yet, as soon as I found my first job in New York, I immediately started looking to get out of the rathole I then inhabited in Washington Heights, and set my sites on Brooklyn. I had taken the 2/3 line to the "borough of homes and churches" and, charmed by what I saw of Brooklyn Heights, quickly decided Brooklyn would be my next home.
At the time, I told myself I was moving to Brooklyn because it was cheaper than Manhattan, and it was--slightly. Over time, however, I realized I had moved off of the all-holy island of Manhattan because I wanted to explore new territory. It was the beginning of the wanderlust that led me to Taiwan and that has now led me to Moscow.
Yet my sense of myself as a Brooklynite has popped up at least twice since leaving New York. When I called the synagogue in Taipei to inquire about services, I was asked where I hailed from.
"Brooklyn," I said.
"Ah--the State of Brooklyn!" the voice at the other end said.
Here in Moscow, I have also encountered my Brooklyn identity. At Chabad, I briefly got into a conversation with someone who, once again, asked where I was from. This led to a longer conversation on, of all things, the merits of real estate in various Brooklyn neighborhoods.
If, on leaving New York, I hoped to escape New York real estate conversations, those hopes have now been fully dashed.
It's hard not to look back on Brooklyn with a bit of wistfulness. In my mind, I know I had to leave, at least for a while. I had been suffering from wanderlust for a long time. My life in New York was not working; I had been out of work for over a year and had no job prospects to speak of. Even if I hadn't been running out of money, I would have needed to get this need to see the world out of my system.
But I think a lot about coming back when my time in Moscow ends. There is a great dual-degree program between New York University and Long Island University that would lead me to a career as an academic librarian. I think this, finally, is the work I've been looking for since I left school. It would give me time to pursue my writing and other interests, and give me work where I felt I was helping people. The more I look into this field, the more it seems like the right path for me.
I can see myself coming back to New York for this program and settling, once again, in Brooklyn. I have had fantasies for some time of moving to Prospect Heights, a lovely brownstone neighborhood that has become a refuge for people priced out of Park Slope. Finally, that seems possible.
The challenge for now is not to let this vision cause me problems in Moscow. I am grateful to be here, and love what I see of Moscow. But it's hard not to think about my future, about establishing a career in the United States. The constant talk of fellow teachers about getting a "proper job" back home in the States, in England, or in Australia doesn't help. So I will struggle not to let Brooklyn intrude too much into my thoughts.
But I remain in a Brooklyn state of mind.
But I am beginning to suspect my identity as a Brooklynite may be permanent.
That identity was not one I ever thought I would really stumble into. After I graduated from college and started looking for work in New York, I had no intention of leaving the borough of Manhattan. And yet, as soon as I found my first job in New York, I immediately started looking to get out of the rathole I then inhabited in Washington Heights, and set my sites on Brooklyn. I had taken the 2/3 line to the "borough of homes and churches" and, charmed by what I saw of Brooklyn Heights, quickly decided Brooklyn would be my next home.
At the time, I told myself I was moving to Brooklyn because it was cheaper than Manhattan, and it was--slightly. Over time, however, I realized I had moved off of the all-holy island of Manhattan because I wanted to explore new territory. It was the beginning of the wanderlust that led me to Taiwan and that has now led me to Moscow.
Yet my sense of myself as a Brooklynite has popped up at least twice since leaving New York. When I called the synagogue in Taipei to inquire about services, I was asked where I hailed from.
"Brooklyn," I said.
"Ah--the State of Brooklyn!" the voice at the other end said.
Here in Moscow, I have also encountered my Brooklyn identity. At Chabad, I briefly got into a conversation with someone who, once again, asked where I was from. This led to a longer conversation on, of all things, the merits of real estate in various Brooklyn neighborhoods.
If, on leaving New York, I hoped to escape New York real estate conversations, those hopes have now been fully dashed.
It's hard not to look back on Brooklyn with a bit of wistfulness. In my mind, I know I had to leave, at least for a while. I had been suffering from wanderlust for a long time. My life in New York was not working; I had been out of work for over a year and had no job prospects to speak of. Even if I hadn't been running out of money, I would have needed to get this need to see the world out of my system.
But I think a lot about coming back when my time in Moscow ends. There is a great dual-degree program between New York University and Long Island University that would lead me to a career as an academic librarian. I think this, finally, is the work I've been looking for since I left school. It would give me time to pursue my writing and other interests, and give me work where I felt I was helping people. The more I look into this field, the more it seems like the right path for me.
I can see myself coming back to New York for this program and settling, once again, in Brooklyn. I have had fantasies for some time of moving to Prospect Heights, a lovely brownstone neighborhood that has become a refuge for people priced out of Park Slope. Finally, that seems possible.
The challenge for now is not to let this vision cause me problems in Moscow. I am grateful to be here, and love what I see of Moscow. But it's hard not to think about my future, about establishing a career in the United States. The constant talk of fellow teachers about getting a "proper job" back home in the States, in England, or in Australia doesn't help. So I will struggle not to let Brooklyn intrude too much into my thoughts.
But I remain in a Brooklyn state of mind.
02 June 2008
A Tale of Two Subways
Okay, boys and girls. Let's play a little game.
I am going to describe two subway systems to you. One is located in Country A, the economic and cultural capital of one of the wealthiest and most powerful nations that has ever existed, a country that is a colossus of economic and military power. The other is located in Country B, the capital of a country that has barely emerged from the third world, where power outages are not uncommon and hot water supplies get turned off for two or three weeks every summer.
Your goal is to guess which description goes with which subway system.
Category 1: Planning and Organization
One subway system exhibits excellent planning. Transfer points are always in the middle or at the end of platforms. Signage is clear and readable in the local language. All cars can run on any track. Its newest line opened toward the end of the 1970s, and an important extension of one line into and through the city center proceeds apace.
The other subway system is a hodgepodge of three different systems, two of them built by private companies, one by the city after a takeover designed to prevent the system's collapse. No new lines have opened on it since the 1930s, and one projected line that has never been built has become a symbol of government corruption and ineptitude.
Category 2: Beauty and Cleanliness
One subway system is the pride of its city and is decorated with statues, columns, murals, frescos, and mosaics depicting great military battles, leaders, and poets of the country's history. It is kept spotlessly clean.
The other system is decorated with peeling paint and is a practically a monument to grime.
Category 3: Frequency of Trains
One subway system operates trains at two-minute intervals during the day, five-minute intervals late at night. Passengers always have a rough idea when a train will be coming because a clock at either end of the platform indicates how long it has been since the last train left the station.
The other system has lines that go by names like "Never," "Rarely" and "Ghost" because of their infrequency of operation.
Category 4: Repair and Maintenance
One subway system is shut down for four and a half fours every night to allow for proper maintenance and repair of cars, track, and other infrastructure.
The other system never shuts down at night but subjects riders to a transit nightmare every weekend as some lines shut down, others run at slower speeds, and still others run on alternate tracks and lines.
Category 5: Price
One subway system offers a monthly pass for $52 a month that covers all subway, bus, trolley, and trolleybus operations within the city, for that calendar month.
The other system charges $83 a month for a similar level of coverage.
Category 6: Passenger Conveniences
One subway system provides adequate benches all along the track for passengers to sit in and wait for the next train, even though these trains arrive at very short intervals.
The other system provides few benches in most stations and in some none at all, even though trains arrive less frequently. Additionally, transit police frequently fine people for sitting on subway steps, even at times pregnant women.
Category 7: Stairs, Escalators, Elevators, and Handicap Accessibility
One subway system, though not designed to be handicap accessible, is rapidly becoming more so. Stairs are kept in good repair. Escalators sometimes malfunction, but as there are three or four escalators at each escalator bank, there is always at least one functioning in each direction. Elevators are not necessary in the system.
The other system is run by people who claim that handicap accessibility is impossibly costly. Stairs at many stations are broken, and the same people claim the system "lacks the technology" to repair them. Escalators exist in a few, high-profile stations in the city center but frequently malfunction or break down entirely. Elevators exist in only a few places and often reek of urine.
Category 8: Quality of Announcements
One subway system delivers station announcements at every station that are clearly audible in the local language.
The other delivers even service announcements in a garbled and incomprehensible way, through the mouths of people who barely speak the local language and seem determined to be as rude as humanly possible. The system intercoms frequently malfunction.
I am going to describe two subway systems to you. One is located in Country A, the economic and cultural capital of one of the wealthiest and most powerful nations that has ever existed, a country that is a colossus of economic and military power. The other is located in Country B, the capital of a country that has barely emerged from the third world, where power outages are not uncommon and hot water supplies get turned off for two or three weeks every summer.
Your goal is to guess which description goes with which subway system.
Category 1: Planning and Organization
One subway system exhibits excellent planning. Transfer points are always in the middle or at the end of platforms. Signage is clear and readable in the local language. All cars can run on any track. Its newest line opened toward the end of the 1970s, and an important extension of one line into and through the city center proceeds apace.
The other subway system is a hodgepodge of three different systems, two of them built by private companies, one by the city after a takeover designed to prevent the system's collapse. No new lines have opened on it since the 1930s, and one projected line that has never been built has become a symbol of government corruption and ineptitude.
Category 2: Beauty and Cleanliness
One subway system is the pride of its city and is decorated with statues, columns, murals, frescos, and mosaics depicting great military battles, leaders, and poets of the country's history. It is kept spotlessly clean.
The other system is decorated with peeling paint and is a practically a monument to grime.
Category 3: Frequency of Trains
One subway system operates trains at two-minute intervals during the day, five-minute intervals late at night. Passengers always have a rough idea when a train will be coming because a clock at either end of the platform indicates how long it has been since the last train left the station.
The other system has lines that go by names like "Never," "Rarely" and "Ghost" because of their infrequency of operation.
Category 4: Repair and Maintenance
One subway system is shut down for four and a half fours every night to allow for proper maintenance and repair of cars, track, and other infrastructure.
The other system never shuts down at night but subjects riders to a transit nightmare every weekend as some lines shut down, others run at slower speeds, and still others run on alternate tracks and lines.
Category 5: Price
One subway system offers a monthly pass for $52 a month that covers all subway, bus, trolley, and trolleybus operations within the city, for that calendar month.
The other system charges $83 a month for a similar level of coverage.
Category 6: Passenger Conveniences
One subway system provides adequate benches all along the track for passengers to sit in and wait for the next train, even though these trains arrive at very short intervals.
The other system provides few benches in most stations and in some none at all, even though trains arrive less frequently. Additionally, transit police frequently fine people for sitting on subway steps, even at times pregnant women.
Category 7: Stairs, Escalators, Elevators, and Handicap Accessibility
One subway system, though not designed to be handicap accessible, is rapidly becoming more so. Stairs are kept in good repair. Escalators sometimes malfunction, but as there are three or four escalators at each escalator bank, there is always at least one functioning in each direction. Elevators are not necessary in the system.
The other system is run by people who claim that handicap accessibility is impossibly costly. Stairs at many stations are broken, and the same people claim the system "lacks the technology" to repair them. Escalators exist in a few, high-profile stations in the city center but frequently malfunction or break down entirely. Elevators exist in only a few places and often reek of urine.
Category 8: Quality of Announcements
One subway system delivers station announcements at every station that are clearly audible in the local language.
The other delivers even service announcements in a garbled and incomprehensible way, through the mouths of people who barely speak the local language and seem determined to be as rude as humanly possible. The system intercoms frequently malfunction.
Killing Paris Hilton
One fun aspect of teaching EFL is that you occasionally get to indulge long-held (or short-held) fantasies. A week ago, I got to indulge one of mine: I got to kill Paris Hilton.
There's a classic EFL came called "Alibi" that works as follows:
1) You tell the class there was a murder the previous night. You can choose anyone you want as the "victim"--another teacher, a celebrity or "celebrity" a la Miss Hilton, anyone will do.
2) Two students are chosen as the suspects in the murder. They have to try to get their story straight.
3) The rest of the class interviews the two suspects separately and decides if they are guilty.
The point of the game is to get students to practice the past continuous ("What were you doing last night at 7:00").
So I chose to off Paris Hilton, as this is someone I was sure my students would know of, and enjoy seeing "killed". Russians are as hard-pressed as Americans to name any achievement or talent that enables Miss Hilton to enjoy her current level of fame.
My students did admirably. The suspects got their story pretty straight, and were let off the hook.
There's a classic EFL came called "Alibi" that works as follows:
1) You tell the class there was a murder the previous night. You can choose anyone you want as the "victim"--another teacher, a celebrity or "celebrity" a la Miss Hilton, anyone will do.
2) Two students are chosen as the suspects in the murder. They have to try to get their story straight.
3) The rest of the class interviews the two suspects separately and decides if they are guilty.
The point of the game is to get students to practice the past continuous ("What were you doing last night at 7:00").
So I chose to off Paris Hilton, as this is someone I was sure my students would know of, and enjoy seeing "killed". Russians are as hard-pressed as Americans to name any achievement or talent that enables Miss Hilton to enjoy her current level of fame.
My students did admirably. The suspects got their story pretty straight, and were let off the hook.
01 June 2008
Reading the Sears Catalogue
One minor irritation I've discovered in my brief time teaching English as a foreign language is that so many EFL/ESL students are not taught correctly how to ask for a bathroom in English. Almost to a man, they ask to go to the "toilet", not the "bathroom" or "restroom"--possibly because British people are less reticent about using the word "toilet" than Americans, but also, I suspect, because "toilet" belongs to the same class of international words as telephone and taxi. I am trying to make a point of correcting this error whenever it pops up. If a student asks to go to the "toilet," I make a point of correcting the error on the blackboard before I let him or her go. Last week, I managed to get at least one class of English language learners to start asking for the toilet politely.
Doing what Americans used to call "reading the Sears Catalogue", I am finding, can pose real challenges in Moscow. The supply of public restrooms is far from adequate for the number of people here. In many places, the only real option is to make use of port-a-potties private companies have set up on the street. These come complete with a provodnitsa (woman attendant--they are invariably female) who rations toilet paper.
Naturally, answering nature's call at one of these facilities comes with a price--generally about 15 to 20 rubles (about 65 to 85 cents). As I find the idea of paying to relieve myself outrageous, I make a point of using restaurant bathrooms even when I don't have to go that badly.
The lack of sufficient public toilets leads to some interesting social phenomena in Moscow. Where American restaurants and hotels try to keep out non-patrons who want only to use the restroom, at least insisting they buy a soda before they use the facilities, in Moscow it is perfectly acceptable to go into a restaurant or hotel for no other purpose than to "read the Sears Catalogue". On one occasion, desperately having to go, I resorted to paying 20 rubles to use a restaurant bathroom. In America, this would be seen as very strange. In Russia, it doesn't raise an eyebrow.
Doing what Americans used to call "reading the Sears Catalogue", I am finding, can pose real challenges in Moscow. The supply of public restrooms is far from adequate for the number of people here. In many places, the only real option is to make use of port-a-potties private companies have set up on the street. These come complete with a provodnitsa (woman attendant--they are invariably female) who rations toilet paper.
Naturally, answering nature's call at one of these facilities comes with a price--generally about 15 to 20 rubles (about 65 to 85 cents). As I find the idea of paying to relieve myself outrageous, I make a point of using restaurant bathrooms even when I don't have to go that badly.
The lack of sufficient public toilets leads to some interesting social phenomena in Moscow. Where American restaurants and hotels try to keep out non-patrons who want only to use the restroom, at least insisting they buy a soda before they use the facilities, in Moscow it is perfectly acceptable to go into a restaurant or hotel for no other purpose than to "read the Sears Catalogue". On one occasion, desperately having to go, I resorted to paying 20 rubles to use a restaurant bathroom. In America, this would be seen as very strange. In Russia, it doesn't raise an eyebrow.
Dancing at the Lubyanka
Perhaps the only serious disappointment Moscow has afforded me so far is its apparent lack of a really good English-language bookstore, or even a good English-language section in a Russian bookstore. Whereas Taipei had Page One, a spawling store in Tapei 101 that could have passed for the 82nd Street Barnes & Noble but for a few signs in Chinese, Moscow seems to lack anything as good. I have been to just about every bookstore mentioned in my Rough Guide, and so far always come out disappointed.
English-language bookstores, and English-language sections of Russian bookstores, fall into one depressing, invariable pattern. Half the titles on display are dictionaries, usage guides, and EFL coursebooks; the other half are either Penguin editions of British and American classics or frothy bestsellers like Bridget Jones's Diary. Books in English about Russian history and culture--what I currently require--are as rare as rickshaws in Rostov na Donu.
Saturday, I had intended to go back to Chabad--it's located a mere two blocks from my apartment, it turns out--but woke up far too late. I decided instead to check out one of the bookstores listed in my guidebook that I had not so far made it to. When it disappointed me as much as the others--the only history book on display was Robert Service's history of post-Soviet Russia, which I finished before leaving home--I set out on a stroll through the section of Moscow I was in, the area around the Lubyanka, former headquarters of the KGB.
After about twenty minutes, I found myself at Chistie Prudie, one Metro stop away from the Lubyanka, an area I had been to the previous week when I joined some other teachers for a beer at a place near the Chistie Prudie Metro station. I also found myself hungry and so stopped in at a little cafe there for some kotleti (beef or chicken meatballs in sauce) and a chai s'lemonom (tea with lemon).
Seated in the cafe, I noticed a man exuberantly dancing in the square outside. I took him for a lunatic and went back to my meal. But on exiting the cafe, I heard the unistakable strain of rock 'n' roll music emanating from a nearby park and realized this dancer was far from crazy. And, more specifically, I heard the strains of Chuck Berry's "Rock 'n' Roll Music" ("Give me that rock 'n' roll music / If you want to dance with me"). I decided to go into the park and have a listen.
The source of the music was a live Russian band playing a mix of Russian and English rock classics. After a couple of sluggish Russian ballads, the band broke into "Johnny B. Goode".
I can't say the crowd went wild. No underwear was thrown, no candles lit. But several people in the audience sang along, seeming to know every word as well as I do. And, to top it off, one elderly Russian couple--they must have been seventy if they were a day--started to boogie down, in front of everyone.
There was something touching, yet also something vaguely unreal, in the whole scene. Here I was, literally within walking distance of the erstwhile KGB headquarters, seeing people clap and dance to "Johnny B. Goode" like a bunch of 1950s American teenagers. By all right such a scene should have been impossible. And yet there it was, in broad daylight.
I have written before about how much Russia has apparently changed since the Soviet days. But this was on another level. I could never have believed, before I came to this country, that American pop culture could penetrate so far into what was once the capital of world Communism.
And I danced to, in you and in awe.
English-language bookstores, and English-language sections of Russian bookstores, fall into one depressing, invariable pattern. Half the titles on display are dictionaries, usage guides, and EFL coursebooks; the other half are either Penguin editions of British and American classics or frothy bestsellers like Bridget Jones's Diary. Books in English about Russian history and culture--what I currently require--are as rare as rickshaws in Rostov na Donu.
Saturday, I had intended to go back to Chabad--it's located a mere two blocks from my apartment, it turns out--but woke up far too late. I decided instead to check out one of the bookstores listed in my guidebook that I had not so far made it to. When it disappointed me as much as the others--the only history book on display was Robert Service's history of post-Soviet Russia, which I finished before leaving home--I set out on a stroll through the section of Moscow I was in, the area around the Lubyanka, former headquarters of the KGB.
After about twenty minutes, I found myself at Chistie Prudie, one Metro stop away from the Lubyanka, an area I had been to the previous week when I joined some other teachers for a beer at a place near the Chistie Prudie Metro station. I also found myself hungry and so stopped in at a little cafe there for some kotleti (beef or chicken meatballs in sauce) and a chai s'lemonom (tea with lemon).
Seated in the cafe, I noticed a man exuberantly dancing in the square outside. I took him for a lunatic and went back to my meal. But on exiting the cafe, I heard the unistakable strain of rock 'n' roll music emanating from a nearby park and realized this dancer was far from crazy. And, more specifically, I heard the strains of Chuck Berry's "Rock 'n' Roll Music" ("Give me that rock 'n' roll music / If you want to dance with me"). I decided to go into the park and have a listen.
The source of the music was a live Russian band playing a mix of Russian and English rock classics. After a couple of sluggish Russian ballads, the band broke into "Johnny B. Goode".
I can't say the crowd went wild. No underwear was thrown, no candles lit. But several people in the audience sang along, seeming to know every word as well as I do. And, to top it off, one elderly Russian couple--they must have been seventy if they were a day--started to boogie down, in front of everyone.
There was something touching, yet also something vaguely unreal, in the whole scene. Here I was, literally within walking distance of the erstwhile KGB headquarters, seeing people clap and dance to "Johnny B. Goode" like a bunch of 1950s American teenagers. By all right such a scene should have been impossible. And yet there it was, in broad daylight.
I have written before about how much Russia has apparently changed since the Soviet days. But this was on another level. I could never have believed, before I came to this country, that American pop culture could penetrate so far into what was once the capital of world Communism.
And I danced to, in you and in awe.
When Schlemiel Went to Moscow
When I was in the fifth grade, I remember reading an Isaac Bashevis Singer story called "When Schlemiel Went to Warsaw." The story was about a simpleton named Schlemiel who, dissatisfied with his life in the tiny shtetl of Chelm, decided to set off for Warsaw. After he had walked a full day, he became tired and lay down to sleep by the side of the road. To remember which way to walk in the morning, he placed his boots with the toes pointed toward Warsaw.
Schlemiel's arrival in Warsaw was not to be, however, for as soon as Schlemiel fell asleep, a mischievous peasant who has seen him put his boots toward Warsaw turned them around. When Schlemiel awoke in the morning, he began waling, and soon found himself back in Chelm.
At first, Schlemiel was befuddled. But then he remembered something he had heard the wise men of Chelm say: the earth is the same everywhere. From this, Schlemiel concluded that he had return not to Chelm at all but rather arrived in another village exactly like the one he had left.
I thought of poor Schlemiel this Friday evening as I made my way from Chabad-Lubavitch of Central Moscow. On coming to Moscow, I had expected to find a Jewish community still in the throes of Soviet repression. What I found instead matched descriptions I have heard of Chabad houses in Manhattan. Although my guidebook described the building as having been built in 1926--the only synagogue constructed in Moscow during the whole of the Soviet era, it said--what I found instead was a far newer building that could just as easily have been the Hillel on an American college campus, right down to the tacky donor plaques bearing the name of wealthy American Jewish businessmen. The service followed a format we liberal Jews refer to as "Ortho-mumble"--prayer approaching the speed of light, difficult for outsiders to follow.
When I entered the building, I had initially been unsure whether I was in the right place, as I did not know if I had been right in interpreting "Evreuski" on the building's exterior as "Jewish". I made an inquiry in halting Russian and was told to speak into a cell phone to someone who spoke English. This turned out to be the Chabad rabbi, who told me I was indeed in the right place and invited me to stay for Shabbat dinner.
Shabbat dinner at Chabad Moscow was about what one might expect at any Chabad house, with only a few minor diffrences from Shabbat dinners I have experienced Stateside. A first course of zakusi (appetizers) was served, though these naturally differed from standard Russian zakusi, which are usually pork-based. I availed myself of some Israeli salad and smoke salmon, piling the latter on top of my challah. Smoked salmon--I can't quite call it lox--is popular with Jewish and non-Jewish Russians alike, but Russian Jews seem not to know they're supposed to enjoy it with round bread products and cream cheese. Ah well--not all remains the same when one ventures outside of Chelm.
The main course consisted of something the Chabadniks called schnitzel, though it resembled in no way the schnitzel I remembered from Shabbat meals in Columbia/Barnard Hillel. It was neither breaded nor fried. Some day I would like someone to point out chapter and verse of the Talmud requiring Shabbat dinner to be chicken, but I doubt that day will be soon.
Overall, the experience of being at Chabad was both comforting and disappointing. It was comforting because it was good to find solid proof that, the whole world over, kiddush (the traditional Jewish blessing over wine before the Shabbat meal) is kuddish, ha motzi (the blessing over bread) is still ha motzi, and the Grace After Meals is still the Grace After Meals. But it was disappointing in the sense that I got no real sense of being in a specifically Russian Jewish community. I witnessed no particular local minhagim (customs) on which I can report.
It is not only the Jewish community in Moscow that makes me wonder if Schlemiel didn't have it right--if the earth is indeed the same everywhere. These days, Coke and Pepsi are far easier to find in Moscow than Communist propaganda. When I left New York eight months ago, banks were creeping into every available crevice along Broadway and Amsterdam Avenue; now, having seen Citibank signs in Taiwan and Hong Kong, I find Citibank signs in Cyrillic all over what somtimes feels like the Far Upper East Side.
Twenty years ago, it was world news when a McDonald's opened up on Pushkinskaya Ploshad--a clear harbinger of a coming world in which Russians too would be free to scarf down Big Macs and chocolate shakes. But I find neither promise nor excitement when I walk into a Moscow McDonald's today. The one Mickey D's in Pushkinskaya Ploshad has multiplied into branches all over the city. The counter people may speak Russian, but the menu is unmistakably American, its items barely translated. There are perfectly good Russian words for "chicken nuggets" and "Big and Tasty," but at McDonald's, Cyrillic transliterations are used in preference to them. Russians may still be wild about having an "American" experience when they go to McDonald's, but to a real American, seeing the Golden Arches spread across a land famous for borsch and pelmeni makes you wonder why you bothered crossing the Baltic.
Here in this second Chelm, I find myself oddly nostalgic for the first one I left eight months ago. Don't get me wrong--Moscow is everything I thought it would be, and more--but I know I'll want to find my way home soon. I have been looking at graduate programs all over the United States, but I find myself most attracted to ones that will bring me back, at least temporarily, to New York.
Close to the end of Isaac Bashevis Singer's story, an exchange occurs between Schlemiel and his wife. Convinced she is not the woman he married but a facsimile in a second Chelm, Schlemiel claims he doesn't have to work and support her. His wife retorts that, in that case, she doesn't have to cook his dinner and darn his socks.
In that respect, at least, I know better than Schlemiel. For all of its Coca-Cola and Citibanks, for all of its ads for Caribbean vacations and Carrie Bradshaw wannabes, Moscow is not New York. But if I am able to return to New York at the end of my contract, I will be more faithful to her.
Schlemiel's arrival in Warsaw was not to be, however, for as soon as Schlemiel fell asleep, a mischievous peasant who has seen him put his boots toward Warsaw turned them around. When Schlemiel awoke in the morning, he began waling, and soon found himself back in Chelm.
At first, Schlemiel was befuddled. But then he remembered something he had heard the wise men of Chelm say: the earth is the same everywhere. From this, Schlemiel concluded that he had return not to Chelm at all but rather arrived in another village exactly like the one he had left.
I thought of poor Schlemiel this Friday evening as I made my way from Chabad-Lubavitch of Central Moscow. On coming to Moscow, I had expected to find a Jewish community still in the throes of Soviet repression. What I found instead matched descriptions I have heard of Chabad houses in Manhattan. Although my guidebook described the building as having been built in 1926--the only synagogue constructed in Moscow during the whole of the Soviet era, it said--what I found instead was a far newer building that could just as easily have been the Hillel on an American college campus, right down to the tacky donor plaques bearing the name of wealthy American Jewish businessmen. The service followed a format we liberal Jews refer to as "Ortho-mumble"--prayer approaching the speed of light, difficult for outsiders to follow.
When I entered the building, I had initially been unsure whether I was in the right place, as I did not know if I had been right in interpreting "Evreuski" on the building's exterior as "Jewish". I made an inquiry in halting Russian and was told to speak into a cell phone to someone who spoke English. This turned out to be the Chabad rabbi, who told me I was indeed in the right place and invited me to stay for Shabbat dinner.
Shabbat dinner at Chabad Moscow was about what one might expect at any Chabad house, with only a few minor diffrences from Shabbat dinners I have experienced Stateside. A first course of zakusi (appetizers) was served, though these naturally differed from standard Russian zakusi, which are usually pork-based. I availed myself of some Israeli salad and smoke salmon, piling the latter on top of my challah. Smoked salmon--I can't quite call it lox--is popular with Jewish and non-Jewish Russians alike, but Russian Jews seem not to know they're supposed to enjoy it with round bread products and cream cheese. Ah well--not all remains the same when one ventures outside of Chelm.
The main course consisted of something the Chabadniks called schnitzel, though it resembled in no way the schnitzel I remembered from Shabbat meals in Columbia/Barnard Hillel. It was neither breaded nor fried. Some day I would like someone to point out chapter and verse of the Talmud requiring Shabbat dinner to be chicken, but I doubt that day will be soon.
Overall, the experience of being at Chabad was both comforting and disappointing. It was comforting because it was good to find solid proof that, the whole world over, kiddush (the traditional Jewish blessing over wine before the Shabbat meal) is kuddish, ha motzi (the blessing over bread) is still ha motzi, and the Grace After Meals is still the Grace After Meals. But it was disappointing in the sense that I got no real sense of being in a specifically Russian Jewish community. I witnessed no particular local minhagim (customs) on which I can report.
It is not only the Jewish community in Moscow that makes me wonder if Schlemiel didn't have it right--if the earth is indeed the same everywhere. These days, Coke and Pepsi are far easier to find in Moscow than Communist propaganda. When I left New York eight months ago, banks were creeping into every available crevice along Broadway and Amsterdam Avenue; now, having seen Citibank signs in Taiwan and Hong Kong, I find Citibank signs in Cyrillic all over what somtimes feels like the Far Upper East Side.
Twenty years ago, it was world news when a McDonald's opened up on Pushkinskaya Ploshad--a clear harbinger of a coming world in which Russians too would be free to scarf down Big Macs and chocolate shakes. But I find neither promise nor excitement when I walk into a Moscow McDonald's today. The one Mickey D's in Pushkinskaya Ploshad has multiplied into branches all over the city. The counter people may speak Russian, but the menu is unmistakably American, its items barely translated. There are perfectly good Russian words for "chicken nuggets" and "Big and Tasty," but at McDonald's, Cyrillic transliterations are used in preference to them. Russians may still be wild about having an "American" experience when they go to McDonald's, but to a real American, seeing the Golden Arches spread across a land famous for borsch and pelmeni makes you wonder why you bothered crossing the Baltic.
Here in this second Chelm, I find myself oddly nostalgic for the first one I left eight months ago. Don't get me wrong--Moscow is everything I thought it would be, and more--but I know I'll want to find my way home soon. I have been looking at graduate programs all over the United States, but I find myself most attracted to ones that will bring me back, at least temporarily, to New York.
Close to the end of Isaac Bashevis Singer's story, an exchange occurs between Schlemiel and his wife. Convinced she is not the woman he married but a facsimile in a second Chelm, Schlemiel claims he doesn't have to work and support her. His wife retorts that, in that case, she doesn't have to cook his dinner and darn his socks.
In that respect, at least, I know better than Schlemiel. For all of its Coca-Cola and Citibanks, for all of its ads for Caribbean vacations and Carrie Bradshaw wannabes, Moscow is not New York. But if I am able to return to New York at the end of my contract, I will be more faithful to her.
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