Magadan: The Cold

Everyone I talked to in Vlad was sure I was going to come back an ice cube, and they seemed to take great pleasure in telling me it was going to be fifty below. However, the temperatures in Magadan were quite nice. They were much colder at the beginning of the trip, an average of thirty below in Fahrenheit, but by the end we were roasting in minus seven or eight Celsius (19-22 Fahrenheit).

The first few days were a shock, the cold was intense. Being outside went something like this: first, you go out and feel just fine, because as long as there isn't much wind, and you have the right clothes on, it's not so bad. You start walking, and any tiny puff of wind slices right through any jacket you have and it literally takes your breath away. Your hands are the first to go; your fingers becoming stiff and white, even in the warmest gloves. Next, your toes start to go numb and you feel like there are five marbles attached to your foot. It takes longer for your face to freeze. Of course your nose instantly becomes the color of a tomato, but after a few minutes your cheeks are so cold they feel hot. Then your lips freeze so that your speech becomes a bit slurred and smiling for a photo looks like you're in intense pain. Perhaps the worst part are your legs, especially your thighs; they freeze within minutes and every time you take a step hot bolts of pain shoot up and down. Within ten minutes you are frozen solid, but the good part is that once you can't feel anything, it's all the same anyways. The longest we lasted outside was an hour. We had walked to the sea, to walk on the ice. On the way back we had to run from shop to shop, where we would warm up for a few minutes.The freezing process would begin again as soon as we stepped outside. However it seemed to get faster and faster each time. 

But, overall it wasn't as bad as I had thought, and the temperatures never seemed to keep anyone indoors. There were always people out and about. The city was so compact we went everywhere by foot anyways, so I spent quite a bit of time outside. 

Taking photos was a problem. Taking your hands out your gloves was a painful practice. Even if your fingers did work well enough to take the picture, the camera often died in the cold. On one particularly cold day there was a parade of people all dressed as Santa Clause. They marched through the town to the theatre, where a huge Christmas tree was set up (well, it was actually for New Years). There was a small marching band that played. I don't know how they played without their lips freezing to their instruments. However, they all had covers for their instruments. The tuba was all swathed in a wool bag-thing, with the golden horn sticking out. The clarinet player actually had a sock for his that he could put his hands into and play. The trombone slide was covered, and the trumpeters wrapped their hands up with their trumpet. It was quite funny to see.

Going to Magadan

(The Rotary Club in Magadan invited all of the district exchange students to come visit for Christmas. There are only ten of us from the Ural Mountains to the Pacific Ocean, and four are located in Magadan. Of the remaining six, two of us were able to make the trip. I flew from Vladivostok to Magadan on December 15 and stayed there until December 28.)

We had to wake up at 3:30 in the morning. It was still quite dark, and no one was awake enough to get any breakfast. I think I had a cookie, maybe. I had packed my bag the night before so there wasn't much to do. We shuffled through the fresh snow to the car and were on our way to the airport. Dad was driving, and I sat in the back, next to Maddy, my dear Australian friend who had decided to come to the airport with me as it was the last time we would see each other since she was going home in a couple of days. We cranked the iPod to our favorite songs, as the snow swirled around the car. 

We made it to the airport at 5:00. I was interested to see how grueling security would be, and how long I would have to wait in registration. Everything was relatively painless. For registration, they took my passport for a few seconds, threw my bag onto the conveyor belt, I was handed my ticket, and that was that. Security was even faster. I put my coat and belt into a tub, put my purse in another and there was no line whatsoever. 

The airport was small, just the one terminal with seven or eight gates. I found my gate (not that it was that hard) and waited to board. The flight was relatively full, which surprised me, because based on people's reactions to hearing I was going to Magadan, I expected there to be just myself and a few political prisoners on the flight. We had to wait a few minutes for the plane to be de-iced, then slowly coasted through the snow to the runway, which was also covered in snow, and under that was ice. The plane jerked from side to side as it roared down the runway, the bumpy ice grabbing the wheels. It was no smoother in the air, but the turbulence was gone in a few minutes. 

After a few hours' stop in a city called Habarovsk,  we landed in Magadan. We all got off the plane and boarded a bus that took us to a tiny airport building across the tarmac. There I was met by my Magadan host family, all four exchange students and three Rotary members! It was quite the welcoming committee. I was so excited to see the other kids. They walked through the door on the other side of the hall, and we all ran towards one another and collided into one big hug. It was so good to see them. 

I knew it was going to be a great trip.

Ice Fishing

I had no sooner gotten back from Magadan than I got a call from Vincent, the Taiwanese Rotary exchange student, inviting me to go ice finishing with him and a friend of ours. I jumped at the chance, and was the most excited about going fishing than I have ever been.

I had to wake up early, before it was light. I stumbled about, rubbing my sleepy eyes, trying not to wake everyone else. I filled a thermos with hot tea and bundled up with two sweaters, two pairs of socks, padded pants, several pairs of gloves, a scarf, my hat, and then my coat and boots. I had to wait forty minutes for the bus to meet my friends in the city center; thus by the time we even got to the ocean my feet were freezing. There were four of us going:Vincent, his host brother Andrey, and our friend Denis, who was the one who actually had the equipment. 

We made our way across the ice to about fifty meters out, where we drilled our first holes. Denis was equipped with a fishing box and the drill. The drill was a hefty thing, about as tall as Denis himself, shaped much like an old fashioned hand-powered drill. He drilled four holes in the ice, each about two meters apart. He leaned on the top of the drill, and cranked the middle handle. The snow and ice was brought up and out of the hole, and was churned into a soft moundaround the drill head. The ice at the first spot was about six inches deep, but farther out where we fished later, it was almost half a meter. 

After sinking the holes, Denis opened his box and pulled out four fishing poles, each about a foot long. They were electric green plastic, and had fishing lines with six or seven hooks, each six inches apart, with pieces of bright, colorful plastic stuck onto them. Each of us dropped our lines into our holes and lightly bobbed them up and down. We repeated this process in two places, and we would have continued, except for the fact that we weren't even getting bites.

It was a beautiful, cold morning, with not a cloud in sight. Across the ice there were figures, maybe fifty in all, of other ice fishermen hunched over on their boxes, bobbing their poles up and down. The bay was completely frozen, and you could walk all the way across to the islands on the other side. "About an hour's walk," said Denis. Ships plowthrough the ice to get to the open sea; the paths they cut freezing over, creating slick, blue rivers through the snow-covered ice, which we slipped across to get  to the good fishing spots. 

The city was spread along the shoreline, and I could even see my apartment building a ways away. Turning in a circle, I saw my city: the white expanse of ice dotted with ice fishermen, out across that, the snow covered islands,and finally the break to the open ocean. My sight was lined with the fur on my hood, and I felt quite Russian.

The only drawback was the cold. The temperature wasn't too bad, and the wind was hardly noticeable; however, no matter how thick the soles of your boots are, the cold from the ice seeps through to your feet, and there is no relief. My feet suffered the worst, my hands were swollen by the time I got home, and towards the end, the cold even seeped through my coat, sweatshirt and sweater. I couldn't feel my legs, so I don't know how they felt. I don't know how Denis sits on the ice for hours fishing, as he goes quite often. He didn't seem to be affected by the cold as he layon the snow, texted with bare fingers, and drank coke, slushy with ice. 

We returned frozen and empty-handed, but it was a fantastic experience. I limped home, as I forgot money for the bus, and was happy to finally be here, with a hot cup of tea. 

The Ball

Several weeks ago I was sitting in the kitchen when my host dad walked in and told my sister and I that we were going to dance classes.  The waltzing kind. Despite the well known fact that I can't dance, I was excited.

For the first class I had no idea what to wear, and after going round and round and thinking very intensely about my dilemma, I decided that jeans and a t-shirt never fails. I slipped on my red Keds because I didn't have anything else. That first class was successful. And by successful I mean I didn't fall over or hurt anything and I could follow most of the dances. The people at the classes ranged in age and were incredibly kind. I enjoyed their company and the lessons continued. I think I improved, although I wastold that I needed to dance more like a fairy and less like a horse. But other than that, I learned several dances and figured out how to waltz.

After about three weeks of twice-weekly lessons everyone started talking about a ball. Like, a real ball, with big poofy dresses, elbow length gloves and lace fans. I was excited until I realized I didn't have a dress. Or gloves, or a fan, or even the right shoes. I thought for sure I'd end up going in my super fashionable trusty red Keds. However, I bought the ticket and thought I'd worry about the dress later. After the dance class, Victoria (the one I had tea with) said she had a dress I could use if I wanted. She had made it herself, and it meant a lot to me that she let me wear it. The skirt was a deep blue trimmed in black lace, complete with a bustle and a train in the back. The corset was a marbled pattern of purples and blues. She gave me a pair of elbow-length gloves and a gorgeous fan, both black lace. I felt well prepared for the ball.

The night of the ball we drove out of the city a ways to the Marine University. It was an interesting building, and like most in Russia, had concrete floors and pale walls. We changed in the locker rooms that opened off of the basketball court. In the ladies' locker room, it was quite crowded to begin with, and once you added all the enormous skirts, in a sea of sequins and silk, it was simply impassable.

Eventually we all trickled out and into the ballroom. I don't know what the room would be used for normally. It was big, with a bar, a balcony that went all the way around three walls, a stage, and on the upper balcony a room that resembled the bridge of a real ship. The dance floor was lined with plush chairs, and there were blue and white decorations on the walls. The ball began with a promenade; everyone paired up and slowly walked around the floor. It was quite the sight, with about sixty couples (and everyone said this was the small ball).

The ball lasted several hours, dance after dance went by. Waltzes, mazurkas, polkas and folk dances, the music played by the live orchestra on the stage. It was something straight out of a fairy tale to see such beautiful girls, dolled up with studded hair pins, satin gloves and stunning gowns, swinging round and round the floor, their skirts swirling out as they spun. It was magical. 

They had a game where everyone was given a piece of paper shaped like a heart, the women gave their heart to whomever they thought was the most handsome man, and the men gave theirs to the most beautiful woman. At the end of the ball, the hearts were counted and the king and queen of the ball were crowned. They danced the final dance as small confetti canons let loose, and glittering sheets of silver and blue paper floated down around them.

It was a wonderful evening, something I never thought I would have ever experienced. It was so interesting to me that such a tradition continues and is very important to their culture. Something so novel to me was perfectly normal for them! I enjoyed dancing, watching and chatting,  There are several balls a month in Vladivostok; the others much bigger than this one. One woman said there were over 300 people at the biggest one. This probably wasn't the only ball I'll attend.

We went home tired and foot sore, but the waltzes played over and over again in my head all night long...

Never Drink Tea Alone

Never Drink Tea Alone 

There is nothing more Russian than tea; well, maybe bears dancing in a birch forest or fur-clad Russians playing balalaika music and eating borscht. Those are pretty Russian too, but since they're not very common, tea is the next best thing. 

I went to tea today at the home of a lovely woman named Victoria. She met me at a bus stop and we set off to her apartment. We walked through the swirling snow, leaving crisp footprints in the fluffy white blanket that covered the ground. Kids resembling the little brother in The Christmas Story, bundled to within an inch of their lives, ran (or should I say 'waddled') past, delighted by the snow. We passed an older gentleman who obviously felt the opposite about the snow. As for me, I always become a complete toddler at the first minuscule flake.

Victoria's apartment building was a ways from the bus stop, and stood on the edge of a steep hill. It was in a very quiet neighborhood she described as "the sleepy district." It was completely silent, something you never hear in this city. There wasn't a sound and it was deafening; strange here, but familiar to someone who grew up in my hometown. 

Her apartment was neat as a pin, and had a gorgeous view. I never get tired of seeing other people's apartments. They are all different from each other, but unmistakably Russian. There were big windows, and it was very bright despite all the clouds. As for the tea, like all tea here, it was strong and scorching hot, accompanied by an army of cookies, chocolates and then a plate of cheese. (Never a day goes by in Russia without consuming some amount of cheese). 

Victoria works as a translator, and speaks very good English. We talked and talked, and listened to classical music. She told me about her trip to Moscow, where she saw the inside of the Kremlin and an opera at the Bolshoi Theatre. She talked of how beautiful St. Petersburg is, and about her travels to the Caucasus. She told me her dreams of traveling to Thailand and Paris.  She also talked a little bit about her childhood, about growing up in the Soviet Union, at which time Vladivostok was a closed city. I asked her how life had changed as the city was opened. She said she couldn't tell, since she was a child when the city was closed, and life always seemed the same to her as the city opened. However, she did say that as the city opened, so did the opportunities. 

I enjoyed talking to her, hearing about her life and family. I realized we're not so different, the Russians and us. Our cultures are different and our languages are different, but we're all just people. We have the same problems, the same joys.

Something as simple as sharing a pot of tea with someone is such a huge part of Russian culture. Taking time out of busy days to spend it with friends is very important, but something, I think, that has been forgotten in our own culture, and it's a shame. The Russian culture is all about people. Sure, they all have their hobbies, sports, dance, projects, but those are not the focus of their lives. They don't live to do things. People are at the center of this culture, people are the priority. Relationships are valued, long lasting and meaningful. 

I used to think people here led such dull lives; they weren't always rushing off to the next activity, or booking their calendars for weeks in advance. A lot of times people have nothing to do in the afternoons, every afternoon. The pace of life here is slower. People actually sit on park benches, instead of just jetting by them. They go on long walks for no other reason than walking, not necessarily for exercise, or to get somewhere, but just to walk. They sit at cafes for hours chatting, even when the tea pot is empty and the staff are putting the chairs up on the tables. Life here is laid back and spontaneous. It is still novel to me when people here have "nothing to do." They simply pick up their phone, call a friend, and spend their day with them. It's something so foreign to me. I'm used to any sort of get together being planned out perfectly, with everything short of a coordinated timetable for the day. Here people often don't even know what they'll do as they plan to meet, they just meet and spend time together. 

It's just not the Russian way to drink tea alone.

Why am I here?

I can't help but notice a general confusion about why, exactly, I am here. Many people whom I talk to immediately ask why an American would be in their city. When I say I'm on exchange, they then ask what I'm studying at University. After I explain I'm still in high school they don't understand at all why I'm there. I am always asked these questions: "So, you want to study in Russia later on?," "You want to live in Russia someday?," "This is required for a language program?" It seems that the whole idea of youth exchange for the sake of experiencing a different language and culture is generally misunderstood. They are confused why a foreigner, especially an American, would want to live in their country and experience their culture. 

Last week I called up a friend of mine to come have some tea. She and I sat in my kitchen for hours drinking cup after cup of tea and eating a staggering amount of cookies. We talked until we exhausted all of her English and all my Russian, and at every lull in the conversation she would look at me and say, "Why Russia!? Why?! You are American, why Russia?!" 

Yesterday I went to dance lessons with my mom and sister. Yeah, I laughed too. Me! Dancing! Haha! I resembled something like a drunk orangutan trying to waltz. The poor boy I was dancing with! He's probably icing his feet as I write this. Anyways, it was fun, and they were awfully nice people. However, one lady said to me, "It is strange for us to see an American girl here, learning how to waltz." I wanted to ask, "Am I that bad?" But I bit my tongue and explained what I was doing there. 

On one occasion, my Australian exchange student friend, Maddy, and I went to buy coats at the huge Chinese Market here in Vladivostok. It's a massive, sprawling building packed with stall after stall of Chinese goods; mainly shoes, clothes and accessories, but you could find anything there, for next to nothing. The Chinese accents are hard to understand to begin with, but near impossible for me. That left Maddy to do the haggling, and she managed to get us some great deals on top of the deal that is the Chinese Market. It was interesting to see the community between the vendors. They hollered to each other in rapid-fire Chinese and were continually running between stalls. It never got old: the reaction of the vendors to find we were not Russian. They were impressed that Maddy was from Australia, but were even more surprised that I was American. One vendor couldn't get over the fact that we were there. I suppose they don't get many foreigners there; it's not exactly a tourist attraction. 

I count myself blessed to be able to go to church here. The congregation is incredibly warm, welcoming and kind. There is an interpreter who is there every Sunday and translates everything for me. She had a hard time understanding how the Rotary program worked and why I would want to come to Russia. The fact that I simply sit in a regular Russian school even when I don't understand Russian confused her, and many other people I talked to. There are plenty of foreigners here studying Russian (mainly from China, Japan and Korea), but they go to the international school, or the University. 

I find other people's reaction to me interesting. For the most part, they are not necessarily surprised, as there are a few other Americans in the city, but more confused. Sure, plenty of Americans visit the city, but few live here. The ones who do live here work at the consulate, or are married to Russians. The Russians, and even some of the Americans and British that I've met, are puzzled why I would choose Russia. Sometimes even I am baffled that I picked Russia, and not a beautiful place like Switzerland, or the Czech Republic. My whole life those were the places I wanted to go, or rather Europe, in general. Then, I had a chance to actually live there, and what did I do? I picked Russia. 

I didn't instantly love Russia, I am falling in love with Russia. It's a harsh place, and it's hard to love if all you see is the concrete buildings and unsmiling faces, and all you hear is a fast, undecipherable language. Now that I can understand more, and I have seen inside those concrete buildings, and I know the people more, I feel a stronger attraction to the place. It has been a lot of work. Quoting my Australian friend Maddy: "Russia doesn't give you anything, you have to take it." I feel a bit like oil in water: I am immersed, but not a part of it. I now realize how hard I will have to work to become a part of their culture. But the Russian culture is worth the work. That's part of why I picked Russia, I think. It's misunderstood and I wanted to see for myself what it was like. Now I am finding that it is a very beautiful place indeed. 

Большой Камень

We were in a small apartment in a city called большой камень, or Bolshoy Kamen. My host mom has an office there, and the family often goes there for a weekend. It was small: a kitchen, two bedrooms and a bathroom. Anna and I shared the bed in the back room and my host parents took the other room. I fell in love with the place instantly. I can't describe how, but it was what I'd always pictured as Russian. It felt old, like it hadn't changed in the twenty years they had owned it. The floor was linoleum, the wallpaper was peeling, the doors had latches and the lights were dim. It was furnished with pull out couches, Art Deco lamps and water color prints. Old toys filled the shelves, along with family photographs, classic books and knick-knacks they had acquired.

The first night we sat around a small rolling table in the room with the television set. The table was covered in various Russian salads, black bread and cheeses. We toasted to life, love and good health. A Russian sci-fi film played on the tv (that was an interesting movie) and the night turned incredibly black outside the window, as clouds rolled in, promising rain in the morning.

After finishing most of the food on the table, we cleaned up, put on our coats and headed out to the house of a relative, for his birthday. It was black as pitch, but no one brought a flashlight. We carefully navigated the treacherous sidewalks, that are plenty dangerous in the daylight! We passed apartment building after apartment building, all of them grouped in a wide field. It was interesting to see how they clustered closely together, then abruptly ended, while the field continued on empty.

Reaching the apartment, which was the size of our own, we piled in to greet the hosts and other guests. There were already six people there, and we added four more to the party. It made for a cozy atmosphere. We ate cake and ice cream, toasted many times and watched videos of cats on the tv. The apartment was much like ours, with the rooms small and their knick knacks filling every available space. The table was crowded, with cheeses, fruit, cookies, and candy. I was dying to know what they were all saying, but the words flew by so fast, and without pause. No one spoke English, and even if they did they were not eager to try it out.

We left around ten, handing our gifts to the birthday-cousin, which consisted of a decorative ornament, a bag of candy and a pillow. The moon peaked out from behind the black clouds while we walked back to our building. There really would be rain in the morning.

The rain came in buckets the next day. It gushed down the old water pipes and ran in streams down the streets. The tracks that ran between buildings and through the town were all mud, and a heavy mist had settled in overnight. My host dad and I left the apartment at eleven to go visit my host mom at her office. It gave me a chance to see a little more of the city, not that there was much to see. It seemed to me to be a city of apartment buildings, there were a few administrative buildings here and there, and a sport complex, but most businesses were just on the ground floor of the apartment buildings. There was a "main street" that had most of the businesses and was actually paved, but other than that it was simply a city of apartments.

My host mother's office was on the edge of town, overlooking the sea. It was foggy so we couldn't see much as we dashed through the rain to the door. We walked up to the third floor. The walls were a horrid greenish-yellow pastel color, with spotless floors and black doors at intervals along the hall. We entered her office, which was painted a pink pastel with tall shelving units jutting out from the walls. "Привет!" came her familiar voice from behind one of the shelves. Her desk was tucked back against a wall. A huge map of the Primorsky Krai region hung on the wall behind her.   A huge window was opposite her, and on a clear day, she said, she can see all the way to Vladivostok. (A distance of about forty kilometers). While she made tea I tried to ask her about her work. I was so interested, but I struggled to find words and form questions.

My host mom is an Engineer, and from what I could understand, she fixes ships. When a ship (military or civilian) is broken, it is brought to this city to be fixed. My host mom works mainly on civilian ships, but there is a huge plant here for submarine repairs as well. She served me my tea, along with a hard, lightly sweetened biscuit which she told me were made for the military and were on every submarine. I found that fascinating and ate a second one just because.

We did other fun activities during the weekend. Ice skating was one of them. I learned the Russian word for "fall," nothing like hands-on learning. My pride was left smarting as a tiny girl, who seemed barely old enough to walk and was bundled to within an inch of her life, skated easily past me, as I, sweating and panting, was struggling to stand. However, by the end I wasn't clinging to the wall, and could go full circuit without even touching it. A big accomplishment for uncoordinated me!

We also went walking on the beach, and it went something like this:

Everyone gets out of the car and we walk slowly for about a minute.

Dad: "Are you cold?"

Me: "Well the wind is a little cold." (My hair blasted straight back by the howling baby-tornado)

Dad: "Let's go."

Everyone bolts for the car. Needless to say we took a little drive instead.


My time there, in Болшой Камнеь was a little surreal. I actually felt a little uncomfortable at sometimes, thinking about what it was like twenty or thirty years ago. It felt like a compound, with all the buildings the same, and all the buildings being apartments. The colors all blended together, grays and browns. It was not a pretty place, in fact it was incredibly ugly and stark. The bare, gray feel was made even more pronounced as all the leaves had fallen from the trees, and were turning black and brown on the ground. However, there was beauty to be found there. It was in the tires-turned-planters that were painted bright colors in the overgrown flower beds. It was in the colorful coats and the laughter of kids walking to school. It was in the music drifting out of cars as they drove by. You could say it was "signs of life" that made it beautiful, that people were thriving here in a place where it looked like happiness had long been forgotten.