Russia: Personal Saftey

I've always wanted to write about the stereotypes I've heard of Russia. However, I've felt like I didn't know enough, or that it was too early for me, to state an opinion. After over eight months here, I feel like I am ready. 

Everybody thinks Russia is unsafe. Everybody. Not only people in the United States, but from other countries as well. In talking to all the other exchange students I've met on this journey, we have all experienced our parents/family/friends/acquaintances freaking out when we either chose or were selected for Russia. We are all familiar with this conversation:

Friend: "So which country are you going to?!"

Me: "Russia!"

Friend: "Oh." 

We all got the same comments: "I hope you come back," and "It was nice knowing you." 

I laughed of course, it was humorous before I left, but now I don't find it the least bit funny. We joke about Russia, but we really do fear it, and distrust it. This is obvious because parents are not wanting to send their kids on exchange here. The number of exchange students here in Russia is shrinking, and there weren't that many to begin with. It's sad really, because this stereotype that Russia is scary and unsafe is not true. 

The Russians I've met know what the world thinks of them; they laugh at all the stereotypes. They think it's funny that they are perceived as vodka-drinking, bear-riding and balalaika-playing people. However, the fact that the world generally fears them is not humorous to them. It hurts them. No one wants to be the perpetual bad guy. They watch western films where the Russians are ALWAYS the enemy. They watch all the video clips about "those crazy Russians," and they know what the foreign news says about them. I see that it's hurtful. I get the question a lot: "Does everyone in America hate us?". 

I will never forget the reaction of the Rotary District exchange chairman in Eastern Russia (the woman in charge of the exchange students in our district), when she found out no American students would be coming next year. She was so sad. She doesn't understand why people don't want their children to come here. She doesn't understand why her people and country are perceived as scary and unsafe. She doesn't know how to fix the misconception. 

"Why don't they want to send their children here, when our own children live here? We are not different; we live and work just like everyone else. You have seen Emma, we are not scary, we are not aliens. You need to tell everyone this, this is your job is to tell people that we are just like you." 

Russia is not a scary or unsafe place. It can be, just like in every other country. Accidents happen all over the world. That being said, a big part of being safe is being smart. There are things in Russia that are dangerous, but as long as you avoid them, you will be safe. I feel incredibly safe here, safer than I have ever felt. I walk alone at night all over this city of 700,000 people and I don't feel any fear. 

One reason for this is that there are always people, everywhere. I am never alone on the sidewalk. In the City Center, it is busy day and night. People of all ages are out and about, from kids to grandparents. Even when I'm in one of the sleeping districts at night, and only a few people are out, I feel safe. Sometimes I try to make myself scared when I walk along late at night: I focus on the darkness, the dim lights and the generally sketchy surroundings. However, this evaporates when a little grandma with a bag of groceries in her hand walks by, or a mom and her little boy walk out of an apartment building. There are always people around me.

Russians ignore each other, and it's another reason why I feel so safe. They ignore me, I ignore them. As long as I don't make eye contact, look like I know where I'm going, and don't speak in English, I can walk wherever, whenever, I want. Of course there are areas to avoid, like there are in every city. 

The Russian people are not dangerous, and rumors of mafia and gang violence are not true. Sure, there's a little of that in the bigger cities, but not like it used to be. They say it's gotten a lot better, and now it's almost nonexistent. The mafia was huge after the fall of communism because there was no food. The shelves in the stores were empty and the people had no other option than the black market, which was run by the mafia. However, as the economy improved the mafia disappeared, and now the Russians laugh when I ask about it. 

Another reason I feel so safe is that the Russians look out for each other. They may not seem like friendly people, but when someone needs help, they don't hesitate to assist them. I feel safe with Russians, because I know they have my back when it comes down to it. 

There is also the stereotype that the Russians hate us, and this leads us to think that it might be dangerous for Americans. I can honestly say that the Russians have a better opinion of us than we do of them. Russians hate our government, but love us as people. They admire our culture, listen to our music, and watch our films. Yes, I have encountered some negativity and distrust, but never hostility. In bigger cities, actually, the fact that I am American doesn't mean a thing. I hardly get a glance. In smaller ones, it makes me a celebrity, which is kind of nice. Russians really do like us; in fact, I was recently on a trip to a city called Blagoveshensk; one woman there told me "please go home and tell everyone that we don't hate Americans." 

I admit there are dangerous things in Russia. Roads for instance: yes, the roads are in bad condition. But there's more danger from bad driving habits. Yes, there are good drivers, but there is a reason why there are so many car accidents here. In general, Russians drive like madmen. Also, the woods here are very dangerous, and is not advisable to walk alone through them, due to hazardous insects and bears. However, in general, if you ask people if something is safe, and stay smart, Russia is no more dangerous than anywhere else. 

The Day We Almost Burned Down the Dacha

No sooner than I had arrived back from St. Petersburg and Moscow, Natalia (my host mom) and I decided to drive out to her dacha. We packed a few things, stuffed the cat into a tote bag, and shouldering everything, headed for the car. The cat behaved fairly well, though she easily escaped the tote and rampaged through the car. She soon quieted down and we had a very uneventful drive. 

The dacha is in a small town called Artyom, about an hour outside Vladivostok. It was a beautiful day with a breeze and not a cloud in sight. Everything was starting to leaf out, and grass had grown along the highway. We reached the dacha by about two in the afternoon. Her father had been living in it until he died, which wasn't long ago, but just looking at the outside reminded me of a haunted house. In theory, if everything was fixed up, repainted and replanted, it would be the loveliest little summer home. However, stepping through the gate, the piles of junk stood high in the large yard. Splintered wood, old sheet rock, rusting metal and broken glass lay half buried in dirt. Rusting oil cans were filled with old plastic, bottles of all colors and sizes lay everywhere, and stacks of warped plywood lined the side of the house. A rather frightening-looking ramshackle hut stood to one side near the house; I didn't quite know what it was for, or what it was made of. 

The house itself was big, but extremely worn on the outside. The inside...was not much better. The rooms were just filled with stuff. Most of it was old stuff: rusty, moldy, stained, bent, broken, torn or dusty. The plaster on the walls was falling off in chunks, revealing the sheet rock underneath, and even that was crumbling. There was a kitchen, living room and bedroom on the ground floor, but no furniture remained. Climbing up a ladder, we went to the second floor. There were two bedrooms there. Looking out the window, I learned the scary hut was the bathroom. 

The garden obviously hadn't been a garden for a very long time. There were a few rhubarbs growing, and some beautiful berry bushes. The trees were all apple or plum, but the rest of the yard was overgrown and filled with weeds. It wasn't a bad little place, if it were all fixed up it would be an absolutely beautiful garden. We set up a small picnic under one of the trees. I pulled a piece of plywood out from one of the piles and laid it on top of a rusty table frame. We spread out our tablecloth and settled down for a nice lazy day at the dacha. But of course, it didn't really work out that way. 

Natalia had a few chores in mind to do around the place. I didn't mind of course; it felt good to be back working in a garden. She said we would clear up all the dead grass in the yard. We found some rakes in the house and set to work. It was going to be a long day, as the yard was actually quite large. 

"No, no, no! Emma wait! You don't need to rake there!" Natalia hollered, as I had just started to rake at the edge of a plot of grass. She came over, and pulling out a lighter from her pocket, bent down and lit the dead grass. My heart stopped: the whole yard was flammable. However, if Natalia felt safe doing it, I figured I didn't need to worry. I was wrong.

It went alright for the first half hour. We raked some piles, lit them, and let the fire get rid of the dead plant material. Natalia made no attempt to stop it, even when it approached the edge of the yard where dead vines grew on the fence, and piles of wood lay. We had, by now, attracted the attention of the neighbors on the left, who had started pouring water on the ground on their side of the fence. They of course knew Natalia and were chatting, while watching the flames. However, things soon turned sour when it reached the upper right corner and caught a pile of dead plants and wood. With a whoosh, the corner went up in flames, and soon the fence did too. Luckily that side of the fence bordered a small alley, but the neighbors on that side soon popped out of their house too to watch. 

It got worse when the dead vines were soon on fire, and the fire raced down the fence to the scary toilet hut, which was only a few meters from the house. Natalia and I sat at the table, just watching it unfold. Natalia's calm kept me calm. Though we never said anything, we were both thinking that this was getting a little out of hand. 

"Natalia!" yelled a neighbor. "It's time to call the fire department!" 

The hut was now ablaze, and we discovered there was a pile of sheet rock in it too. The wood popped loudly and small explosions sent plumes of smoke high into the air. The most concerning part was we had no water with which to put it out. They had no hoses there, and the only water we had with us was what I had put into my water bottle before we left. To put out the fire with that would take a miracle rivaling that of feeding the five thousand. Natalia stood up, and I followed her out of the gate and around the road to a well. A good old-fashioned well stood at the end of the alley where the fire was. We grabbed what buckets we could find and set to work. I hauled up the water from the well and filled up the buckets. Natalia walked up the alley a ways and threw it on the flames.

It was almost comical how calm everyone was. Neighbors had begun to take notice and simply stood around watching it and chatting. Soon, a few of the neighbors were wandering down to the well with their buckets and lent a hand. No one was running, no one was yelling, no one was doing anything in particular. The people walked from the well to the fire, emptied the buckets and waltzed back, sometimes stopping to pet a dog or to chat with a friend. It had turned into quite the spectacle, and with all the onlookers, we could have sold tickets. 

The only indication of concern was that one of the neighbors had actually called the fire department. Soon, a monstrous fire truck pulled up and was expertly backed into the alley. Two men hopped out of the cab and walked around towards those of us gathered there. They grinned, shook hands all around, and stood with us watching the flames for a bit. Then, with the swiftness of a sloth, they unrolled a hose, hooked it onto the truck, and began hosing the flames. The man actually dressed in a fireman's uniform hosed down the hut, while the other one, dressed in a standard police uniform, stood with us and smoked a cigarette. 

The fire was soon extinguished, and the neighbors gradually dispersed. Natalia and I stood with the two firemen, watching the smoldering pile. Our chests were heaving, small holes were burnt in our shirts from sparks, and sweat beaded on our foreheads. It had been an interesting episode. The two men chatted for a while, delighted to find I was an American. They knew Natalia, as she had been a translator in their department years ago. They were invited to our barbecue on May first, and we parted ways. 

A little overwhelmed and extremely tired, we sat at our little table. We peeled hard boiled eggs and speared slices of sausage with knives. We ate and silently surveyed the yard. If possible, it looked even worse than when we had started. Everything three feet or lower was blackened: tree trunks, fence posts and (now) dead bushes. The grass was all burned away, and most of the fence posts along the alley had burned over, or had been hollowed by the fire.

A while later another man in a fire department uniform, sporting a clipboard and chewing gum, wandered round. He came in the yard, and sitting at our table with us, he asked some questions. 

"If he asks, I'll tell him I was smoking and that's how the fire started. If he finds out I started it myself there will be a huge fine," Natalia had whispered to me before he was within earshot. 

"So you were in the house..." he began. 

"Yes" Natalia replied.

"And the fire started..."

"Yes"

"And by the time you came out it was too big." 

"Yes, exactly." 

"My, how I seem to know everything!"

"You're a smart man." 

"You'll need to come into the office in the next week to fill out some paperwork."

"Of course."

He left, and a few minutes later called back to say everything was fine and taken care of. There was no need to come to the office. And to have a nice day. 

Natalia laughed. 

"They know me. I used to translate for them."

"Thus, everything is okay?" I asked, smiling.

"Thus everything is okay," she replied, smiling back. I laughed. 

"I think the second man came round just to see an American. There was no need for that paperwork," she said. We laughed some more and finished the sausage. Gathering up our things, and stuffing the cat back into the tote, we drove home. And that was how we almost burned down the dacha. 

A Very Interesting Sunday

I had stayed up too late Saturday night, so I was still half asleep when my ride arrived at the apartment. They were going to church, and they had come to pick me up at some horrible hour of the morning to take me with them for Palm Sunday. Ludmilla and Elena are very old friends of Natalia's, and were extremely friendly. We talked the whole hour we spent driving to the church. I had never met Elena before, but found her to be a very interesting woman. She grew up and studied to be a computer programmer in Kaliningrad, the most western oblast in Russia, between Lithuania and Poland on the Baltic Sea. While traveling to Sakhalin Island, many years ago, she had met and married her husband. The two of them moved to Vladivostok, where they have been living for about thirty years. Their only daughter is currently studying economics in India.

It was a long way to the church. The distance as the crow flies wasn't great, but the road to get there was rough and winding. It was on a cove on the Russian Island. I had no idea how big the island actually was, or that there was a town on it. We passed through a tiny town, complete with stores and a school. Driving on through the woods, we saw half-demolished barracks and officer housing, remnants of when the island was a military outpost. 

Then we reached the church. I shouldn't say it was a church, because it was actually a Russian Orthodox Monastery. It was closed off by a high fence, and stepping through the gate, we put on head scarves and skirts that were there. The compound was beautiful. The buildings were in excellent condition, some were old and some were new. There were bee hives off to one side, a small garden, and they told me there was a wide variety of animals as well. 

The hkram (main building), as it is called, was a red brick building with a golden onion dome. This is where the service was held. We stepped through the door. To the right was a small shop where they sold icons, chant music and candles. Ludmilla bought a handful of the small candles and divided them between the three of us. We then passed through the doors to the right and into the central room. 

It was incredible. There were about thirty people there already. Everyone was standing, as there was no place to sit. The ceiling was low, and decorated with beautiful murals. Along the walls were giant pictures of the icons, with holders for the candles in front of them. In the middle of the floor, four tall chairs sat, like columns. There sat four priests, with long white beards, dressed in black robes. Two men, also dressed in black robes, stood at a beautifully carved podium to the side, singing the scriptures and chanting. For the first hour nothing much happened. People listened to the chants. They would cross themselves and bow at intervals, several times each minute. People walked slowly and silently to the different icons. They kissed the beautiful illustrations, lit their candles and stuck them in one of the spaces in the holders. The candle holders were large brass circles or squares, with thirty or fourth small cups for the candles. As more and more people came, the holders filled. It was beautiful, with the brass lit up by all the little lights. 

It grew ever more hot as the lit candles increased, as did the people. But then the real service began. At the back of the room there was a small corridor that ran in a circle around a central sanctuary. This sanctuary was decorated on the outside by exquisitely painted icons and murals, and the double doors were made of carved filigree wood, with scarlet curtains behind them. From a side door coming out of the sanctuary, a tall priest emerged and stood at the side of the room. A long line of people formed in front of him. One by one, people went up to him and he placed a richly embroidered cloth over their head. They bowed and whispered into his ear, or gave him a paper they had written beforehand. Confession, I figured, and the line remained full during the entire service.

Next, the double doors of the inner sanctuary were opened, and a man in magnificent green and gold robes, with an equally impressive beard and hat, strode out. He swung back and forth a golden incense lantern. The smoke billowed out and the little bells adorning the chains chimed as it swung. Everyone bowed low at the waist and remained like that. First, he walked slowly around the circular inner sanctuary. Then he came out into the room where all were standing. The people along the walls moved to the center, and we huddled together as the priest walked around the perimeter. He stopped and prayed at each icon. In the center, we remained bowed over, turning our bodies to face whichever wall the priest walked along. So as he moved along in a circle, we all rotated as one. As he entered the sanctuary again we all straightened up. Looking in, I could see a richly decorated table in the inner room. There stood an impressive candle display, and importantly displayed, the largest, most impressive bible I had ever seen. We all bowed again as the priest took the bible, and holding it above his head, came back out, flanked by candle bearers. He stood in the middle of the room, and while we kept our eyes on the floor, he read for twenty minutes from the Word. 

By the time all this had finished, it had been a little over two hours and the service still wasn't over. The heat was almost unbearable now, and the incense hung thick in the air. Aches had set in after the first hour from all the bowing and standing, and now it too was almost unbearable. Ludmilla and Elena had stepped out for periods of time to sit in the corridor, but I had not. We decided to leave a little early, and shaking slightly, we left. Even the cup of holy water we drank after didn't help much, but as soon as we were out in the fresh cool air, we all felt much better. 

Conversations with Peter

A while back I wrote a blog post about visiting a hospice here in Vlad. I wrote specifically about a certain man named Peter, who had spent time in the United States. I go back to the hospice as often as I can, and spend most of my time there chatting with Peter. We talk about many things: Washington state, Russian-American relations, mysteries of science, literature and Russian culture, to name a few. However, my favorite conversations are those about his travels when he was working on cargo ships. 

On my last visit he talked about a trip to North Korea. He didn't exactly remember the year, but he was working on a ship delivering cargo to a port near Pyongyang. The sailors stayed at a sort of "club," which was a small closed town, with hotels, cafes and stores. It even had its own currency that was given to the sailors. "They didn't want us going into the town," Peter said. 

Peter bought a Korean book there with simple phrases and pronunciation for foreigners. He recalled, with humor, how this caused confusion later when he visited South Korea, and was using phrases he learned from this book, which was written with North Korean pronunciation. "My Korean friend told me after lunch that he had decided I wasn't a North Korean spy!" he laughed. 

During their stay, Peter had to go back to Vladivostok to begin University. His ship however, was not returning to Vladivostok, but continuing south. He spoke to his senior officer and it was arranged that he would take the train back to Russia. He was given his ticket, a can of soup, a sausage, a loaf of bread, and was sent on his way. 

On the train he met two men, and though they didn't share a language, they did share food. He said once he offered them some of his food, they quickly ate it all. "They were so poor. I don't think they had ever tasted sausage in their life," he said. "They traded me small, colorful rice cakes. They were not to my taste, but they were enough to fill me." 

He had very interesting observations of what he saw and the people he met. He spoke of the high, sharp mountains, through which the train wound. All the people, he said, had a pin with the face of the dictator on it. The size, color and beauty of the pins determined their position in society. Large, fancy pins were pinned on the chests of the wealthy and important. Small, plain pins belonged to the lower class. Of the towns he passed through, he recalled how young children would run to shooting school, where they spent the day learning how to shoot various guns. 

He eventually arrived back in Russia and started his studies. With his degree in electrical engineering he continued to work on ships, traveling to more foreign countries. The count is at 15. However, his favorite place in all his travels is Washington state, USA. The place that just so happens to be my home.

The Derevne

Long had I heard tales of the Russian деревни, or derevne, small villages of tiny houses dotted throughout the vast Russian forests. The subjects of films, books, and many jokes and sayings, they are literally pockets of concentrated Russian culture and traditions. People sing praises of the fresh air and healthy living in the derevne, but crack jokes about the Russian equivalents of "rednecks" who come from the villages. Coming from a tiny country town myself, I have been interested in them ever since arriving. After six months of living in concrete, my interest in visiting the derevne had turned into an obsession. This past weekend, I finally got to experience life in a real, Russian derevne. 

As soon as I stepped down from the small bus, I was immediately ankle deep in slushy, ice water. The tiny bus stop was completely flooded from melting snow, with bits of garbage floating around. The structure for the bus stop was falling down, covered with layers of graffiti and half buried in a garbage mound. 

"It's a shame," said my friend, whose parents we were going to visit. "People from the city come out here and just dump their garbage. There are piles of it all over the woods." We splashed to the crumbling sidewalk, which only went as far as a hole-in-the-wall store that was the only place to buy anything in the village. The tiny, rundown houses were clustered on the hill rising behind the bus stop. This was a real derevne: no beautiful, huge houses for the rich to relax at in the summer. These were homes.

We walked through the narrow winding streets, where the melting snow ran in rivers through the slush and mud. The few people we passed were dressed in mud-covered coats and boots. The fashion of the city was gone. Unlike the city, everything here was practical; cosmetic value came second. The houses were small, old concrete buildings. The falling-down fences closed off cluttered yards that would be exploding with flowers and vegetables in the summer. A babushka labored across the road, with two buckets of water in her hands. There was no running water here, people had to go get their own. A car skidded and roared by, fighting the snow. Straight lines didn't exist here, unless it was the corner of the concrete buildings. Things stuck out of every corner, anything that was straight at some point had become bent, lopsided or broken. 

The houses were small: one, maybe two, rooms. Any possessions that didn't fit in the house were gathered under makeshift shelters in the yard, or in the odd concrete garage. This was a small derevne; it ended abruptly on the edge of the incredibly vast forests. 

By the time we reached the dacha our feet were thoroughly soaked. A dog growled at us as we passed through the gate. 

"Dad loves cars," said Madina (my friend). Indeed there were many of them, maybe twenty scattered through the yard, some covered in tarps. "Only a few work," she explained. A row of sheds and animal pens stood across the lane from the house. Numerous cats were tucked away in corners, and dogs were chained in the yard. Like the rest of the houses, there were many things stored around. Some were stacked in the sheds, or covered with tarps. There was a beautiful little red sled, and an antique wagon. We splashed along to the door, opened it and ducked inside.

It took a while for my eyes to adjust to the dark. There was only one window. We were in a mudroom. A few rags lay on the concrete floor. Pulling our boots off, we slipped on the warm house slippers. There was a sink in this room, with a refrigerator and a toilet tucked in the corner. There was a door behind us, which Madina explained was a bedroom. The door on the opposite end opened and a woman stepped out. 

"Hello!" she exclaimed. I greeted her in Russian. She was small, her ankles covered by her long skirt. She wore a camo vest over a sweater, and her black hair was pulled back in a bun. She didn't look Russian at all. My first impression was Kazakh, but it turns out Bella was from a small republic in the Caucasus, on the northern border of Chechnya. Wide brown eyes looked out from a perfectly round face and her smile was miles wide. She chattered along, herding Madina and me through a door into the house.

It was a nice sized room; the floor was linoleum. A pullout couch sat along one wall, faced by a cabinet and flat screen television. A small kitchen was tucked in the corner, with a microwave and small stovetop. Closets were filled with clothes, and small, leafy plants perched on the windowsill. 

"Welcome welcome!" chirped Bella, who immediately sat me down in front of a monstrous bowl of borscht. She was a lovely woman, talking all the while as we ate. Madina's young brother sat on the couch, engrossed by a game on his tablet. Anzzor was nine, and full of energy. He looked exactly like his mother, with a round face and dimples when he smiled. While I finished my soup, he came to sit next to me and showed me his school pictures. Not in least bit shy, he proudly brought his things to show them to me. 

After a while, the door opened and Madina's father ducked in. He was tall, and thin, and dressed in camo, with a fur cap perched on his head. He smiled readily through his beard, gold teeth flashing. 

"Welcome!" he said in English. Again, I said greetings in Russian. There was confusion about where I was from, as they had thought I was British. That was cleared up and it was discovered that I did actually speak Russian, and Russlan (the father) began talking, even more than Bella. He was a very interesting man; he was born in Ukraine, but had lived in the Primorye region for over thirty years. He was a military man, serving in the Navy. He had traveled the world on ships, and he spoke especially fondly of a stop in San Diego. In his earlier years he served in the military in the conflict in the Caucasus, where he met Bella. They spoke how they had both broken the traditions of their cultures in marrying each other. 

After visiting for a while, Madina, Russlan and I went on a drive. We hopped into their jeep-like vehicle, which they fondly referred to as "the tank." It was a bumpy ride, and I began to think, as we jolted along, that I should be wearing a helmet. We stopped first at an old building: large, but in poor repair. Ducking under the barbed wire fence we walked around it. It had been a house, almost a hundred years ago. This tiny village was where the engineers had lived when they designed the extensive fortress surrounding the city. Built for protection against the Japanese in the First World War, the hills and islands surrounding Vladivostok were outfitted for defense. 

We drove further, to go inside one of these bunkers. With the road blocked by snow, we went by foot, up to the top of the mountain. Madina and I followed in the footsteps punched into the snow by Russlan. The sprightly Ukrainian pranced through the snow; he knew the woods like the back of his hand. He talked the whole while about the forts: when they were used, how they were built, how big they were... 

Reaching the first fortifications, we climbed up on the concrete and could see the entire city. Along other hilltops we saw more concrete bunkers that had housed the large cannons long ago. I knew there were fortresses here, but I had no idea how extensive the system was. We were standing on top of a literal maze of concrete corridors snaking through the mountains under our feet. 

We scrambled all over the concrete, laboring through the snow down to an entrance. It was cool, and inky black inside. Using the lights on our cell phones we explored a few passages of the first floor. In this particular fort, there were eight different levels. Every once and a while, a gaping hole opened in the floor, where the second level began. The metal from the staircases had already been ripped out by scavengers. A dog barked, as we shone lights down into one of the holes. It had fallen in, and couldn't get back out. Russlan hopped down, and set off to find the dog. On his search, he found numerous other dogs, dead from the fall, or from starvation. The one living dog was skittish and it took both Madina and Russlan a long time to trap it in a jacket. Setting it loose, we once again resumed our exploration. The labyrinth of passages were worn, but in good repair. It was in no way closed off, and Madina said it is fun to have a big group come and explore all the levels, maybe do some shashlik (barbecue). 

While some of the fortresses around the city have been turned into museums, this one was not a tourist attraction in the least. It was too remote and logistically hard to reach. Even by car this was impractical. Horseback was the best mode of transport, and this family often rode on their horses to places like this. Driving back, we ran into a small accident on the road. Madina and I hopped out and continued on foot. We walked through a paintball place, which was practically in their back yard. I had heard some people playing earlier. I had almost laughed out loud, because even the paintball guns in Russia are fully automatic. 

Reaching their property we visited their six horses. They also had cows, chickens and goats. It was quite the place. We wandered between huge mounds of metal, hay and dirt to the house, where we were fed sweets and tea by Bella. 

"Madina, I really have never done this before," I said, slightly nervous. She laughed as we walked down the path to a flat spot behind the house. It was Sunday morning.

"Don't worry, it's very simple," she assured me. I was comforted, and thought I would watch how she did it, then I'd give it a go. The horse was already saddled and Russlan held the reins, grinning. We walked up with gifts of sugar and cookies. After a quick explanation of what to do, which consisted of: "sit here, hold this and don't fall off," they smiled expectantly at me.

"What, now?!" I asked, incredulous that they would expect a complete amateur to just get on a horse and ride. "I thought Madina would go first!"

"I already know how to ride!" she said. "Go on!" 

Thus, I put my foot in the stirrup, heaved myself up, and was soon sitting on the horse, the reins in my hand. The feeling was unnerving. Unlike on a bike or skis, I was not in complete control. Yes, I held the reins; but a horse is a living being, it has its own thoughts and intentions too. It was this concept that was the hardest to get over. While we went slowly in a circle in the snowy meadow I adjusted to the rhythm and movement of the horse. I found it quite fun once I got used to it. The horse was patient with my learning, but if horses could roll their eyes, he would have. 

It was an interesting experience, and I was happy to have ridden a horse. I understand now that, as with most things, it's not as easy as it looks. It was enjoyable, but I couldn't shake the uncertain factor of the horse's intentions versus mine; it was unnerving. 

Russlan came out from the house after about forty minutes, carrying a bundle. I rode over. Grinning, he held up a fur vest and cap. Putting them on me, he then help up a scabbard. He drew the sword and handed it to me. It weighed heavily in my hand.

"This is the traditional Cossack costume," he explained. "There is an old tradition, that if ever a woman put on this cap or coat, they would be whipped three times." 

We returned to the house for a hearty dinner and then tea. Bella loved to talk, so we talked for ages.

"But why is Madina in this school (the Asian-European Lyceum we attend)?" I asked.

"She needs a good education. Honest people rarely get rich. In order to do well in life, one needs a good education. One needs to be smart, clever," she explained. She went on to talk about her homeland later in the conversation. 

"It is very warm there, the winter is maybe -5 degrees (celsius). It's not like here; here there is fog, lots of snow and always rain in the Spring. I remember when I walked to school every day, I could just pick fruit off the trees along the road. Pears, apples and plums, all within arm's reach. By the time I got to school I was full! It is so beautiful there, not at all like here," she recounted. 

"And your family, where are they?" I asked.

"There. All of them are there. Papa, mama died nine years ago, brothers and sisters, they are all there," she said. "We go visit there almost every summer." 

"Do you want to go back one day, for good?" I asked. She paused and laughed a bit, looking away.

"Maybe one day, when I am old I will go back," she trailed off, laughing, but her thoughts of home lingered on her face. 

While we drank another round of tea, Russlan brought out of a cabinet a pile of dusty photos. What an absolute treasure trove they were. From childhood, photos of him and his sister, to ones with Madina and Anzzor. The earliest ones were in black and white, when he was a young man. Photos from his travels to India were full of sculpted temples, crowded markets and ornately decorated elephants. The photos turned to color, showing him working communications systems in a submarine, and holding up monstrous Kamchatka crab on a fishing trip. He fondly reminisced of San Diego as I looked through the photos of his time there. A post card of the Coronado Bay Bridge in San Diego, and photos of him with friends on the beach. He had been there on a friendship visit, and he was pictured at concerts, dinners and ceremonies. In one photo he grinned from underneath a fur cap in front of St. Basil's Cathedral in Moscow. In another, he was on horseback at their farm. 

However, the most intriguing photos were small, Polaroid photos, glued to pieces of paper. They were from his time fighting in Chechnya. One showed a group of men, dressed in green camo, sitting around a low table; a beautiful red and gold carpet hung on the wall behind them. Bottles of vodka stood half empty on the table, with plates of cheese and meat. The men smiled, some holding large knives in their teeth, or cradling Kalashnikovs on their laps. In another photo, Russlan perched with friends on a tank on a mountain road. The other photos were of them resting in the shade of rocks or drinking vodka in their tents. The Chechen countryside was beautiful, the mountains churning like waves of the sea. They were dramatic photos. Russlan never commented on them. 

Anzzor trotted in then, his friend in tow. His friend presented a plate of blini made by his grandmother to Bella. The sun was going down, and the boiling kettle gurgled. As the two boys wrestled on the floor, we gathered around the table for another cup of tea. The cool night air settled in, but did not seep into the warmth of the dacha. 

 

The Russian Home

A few days ago I moved to live with a new host family. I will miss my first family; they were so good to me. Their home really became my home, and they were really my family. I appreciated how they welcomed me in and just made me another daughter. It was a privilege to be treated as their child, and I grew very close to them. The day I left, my host dad read me a fairy tale, and even sang a song. It was touching to see this burly Russian man bashfully saying I should just stay with them for the whole year. Anna gave me a big hug, but we both knew we would see each other often. Irina piled my plate higher that night (Russian for "I love you"). Thus I left to go to my new home.

I had really grown comfortable in the area where I lived. It was convenient, everything was close, and it was a lively place. My new neighborhood is a different world. It has the usual Russian apartment blocks, but here they are built on the side of a mountain. All the nice trees of my former neighborhood have been replaced by steel grey rock. Wind howls here all day and all night, and there's not a flat piece of ground anywhere. Trekking the hills is treacherous as the sidewalks are - well we don't actually have sidewalks here, which proves tricky when it snows and there is no place to walk. The buzz and liveliness I was used to has become silence, and people are scarce. A good number of people I see here are drunk; even early in the morning they stumble about with bottles of alcohol in their fists. 

My apartment building is backed up against a steep hill. Skirting the hillside are row after row of garages, many of them empty. From the bottom of the hill they look like giant concrete steps marching up to the top of the mountain, with black gaping holes looking out over the city. From the top, the view would be spectacular, but the summit of the hill is crowned by barbed wire. There is nothing in my district, just apartment buildings. It's what they call a "sleeping district." People come here only to sleep; there is nothing to do, no stores to shop at. People leave in the morning and don't come back until they are done with their day. The vans that take people down to the city are crammed with people in the mornings. The low ceilings force people to bend over, or even sit on other peoples' laps. The windows are always plastered with arms, faces and bags, as the loaded vans roar down the mountain side. I remember seeing these kinds of busses at the bus stop near my former home, praying I would never have to ride in one. Funny how things work out sometimes. 

My apartment is on the fourth floor of a very old building. It was, in fact, military housing during the communist times. Even now, many of the families are still here, and all the neighbors are uncommonly social. The apartment has a small hall with all the rooms opening off of it. To the right is the kitchen, a rather large room, with the majority of it filled by a table. In the corner is a stove and a refrigerator, with a microwave perched on top. All the food ends up in the refrigerator or the table, so the table is often crowded with all sorts of things to eat. A balcony opens off the kitchen, and is strung with lines to dry clothes on. 

Next to the kitchen is the living room, which is where I sleep. A couch and armchair occupy one wall, a TV stands against the windows, and a large armoire lives there too. Next to my room is my host mother's room. It is small, with enough room for the pullout couch, a TV, and a low table. The last two rooms are the toilet and the shower. Between the two doors, in the hall, is a washing machine. 

I live with a widow named Natalia, and her cat Kseina. Natalia is a language physiologist, and I have already learned so much from her. She's told me about how the brain works when learning a language, and how to interpret what people are thinking about, based on where they look in a conversation. She studied English at University and in America. She has traveled all over the world for her work, frequenting Europe and Asian countries. She has multiple degrees: English teacher, physiologist and interpreter. She is also qualified as a military interpreter, which means she knows every kind of tank, airplane, battleship and gun there is in the Russian military, and could tell you the specifications of any piece of artillery and weaponry in an instant. Her primary work now is as a language physiologist, helping groups of professionals and students who are having trouble learning English. 

She is a wonderful woman, with a great sense of humor. She loves her travels and our home is filled with beautiful things from all over the world. Our house is also filled with toy tanks and pin collections that were her late husband's, who was a tank driver in the military. Natalia has a son, who lives with his wife and small daughter in a town nearby. Her brother works near us, and she once told me of a time where all of the family lived in our apartment. Her, her husband, her son and his wife, and her brother, all here at the same time. 

Natalia does not stand for any nonsense. This has led to a few confrontations with rude people, the most memorable of which took place a few nights ago. A group of very drunk men were blasting music from a car parked outside our apartment building at three in the morning. Natalia opened the window and shouted at them to be quiet. When they continued, she took some plates from the cabinet and started throwing them like frisbees at the offenders. They left pronto, and her only regret was that the odd shape of the plates made them curve in the air, thus missing their target. She also told me how to get back at unruly neighbors by putting grain on the top of their car, and the pigeons will flock to peck up the grain, thus badly scratching the paint. She's a funny gal, and I'm very glad to be living with her. 

There is a lot here in our house that are unusual in American Houses. There is no sink in the kitchen, so we wash all our dishes in the bathtub. The toilet is broken, so to flush it, we have to reach into it and pull up on the stopper. It is always a bit chilly as there is a hole in a window we have scotch taped over. The TV plays about five very fuzzy channels. I sleep on a pullout chair, with the chair cushions as my mattress. The wallpaper is faded, and peeling in the corners. The plastic floor has tears in it. The rugs don't match the wall colors; the ceilings have cracks and stains. The furniture is old. Nothing matches. 

I love it. It doesn't feel uncomfortable; it doesn't feel rundown. It's normal. It's a regular old Russian apartment. And what an enigma this is: the Russian Apartment. In my opinion, it is a huge window into the Russian culture. So much can be seen in them.

Russians do not live in houses, unless they are very rich. Thus, housing in Russia is not as varied as in the United States. In American, we have duplexes, apartments, motor homes, manufactured homes, bungalows, farmhouses, A-frames, etc. In Russia, we have apartments. Everyone lives in apartments. The size varies, but a basic apartment is a kitchen, a toilet, a bathroom and one or two bedrooms. Living rooms are not very common, but if there is one, it is usually converted into a bedroom. The common "open area" approach we are used to in America is not so common here, with a room being a "room," meaning you can close a door on it. People do not paint their rooms, they use wallpaper. Generally, the wallpaper is extremely beautiful. Of course, how people choose to decorate their homes varies, but some things never change. For instance: beds. Russians generally do not have beds; they all sleep on pull-out couches. Drying machines do not exist here; therefore every apartment has a nice balcony on which to hang clothes, and to grow house plants. Every apartment is heated by a boiler system that gets turned on in October and gets turned off in June. Since there is no way to adjust the heat, they cool the apartments by opening the windows. This is a chilly practice when it is twenty below out. The boiler system that heats the apartments also heats the water, so when the heat is turned off in the summer, there is no more hot water.

Some apartments I have seen have been very modern, with Ikea-style furniture, and dishes that match. However, the most "Russian" apartments are very mismatched. This is because people buy things a little at a time. They see something in the market, they like it, and they buy it. It often doesn't matter if it goes with anything they already have. In my apartment everything is different: our dishes, our rugs, our towels. But for however mismatched everything is, it all seems to flow. Nothing seems out of place. It's something I've noticed in every apartment: everything belongs. Everything has meaning. It doesn't matter how many knickknacks they have tucked away, each one of them has a story, and they are happy to tell you about it. Every refrigerator is covered in magnets, and a typical house visit in Russia involves getting steered to the fridge and being told about each and every magnet on it. 

The Russian apartment is really private territory. Perhaps this is why café culture is so big here, because people generally do not meet in their homes. 

While in America it is common to invite people into our homes, even if we don't know someone very well, one is rarely invited into someone's home in Russia. It's almost sacred. People become completely different when they are at home. As soon as they walk in the door, they go to their room and change into house clothes, they put on their house slippers, and rest. Their "street face" is gone, and there is no better way to see who someone really is, than when they are at home.

Russian homes are filled with things of sentimental value. While all apartments are in essence the same (a product of the socialist era), it is very important for them to make their homes "their own." The apartments are almost like little nests where people go home at night and feel comfortable, and safe. On the streets, everyone is always on alert, and their heightened awareness only fades when they are home. 

This is one of my favorite parts about being on exchange: being in people's homes, not just living in a hotel or dorm. In order to know a culture, you have be in the homes, because that is where people become themselves. I have learned the most about the Russian culture at home, not in the city center or at school. Home is the heart of any culture. Home is where the family is, where people are the most transparent. 

An Adventure in Russian Medical Care

As I wrote earlier, February began with "the accident." Along with an injury everyone here thought would heal with a few days of rest, came an exasperating experience taking up the first few weeks of the month. I have now experienced many facets of the Russian medical care system, and it was very educational. 

About a week after the accident, as I started to get up and move around, my general improvement seemed to stop, and even get worse. I was concerned about the pain level, and exasperated because I had so many unanswered questions. Even while looking at the insurance claim forms, I had no idea what to write for the type of injury. I didn't think "it's not broken" would fly. I decided to go see a doctor. 

My host family had no idea where to start to find the next level of care for me, so I emailed the U.S. Consulate located here in Vladivostok. They sent me a list of clinics, and I chose the one with translators on staff. We went that night: me, my host dad, and Yulia and Slava (the parents of the family I was with when the accident happened). Arriving at the clinic, I was pleasantly surprised. I thought, to myself, that there was hope for the Russian medical system. We were at a brand new hospital that resembled those in America. We had to wait an hour to see the doctor, who was very professional and knew what he was talking about. There was a bit of a fiasco with the translator, who disappeared about halfway through the appointment, and when I asked for them to come back, to interpret the diagnosis, I was denied the request. Despite this, I was able to understand that they still didn't know what was wrong and they were suggesting an MRI. My request to have the MRI done that night, which was possible, was also denied. It was an upsetting visit for me, with the frustration topped off by the fact we still didn't know what was wrong. 

Though I was disappointed that I had no answers, it was encouraging to see such a nice clinic with very professional staff. The price for this visit was the same as the first, about 1000 rubles ($17). While it was frustrating, it was interesting to note that no one saw the need for me to know what was being said. When I asked for the translator they asked "why?" When I asked for the medical documents, or copies of them, they said I didn't need them. When I asked them to explain what the doctor had said about my hip, they said everything was fine and I didn't need to know what he said. I was confused, and still can't figure out why they had this attitude; after all, I was the patient. Maybe it's a cultural thing, although I later found out they had no experience with needing documentation for filling out insurance claims, which could explain that part of the conversation.

The next day, my host dad called about having an MRI done, which he had assured me the night before could be done this next day. It turns out, we would have to wait a week. I had had it and called the Rotary Club president, who is all-powerful in this city. I asked her if she could find me a time and place to do an MRI as soon as possible. That same afternoon, my host dad drove me to the university teaching hospital on the Russian Island, which is where a brand new university has been built. I brought an American friend of mind to translate, and we went to see a surgeon, who is a friend of the Rotary Club president. He (this third doctor) took another look at my hip, and suggested more X-rays. 

The next day we were back at the university to do the MRI and take more X-rays. What an experience it was! This clinic was beautiful, with state-of-the-art equipment and the best doctors. It could hold its own in America. I was very impressed. The MRI and X-rays were over quickly, and we went back a little later to meet with the surgeon. It could not have been a moment too soon, as I was in dismay since the doctor who initially read the MRI results said I would be in bed for a month. Thankfully, the official diagnosis was not so bad. 

I had indeed fractured my hip bone. It was high enough up that it was missed by the first set of X-rays. It was very clear to see the fracture on the MRI, but the doctor said it had already started to heal. He said I could continue walking, as long as I was comfortable. I could have kissed him. I cannot run, dance, skate, or do anything besides walking, for a month. On the first of April I will go in for a check-up. If everything is fine then, I will be back to my normal activities! 

So how much did this cost? The MRI was 5000 rubles, and the X-rays 800 ($80 and $12 respectively). Over all, for three clinic visits, three sets of X-rays, the MRI, and all the medication, the total was about 10,000 rubles (at the time, about $130US). 

All in all a trying experience, but an interesting one nonetheless. It was encouraging to see that such nice clinics and care are available here. I was touched by all the people who helped me: my host dad, Yulia and Slava, the doctors, my American friend and the Rotary Club president. In the end, everything is fine, and I am so grateful it wasn't more serious. Now I am pretty much back to normal: I walk without a limp and without pain. I'm not on any medication, and I'm feeling great! A big thank you for all your prayers, emails and support. A special thank you to Dan Boldt and, most of all, my wonderful family.