"I Remember Stalin, He Always Made Sure We Had Salt"

Like usual, I apologize for the long delay in blogging. First I was actually a little depressed, but as Jon Smith told us, it’s apparently the time of the semester where everyone is tired and starts to hate Russia. He didn’t say it was only temporary, but I choose to believe that was the subtext of his message. So anyway, I’ve been bummed out, but then all this awesome stuff happened, so then I didn’t write my blog because I was actually enjoying Moscow for a change. So yeah, life has been looking up. (Finally). Here is what happened over the last two weeks:

I was having a really shitty day on Tuesday, the kind where I really had no desire to be in school at all, when I had possibly the best CMU class of all time. The CMU professor is always saying absurd things and making us agree with him and that day he really topped himself. We had finished the set lessons he had wanted to do so now we are just watching random news clips, I guess, that he feels like showing us. We watched one on Tuesday called “sol” which is the Russian word for salt. It was all about this crazy demand for salt that hit Vladimir and Samara I guess last winter. It opened up with a market manager asking an old woman what was wrong and the old woman replied she needed to buy 5 big bags of salt because she heard there wouldn’t be salt anymore. She was complaining that the prices were really high. Her little stubby fingers came up in front of the camera lens are she emphasized how pissed she was that all the salt was sold already. Then they asked another old woman about the salt problem and she basically bitched out the reporter and said something so foul, apparently, that they bleeped it out. Then they showed another old woman trying to buy salt from a vendor and she looked at the price and said “33 rubles a kilogram?! Motherfucker,” and walked away. Then they showed a warehouse full of salt and interviewed some guy saying that he had no idea why everyone was in a craze to stock up on salt. They then panned to an old guy in a furry hat who said “They always had salt under Peter the Great. And Stalin. I remember Stalin, and everyone after him, and they always made sure we had salt.” Then another old man explained that “we heard on the radio that Ukraine wasn’t going to give salt to Russia anymore, and now there won’t be anymore salt.” Which sounds insane, but apparently Russia refused to provide the Ukraine with gas because they were in a tiff and so a Ukrainian senator decided the best way to retaliate was to withhold salt. Our CMU professor said this was nuts, because only 20% of Russian salt comes from the Ukraine, and even then, all the salt used in food is Russian salt. But anyway, then the news clip panned to two old women waiting in line at a medical clinic and one said that she heard from her friends that there would be no salt. And then, of course, “when there is no salt, next comes war.” They cut to an old woman on the verge of tears in line for salt in a market, and she says “They robbed us of all the salt” (They, according to our CMU teacher, being the Ukrainians and the Americans. When we asked what the Americans had to do with the salt crisis, he replied that Americans are always blamed for everything bad in Russia.) Finally they cut to a line of old men waiting in the snow to get to a well which supposedly gives water from a natural spring from God. Our teacher said it was probably the dirtiest water in Moscow, and had cholera and every other kind of disease, but people do strange things when they believe in God. (Although he also went on to say that it’s scientifically proven that those who have faith live longer, so you should believe in God because it’s practical). One old man just said “No salt, then what next, no spring water? It’ll be like the apocalypse.” Then our CMU teacher turned the clip off and said “And this is why Putin and Medvedev never mention the word crisis when describing our economy.” What a great point. He then went on to tell us what his grandmother told him you would need in case of war (a needle and buttons) and that if you are stuck in a prison camp and don’t have access to vitamins, you should eat a raw potato to get your nutrients. He had to leave the room for a few minutes, so he told us to watch the clip again, and was about to give the remote control to me and thought a second, and then passed it on to Big Ben, as if to say “Wait, women can’t handle technology.” He later went on to ask me what I should say to my children if they are bleeding to make the blood stop and of course I didn’t know, and he didn’t know why I didn’t know and said I should ask a grandma here, she knows the right words to clot blood apparently. He then asked me what I should give my children if they have a sore throat, and before I could answer, Big Ben said, “I know, tea with lemon and honey.” The CMU professor said, “You know who’s going to be the world’s best dad? Ben. And you know why? Because he knows how to help his sick children,” and then shot a look at me like, God help you if you procreate. Which I obviously will not as I frequently sit on the floor at school and everyone knows that if a girl sits on the floor she won’t have babies. It freezes our ovaries or womb or something. He then asked us if we knew what the favorite soap of black people was. Mouths agape, we looked at each other completely confused, and he said that his favorite soap is Irish Spring and that when he taught in Maryland, his black students in Maryland told him that Irish Spring is the favorite soap of black celebrities and that he smelled like a rapper. And that is CMU class in a nutshell. Aren’t you jealous you don’t go to a Russian university?

On Halloween, our plans for a party got cancelled. We ended up not celebrating at all, which really bummed me out because Halloween is my favorite holiday and it’s the second year in a row that I haven’t celebrated it (I had shingles last year). We did have an excursion on Halloween, and it was somewhat holiday appropriate as we went to a graveyard. We went to the Novodevichy Monastery and Cemetery, which apparently is like the “it” place to be buried in Russia (I guess akin to Arlington National Cemetery in the US). We saw the graves of Rostropovich, Yeltsin, Khrushchev, Gogol, Chekov, Bulgakov, and a bunch of other famous people. It was pretty cool because the guide told us little stories behind each grave, like Gogol’s skull was missing and that someone tried to destroy Stalin’s wife’s grave. The next day, Jenna, Jen, Allison, Kat, and I all tried to go to the Armory in the Kremlin, because it’s supposed to have a fantastic jewel collection. You can only go four times a day and tickets only go on sale 45 minutes before each showing. We got in line maybe an hour and fifteen minutes before the showing, and not only were they sold out for the time we wanted, but when we went to buy tickets for another time, they wouldn’t let us but tickets with our Russian Student IDs. The woman said we needed an international student card, which is total bullshit, as we all had bought tickets to the Kremlin before with our Russian “studientcheskies.” But whatever, in Russia, the customer is not always right, in fact, they are usually wrong and should be yelled at. We decided to walk around Red Square for a bit, and as we did, Jenna said, “Hey guys, I have something embarrassing to admit, but I cried last night after I was on the phone with my mom.” We all said, “so?” and she replied, “It’s the first time I’ve cried in Russia.” We all stared at her with looks of horror and shock on our faces. “That’s insane, Jenna” I said. She looked at me and said, “I know,” thinking I was calling her crazy for crying. “Are you made of steel, woman? Is this how they raise children in Minnesota?” I inquired “What?” She asked, clearly confused. “Jenna, I’ve cried at least once a week since I’ve gotten here,” I replied. “It’s a good week if I cry for less than two hours” Jen piped in. “Wait, you guys cry all the time here?” She asked, astonished. We all nodded, and Jenna just had a look on her face like “wow.” That day we learned that while quiet, unassuming, and potentially considering becoming a nun, Jenna is one tough cookie. Maybe that IS how they raise children in Minnesota.


Before I write any further let me try to explain the insanity that was this holiday weekend. November 4th, a Tuesday, used to be some Communist holiday. Now that communism has fallen, they still have the holiday, they just renamed it something super lame, like the Day of National Unity. No Russian really knows what the holiday is for now or what the new name of it is (they call it something different every year). So since this holiday is on a Tuesday and they want a long weekend, instead of giving people that Monday off, like we would do in the US, they gave the country that Monday AND Tuesday off, and made Saturday a work day. Yeah, so the entire country (schedules, tv programming, schools) acted like Saturday was Monday, and Monday was Saturday, and Sunday was just Sunday, and then Tuesday was a holiday. Confusing? Of course. It’s Russia. We ended up just not having school on Saturday, so we had a nice, long 5 day weekend.

On Sunday, I got a text message from a guy named Sergei asking me to come ice skating with him and his friends. To give you guys some background info: You may recall from my previous blog entries the fun yet hellish night that was clubbing at Propaganda until 6 am. Well, when I was at Propaganda, giving my coat to the lady in the garderobe, I heard a male voice speaking English behind me, and I turned around and said, “You’re speaking English. That’s fantastic. I’m Hilary.” It turned out to be an American boy with his cute friends. I didn’t see them in the club when we were dancing, but when Paige and I took a bathroom break at some ungodly hour of the night/morning, I ran into the boy again. He told me he was leaving as a couple of his friends couldn’t get in, but wanted to get my phone number. I told him I didn’t know my phone number, which is sadly true. Then he asked if he could give me his, to which I had to reply no because my phone was dead and I didn’t have a pen. So at this point, you would probably think I was blowing you off, right? But I think he could tell I was just a big spaz, so he wrote my name down to friend me on facebook. He ended up friending me on facebook (he’s super normal and goes to UPenn and we even have mutual friends through Gtown) and for a couple weeks had been calling me about hanging out. I’d been refusing because they all seemed like one-on-one activities which veered far too closely into dating territory. So I finally got the text message about ice skating, and he said it was with friends, plus I effing love ice skating, so I agreed. I met him at a metro station, and it turns out that by “friends” he meant one female friend who was Russian. It was interesting because she only spoke a tiny bit of English, and it turned out Sergei was fluent in Russian because he lived in Moscow until he was 12 and then moved to the US. He’s doing study abroad here in Moscow and currently lives with his Grandma about two metro stops from me. So the conversation went something like the girl (I forget her name, so lets call her Mascha) and Sergei talking in Russian (which I could completely understand, I’ve somehow developed almost full comprehension of Russian, but my speaking skills still suck), Sergei and I talking in English, and then the girl and I talking in a mix of shit Russian on my part, and choice English phrases on her end. It took us forever to find the entrance of the skating rink. It was inside the Dinamo arena, which is where a really good Moscow hockey team plays, but apparently they had a special entry for the free skate, so by the time we actually found it, there was only 30 minutes left of free skate. We went in anyway, and I can say that I did upstate New York proud, not falling once, and skating at least as well as an average Russian. Mascha met up with some of her female friends there, too. There was a Russian hockey dad there screaming at his probably 5 year old son that he wasn’t skating well enough, he wasn’t tying his laces right, etc. Russian sports parents are WAY scarier than American ones. We left the arena and were walking around looking for the metro (which was really far away) when we came up to the Moscow river and I guess some sort of military grounds. There were all these ships and helicopters and tanks just randomly docked on the bank of the river. It made it even cooler that is was completely dark out, and all you could really see were the huge shapes of the vehicles and their reflections in the water. Then we took a gypsy cab, which was quite an exciting experience for me as Jon has instilled the fear of God into us when it comes to gypsy cabs. We ended up getting this really nice old man, and Sergei sat in the front and me plus the three Russian girls squished in the back. The old man counted all of us and said that he’d never fit this many people in his car, and then kept joking with Sergei where the other girl was hiding and how he managed to get so many ladies. Of course, the old man didn’t know where he was going, and neither did we, so it took a little while to get to the station. We decided to get some cake and tea before we went home, so we stopped at a Sbarro, which are a lot nicer here than the food court ones at home. We talked in Russian, and I actually conversed with the Russian girls and even made them laugh (intentionally!). Then we went home on the metro, with Sergei and I breaking off from his friend because we were in different directions. He invited me to come to his dacha sometime and bring some of my American friends from my program. A dacha is like a Russian country cabin where you have barbecues and gardens and a banya. All I could think was, my friends would so love that. So yeah, my friendship can totally be bought for a country house, in case you were wondering.

The next night I wasn’t planning on going out, but then I got the following text message from Matt: “Hey let’s drink! I know a good place. No bears! Tons of fun! Jan’s parents! Are you interested?” (Jan’s parents were in town, they are super cute, FYI. I don’t know about the bears thing, but in Russia, it is kind of a valid selling point). At first I said no to this, as I was really tired and wanted to do homework, but then Matt called me up and said “What. The. Fuck. You’re coming.” I heard Mikel’s voice in the background as Matt tried to convince me to come. Noticing some slurring, I asked “Matt, are you and Mikel drunk?” “Let’s just say you have some catching up to do,” he replied. So I decided to go, great student that I am, and said I’d meet them at the metro at 10 pm. Thanks to Georgetown, I know better than to make plans with drunk boys, as they usually don’t come through, so I texted Sergei and asked if we could hang out with his friends if my friends didn’t show. When I got to the metro, not only did Matt and Mikel make it, but Big Ben, Little Ben, Jan, and Annabel were there, too. We set out, looking for this bar Matt had found in his Guide to Moscow book. It was the same book I have, and it doesn’t even have half the metro stations on the map that currently exist, so I knew the book was slightly less than reliable. While we wandered, Mikel told me how he and Matt had been walking around a park together (read: Man Date, which the guys in my program do all the time, and it’s super cute) and stumbled upon a vodka factory. Which figures. So of course, being at a vodka factory, they had to buy some vodka, so they went back to Mikel’s apartment and split the bottle because Mikel’s host mom wasn’t home. Matt and Mikel kept joking that it was Mikel trying to date rape Matt, bringing him back to an empty apartment and getting him drunk. So then they moved on to Big Ben’s apartment, because he lives in the same building as Mikel, and had a second dinner and drank with Big Ben. I guess Big Ben’s host mom, who normally makes fun of him and calls him Willy (long story) was in rare form that night and not only got Big Ben, but made fun of Matt for his hat, which does look like a women’s hat a bit, in the sense that it’s white and knitted and has a pom pom on the top. So we’re still in search of the bar, when Big Ben takes over, questioning Matt’s current ability to read a map. As we turn a corner to walk down another street, I see someone walking towards us that looks familiar. To my horror, I realize it’s Sergei and don’t even attempt to hide the look of shock on my face. He had been texting me about my plans for the night, but I told him that my friends had shown up and we were looking for a bar around Park Kulturi. Apparently he lived in the area, and came out to find us. “I figured you’d be around here” he said, with my jaw still hanging on the ground. He proceeded to only talk to me for a few minutes, with me not responding as I was too embarrassed and upset for words. Finally he introduced himself to everyone, saying “Hey, I’m Serge. Hilary and I met at a club about a month ago, and then we went ice skating yesterday.” So after his brief synopsis of our relationship (at this point I felt nauseous), we proceeded to walk in the direction of the bar. In case you didn’t know, one of my weird hang-ups is having a boy I’m either seeing or who likes me, just show up to something with my friends uninvited. I’d had it happen before and I really like to keep my friends and my dating life separate for as long as possible. It’s pretty high up there on my list of uncomfortable situations, right in between giving oral presentations in a foreign language and hearing people you know having sex. All the conversation had stopped, even Matt and Mikel paused their man date babbling, and only Sergei was talking to me. I gave Big Ben a couple of SOS looks and even flashed the awkward turtle behind my back, and finally he came to my rescue by asking Sergei about himself, talking about Canada, etc. I felt so incredibly grateful to Big Ben at that moment, I probably would have given him my first-born (which would probably have been for the best, seeing as how he is going to be the world’s best dad). Sergei informed us that the bar we were looking for was torn down last year (of course) and we walked by the rubble. We finally found an Irish themed bar, and Big Ben, Little Ben, Sergei and I went in. We were waiting for the rest of our group to join, but they never did, with Jan sended Big Ben a text message saying “We went home. Kisses. Jan.” So then it ended up like being on a date, with Big Ben and Little Ben happening to be there, which is also awkward, as they are in my little group of 5 students that I go to class with everyday. After we had drinks, we decided to go home. Standing outside the restaurant, Sergei informed he was going back to his apartment, looking at me, and the Bens said they were going back to the metro, and then it was like a giant spotlight fell on me. What was I going to choose? I said, “Uh, so I think I’ll go home on the metro with Ben, he lives at the same stop as me” and booked it to the metro. And so the most awkward night in Moscow ended. Little Ben ended up walking me home, which was unexpected and super nice. And then I called Kat to freak out, and went to bed.

On Tuesday, as you all know, was the US Elections. We really wanted to watch it here, but the results would be on from 4 am to 7 am on Wed., and we had school that day. Jon told us that the Starlite Diner, an American-themed diner, would be having an election viewing party. So I organized the troops and we agreed to meet at one of the three diner locations. Some of my classmates ended up going to the bigger party at the main diner at Octyaberskaya, but Jenna, Allison, Katie, Julia and I ended up going to the smaller dinner at Mayakovskaya (It was like a girl’s night out).We had to meet at midnight, because the metros close at one, so we geared up to spend all night at the diner, and then go from there to class the next morning. When we got there, we sat out on the enclosed porch area. It was really pretty and cozy, with icicle lights and diner booths and heat lamps. We watched CNN and laughed as they tried their best to make news hours before the election results came in. Our favorite was the CNN graphs that showed the make-up of voters for each state, with “white men” “evangelicals” “black women” “women” “unemployed 18 year olds” and Catholics” all being categories. We got American food, like burritos, hamburgers, and milkshakes, and it was like heaven in my mouth. Julia and I talked about the merits of the fabulously trashy New York post, and basically it felt like a sleep over, but minus the sleep and plus an election. We ended up having to move from the porch area to the actual diner because an obnoxious man behind me was smoking hookah for two hours and it was so bad that my throat hurt, my eyes burned, and you could see the smoke hanging in the air above our heads. In the diner, there were a bunch of American theater students that Julia somehow knew who went to Drama school in Moscow. Behind us on the other side of the diner were drunk older American guys, probably in their mid-thirties, commentating and shouting at the election results like it was a sporting event. It was a really long night, and Emma showed up at 6 am to join us. Finally, it was down to the west coast results, with Barack only needing a couple more electoral college votes to win. There was a countdown on the screen to when the California results came in, and everyone in the restaurant counted down out loud. Then “Breaking News” flashed across the screen and they put up the headline “Barack Obama elected president.” Everyone in the restaurant screamed and hugged each other and Julia started to cry. The theater kids were bawling and I have to admit I even teared-up a little. I hadn’t been following the election or US news, due to my lack of internet or English news access, and I really wanted Obama to win, but I just thought we had too many crazy white conservatives who would vote McCain in. And I had really been disappointed under Bush. And it sunk in that Obama was our first black president. And I was going on 24 hours without sleep. So I think that combo made me a little emotional. Julia said that people were taking to the streets back home in NYC and Katie was crying a little. A couple of Russian reporters were taking our pictures and we stayed through and watched McCain’s concession speech and Obama’s speech, paid our absurdly high dinner bill and went straight from the diner to school. The Russian teachers congratulated us on our new president (which is a weird thing to do, in my opinion), and asked us how we felt about a black president. I remember our CMU teacher saying about a month before that if Obama won, Russia wouldn’t like it, because it would show that democracy actually works (because our leaders would not pick a black man to rule the country). In some twisted way, he was right. Unlike McCain’s crowd, which was all white, Obama’s supporters, black, white, Hispanic, old and young were all crying and so happy that he won, and at least in my lifetime I can’t remember seeing something like that. I saw something on Russian TV that had showed a police man in NYC, who was there to keep the crowds back, and when the results came in, a camera man caught him wiping a tear from his eye and smiling in spite of himself. The election was fantastic, and on top of that, since Jenna and I make up two-fifths of our class, we were so tired that we got let out early because our grammar teacher declared she couldn’t do anything with us. It was a pretty great day.

During the week, Galina Michaelevna was “sick” again (the phonetics teacher), so our conversation class got combined with the group with Mikel, Matt, Anton-Reese, Carlos, Annabel, and Julia. When our classes get combined, which happens quite frequently, we always do a “blitz,” which is a fast question and answer session in Russian for an hour. As intimidating as that may sound, it’s really not. The other group is really goofy and likes to have fun in class, so usually we end up learning absurd words and laughing until our ribs hurt. This time, Mikel started off the questions by asking Big Ben to tell us about his first love and to describe her in detail. Big Ben turned his chair around to face everyone and started off by saying “Well children (because we make fun of him for being old), a while ago, when I was sixteen, I was in band. I was played the French horn.” Big Ben then had to draw a French horn on the board because some people didn’t understand the word. Then he continued, “Well, from where I sat, I could see her playing the clarinet....” I couldn’t stop laughing. Then Matt asked me if I would like some tea (see, the questions don’t have to really be serious or even make sense) and I said yes, but not with him, to which the class went, “ohhhhh” as in “you just dissed him” (it’s hard to convey that sound on paper). Big Ben asked “While I agree with you about not having tea with Matt, why not? And Julia added “Is there someone else you’d rather have tea with? A boy, or boyfriend, perhaps?” implying Sergei. I answered no and said I didn’t know what they were talking about. Not about to let it rest, Julia told the teacher she had a question for me, and asked me what I had done Sunday and Monday nights. Since half the room had been there, I was forced to recount in the events of the previous nights, and for the record, it was no less embarrassing in Russian. After that, Carlos asked Annabel if she were to die and be reincarnated, what would she come back as? Annabel said she’d want to be herself, but Julia really liked that question, so she asked Anton-Reese, who replied a bald eagle (but first he said an eagle with no hair, not using the right word for bald) or an owl. Then Matt, who was sitting right next to Anton-Reese said he wanted to be a snake so he could bite Anton, but then took that back and said he wanted to be an anaconda so he could strangle Anton. And then class was over.

Thursday night, Jen, Jenna, Allison, Kat and I skipped Russian-American club to go see James Bond at the English language movie theater. There is only one in Moscow, and when we finally found it, there was no one working there, the theater door was wide open, and the only poster on the wall was for that DeNiro / Pacino movie, I think it’s called The Right To Kill. James Bond was no where to be seen, despite being advertised on their website and it being the opening day of the film in Russia. We went down to the main lobby to ask about the movie and the security guard I asked had no idea what I was talking about and thought I was asking about a gym. So we left and went out to dinner, deciding we would just go see James Bond in Russian. After dinner we headed over to the European Shopping Mall to get tickets for the show, and as we were in line, trying to communicate what we wanted in Russian, a giant lion mascot and three penguin mascots waltzed in to promote Madagascar 2. One of the penguins came over and tapped Kat on the shoulder and nearly scared the shit out of her. This was all while the lady was telling us all the tickets were sold out until midnight. We decided to just go home, as it wouldn’t be a night out in Moscow without having your plans dashed, your back-up plans failing, and then returning home all before 10 o’clock. I’d been in a weird mood that day, and when I got home, my host mom decided that now was a good time to tell me everything I’d been doing wrong including taking showers that were too long, brushing my teeth with too much water, going to the bathroom too frequently, and then showing me how to properly use the shower (curtain inside the tub, as if I didn’t know). I couldn’t handle it all at once, so I went back to my room and started to involuntarily tear up. I really couldn’t stand to be in the apartment with her, so the only thing I could think of was to call Sergei because I knew he lived close to me and would know something fun to do.

He agreed to meet me at a metro by his apartment, and we tried to find another showing of James Bond in the area. We ran into a couple of his Russian friends (who we knew from childhood) but the movie was all sold out. Then we tried to see if it was already on sale at the bootleg DVD vendors which are around every metro station, but to no avail. We then went to this really nice glass enclosed pedestrian bridge over the Moscow River, and he pointed out all the cool stuff to see in Moscow. We were talking about that crazy Georgian sculptor Tseritelli, when he mentioned that his mom knew him and went out to dinner with him a couple of times. His mom worked for Pravda, the big Russian newspaper, so she has a lot of crazy connections like that. After the bridge, we were freezing and in need of some tea, so we decided to go back to his apartment. Normally, I would not go back to some random guy’s apartment but all I really wanted at that moment was to be in a nice, cozy house, maybe even sitting on a sofa, and his grandmother would be there. As we walked to his apartment building, he explained that the area that his grandmother lives in used to be the really nice neighborhood where all the Soviet generals and people high up in the government lived, and a lot of them still live there today. His grandfather was some high up minister or department head under the last few leaders of the Soviet Union, and his grandmother had studied at some prestigious music conservatory in Moscow and had written several books on Eastern/Western Germany and the Soviet dynamics. As we walked, I asked him a ton of questions I had about Russia, like where do boys buy their underwear in Russia (there are a bajillion lingerie shops but I haven’t seen men’s underwear anywhere), why are the bottoms of all the trees painted white, and in Russian sign language, do they decline nouns and adjectives too, and if so, how? He really liked my questions because he thought it was interesting what foreigners found strange about Moscow. We got to his apartment building and it definitely was a lot nicer than mine. When we walked in the apartment, his grandmother greeted us in her kimono-ish robe and proceeded to herd us into the kitchen. She got out every kind of tea they had and then kept trying to feed us as Sergei and I sat at the kitchen table waiting for the water to boil. She got out a plate of apples, and Sergei told her that we weren’t hungry. Then she said she found some cheese and Sergei said, no thanks, grandma. Then she offered to make some Kasha (kind of like rice-oatmeal) and explained to me really slowly (as she thought I didn’t understand Russian very well) that all Russian loves kasha. Sergei then repeated that we weren’t hungry and his grandma said that “tea isn’t tea without something to eat.” Grandma declared that she was going to have tea with us, and Sergei got a look on his face like, “Oh my God, I am so sorry.” I thought it was fantastic. She kept talking to Sergei to translate for me, but Sergei told her in Russian, “Grandma, she understands Russian.” To which she replied, “I don’t know,” giving me a skeptical look, “I don’t think she completely understands.” Which was funny because I actually did. He told his grandma that we were going to hang out in his room (because Russian apartments only have bedrooms, a bathroom, and a kitchen) and Grandma was not having any of that, saying to me, “In Russia, the most important people sit in the kitchen.” Sergei told her we were going to his room and she said to me, “He is already an American. He doesn’t want to sit in the kitchen like a Russian.” So Sergei lead me out of the kitchen, which I felt bad about and told him I didn’t want to make his grandma mad, but he said not to worry about it.

We went into a little library they have and out onto the balcony (to which Grandma told us we were going to catch colds out there) to see the view of Moscow. Then Sergei showed me some really old books in the library from the 1700s and showed me the old Russian letters that they don’t use anymore. From the library, I went to look at all the pictures covering the wall in the main entry way. Sergei pointed out one of his grandma and an old guy and he asked me if I knew who that was. Of course I didn’t, and he said, “Rastropovich.” All I could think of was that I had seen his grave the week before, but I tried not to be so creepily morbid. Sergei explained that his grandma and Rastrpovich went to the music conservatory together and were friends. I started looking at the other pictures on the wall and Sergei started listing off the names of popular Russian entertainers, former heads of government, academics, etc. Basically the Russian history of the last twentieth century was hanging in frames on his apartment wall, with his mom, grandma, or step-dad (a Norwegian business man) interspersed. After looking at a picture of his step-dad with Yeltsin, Sergei told me to look at the a picture in the middle of the wall, which had a bunch of old communist leaders all standing next to each other in non-descript grey suits. He told me to look at the guy in the corner, and at the end of the line of officials, stood a tiny awkward man making himself have a double chin, holding the biggest man purse I have ever seen. It was Putin. Sergei explained that it was a meeting his step-dad went to in St. Petersburg in the nineties and it was back when Putin was just working for the mayor of the city. We went into Sergei’s room and he showed me some cool Russian music and we watched the parts of Admiral (a current Russian blockbuster) that were blatant rip-offs from Titantic. I had to go to the bathroom after all the tea, and as I came out of the bathroom, Grandma was waiting there to ask me questions. In the sweetest way possible, she grilled me about where I went to school and what I was doing in Russia. She was asking me if my host mom cooked for me and as I said yes, I heard a voice say “You should really say “inogda” (which means ‘sometimes’ in Russian)” and turned around to see Sergei leaning against the wall behind me, smirking and obviously enjoying the fact I was having to use my shitty Russian to talk with his Grandma, the Grand Inquisitor. We went back into his room, but Grandma followed, still having more questions. I imagine in the old days in the Russian villages when a family sold a bride to another family, they would have to undergo such questioning. All I was expecting next was for her to ask me the weight of the cow I was bringing in my dowry. Finally Sergei told his grandma that I needed to write an important email on his computer, so she needed to go, and Grandma agreed, but not before saying she had something to give me. She went out to the kitchen and I was frightened of what she was going to bring back, perhaps a whole chicken or some sort of family heirloom, when she came in the room with a tiny cell phone, and told me she wanted to give me her number. She told me to call her in case I ever needed anything, especially if I wanted help on my college thesis (as she was a teacher, after all), and I really didn’t know what to do in that situation, so I saved her in my contacts as “Grandma.” She also informed me she could text message because Sergei taught her how to do it yesterday. She left and Sergei asked if I wanted to use his internet because he knew I didn’t have any at my house and then he walked me back to the metro. It was probably the best night I’ve had in Moscow so far, and it involved an 80 year women in house slippers.