For those of you who may want to send me a package, here is my adress in English and Russian. Things to send might include nail clippers (they only have scissors here), fresh umphrey's (a disc logic of the boston show would be especially nice), or perhaps just pictures and a hand written note.

150000 g.Yaroslavl
ul. Hakhimsona
dom 12, kv. 7
Minkova R. A.
Russia

150000 г.Яарославль
ул. Нахимсона
дом 12, кв.7
Минькова Р.А.
Россия

So on Friday, after class (grammar with Svetlana Yurevna which is great, and then 'songs' with Yelena Something-or-other-evna which was totally unbearable), I had my excursion to a communal apartment.

With Yennh from Finland, I met up with Alexander Petrovich Prokhorov in front of the university. Petrovich drove a very new Kia SUV which makes him one of the wealthiest people I've met here in Yaroslavl. He made the claim that his project is not for profit and I was inclined to believe him, considering that there does believe to be some government involvment. We drove to a hotel on Bolshaya Oktyaborskaya street and then waited for the rest of our party. We drove in caravan back across town, and parked on a nice street. There I first learned who composed our convoy: a translator, three women (two British and one American) who were doing some sort of exchange program working at orphanages in Yaroslavl and did not speak a word of Russian, there was a friend of Prokhorov's who works for alocal news paper, and lastly there was a production crew from NTV, Russia's first privately owned television channel. We first walked through a fairly picturesque park toawards an imposing white mansion, which Prokhorov explained was the prerevolutionary home of a wealthy Yaroslavl merchant. I learned that it is now an economics school. The communal apartment, Prokhorov explained, was located in what were originally the estate's stables. As we aproached a long two story building, a fairly unthreatening looking woman poked her head out of a window and, well I don't remember exactly what she said, but we entered in an open door into a small hallway. The floor was wooden, missing some floorboards, and noticeably sagged as we walked across it. We first examined one kitchen on the bottom floor, the light of the NTV news camera illuminating dark corners. The residents there seemed just as curious of the foreigners and the news cameras as we were of them and their surroundings. After poking around there for a little bit, we went upstairs, and led into a small, but well furnished one room apartment, much, much cleaner than the public spaces. There our hostess, a woman maybe slighty older than Rimma Andreevna, and her friend, both of whom had lived in that apartment for over fifty years, told us about growing up these conditions.

It was certainly a harrowing tail, hearing how five people shared a space the size of my childhood bedroom. She told us how during the Stalin years, her father was sent to the Gulag as an enemy of the people, for no reason other than Polish ancestry. She described the difficulties of winter, before stoves were installed, and she described how much worse things are now, socially, within the communal apartments. We saw the shared kitchens, where a family of six will be assigned one burner on a stove. We saw single bathrooms shared by fourteen families, which for our hostess, a diabetic, can be quite a problem when there are long lines. Despite all that she's been through, however, she maintained a cheerful disposition.

She said that even though her life is horrible, and her alcoholic husband died early in life, it doesn't matter, because her daughter went on to finish college, and now her two grandsons are in school and don't drink or smoke. I spoke a few words with her personally as we were on our way out. I told her how pleased I was that she allowed us to see everything, and as she told me more about her grandchildren, she seemed to be on the verge of bittersweet tears.

This being the first communal apartment tour yet to happen, and one accompanied by news cameras, the other inhabitants of the apartment seemed more than happy to show us their dillapitated living conditions. One family showed us the 3ftx3ft hole they hve in the floor of one of their two rooms. As another elderly woman showed us her aparmtment, but the pervading stench from the room next door was so unbearable, that Prokhorov quickly ushered us out. The stench seemed like a mixture of human waste, garbage, and enough alcohol vapor to make our nostrils burn, and it was explained that an alcoholic lived in the room next door.

We then piled back into the cars, and went on to another communal apartment. This one seemed even sadder than the first, and the hostess, while pleasant and polite, looked very unhealty, and coughed frequently as she spoke. This stay was much shorter than the first, and after words, we all gathered outside the complex. Their the NTV film crew interviewed several of the foreigners, myself included, and I was the only one able to give the interview without the presence of the translator.

In the car on the way back, I went ahaead and volunteered my services, free-of-charge, to help with the program. I'm still not sure how I feel about it, but if its truly non profit, it could have its benefits. It would bring more tourist dollars to Yaroslavl, put more money into the pockets of these poor pensioners, and at the same time, raise the cultural and historical awareness of Americans.

Of course, there are certainly some problems that will need to be worked out first. Not all tourists will neccesarily be as repsectful as two students of Russian language and culture and a group of orphanage workers were. On the other hand, Prokhorov is the only person who's really responded positively to any of my offers to work somewhere without pay, so....


That night we had plns to go to a concert. We all eventually met up at the apartment of Andrei, a young Russian man, maybe a few years older than myself. We bought alcohol, includin some sweet Georgian wine (very tasty), some Russian-made vermouth, and a Five liter Keg Can of Baltika Seven (which was my personal contribution). We pre-gamed for a while, listening to drum and bass, and then to Gorky Park, the 80's Russian pop/hair-metal in which the musician's we would be seeing later that night gained their fame.


WE went to the concert at Partisan, however there was only probably 45min left of playing time when we got there. WE continued drinking of course, as any foreigner in Russia is obligated to at a mutli-national gathering such as this. (Our party consisted of three Russians, four Britons, three Americans, and a Finn).

I met a man of about 45 named Sergei (think straight black hair down to about chin length, and a neatly trimmed beard with white hairs starting to creap in), who insisted that I address him with the familiar 'Ты' instead of the formal 'Вы'. Upon finding out that we were both musicians with similar music tastes, we exchanged phone numbers. Sergei showed me his picture hanging up on the wall inside the club.

Back with the students, after two bottles of vodka were consumed, as well as some potato chips, and after I had eaten entirely two much of something that I would describe as a calamari version of beef jerky, we managed to crawl into cabs, cross back over the river, get back to our apartments, and go to sleep.

I felt bad since, despite being what I would consider as quiet as possible, the natural nosie of Rimma Anrevna's six locks unlocking and then locking again, caused her to wake up. I, of course, blamed it one my friends, those crazy American students, you know the type.

So Saturday evening, I gave Sergei a call, and arranged what I thought was a rendezvous to play music together at his place, or perhaps some practice space he owned. Anyways, he soon led me into a very cute, if cramped restaurant, ordered himself a glass of cognac, said something about having to sing, and disapeared into a backroom. Soon a blond haired Russian woman joined him. After a few minutes, Sergei, who had arrived wearing the same red "Beatles with Tony Sheridan" T-Shirt he had been in the night before, emerged in coordinated clothing with the woman, both toting guitars. Sergei's outfit now included a fairly ridiculous withe studded shirt with fringes on the chest, and an equally ridiculous black cowboy-ish hat (think Crocodile Dundee style).

Anyways, the then very professionaly performed classic Russian folk music. Some songs I knew, some I didn't, but most of the restaurant crowd, with the exception of the Western orphanage workers from the day before, who coincidentally happened to be eating there that night (it's a small town), seemed very familiar with the repetoire. After maybe 20 minutes, they took about ten minute break, and re-emerged for their set that would include some more contemporary music, Russian blues and country. As much as I was enjoying their music, I was kind of bummed that I wasn't going to get to play music with anyone that night. I had my guitar with me, but I didn't feel like I'd known Sergei long enough to ask to play a song with them. Luckily I din't have to ask, and Sergei invited me, introducing me to the restraurant as their new friend from the USA. When the moment was right, I chimed in with a tasteful, fairly well played improvised guitar solo, and then I ended up adding trills and flourishes for the rest of their set, with a few more solos in their somewhere. It was very fun, and when Sergei again introduced me, one member of the audience, albeit the most enthusiastic fan, shouted "Отличное соло!" (Excellent Solo!)

Anyways, Sergei and I then had tea, followed by another beer, I lent him a few CDs (live Dead, live Umphrey's, and Crack the Sky), and we left with plans to rendezvous again soon.

That's all for now!

So about a week ago I popped into a store called Delovy Mir (Or Businesslike World) because I saw on their sign that they had foreign language books for sale. Anyways, they only had two books in English, a Poe collection and Three Men in a Boat by Jerome K. Jerome. I bought both, and just finished Three Men in a Boat. The book isn't really about anything other than human nature, but it is beautifully written, and the closing passage really left me fitfully jealous of those who have the ability to craft beautfiul language:

We pegged and quaffed away in silence for a while, until the time came when, instead of sitting bolt upright, and grasping the knife and fork firmly, we leant back in our chairs and worked slowly and carelessley - when we stretched out our legs beneath the table, let our napkins fall, unheeded, to the floor, and found time to more critically examine the smoky ceiling than we had hitherto been able to do - when we rested our glasses at arm's length upon the table, and felt good, and thoughtful, and forgiving.

Then Harris, who was sitting next to the window, drew aside the curtain and looked out upon the street.

It glistened darkly in the wet, the dim lamps flickered with each gust, the rain splashed steadily into the puddles and trickled down the water-spouts into the running gutters. A few soaked wayfarers hurried past, crouching beneath their dripping umbrellas, the women holding up their skirts.

'Well,' said Harris, reaching his hand out for his glass, 'we have had a pleasant trip, and my hearty thanks for it to old Father Thames - but I think we did well to chuck it when we did. Here's to Three Men well out of a boat.!'

And Montmorency, standing on his hind legs, before the window, peering out into the night, gave a short bark of decided concurrence with the toast."

Where, to begin..I don't really remember where I left off...

Hmm...Last thursday we went on an excursion around town, the pictures from which I have already posted.

The university is so disorganized. Only now id my schedule beggining to crystallize. If you want to find out when classes in certain departments are being held, you have to go to the department office (in different buildings spread throughout the city) and then find a poster, but even the schedule their seems to change on a weekly basis.

Anyways. On Friday, I had just finished my breakfast, and I got a frantic call from the university that I was already supposed to be there for class. In a panic, even though I knew it was there fault, I threw on clothes, ate some toothpase, and flew out the door, shower be damned. Of course, when I arrived at school, neither the teacher nor my classmates had shown up either, and I ended up not having class for another couple of hours.

Thursday, I had finally gotten up the courage to ask Rimma Andreevna if I could have a visitor from Moscow. I could tell she wanted to say know but felt obligated to say yes. Anyways, after playing e-mail tag for several days, we finally figure oout that Steve would get in around noon Saturday.

When he got into town, the weather was horrible, around 50 degrees and raining. At the trainstation, I fouind out that Steve had not yet bought a ticket for his return trip, and it turned out that it was impossible to get one for the Sunday afternoon train, and he ended up buying one to leave monday morning.

When we got back to the house, Rimma Andreevna had made lunch, consisting of one of her typical salads (chopped vegetables with either dill or parsley or both and mayonaise), pea soup, and I would like to say syrnichki, which are esentially little fried cakes that she makes way to often (delicous but horrible for you) consisting of,I think, flour, egg, curds, and more curds.

After lunch, during which Steve applied his considerable charm to winning over Rimma Andreevna, we went out for a stroll around town. Yaroslavl looked horrible in that weather, with the only people out on the streets being the occasional, very damp wedding party. Our stroll culminated at a bar on ulitza Kirova, where we got a glass of vodka and some larger Turborg drafts. After this we headed back home to rest some. For dinner that night, we ended up at Cafe Actor. We dined with ery elegant settings and great service for less than twenty dollars between us. In addition to the oligatory 18oz beers, we both had some very mysterious but delicous bean and tomato (I think) based soup, and then chicken with an orange flavored gravy. After dinner, we went out for a beer, but my stomach was at the bursting point, which caused my beer to go down quite slow. We eventually retired, after purchasing one last beer, (the delicous 8% alcohol Baltika 9), to drink in the apartment. When we got back, Rimma Andreevna served us tea, and rather than having us put sugar in it, she insisted that we alternate sips of tea, with small spoonfulls of wild strawberry jam.

WE woke up ealy-ish on sunday, and had a breakfast, that I think consisted of kasha and syrnichki. Rimma Andreevna told us that the way to get to Karabikha, Nekrasov's home, was on Bus number 105. She insisted that the place to cath bus 105 was in front of the kremlin, where about 20 different buses and trolleybuses make stops. Of what she was aparently ignorant, is that bus 105 starts it route to Karabikha at the bus station on the other side of the Kotorlos river. So after waiting about 30, on both sides of the street, we decided to do the kremlin first. We checked out the Icon museum, and the historical museum. We also climbed the belfry tower, all of which I'd done when I first went to the Kremlin by myself, 2 weeks ago. What I apparently missed the first time, was the exhibit of Masha the she-bear (Медведица). This was certainly the saddest animal I have ever seen. She sat depressed, in her cage, which was at most 1000 sq feet (10x100). She would let her legs hang out between the bars, and her head hung limp, resting on one of her arms, looking like an out of work biker or perhaps a professional wrestler past his prime. Her eyes showed sadness and her tounge hung limp as tourist laughed and took flash pictures, to which she would respond only by blinking.

After the Kremlin, we grabbed a quick lunch of blinis, I got mine with cheese, Steve got his with strawberry jam. By the way, jam in Russian is dzhehm, and if you ask for peservatif, it means you want a condom. Apparently a Middlebury Student made that mistakes last year when requesting strawberry preserves from his elderly hostess. After lunch, we, thanks to the instructions of an employee at the Kremlin, boarded the number 5 trolley bus, which took us to the bus station, from where we transferred to the 105 bus to Karabikha.

It was truly beautiful there at Nekrasov's home. Lifted from an e-mail to Lesley, here is my Dummy's Guide to Nekrasov.

Nekrasov was a russian poet in the mid 19th century. That seems to be his main attraction here, but historically, he is more important as editor of the Contemporary, the most important and influential of the russian literary journals, in which TOlstoy, turgenev, and other great Russin authors published stories and also novels in serial form. Nekrasov retained Nikolai "What is to be done" Chernyshevksky on staff as a literary critic, as well as the more radical Bogliobuvskii (sp?). After the publication of fathers and sons, The staff and contributors were torn apart by the emrging generational struggle between classical liberalism and radicalism . Although Nekrasov was of the father's generation, he tended to side with the radicals, while at the same time trying to be a force of reconcilliation. Eventually he became the target of tsarist police.


Anyways, as for the estate itself, the pictures tell the story much better than I can. I'll just say that the beatuiful fall weather complemented the idyllic estate very nicely. Also, even though we got to the main house 15 min after closing time, they let us see it anyway, although they made us where these weird slippers that tied on under our shoes. The house did have the nicest parqueted floors I've ever seen.

By the time we got back to Yaroslavl, we were pretty hungry, and Rimma Andreevna had made us chicken and stuffed peppers, along with salad and bread. We then went to drink beer. Bought Baltika 9, hung out for a while, and in general gossiped like school girls about students from the middlebury program, and then we bought more Baltika 9 and then gossiped some more.

Also that evening, I ran into Bek, who had called me earliar. He wants to start a trio with me on guitar, playing Chechnyan synth-pop blues-rock. When he called me, he meant to say that his friend bought new bongos, but he informed me that his friend had just purchased a new bong! Anyway, I think the hilarity was lost on him.

I (and Rimma Andreevna!) woke up at 5:45 to get Steve out the door and onto his train. Monday at school nothing too special happened. After class, I went with Yenh(Finland) and Laura(England) to a cafe, and then Andre(Italy) and Louise(British, but from Brunei) met us there. We got some delicious hot choclate that was exceedingly thick, but also exceedingly expensive by russian standards (100rubles). That will have to be a once and a while thing, for both dietary and finnancial reasons.

On my way back from that, I happened to run into Bek, and we went back to his place to play some tunes. He played me some music that he's recorded in the studio and its pretty professional sounding. Luckily, I'm finding myself playing the best lead guitar I've ever played. I'm starting to get some pretty good speed at a few sweet spots on the fret board. I just need to cop some hot licks and I'll be set.

I'lm going to leave it at that for now. I'm supposed to go on an excursion to a communal apartment (shared kitchens and bathrooms) on Friday. It's being arranged by an economics professor from the university. He explained it as an academic thing, but then also said there's a television documentary angle, and I may be interviewed, but upon purusing his literature, it seems that it may actually be market research for a new type of reality tourism. It raises an interesting ethical question. Where do you draw the line between dignity and physical needs. If a pensioner opens his communal apartment to this kind of tour, but it allows him to eat is it worth basically becoming a zoo exhibit to feed yourself? I'll see what my impressions are friday...

The house at Karabikha.


A more tasteful shot of the house.


A rather cool picture of Steve.


Me, showing the road to the future.


Steve and I atop the Volga Enbankment.


The foreign students gather wood in the forest.


Sergei, our burly driver, builds a fire.


Stopping off in a random field.


We play Russian games.

On foot, approaching Karabikha.


The grounds at Karabikha.


The rear of the house.


Inside the house. Check out the parquet floor.


Steve, looking at one of the displays.

Image Shack is being really testy. I'll try to get the rest up tomorrow morning.

So when I was shopping around for CD players, it seemed odd to me that 80% of CD players available here in Russia had mp3 capability. It seemed to me that certainly, 80% of the music-listening population here didn't have the computers, highspeed internet access, and cd burning capabilities, to make it worth buying these players. Then I looked in a few music stores.

What is going on here, is the equivalent of highway robbery of American and WEstern European intellectual property. For about 3 dollars, very reputable stores, will sell you mp3-cds, packaged with varying degrees of professionality. THese cds, in general, will contain either the entire, or at least half of an artists career. I spent about 12 dollars buying cds today, or in other words, what one cd would have cost in America, about ten years ago. I got:
Every Pink Floyd Studio Album and Greatest hits collection ever released (21 albums, 299 tracks!!)
Every Led Zeppelin Studio ALbum ever released
Every Rush album through Moving Pictures, or in other words, Every good Rush album...

I realize that there's a certain degree of hipocracy in pointing out the illegality and then gleefully participating in it, but the really shocking thing is how open it is! (Plus, I probably lost my whole music collection in Katrina!) It's funny how much of a hissy RIAA got itself in over American college kids swapping songs when here, abroad, I can walk into so many stores, and buy an artist's entire catalog for 3 bucks!

If the United States' advantage in a global economy is supposed to be our innovative skills, perhaps we have a right to keep trade barriers protecting our manufacturing sector from cheap foreign labor, until those countries make serious efforts to protect our intellectual property. (And of course, we also need to make the investments into scienceand education, but that's a different discussion!)

I forgot to add a few things yesterday. First, I brough Rimma Andreevna some flowers when I came home and everything was fine. Also, at Bek's place, he taught me how to play the guitar solo in AC/DC's thunder struck, and he treated me to the second male sung version of bannana ramma's I'm your VEnus, which must really be a popular song here in Russia.

Ahh, beloved internet cafe, complete with your bitchy attendants, tough guy security, and nerdy computer game players, where would I be without you...

Ahhh....Baltika Seven and Eight, well made Russian beers that provide a tasy haven from the pervading schwilliness...

So, where shall I begin.

Well...I heard a techno remix of some elvis in the internet cafe tonight, but that's not really news....

Hmm...there was some friction between my hostess and I yesterday...

It all actually started two days ago, when I got back from the hockey game, she claimed to smell a terrible stench. She noticed it immedeately upon returning, but I couldn't smell a thing, which suggested it might be me (but more on that later).

So, yesterday, while I was at school, apparently she cleaned and aired out the house completely, but it didn't totally get rid of the odor. Anyways, when I got back from looking at all the hotels in town, she told that she figured out that the smell, which I still hadn't noticed, but apparently was so bad that her neighboor complained she was becoming nautious(!), was coming from my dirty laundy, which on Sunday she had told me I had to do at the laundromat about a mile and a half away. She explained that she could wash my clothes if I paid her, and that she, unlike me, never lets dirty clothes sit for a long time. Of course, I had actually washed my dirty clothes the day before, and then they had spent the night at the university, so they couldn't have been the cause of the mystery odor (запах). Anyways, soon afterthis, she lectures me on not yet having gone to either Rostov or Nekrasov's homes, to things that I'm fully planning on doing as soon as I find someone with whom to go. Of course, some of this may be brought on by the fact that I was looking at hotels, and the implicit statement that my family has the money to stay in hotels and travel. It must be hard for the pensioners of this town, who can't afford to travel, to see bussloads everyday, of senior tourists from western and central europe.

I over heard her on the phone yesterday saying, "What a world we're living in today. We're not living; we're just surviving." In Russian, it's sort of a play on words, since the word for surviving, or living through, is made by adding a prefix to the word for live. ("Мы не живём, мы выживём")

This generation really does have a tough time. When I was eating lunch in the tiny university cafeteria today, there was an old, old pensioner there, because she wanted to buy the cheap food. When she got to the front, the woman who serves food there, who is a classic russian country woman, very plump, with dimples that are seriously at least half an inch deep, told her that the cafeteria was for students only. The pensioner, obviously lying, responded that she was a mother of a student (old enough, to be a grandmother of a college student in America, or a great grandmother of one in Russia--people get married sooner here). Anyways, after the pensioner repeated several times that she was a mother of a student (Я мать студента), the woman, warning sternly that this was the last time, finally let her buy some borsht and bread. (The cafeteria really is cheap, I got a piece of pork, mashed potatoes, a cabbage priogue and hot tea for less than one dollar). When the woman went and sit down with the food, the cafeteria worker commented to her coworker, "Did you see that old hag (старых), coming in here, and saying she was the mother of a student?"
What I'm trying to say, is that privitization, while clearly a neccesary step for RUssia, has put its seniors in a horrible spot. What we shouldn't forget, is that this is the Soviet generation. Someone who is say 80 right now, was born in 1925, nine years after the revolution, and just when STalin was really solidifying his grip on power. Their parents died or were sent to the gulag in STalin's purges, their friends died in WOrld WAr II, or they starved, working themselves to death on the home front, and then after that, they built the Soviet Union up again, creating a massive system of state owned industrial property. Then, in the nineties, they saw the significant wealth of the state, that they helped build in a utopian vision, distributed unevenly to those who had the best connections. Two crashes of the ruble, Latin America/Weimar Germany style hyper inflation in the early nineties, and a full on market crach + currency devaluation in 1998, depleted the funds of those that chose to embrace the new capitalist banking system. And now a still strapped for cash russian state continuies to cut their benefits, so that the government maintains a positive budget, and doesn't lapse into the type of that dept it did in 1998. It's just sad that this Generation was asked by their parents to sacrifice their lives for the good of their country, than, asked by the state to build a utopia, and then was again, they forfeit the benefits that they worked to give their parents, to help build a strong economy for their children and grandkids. It's no wonder they miss the days of communism.

The younger generations of course, love capitalism. I've come to the realization that about 85% of the women in YAroslavl have either died or highlighted hair, more often than not platinum blond. It's almost the official look of town, platinum blond with brown roots.

So today I played music with a friend namded Bek. Bek is from Checnya. I walked with my guitar the mile and a half or so to his house, through not the best neighborhoods in town, and finally arrived at a somewhat downtrodden apartment building (which means nothing in a country where 80% of the urban population lives in downtrodden aprtment buildings). SO much energy was invested into building up this country, and then so little invested into maintaining what was built. Anyways, Bek plays piano and guitar, and we rocked a little bit, and chatted. I think his favorite band is Deep Purple. He loved to use the auto functions on his keyboard which were pretty cool, and he treated me to a nice version of Europe's "Final Countdown" and also made himself the third Russian/'whatever you want to call him' to sing me that crapy Aerosmith song from a couple years ago... (Don''t wannna close my eyes........Don't wanna fall asleep, cause I'm missing you, and I don't want to miss a thing) What crap! Anyways, we had fun together. He lives with his brother and another roomate. I believe his parents are still in Grozny. One of his other six brothers lives in Vienna. His brother basicaly forced me to accept a present of a russian-made pair of sunglasses that looks clear inside and tinted outside. They're pretty ugly, but it's the thought that counts, right?

Anyways...I should get going, but you might be interested to know that Rimma Andreevna told me that Yaroslavl has a municipal heating system. I guess they boil hot water at a central point(or points) and then pipe it to people's radiators. This would all be fine, except they don't turn it on until October 15th. With nighttime lows expected to hit freezing in the next two weeks, its going to be damn, damn cold. Oh well, it will put some hair on my chest, which is allright, as long as it doesn't put anymore on my back.

This is our apartment in New Orleans (corner lot smack dab in the middle). I'm no expert on reading these things, so I'm not going to make any guesses, allthough the roof line does look pretty strange.
On another website that does supposedly precise calculations of water on pinpoint locations from a map, it estimated that the peak water was about 7.75 ft and current level at 2.34

The Hockey Game....

We met up at the university at 5:30 for the hockey game. Of course, I had never left the university, and didn't want to take my stuff with me to the game, I left my backpack and freshly washed undies in the international students office overnight.

We took the number 98 bus to the hockey game. This bus had seating for maybe 25 and was carrying about 45, so it was packed to the gills to say the least. I ended up completely on the other side of the bus from the middlbury students, and was slightly worried about getting off at the right stop. I suspected that the guys in front of me were going to the game, because of their backpack full of 20oz cans of Yarpivo, Yaroslavl's very own shwilly brew. Luckily a mother and her highschool aged daughter soon boarded the bus, carrying a plstic bag with the hockey team's logo, and I was spared having to ask the youngmen which stop it was.

Of course it turned out to be fairly obvious anyways, when the bus pulled up in front of a huge new arena with the team's name on it, and towards which thousands of people were marching wearing the team's colors. Many people were guzzling beer outside and I sooned learned why. Although the stadium sold both beer and food, it was against the rules to carry either into the actual fan seating area. After we found our seats we made our way back to the concessions area. I bought a beer for myself and Ryan, and I also decided to sample the stadium specialty, which was essentially a roll of bread, about four inches in diameter, three inches high with a mounded top, that had been dropped (briefly) in the deep fryer. They also sold smoked salmon and caviar there. We has missed about the first minute of action, but soon returned to our seats, which were in the second row, directly behind the goal that Yaroslavl attacked in the first and third periods. When we returned, having been gone for only five minutes, some people had already taken our seats. While we stood in the aisle deciding how we should approach this situation, someone tugged on my shirt, and indicated very clearly that I was blocking a larger portion of his view than he appreciated. Anyways, when we actually got to our specific seats, the people in them quickly moved, since they new they didn't have tickets for that spot.

The fans were loud and enthusiastic, for this second game of the season, but in general they weren't too roudy. People brought marching band drums, and one man even had a trumpet, which he periodically played, including two renditions of When the Saints go Marching In. I wonder is he understood he significance of that song in light of New Orlean's current plight. The stadium seemed to whold about ten thousand people, but I'm pretty bad at guessing such things.

The music that they played durring stoppages generally consisted of techno remixes, or just plain techno. The techno remixes included the most popular song in Russia right now, a techno remix of Axel F, the theme song to Beverley Hills Cops. Of course, Axel F was techno to begin with (the first (and only) electronica song to ever hit number one on the U.S. pop charts), making it a totally useless remix. In fact, three of the top ten pop songs in Russia right now are techno remixes, in addition to the somewhat bearable Axel F, there are totally unlistenable remixes of The Verve's Bittersweet Fantasy and some god awful Nancy Sinatra song (Is god awful Nancy Sinatra song redundat?). In addition to this, they played possibly the most irritating song ever, a techno remix of the Beatle's Oh Bla Di, Oh Bla dah. But nevertheless, the very salicously dressed (they changed outfits in between every period) 16-19 year old cheerleaders danced very suggestively (suggestively enough to make the mardi gras cheeleaders look appropriate for Mr Rogers) to all this crappy music, with such enthusiasm, that they at least, must have been enjoying it. At least they played some metal, but it was mostly Van Halen. Metal songs included Eruption (not bad), Panama (allright), Jump (bleh), and a very pleasant suprise of Iron Maiden's Fear of the DArk (fuckin' right!).

AS for the hockey itself, I expected to see a very rough and tumble brand of street hockey--well, I guess you can't really play ice hockey on the street, but at least a very rough and tumble brand of pond hockey. Hmmm...pond hockey doesn't sound very rough at all does it, oh well. In any event it was actually much more tame than American/Canadian hockey, both the NHL and minor league. The referrees were also much more strict in calling penalties than ours. Perhaps it was because it was only the second game of the season, and not much is yet at stake, but there was really very little heavy hitting, and not one big mid-ice collision, and not a single fight (unheard of in the NHL, and even more so in minor league hockey, where I sometimes think players take out their career frustration on each other).


With Yaroslavl up 5-2 early in the third period, most of the Middlebury students head home to beat the rush, but I know that leaving a sporting match early is a good way to guarantee an exciting finish, so I stayed. Moscow fired back two quick goals toward the end of the period, and then with about a minute and a half to go, Yaroslavl drew a two minute penalty for a particularly nasty high sticking, in which the stick of a Yaroslavl player, and I saw this very clearly, ended up in the mouth of a Moscow player. It made for an exciting finish since Yaroslavl had to play the last minute and a half with one less man. At the last second, a Moscow player fired a slapshot from close range, but the Yaroslavl goalie snagged it with a tremendous glove save, preventing a risky overtime. 5-4 Yaroslavl, quite a high score for hockey.

After the game we headed back on the bus. When I got back to he house, there was no trace of Rimma Andreevna but there was dinner waiting on the stove. Some dish that I would have to describe as fried frish with scrambled eggs and garlic and boiled, and then sauteed potaotes with possibly some rosemary. Also apparently that big jar of pickles in the fridge had finished pickling because their were pickles in a dish on the table. Interesting. They were very similar, not suprisingly, to Ba-Temtpe (sp?) pickles, but somewhat more of an aromatic taste. I want to say that there was a hint of anise, but I know that's not right, but maybe it will give you an idea.

All in all, it was one of my most expensive days in Yaroslavl, with the grand total coming to about $13.50.

Of course this included:
Three bottles of water
Three 16oz beers (two at the hockey game, one for me and one for Ryan, and another right now at the internet cafe)
About an hour and a half of internet time
That bun thing with the cheese, maybe about 500 calories, at the hockey game
Bus fare about 20 km to and from the hockey game
second row seats for a "super league" (the highest in russia) hockey game
and a fee for a woman to wash my clothes while I waited

Of course, the hockey tickets alone to an NHL game in the second row would proably be about $75 dollars, and the other stuff together would probably come to at least $30...wow....

Rimma Andreevna, on pension, complains about how everything is so expensive these days............amazing the differences between cost of living in different societies...

Short entry.......


I washed clothes for the first time today. THe location is maybe about a mile and a half from where I'm staying. Anyways it was a pretty run down building, and when I got there, the lady told me that the kind of clothes I brought, one had to wash themselves. Now, they had washing machines there, but they were the least automatic washing machines I've ever seen. Big Soviet beasts of steel, with valves and levers. So, with instructions nowhere insight, and me doubtfully being able to understand them, even if they were there, the woman ended up basically washing my clothes for me. You could turn the machine on, which just started a back and forth spinning pattern. Then you close the valve that lets water out, and fill it from the top, with seperate valves on sepearte pipes of hot and cold water. Then, periodicaly she would flush the bottom and refill it. Ostensibly, the achine did everything a modern washing machine does, probably better (at least, more forcibly), but you had to know when to fill, when to empty, when to add soap (several times), and what balance of hot and cold water to use at different points in the process. Frankly I'm glad she did it for me, although she refused to let me pay extra; the total bill came to 62 rubles and forthy three kopeks, a little more than two dollars.

On manners...

Of course manners are a cultural thing, but is interesting. Rimma Andreevna seemed shocked when I went to dip my bread in soup. Of course she told me that I could do it, but that it's forbidden to do that in restaurants or with company. Of course, she talks with food in he mouth, and not just occasionally, but whenever she happens to be conversing and eating at the same time. Of course I'm not offended by this, but she really does it unabashedly. The only thing is, sometimes, I can't help but smile, when she has so much food in her mouth that I can't understand what she's saying.

Another thing, is that Russian men love to spit on the sidewalk and on the street. They especially love to spit when they're trying to look tough, which is another thing that they especially love to do.

Tonight, I'm going to a hockey match with the Middlebury students. I'm assuming that at the match there will be quite a few spitting, warm beer-drinking, tough looking Russians there, and I'm somewhat uneasy about the idea of going with a large group of American students. The Yaroslavl Locomotiv are taking on the team from Moscow, and given the large disparity in resources between the two cities, and the fact that I seriously doubt that Russian hockey has team salary caps, I'd expect that Moscow can afford to higher significantly more skilled players than Yaroslavl, but we shall see.


I'll let you know how it was a little later...

As I sit here in my beloved 24 hour internet cafe, drinking my third 20oz beer of the evening, I'm tempted to reflect....

I met the second one of Dr. Rubin's friends, Sergei Lavlinski. Very kind doctor. Anyways, he recieved a call while we were strolling along the embankment. Here's what I heard from my end, translated into English.

Hello?
.
Hi Alyosha.
.
.
They went to the dacha.
.
.
.
I'm strolling with Benjamin.
.
.
Remember, he's that American student I told you about.
.
.
.
No he's not interested in vodka.
.
.
.
Yes, you can meet him some other time.
.
.
.
Allright, bye.

Aparently they have a friday night vodka ritual, that hopefully I shall be joining in on next week.


On the subject of my friend Sasha, I figured out a little bit more. He is starting his fifth year of officer training in the Yaroslavl Military Financial Banking Institute (I think.). What this effectively is, is a goverment bank, that has reigonal branches, and is reserved only for the use of the military. In other words, they distribute funds to reigonal branches of the Russian army, but it seems to be a very wierd structure of the military that we don't have in the states. In a year, he will become an officer, but then he still has another 5 years he must serve. The ten year contract they sign makes ROTC look like a walk in the park.

Rimma Andreevna misses communism. She lives above an occasionally noisy internet cafe that used to be a library for the blind. In general she is ostracised by youth culture. Certainly, the changeover to capitalism, while very positive for the majority of Russian citizens, screwed over the very same generation that either fought or helped support World War II and then broke their backs building the machinery of the 50s-70s Soviet State. They are the equivalent of what in America, Tom Brokaw called the 'Greatest Genertion', although they suffered through much harder times, only to have the (disfuntioncal) Soviet State that they built cast awaym their pensions reduced, and their benefits slashed. Understandably, RImma Andreevna hates young people in general, with the exception of a few upstanding youths she knows personally. Of course she is ostracised by their culture and their music, the techno she occaisonally hears (or alternatively, the Guns N' Roses) playing outside her house. The interesting thing is that senior citizens in all countries naturally feel this way about younger generations. HOwever, because in Russia, their was such a big political change, the older generation attributes all generational differences with which they don't agree, as a result of the change over to capitalism. Certainly, without capitalism, their still would have been things that Soviet youths would do nowadays upon which their granparents would have frowned. Just as my granparents would not understand a led zeppelin album, let alone metallica. However, in the United States, because there hasn't been a single, major political change, they realize that its just the natural progression of life and changing of the world. Here, for the seniors, anything they don't like, even if its just the natural changing of time and generations, is blamed on the change to capitalism. VEry interesting...

Well, that's all for now. I hope to add more soon...
Hopefully I will go with Mitya tommorow to see the birth place of Nekrasov.

Stairs leading down the Volga Embankment.


Brand new hotel, built in the river, opening this weekend.


Three Volga Fishermen, but you couldn't pay me to eat the fish from that filthy water.

So...where to begin...

Two days ago I had my first class year at good ole' YarState. It was me and my teacher, Svetlana Yurevna, alone in a small room doing two straight hours of grammar. Surprisingly intensive. I noticed right before our lesson started, that she made sure to reapply her makeup. Russian women in general seem to be gratly enjoying the wide variety of choices a market economy has brought to the cosmetic world, and moderation has yet to set in.
Later that day I met with the first or Dr. Rubin's friends, Sergei Tumanov. We met up on Soviet Square (Советская Плошадь). Tumanov, a stock broker working at Yaroslavl International Bank, spoke excellent English. In fact, his accent was lest pronounced than those of most Middlebury instructors, which is certainly saying a lot. Nevertheless we spoke mostly in Russian, for the sake of my education. (Although he did break into English a few times, such as when he explained how the real cause of high oil prices is neither the war in Iraq, hurricaines, or increasing demand from China, but rather the drop in value of the dollar, and the consequential selling off of dollars by various foreign reserves all over the world). He asked me if I drank beer, and when I responded affirmatively, he directed me to the closest grocery store and treated me to a 18oz bottle of warm Russian beer.
We strolled along the Volga enbankment and had a very interesting conversation, mostly about politics, economics, and history. He told me that the world would never forgive Bush for what he did in Iraq. He told me that Clinton was a good president except for Yugoslovia. He said Gorbachev was a weak man in a rough neighborhood, and that Yelstin was a complete fool (дурак) and drunkard. Suprisingly enough, he thinks Putin is a great president, with no dictatorial aspirations, whatsoever. He thinks that the Americans are wrong, and that Putin will step down, and turn his back on politics in 2008, as Yeltsin did in 2000.
That night, Rimma Andreevna made blini (блины), and boy, were they delicous. Unlike some Americans may think, blini in Russia are not small, thick buckwheat pancakes, but rather, are essentially, the same thing as French Crepes. That said, Rimma's were filled with a mixture of sauteed cabbage and chopped hard boiled egg. Not exactly light eating, but delicous (вкусные) nevertheless.
Yesterday at school I was given my first reading assignment. It was a truly challenging peace, originally written by a Russian phillosopher, and than adapted (only slightly) for foreigners. After dinner yesterday, I met up with Mitya and some of his friends. On my way there I passed an interesting spectacle. Rich New Russians (Italian suits, gold jewelry, hair gel, shiny shoes, white teeth) blasting the longest song ever to hit number one on the United States pop charts, Guns 'N Roses' 1992 classic, November Rain. Don't get me wrong. I'm not saying that the poetry of W. Axl Rose doesn't have a certain timeless, pancultural, internationality to it, I'm just saying that it's not what you would expect to hear American business menblasting from their parked BMW's. In any event, the meeting with Mitya was fun, and it turns out that most of his friends speak more English than he does, but that didn't stop him from busting out some zingers like, "I want to discotheque!" Anyway's we're supposed to go together to see Nekrasov's birth place on Sunday, and then I think have dinner with his family (Mitya's, not Nekrasov's unfortunately).
On my way back, I got drawn into conversation with some ЯГУ students outside of my building. After they regaled with what they considered to be the high points of English profanity, and one showed me some pornographic videos on his cellphone that involved very obese North African women, they insisted I try some of their 'Genuine Russian Drink'. One of them proceeded to pull a flask out of his satchel, and his partner in crime produced a small canvas zipper case with contained, low and behold, stainless steel shotglasses. They poured me some of their mystey liquid, lit it on fire, covered it for a few seconds, and then bade me to drink it. I'm not one to refuse unknown alcohol, so I followed their instructions. It had almost a pepperminty taste, but they soon informed me it was their own home grown hooch, 70% alcohol. It took quite a bit to extract myself from conversation with this these fellows, but I finally managed to get upstairs and put an end to that long day...
Today I listened to an actual college-level Russian history course for Russian students, but it was damn hard to understand what exactly was going on. Had I not taken Ramer's class and read all of Bruce Lincoln's The GReat Reforms, I would have been completely lost, as was the girl from Finland who also sat in on the lecture. Oh well, I think I'll stick with it in the hope that I leanr to understand by the end of the semester.
In about an hour I'm supposed to meet up with the second one of Dr. Rubin's friends, Sergei Lavlinski. It should be interesting...

Yes, that is me getting water from a well. We used it to cook with and wash with, no joke.
---------------------------
The American in Yaroslavl definately experiences moments of alienation and isolation, but this really seems to be just the Russian way. When dealing with strangers, many Russians seem to be very cold upfront, but the more you talk with them, the more they open up. I realize this seems like it would be true with any culture, but it is much more pronounced here.
Nevertheless, I made two Russian friends yesterday. The first was named Sasha, and I met him outside the internet cafe in my building. (Note of interest: during Soviet times the internet cafe was a Braille Library). Sasha, from Moscow, is in his last year of a five year military training program. He will be an officer when it is completed. What is interesting is that he's in a finnancial branch of the military. I best understood that in Russia, there is some sort of military bank with branches all over the country. The patch on his unifrom said Yaroslavl Finiancial Military Insitute, if I remember correctly.

The second friend I met was named Mitya. I came across him by striking up a conversation with one of his comrades, but Mitya was, if not the obvious leader of the group, clearly the one most interested in conversing with a foreigner. He just finished in the Jurisprudence Faculty at ЯГУ. He, interestingly, readily volunteered the information that his father was a businessman. This is such a taboo profession in Russia, that the only reason I can think of for him to tell me, is that he thought doing so would impress an American. Nevertheless, he was very nice and both my new friends gave me their cell phone numbers (Номеры Мобилники).

The two things that continue to shock me most are beer and prices (and don't get me started on the price of beer!)
I've been in Russia for almost a week now, and I've yet to see a single person drink vodka, but beer is omnipresent here. In fact, at 7:30 in the morning, in Yaroslavsky Vozkal, a Moscow Trainstation, I saw a Muscovite start in on a warm Miller Genuine Draft, which seems to be the only American beer widely available here.

As for prices, I bought a fresh, potato filled deep fried pastry for about 18 cents. A kilo of dried fruit (many exoctic varieties) was 2 dollars. At the fish market, the most expensive fish was selling for six dollars per kilo.

More coming soon....

So I'm sitting here in the internet cafe located in my building and I'm listening to a horrible remake of CCR's Have You Ever Seen the Rain. I don't know if this is a Russian, American or European remake, I just know I don't like it. Russians seem to not fully understand American rock and roll. While I was here today, Pink Floyd's Another Brick in the Wall came on the radio, a plesaent suprise amongst all the new pop music they play here, but the DJ cut off the song as soon as the guitar solo started!
When we were in Moscow there was a horrbile cover band , even though the musicians were reasonably talented. The only all male group I've ever seen play Bannana Ramma's I'm your Venus.

Yesterday I went by myself to the Yaroslavl Kremlin, and then by boat I went with Rimma Andreevna to her dacha. Unfortunately, a worker on the boat misinformed us and we missed the last return boat to Yaroslavl, forcing us to spend the night in the dacha. Oh well. Prices are very cheap. 40km boat trip was one dollar for me and fifty cents for Rimma Andreeva. As a student, I got admission to five museums at the Kremlin for $1.50. More pictures and text soon.
Tommorow I start school.

Maybe my favorite picture so far...


From a boat on the Volga.


On the Kremlin wall.


Yours truly on the cathedral.


From atop the cathedral.


Stairs in the Yaroslavl Kremlin


Lenin still reigns over Red Square in Yaroslavl

More pictures to come soon...

A wedding party visting one of Yaroslavl's World War II monuments.




Perhaps Yaroslavl's most famous native son, Nekrasov was both a respected poet and editor of The Contemporary, the most important literary journal during the golden age of Russian Literature.


The creaky halls of my new university.

Greetings from Yaroslavl

I flew into Moscow around 4:00 yesterday. As I emerged from customs, there was already a driver waiting for me. He didn't speak any English, but we made small talk in Russian as he drove me to my hotel in the center of town. He drove a Black Volga, which he described as a 'Russian Mercedes'. The interior was plastered with icons and had a few Orthodox crosses for good measure.

After about a one hour drive we arrived at the Hotel Belgrade, an ugly 1960s building. The hotel was located right next to the imposing Ministry of Foreign Affairs building, one of Stalin's seven neo-gothic Moscow towers, which are known collectively as the Seven Sisters.

After checking in and freshening up a bit, I went with some of my Middlebury friends for a stroll down Old Arbat street and onwards to Red Square. Pictures do not do this legendary site justice, especially when it's lit up at night. As we made our way back to the hotel down Old Arbat street, I was struck by how much beer consumption there was in Moscow. It was everywhere. Young men drinking beer all over town and every conceivable business selling it. The Russians seem to enjoy it both warm and cold.

The next morning I woke up early and after a cumbersomely hauling three and a half month's worth of belongins from metro to metro to train stration, I finally found myself comfortably seated on the train to Yaroslavl. My neighboor on the train turned out to be quite interesting, which saved me from too ettentively watching the dubbed, black-and-white version of Uncle Buck playing in the wagon.

When I arrived in Yaroslavl, Yelena, from the university was waiting for me. We drove from the beautiful Yaroslavl trainstation into the center of town. Yaroslavl is a truly beautiful city. The buildings are built in the style of of 16th, 17th, and 18th century Western European buildings, but they are all painted in pastel hues of pink, green, or yellow.

We stopped outside of an old but comfortable looking building and I met my hostess (Khozyaika) Rimma Andreevna. She had prepared a three course lunch. The first course was a green pepper and cucmber salad, dressed with fresh dill and sour cream (their sour cream tastes very different than ours). We then had delicous home made cabbage soup (Shi), also served with fresh dill and sour cream. Then we had boiled potatos and some sort of breaded chicken dish. We washed it all down with a hot cup of tea and what appeared to be egg bread with some sort of sugar coating on the crust.

After lunch, I unpacked, and then Rimma and I went for a long walk around town. (See pictures). The tour ended at the university, where I failed in my attempt to use the internet. Upon my return, we had dinner, of which the main course was a squash based stew with carrots, onions, and ham, with an unquequested dollop of locally churned butter fionding its way into the center of my bowl.

Please feel free to post comments, be they insights, observations, jokes, or merely critiques of my crappy prose.