Brrrrr

My first real day I got up, ate a plum and was force-fed some weird vegetable soup (apparently an un-refusable soviet warm thing—I’m sure they get to be experts at making it when it’s -4 degrees) by my house mama, Tatyana, and spent an hour or so in our little English-Russian conversational lessons/struggle sessions. Alexi, her husband, speaks virtually no English, but by virtue of being home 24/7 and having American students in her home nine months out of the year, Tatyana does quite well. She was really shocked to hear that I had never studied Russian, not because I’m good at speaking, obviously, but because all of the previous boarders have been from the Middlebury program and have had one to three (or more, I guess) years of instruction. She gets frustrated sometimes trying to remember words, so I ask her to just speak in Russian and let both of us be confused for a few minutes. We are both learning some, but I still do things like say “a small tea, please” when I’m asked my name. Whoops.

Speaking of purchases, the expense of everyday items (a cup of coffee, hour of internet, phone call) is outrageous—it blindingly exceeds London or New York. I have tried to be modest, eating little and scrounging for free things, but I don’t want to limit my experience by opting out of opportunities due to their cost. I want to see as much theatre as possible, and will likely be able to, pending that the Schukin school provides me with student identification (with it, thirty- or fifty-dollar bilety can dive down to five dollars, three, or free! Reminds me of UNC’s beloved Lab! theatr).

Also, Y’ALL. It’s so cold here. January in Chapel Hill cold. I-regret-not-bringing-my-overcoat cold. I went running and counted eight “why are you running right now?” looks. I think I was lied to about the nature of Moscow summer.

Oh, you know. Moscow looking as cold as it is.

But besides that particular fib, Adam has been invaluable so far. He has gotten me a cell phone, negotiated my metrocard, shown me around to my school and some key hangouts, et cetera, et cetera to infinity. He is planning on writing his master’s thesis (dizertati, conveniently) on Russian versus American pedagogy (to abbreviate), i.e. topically similar to some of my current designs and imaginings for my honors thesis. From seven years of education at the MXAT, he knows the Russian system inside and out, and from five years at two American institutions, I can proclaim to know the other, so we have tons to offer one another insofar as explanations and contacts go. Where the Russians value clarity on stage, we value ambiguity. Where they value conceit, we value overturning expectations. They value constant energy and action; we privilege arc and pursuit of objectives. And on and on. We can talk for hours and hours about the differences, laughing and scoffing, each feeling some pangs of pride and superiority coupled with awe and understanding and respect. I will certainly expound upon this as I gather information, as I suspect the meat of a thesis will spring from conversations like these over the next three months (meat springing from things? Gross mixed metaphor, Lizochka). There is so much coming in already that I can hardly keep track of it, scribbling insufficient notes in my cahier as I try not to trip over the cobblestones. None of it is at all unexciting or uninteresting, and I know it will be difficult to pare down and focus in on certain differences for my thesis.

Monday I will go to Schukin (I was supposed to go yesterday, but I stayed up until 07:00 (NC=11PM) and woke at 15:00 (NC=7AM)…go figure) and meet with Droznin for the first time in eleven months and try to get enrolled in whatever movement classes I am able to. I am very excited and nervous to be his student in his world. At the summer school, there is little language used—a little bit of Russian, a little bit of English—but I imagine here he will talk much more and exclusively in Russian. I don’t want to not understand because I need to be able to use his terminology in my thesis, but I also don’t want to interrupt him in class to ask for translations. It’s these kinds of dilemmas that make this project so crazy. At the same time, though, I wouldn’t be getting the same kind of enrichment if I were just bumming around with other Americans.

I do want to add some structure to my days (i.e. classes and rehearsal), but also believe I will enjoy the freedom to roam, run, write, eat (if I ever learn how to order!), and observe. In New York at Fordham University I spent almost every minute in class, or rehearsal, or the library, or studying in a certain despicable Starbucks…and consequently deprived myself of the richness of parading around downtown, visiting museums, seeing strange and wonderful live theater. I regret that decision, despite the inevitability of the whole deal—I was a student with the mentality to work terribly hard, just like at UNC, displaced somewhere where cooping up studying and wandering did not both fit into a 24-hour period. But I think—hope—that life will be a bit different here. Though I doubt I will be able to pry myself from academic/thesis-y ideation (okay, obsession), I know I will be happier if I cram my head full of language, theatre, and wanderlust and attempt to make decisions later and in reflection, instead of straight-lacededly forging forward on my path to senior year. I need to spend some time in the present; so much of my recent life has been lived months ahead of myself, planning and worrying.

A little side note, chosen randomly since there are hundreds already: there is this massive grocery (gastronom) down Tverskaya near the MXAT. It is so extreme and so beautiful—it looks like something straight out of Biltmore or Carnegie or Hogsmeade (a Harry Potter locale for my muggle readers), with stained glass, ornate brass and crystal chandeliers, gilded ceilings, and detailed, floral, art nouveau columns. Adam told me that it used to be the anteroom to a noble’s dom (house, building, estate) across from the Catherine Monument, but it was appropriated by the government and turned into this really fancy grocery called Yeliseyev (Elysian). It was the only place to get sumptuous, imported items—a tradition that was further broken down during big time communism and renamed Gastronome No. 1 and disallowed to sell elitist sorts of produkti, so it was just this ridiculously gorgeous building with completely pedestrian items, like pushing CVS cotton balls and Vaseline in the Wilson Library reading room. Later it changed back and is now called Yeliseyevsky Food Emporium. I cannot wait to go in and buy a $30 truffle (that is only sort of a joke).