Feb

12

Crushed by an Icicle

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Today was my first solo excursion through the slushy streets of St Pete, and I must say it did not disappoint.  The first thing you learn when striking it out alone, whether at home or abroad, is to mind your surroundings, but in Petersburg, minding my surroundings has proven essential.  Now before I inadvertently insult the kind people of St Pete, allow me to clarify that not for a moment have I felt threatened, insulted, ostracized, taken advantage of or snubbed.  In fact, in the past few days, numerous strangers have gone completely out of their way to show me kindness, understanding, and the way to the /train station/ ticket window/ metro/ bank/ produce store.  So far, the only thing that has inspired fear on the streets of St Pete is the 10 ft long, unimaginably heavy stalactite of ice that seems to be perpetually about the fall from the eves of every building.  Of course, once you accept that your gravestone may just read “crushed by an icicle”, you learn to maintain a healthy awareness and go about your life

I would like to take a minute to list all of the ways in which people have been incredibly nice to me in the past 48 hours.  Let’s see, Dmitry, my airport greeter, spent the better half of his day to make sure that I arrived at my host family’s house safely, and refused to let me pay for the taxi.  Lena and Nonna, who greeted me with huge smiles and hugs alike, helped me with my every need, and gave me space to think, breathe, and decompress.  Over the past two days, Lena has gone out of her way to show me around town, providing me with the perfect amount of assistance while respecting my independence and judgment, all the while suffering through my terrible attempts to converse.  Nonna has the patience of a saint, and responds to my every attempt at Russian grammar with encouragement and polite correction.  The women at the international office are as sweet as can be, and I have no doubt I will be well taken care of. 

But, you may reply, those are the people who have been paid to tolerate your Russian and to make sure that you are happy and safe.  While I cannot dispute this point, I will counter it with the equal number of complete strangers who have contributed to my happiness in the past two days.  There was the photographer at the photo center, who bent the rules to allow me a second picture when my first somehow managed to resemble a mug shot more than a visa photo.  There was the young student who gladly gave me directions to the train station, the random guy at the train station who took 45 minutes of his time to find the ticket office for me and make sure that I was taken care of.  There was Igor, the international relations student I met on the way to catch my train who offered to show me around the city and introduce me to more Russian students of international relations in St Pete.  There was the kind young woman in my train car that stopped her work to explain to me how to set up my bed (which is rather necessary on the 10 hour overnight to Moscow).  And then there was Aleksey. 

Overhearing my predicament at the ticket counter, Aleksey offered his services as my ticket broker, gladly translating my broken Russian to the ticket lady, and her perfect Russian in his broken English.  After twenty minutes, we managed to secure a (rather expensive) round trip ticket to Moscow.  What struck me the most however was not the kindness of one stranger, but the patience and compassionate curiosity of the numerous people standing in line.  I have to say, I do not know that people would take so kindly in the States to a twenty minute delay caused by a foreigner who can barely speak the language.  By the end of our transaction, the entirety of the line had squished in around us, but as I looked at their faces, I saw no sign of anger, exasperation, or attempt to intimidate, but simple, pleasant curiosity.  Aleksey, however, was not curious, he was ecstatic.  He was not only able to help someone in need, but found an excellent English tutor in the process.  For the next two hours, we conversed, I in broken Russian, he in broken English.  Aleksey proved to be a critical teacher, insisting that I repeat a word until I could pronounce it correctly, and, at Aleksey’s insistence, “with confidences”.  Yet Aleksey did much more than drill my Russian for free, he opened my eyes to a part of Russia I thought had died with Stalin.  Aleksey lives in a commune and not the American counter-culture version where residents choose the commune lifestyle as a social statement.  In Russia, there is nothing romantic about commune life.  Aleksey lives in a unit with five other families, many of which he either does not know or wishes he did not. They all share one common toilet, one bath and one kitchen.  Aleksey rents one tiny room which houses his every worldly possession, which does not include the kindle I insisted upon for this trip, the travel computer, the camera, the special yoga mat, or the $200 snow boots.  Aleksey does not even have a proper bed.  Down the hall his mother inhabits a similar room.  In one room she has managed to create a dining room, living room, bedroom, and makeshift kitchen.  And of course, as Aleksey brought me home at dinner time, she insists that I eat her meal.  Now I vaguely remember reading something about the persistence of Russian hospitality, but nothing in my grammar book prepared me for this.  Politely, I attempted to refuse, averse to the idea of wolfing down his mother’s dinner, and yet she appeared quite offended when I attempted to refuse.  So I stayed.  And I ate.  And I learned a valuable lesson: sometimes it is those with the least to give that derive the most pleasure from the giving.

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