Orlando Landing

Well, ladies, gentlemen, I am in Orlando and I leave for Rio tomorrow night. Todo bien, had a lovely Latin American Christmas with Angela's folks, relaxing and lots of es-pa-nish!

[Side note: I just read in the news that Benazir Bhutto was assassinated in Pakistan. Sad, but ultimately no surprise. Note to self: don't go to Pakistan.]

The more challenging part of my trip hasn't begun yet, but let me assure all worriers that I am taking all the necessary precautions -- including double- and triple- checking my flights, packing appropriately, paying attention (yes, do not doubt -- I am scatterbrained when I am in the company of others, but quite focused when I am in my own company), and not looking gringa.

So far, I have been successful at the latter part, albeit here. In general, upon arrival in Miami International Airport, one becomes very much aware that nobody in the entire state (or at least Miami-Dade county) speaks English as his native language.

The shuttle guy was Cuban. The hotel guy was Colombian. The flight check-in lady was Dominican. Vamos, they see my name is Margarita, and they don't even attempt!

The next day my flight to Orlando was uneventful -- after a full security swipe yet again, because I continue being a suspicious (Chechen-looking?) character.

After passing the security check successfully, I read the new Time Magazine issue with the frightening photo of President Putin ("Person of the Year", interesting series of articles, by the way), and helped interpret for a confused Mexican family on the plane. They could not communicate with the anglo-speaking flight attendant.

In Orlando, I was picked up by Angelita in a strikingly sexy, shiny red Ford, and we stayed at the house of a family friend of theirs. The house, an absolutely precious one-floor ditty, was decorated to Christmas perfection like no other. Never have I seen so many perfectly etched and carved nativity scenes so strategically arranged within the confines of a single property.

I found, too, that a Latin American Christmas celebration is very much like our Russian New Year celebration, only five days early and with different food. There's the same voluminous gift exchange at midnight, toasts to the health of all present, the same abundance of tasty non-Kosher carne, the same warm hospitality, "dushevnost'", and a Christmas tree to boot. The only, perhaps, noticeable difference is that on the eve of the holiday they say the "novena" prayer and we, also religiously, watch Putin's on Russian TV streamlined from Moscow (our "Mecca"). Christmas was great, with guests from all over Latin America, and I had a wonderful time making them guess where I am originally from.

Orlando itslelf is a sleepy, sprawling city, far different from the Disney-colored impression I had when I came here at age 13. Since the only thing I remember from that trip is Magic Kingdom and Animal Kingdom (and some other type of Kingdom, and I think there was Epcot Center, too), the city itself is shockingly quiet and reminiscent of multiples of suburbia. It's also bubbling with enclaves of Mexican-owned grocery stores, such as the one that sold us the huge tub of lomo past closing time on Christmas Eve, and mega-malls crawling with gringos returning their Christmas presents on Boxing Day, December 26.

Angela's family is absolutely delightful and really lovely!! Madrid reunions make me happy, and I wish there were more of them. I had a fantastic time rechurning my rusty Spanish and releasing my inner Latina.

And tomorrow more adventures await.

My flight to Rio takes off past 11 p.m., so I'll be hanging out in Miami ("bienvenido a Miami") most of the day tomorrow. Therefore, if anyone feels a burning necessity to speak to me, you know where to call!

Hallelujah

College madness in this house, thank goodness, is over. For this generation at least.

Lyalya is going here!

White Christmas

Well, my travel monologue has stalled for now. Sorry, everyone, it's been paper-writing and procrastinating time lately. But I think you'll be more interested in hearing about Rio anyway, and I'll be in Rio starting December 28. Starting this Sunday, you may find me in Florida! Раз гулять, так гулять.

Boston is depressing this time of year, and if I hear yet another rendition of "Jingle Bell Rock" on TV or a store radio, I'm not responsible for my actions.

We do have a Christmas tree (err, Russian New Year tree/елка/whatever) set up for our annual New Year Russian TV-watching marathon that I am missing once again this year. But the lights from the tree are all tingly and lovely and homey. Very homey... until one turns on the TV. It seems that instead of evoking that "Aww-I-don't-celebrate-Christmas-but-it's-a-lot-like-Russian-New-Year-and-makes-me-warm-and-fuzzy-inside" feeling, TV makes me think, "@#$^%, Walmart's at it again!"

I remember when I was a little girl, I used to think New Year's Eve was the most magical night in the world. It is also true that this belief was perpetrated by Russian TV concerts and the president's message of world peace or whatever, and children's books with Ded Moroz, but it seemed a different promotion than Christmas nowadays. I can't put my finger on how -- or why. Or maybe it's just that as one becomes older and enters adulthood, these things lose their meaning. Presents, instead of being gifts, turn into dollars spent.

I used to love shopping for gifts for my friends and family. My sister and I would often do it together and spend several evenings wrapping them and putting them under the tree in all their glitzy wonder. At what point does that really turn into "another thing to do"? At what point did something fun -- giving -- turn harder and harder as the years go on? Probably when everyone you're giving gifts to hits everything they need. Until they figure out what else they might want.

It irritates me when I read newspaper articles that call the holidays "stressful". They're holidays. They're not supposed to be stressful! They're supposed to be fun! Why do so many people hate their family? Vacation! Why do you really need to get that pot holder for your dentist's assistant's parakeet's foot doctor's son? Lights! Come on, people... when did the season go all stock-market-y?

Mujeres

This is me with coworkers at last month's Mujeres Unidas sale at the DSMHI office manager's house. (We were selling Peruvian alpaca scarves, made by recovered TB patients in Carabayllo, a shantytown of Lima, after they finish DOTS.) On the left is the PIH Peru project manager; next to her is the chief lady who organized the entire workshop in Peru and directs the señoras; next to her is MU's contracted graphics/artistic gal; and I am on the right. The project made over 5K, with proceeds going straight to the señoras in Carabayllo. I bought a couple of scarves and am particularly fond of my bright, Andean fuscia one that I wear nearly every day now!

My Mantra

It's simple, really.

2 weeks till FL/Rio... 2 weeks till FL/Rio...

Лингвистическое Отвлечение

Такое впечатление, что я скоро забуду русский. Ну, наверно все-таки не забуду, но чувствую, как все больше и больше отделяюсь от так называемого местного русскоязычного мира. Вернее, местный русскоязычный мир начал говорить по-английски и, впрочем, незачем уже сопротивляться. А куда, спрашиваете, удаляюсь? А не знаю. В свою непонятно смешанную глубь.

Когда целыми днями иногда не говорю по-русски, начинаю спрашивать себя, на каком языке вообще думаю. То, что «я из России» уже кажется враньем с маленькой долей истины. То, что «американка», впрочем, всегда казалось тоже, но с большой долей правды. Вечный, всем известный вопрос «ни того, ни сего» но зато..... !

Впрочем, я в полном согласии, что мне нужно больше читать книги по-русски. Но, в данный момент, предпочитаю читать по-испански, так как испанский больше грозит эффективному забыванию, которое проявляется в отсутствии прежней беглости. И теперь у меня есть литература из Чили после возвращения родителей.

Интересно, что обратила внимание, как мне на работе легче иметь дело с испанским, чем с русским. По-русски я, конечно же, говорю лучше. Но испанский знаю лучше грамматически, структурально. Просят перевести на испанский—фактически без проблем. Просят перевести на русский, и уже начинаешь думать, как себя, черт, докажешь.

А пишешь по-английски, и думаешь—на своем языке. На смеси.

Как говорят, «каждый выбирает для себя»...

NQR

I've been at this school for four years -- three in practice. Yet by Jove, I still don't comprehend this masochistic ritual that everyone raves about nostalgically. NQR -- "Naked Quad Run" -- happens on the last day of classes (today).

An explanation for my international visitors: a large part of the student body, 90% inebriated, shed all clothing on this snowy and rainy December evening, and, altogether, run around the academic quad as a nudist colony. Most wear sneakers. Some wear a scarf. I had the audacity to watch it from my window during my sophomore year, and it's possibly the weirdest thing I've ever seen. Lots of naked people. Running. Townspeople also often come to watch this exhibition, and videos and photos of it usually end up on the Internet in a metter of minutes.

Supposedly, it takes place to relieve stress before final exams (explain that one to me!).

Every year, we get this email:

Dear Fellow Jumbos,

Monday, December 10th is the fifth annual Nighttime Quad Reception (NQR) [euphemism for Naked Quad Run]. Here's all the information you need to know about this event, please read carefully:

NQR falls on the last day of classes this semester, which is a great time to celebrate before finals begin. However, it is important to remember that this night is no exception to state laws and the university's standards of conduct for the student body. Laws regarding underage drinking and open containers in public must be observed and they will be fully enforced. If you do choose to drink, use common sense: drink in moderation, be aware of your limits, and surround yourself with friends. Throughout the night, members of TEMS, NQR volunteers, RAs, and police officers will be readily available in case of emergencies. Please do not hesitate to ask for assistance if you or someone you know needs help.

If you decide to be athletic and participate in the night's festivities, do not forget that that this event attracts many onlookers and that pictures and videos can be easily distributed throughout Internet sites such as Facebook or YouTube. For this reason, we ask that students do not bring cameras.

Also, this year, due to recurring problems with overcrowding, access to West Hall will be limited to residents and their guests. Every West Hall resident will receive four wrist bands--one for him or herself and three to give away. That evening, people will not be allowed to enter West unless they have a wrist band. Yet regardless of wristband status, should the Fire Marshall decide to shut West down, re-entry will fall to the discretion of the Police and priority will be given to those with wrist bands. So unless you live in West, please avoid leaving your belongings there if you choose to leave throughout the night. These protocols are only to ensure your safety throughout the night.

To help runners, a large changing tent will be located on the Academic Quad between West and Ballou Hall. Individuals are responsible for the safety of their own possessions left in this tent. Once you begin your run, please remember to confine your path to the quad, as there will be consequences if you wander off into neighboring areas.

In addition, thanks to Programming Board, there will be a great reception in front of Barnum Hall. Starting at 8 pm, hot chocolate, donuts, and snacks will be served. At 9 pm, there will also be music provided by DJs from GrooveBoston. Come unwind and enjoy!

And as in years past, free t-shirts will be distributed throughout the evening. If you happen to be near a volunteer handing out the shirts, please be patient and do not push or shove others for a shirt. T-shirts are strictly limited to one per person. If you are not given the size you want, please consider swapping with someone else.

Should there be inclement weather, Facilities will do their best to sand the course and put up safety barriers. However, regardless of weather conditions, it is CRUCIAL that if you run, you wear appropriate shoes to protect yourself and others from falls and pile-ups.

Finally, in the spirit of NQR, we'd like to remind you that we are having a clothing drive to collect winter clothing for those who are less fortunate. We encourage you to donate warm clothes that will be given to local Somerville homeless shelters. Drop-off bins can be found in Carmichael, Dewick, the Campus Center, and Hillel.

If you have any questions, feel free to contact [bla bla bla]. We hope you all have a safe and fun night and good luck with finals!

Sincerely,

TCU Senate and Programming Board

There are some things I will never understand. Maybe it's because I'm a "nice Russian girl", but the first thing I think of is... you'll get a cold! Don't sit on any stone surfaces! Oy.

Gracias a la Vida

Video of this great song sung by Mercedes Sosa.
Pops and I are learning this in our own "interpretation" at home.

Spanish King Juan Carlos tells Chavez to "Shut Up" (subtitled)

Hilarious moment at Iberoamerican summit. Spain's President Zapatero tells Chavez off after the latter calls the former Spanish prez a fascist. And the King intejects and says it as should be...

Brief Hiatus

Sorry, everyone, for the brief hiatus. Still planning to write on the remainder of Montreal and the religion debate, but I took a brief trip to New York City this weekend. I interviewed two extremely kind and interesting (not communist) Chileans who were imprisoned along with Luís Corvalán, Secretary General of Chilean Communist Party, star of the 1976 Soviet/Chilean prisoner exchange and winner of Lenin Peace Prize (one of my dad's many idols, of course).

I actually did not know this at all when I went to talk to them -- it accidentally came up in conversation. The señores I interviewed were in the same set of prison cells as "Don Lucho" in the 70s. Then they came to the US as political refugees. The two of them were very good interview subjects -- so much so that I should have interceded more to steer the conversation the way I wanted. More on this later, but I'm learning how much of people-gauging skills interviewing really takes.

My article was supposed to be more biographical/"people-focused", but the conversation came out very much political and I didn't want to push it. So now I'm working fast to read up on the names, the references, write it up and kind of change my focus of the story. It also happens to be the first real interview I have done entirely in Spanish.

And tomorrow I face a much less interesting interview. Except I'm on the other end: explaining what makes me the perfect candidate to earn a ridiculously low amount of money in a position with many hours that certainly won't take advantage of my skill set and capabilities. But hey, all the world's a stage, right?

Montreal Part I

A t-shirt in a souvenir shop summed up Canadians concisely: A Canadian, the t-shirt said, is an unarmed American with health insurance. I’d add a bilingual, unarmed American with health insurance. There you have it: oh, Canada.

But in all seriousness, Montreal is a refreshing slice of North America that’s quite different from the US, albeit by aura. It’s quirky, cultured, diverse, and boasts a distinct personnalité that Vermont, for instance, doesn’t have. Montreal’s native citizens speak Quebecois (read: country-sounding) French to each other, but switch to normal (read: American-sounding) English at the blink of an eye.

The charm isn’t limited to faux-France, though. The city is swarmed with myriad immigrant communities that range from Portuguese to Lebanese. The various sub-groups speak their own languages, too. The result is an interesting potpourri of European immigration with a slice of Latin American paprika, North American coolness, French haute-couture, normal English and uber-protected Quebecois – I mean, French.

In a country where immigrants are obligated to go to school in French but natives with English-speaking parents can continue learning in English, it’s no wonder there is linguistic confusion among the general populace. Schools function in different languages. Some universities are English-speaking, some French-speaking. Interviews for jobs are unpredictable, our hosts told us. Always come to an interview saying bonjour, they said, but you could very well carry on in English. (Only one of them works in French.) Yet if you don’t know French, you can’t survive here. You’re not really a Quebecois!

It’s counterintuitive, given that when going to a store in Montreal one encounters the following scenario over and over, without any problems:

Clerk: Bonjour! Bla bla bla en français ooh la la.
Me: Hi. Can I also have that gum over there?
Clerk (in normal, boring English): That’ll be seven dollars and ninety-five cents. Paper or plastic?

Not even a snooty French accent! Oh, those able Canadians!

Speaking of dollars and cents: yet another area where Canadians are better than us. Everyone is well aware that with the falling dollar it no longer makes any sense for us to go to Europe anymore (or is it another conspiracy of the Europeans against us? I didn’t vote for Bush, people). We are, however, at a record time in history. During our trip not only was the Canadian dollar equal to ours, but it had, in fact, surpassed it. So, seven dollars and ninety-five cents was more like $8.01. Blasphemy!

Still, in a revolutionary step for North American international relations and despite our floundering currency, four of us Russian-Americans went to Montreal to visit friend Maksim and his Russian-Canadian posse. (Okay, Canadian/American aside from everyone’s latently repressed Russianness.) Our impression of our Canadian hosts, nonetheless, was fantabulous!

Masha, Bella, Alena, and I stayed in Maksim’s downtown studio apartment, which he had kindly vacated for our arrival. Each day, we had a different chauffeur-guide, consisting of Serge or Alex, and later supplemented by Edy and Maia. The itinerary was cultural (Le Biodome), scenic (climbing to see all the lovely 360-degree views of the city), and, of course, a gastronomical tour of Montreal’s immigrant communities (food included Greek, Russian, Chilean, Portuguese, Hungarian, Jewish, and even, dare I say, American breakfast). In fact, the gastrointestinal tour was so great and diverse, I was left wondering if real Canadians have any food of their own! With the plethora of cutesy European cafes and old-world-meets-new-world vibe, they probably don’t even need any.

During our three days in Canada, I feel as though I gained a deeper understanding of linguistics just by studying our group interaction. Had Noam Chomsky been among us, he'd cite us a focal group for illustrating the formation of a Ruslish? Engrus? mixed language. In America, my friends and I speak to each other in an inconspicuous alteration of Russian and English, depending on mood, subject matter, or sentence. I was surprised to observe that our Canadian counterparts speak in similar mixtures... only of Russian, English, and French added to the mix. They nixed the French for us, but I think any outside observer would be thoroughly entertained (or shocked) by the following phrases uttered.

-Подгони faster the машина please guys.
-А когда нас pick-up-нут?
-Are we going to a Лебанонский ресторан? [не Ливанский]
...and so on and so forth. My attempts to speak one or the other, not both at the same time, went unmimicked.

Multilingual conversation is all fine and dandy, now that the world is as globalized as it is. Still, our communication was notably impressionistic. Ruslish begs for at least some standardization. A dictionary, maybe? Phrasebook? Thesaurus? We should all have just learned Esperanto when we had the chance.

The language thing kept coming up, too, when it was revealed that Maia teaches English and French to immigrants up to three times her age (21) for a job. I asked her (in English) what language she thinks in: Russian, French, or English. Depends on the conversation, she said. What language does she dream in? All three. I thought I was a fine balancing act with two, but trilingualism is totally natural for these guys. Which language does she know best? Hard to say. English and French about the same.

TO BE CONTINUED...

The God Debate, Part I

I will be writing about Montreal soon, but before I do that I just want to establish that I'm very excited for a debate I'm attending on Friday night. It's between Tufts' very own renowned philosopher, hardcore atheist and creator of the Brights Movement, Daniel Dennett (whom I know from working as an office assistant at the Philosophy department); and Dinesh D'Souza, Christian author, former policy advisor for Reagan's administration, prominent conservative lecturer and fellow at Stanford University. The event is titled "Does God Exist?"

If you're reading my blog you probably know me relatively well. You can likely anticipate my answer to this question. However, I realized I've never really written about this, and never really organized my thought cohesively. I can write my rationale better than I'd argue orally, so that's one thing that has been on my mind recently.

It will be interesting to see how the debate goes, and already there has been a lot of press on campus -- the Daily Op-Ed section has been bursting at the seams with this. I'm excited to hear the arguments at the debate so I can write about them afterwards... but what do most students think?

Some student group organized a pretty cool informal survey-type thing in the dining hall in anticicpation of Friday's event. It was a large poster of laminated questions pertaining to belief, morality, theory on the meaning of life and other light and effervescent topics. Girls got a set of red stickers. Boys got a set of blue stickers. Respondents stuck their stickers next to the answer, from a range, that best fit their beliefs. The onlookers can then see, by the cluster, where the majority of the students' opinion lies (it appeared to be in the center-left -- i.e., centered but leaning towards non-religious, i.e., "God and science are compatible"). Somehow, my red dot happened to be surrounded by blue ones for a number of my answers. The majority of the girls are way more religious than the boys.

The survey also asked questions about morality, and unsupringly, American college students equate conventional standards of "morality" with faith. At least that's what the color-sticker cluster showed in this very not sociologically sound experiment that I choose to manipulate for the sake of my own argument. :) Perhaps my moral roots are in the Soviet system, where the State arguably took the place of religion. Still, the idea of "morality" as closely correlated with "religion" bothers me intensely because it's a concept that is completely distorted in society. That's something I want to bring up, and I'd be interested in hearing Dennett's answer first.

So, this is a preview -- more later!

Nonetheless, I thought that one question on the lunch survey, was posed in an interesting fashion. The question was:

Suppose there is a God [defined, I guess, by the Judeo-Christian concept]. Is he: [now here you have a cuadrant as a visual aid and can stick your sticky accordingly] good and powerful? good and weak? evil and powerful? evil and weak?

I'm interested in your answer, and I'll tell you what I said on Friday.

Montreal, QC

Montreal Photos

Снег, снег, снег, снег на дороге кружится

Everyone reacts differently to the first snow of the season. I woke up this morning, looked out the window, and groaned. My roomies, however, were whooping in joy in the hallway.

For me, the appearance of the first snow is a harbinger for several cold, dark months that seem to last forever.

But at least the ice-skating rink should be open by now...

Yuppie Groove in Boston

Since I'm all "Dancing-with-the-Stars" now (though the booty-shaking part is proving quite impossible), this past weekend was spent appropriately. On Sunday, we revisited our new Wonderbar salsa tradition in Allston, one street away from Masha and Alena's house. The night before, however, I can say that I brushed by Beantown's biggest elites. VIPs. Oh, you're jealous now.

It all started with an email from Sema inviting us to go dancing with his friends at some place called Gypsy Bar. Located right downtown, apparently I've passed by it myriad times without realizing that this place, yo, is hip. It's where Kevin Federline, a.k.a. KFed (Britney Spears' ex-husband and custody carrier of their two spawn, for those of you that haven't been on Earth) was photographed mingling with Bostonian ladies in March. It's where a ravin' bald rapper DJ spins top 40s to saucy VIPs with Cosmos. It's been voted hippest thing since sliced bread by some local magazine that's even dumber than the Improper B. And man, I was an intern at the Improper, so when they say a place is hot, it be melting, baby!

My night started tamely, with a Thanksgiving precursor at Lizzie's boyfriend's house (where 3 college guys impressively cooked a turkey for six ladies. The turkey probably weighed more than I do, and I seriously doubted my feminity and cooking ability after that impressive meal). Then, I met Alena at the Boylston T stop to find S&co at this Gypsy place. A little salsa, I thought, a little merengue, a little mingling with some yuppie twenty-somethings investment portfolio managers from the Financial District. After all, I lived in Madrid. Boston's tame, right?

But admittedly, Alena and I are nerds. The place is on Boylston St., but since in reality I despise clubbing as an institution (I have never gone in Boston), we weren't exactly sure where it was. So we did the only logical thing and followed the skanks that exited cars in pairs or groups of threes, huddled together, squealed in agony in the sub-zero Celcius temperature, and wobbled in three-inch heels on the asphalt.

Alena and I were without question the "sexiest" ladies on the block. (Everyone knows that sub-zero temperatures are perfect for displaying feminine beauty.) She wore boots, mittens, and a pom-pom hat. I wore my plaid coat, pants, gloves, the shoes I wore in my starring role in Swampscott High School's Bye Bye Birdie, and cursed myself for forgetting my red beret. Oh, and I covered my face with my Peruvian fuscia scarf, a-la-Middle East, acquired from Partners in Health's Peru assistance program. Less skin is in.

We crossed the street at Boylston and noticed an alcove where a particularly large amount of twenty-somethings had congregated. Just before us, a group of half-clad -- rather, un-clad -- hydrochlorated blondes hobbled out of a taxi and pushed their way to a line in front of a dark entrance labeled "The Estate". Hulk-like богатыри with walkie-talkies guarded the doorway and made the blondes shiver outside.

Unlike Alena and I, the blondes discarded the fashion police. Actually I think they thought they were the fashion police.

There were three of them. In the freezing night, their attire consisted of skinny jeans to the half-calf, sparkly tube tops covering the part below the shoulder bone to the second-from-the-bottom rib, 3.5-inch patent Manolo Blahniks, razor-straight blonddness, and unyielding vocal chords. The Hulks at the entrance wouldn't let them in, and they were shrieking four-letter commentary like harpies.

"Gosh, I wonder if they're cold," I stated my keen observation to Alena.

So we did the only obvious thing that one can do about dumb tube-top-wearers in sub-zero temperature. We pointed and laughed. Except the blondes saw us, pointed and laughed right back at us, with our pom-pomed hats and wide-leg pants and plaid coats. To us, the blondes were dumb as hell, plastic, and attractive as a horse's bottom. To them, we were lame, nerdy, and completely moronic brunettes. Still, someone should teach them to wear a coat.

When we finally found S&co at the Gypsy Bar, I realized that the place rocks for one thing and one thing only: people watching. I won't lie: the place looked cool, with low lighting and nonchalant booths, plus a huge danceroom in the back and a DJ perched like some sort of gargoyle above the crowds. There's a "VIP" room, guarded by another боратырь, where skinny blondes lounge with brightly colored, $20 cocktails.

At the bar, most archetypal yuppie characters can be found in the span of 15 seconds.

- There's the "hot" blonde with straightened hair and little clothes;
- The "hot" brunette with straightened hair and little clothes;
- The gangsta-wannabe, with the top of his shirt unbuttoned (chest hair mandatory) and sunglasses (yes, sunglasses, in a dark club). He dances by subtly and nonchalantly switching his weight from one foot to another but only in the vicinity of "hot" blonde or brunette;
- The hip black dude, who dances really well and is surrounded by hot blondes, but then steps on your foot;
- The couples that act like they would when alone, except surrounded by 500 people;
- The nerdy guy in glasses and a striped shirt -- probably MIT student or entry-level software engineer -- who tries to be cool but fails
- The drunk bachelorette party;
- The drunk bachelor party that tries to crash the above bachelorette party;
- The frustrated State Street mutual fund analysts with their entire cubicle group;
- The DJ who "feels the music"
- The nameless, faceless crowd gyrating to rap, raggaeton and yucky top-40 pop
- The groups of friends that come to make fun of everyone else (us!)
- And many more sexed-up, weird characters that will probably go back to work on Monday in their business casual, on the prowl again the next weekend.

Ultimately, these characters are probably the same in Spain, in Russia, in the US, anywhere. And as amusing as making fun of them is, I'm constantly left wondering if I'm the only one who thinks such clubbing is a bizarre, group masochistic ritual or if I'm an alien from outer space.

Still, we danced a bit (I got stepped on by a 200-lb member of one of the bachelor parties), laughed a bit, and went home.

The next day, however, we went to the salsa place and thoroughly enjoyed ourselves.

Maybe that's because there were no tube-top sporting blondes in sub-zero weather.

Tufts fires student activity director for... embezzling?!

http://www.boston.com/news/local/breaking_news/2007/11/tufts_fires_stu.html

Testing

I hate the design of the new MS-Word, but apparently it does have a number of funky new functions: particularly the capacity to type a post in Word and publish directly to Blogger. (Testing this now.) Darn, now if it could only upload my last year's stuff that's only stored on the Web…

Briefly...

I've been a little annoyed with this recently. Been reading some great blogs here and there, and feeling frustrated that I just haven't been inspired to write anything good or remotely interesting. In Spain, when I wrote, it often seemed I could find "it" in anything at all... sitting in a cafe, riding the train... everything was a story. Unfortunately, my vow to write about Boston as though it were foreign has not held up at all. Blechh.

However, I'm going to Florida and Rio soon! (And before that, Montreal -- next week.) Thus, not all hope is lost... in a month or so, my travelogue shall resume.

"Living Larger in the New Russia"

My roommate brought me this article to read from a recent Wall Street Journal. Thoughts?

Pirates, Communists, International Kodak Moments

Americans save North Koreans from pirates.

Who knew that pirates could play such a vital role in international diplomacy? Props to Americans for defending the Koreans on that one. "It was the second time in two months that North Korea thanked the United States," says this article. How's that for bonding...

Pequeña Update

¡Cómo odio las mañanas! Hoy me desperté a las 6:40 para ir a la oficina (ahora tengo demasiado sueño). Luego tuve que terminar 2 artículos para el periódico mañana antes de la 1 y escoger las asignaturas para el cuatrimestre que viene... el que será el último.

¿Qué mas? Ayer terminé un libro bastante interesante sobre los coyotes mexicanos en camino a EEUU - The Devil's Highway. Una historia bien horrorosa y desagradable pero con mucha relevancia ahora con el debate sobre la inmigración aquí.

En otras noticias, quisiera aprovechar del momento y darle la bienvenida al siguiente miembro de la familia Reznikov al ciberespacio. (Ahora somos tres.) Me parece que éste último blog, Andanzas, será también multilingue.

Esta noche voy a otra clase de salsa con un instructor de MIT en otro intento a aprender un poquito de coordinación.


Everyone, look for my article tomorrow on Boston Lyric Opera's Sunday performance of La Bohème -- 5 stars! (I hardly ever give anything 5 stars.) Cheers!

And the days go by

I'm continuously amazed at how fast a day turns when one does nothing. You mean it's Tuesday already? What? November? Caramba. So much to do and somehow it all slips by. Now, too, with the whole turning-the-clock-back-one-hour schpiel, it's dark at 4 p.m.

Fantastic.

No point to this post, really. Carry on...

Halloween 2007

Photos blatantly stolen from Masha (credited!), mine to follow.

Bella "teaching" me to dance

Isabel II, Reina de España (yeah, I came up with that one at the last minute).

Props to my sis for the dress!

Our fruity hosts for the evening

Isabel and, uh, fairy godmother?

Un barco frágil de papel...

No sé porque, pero hoy se me pegó esta vieja canción.

A mis amigos les adeudo la ternura
y las palabras de aliento y el abrazo,
el compartir con todos ellos la factura
que nos presenta la vida paso a paso.

A mis amigos les adeudo la paciencia
de tolerarme mis espinas más agudas,
los arrebatos del humor, la negligencia
las vanidades, los temores y las dudas.

Un barco frágil de papel
parece a veces la amistad,
pero jamás puede con él
la más violenta tempestad.
Porque ese barco de papel
tiene aferrado a su timón,
por capitán y timonel...
¡un corazón!

-------------------------
Mais agora realmente devo escutar mais a música portuguesa e brasileira, porque eu quero recordar um poquinho da língua portuguesa antes de ir a Brasil em inverno... tenho tudo esquecido!!!

Dealing Daydreams

How I've "changed" in four years! (Or have I?)

I watch people on campus and wonder, "Where are you running, fool?" Or I sit outside my advisor's office, waiting to get my degree sheet signed, and listen to freshmen "fascinated" by a paper I know they don't want to write... students wired by coffee so they can get a problem set done now and get drunk later... Then again, I also see people completely bothered with applications for financial analyst positions and microfinance, because they can't accept anything that makes less than $50,000... I admit that well, frankly, I don't really know what microfinance is. Probably, as a college graduate and as someone who should have learned economics, I should know. But I don't. It's something that makes lots of money and lets econ grads think highly of themselves. Yet I know, for example, that Croatian pianist Maksim Mrvica plays a mean, lean Liszt Rhapsody No. 2... and that Argentine poetess Alfonsina Storni drowned herself in 1938, and that Salvador Dalí's wife was really Russian, what's up with Russia's musical scene, that Rigoberta Menchú may have fudged her autobiography after winning the Nobel Prize for it... and other random facts that won't get me a job in a million years, but make me a slightly more interesting person for knowing them.

Everyone else bothers themselves with "useful" problems and they're probably right.

I'm bothered, rather, by the crisp, cool air and the autumn leaves; and I bother myself with forcefully getting up in the morning for symbolism; with writing a long email to a friend across an ocean; with maintaining an appearance of keeping busy, but fixing my hair; checking my e-mail every five minutes. I'm bothered, too, with that new short-lived hobby or activity; with finding a piece of sheet music for an obscure song in a minor key that I'm dying to learn... and I'm bothered by my lack of patience to decipher the bass line. My head is, as always, in the clouds, in my music; and forever in my imagination. Somehow I seem to be making peace with that over the years.

But, before you label me a complete slacker... I do have the resume going, a call came through today, and the stuff's still happening in the background. It's still early. And also, it's just that the less interesting things have a concrete tendency to fade away until "later", i.e., when I get hit over the head with a deadline. Then I'll do it. I don't want to write about that.

Oh, if only thoughts were tangible on their own...

Helen's Piano Recordings

This is my younger sister playing the piano.


Chopin Intermezzo in B Flat Minor, Op. 117


Brahms' Hungarian Dance in D Minor, No. 2


Chopin Nocturne in G Minor, Op. 37 No. 1

(First time I do this .mp3 embedding thing... let's see if it works now!)

See, Lyalya, maybe with my blog readership exposure, someday you'll get "discovered"...

Emotional Eaters

They say that for Biblical Eve, it was this:

For me, it's this:
Took her one bite... but I singlehandedly devoured mine in just two days!

Meter Maid

This online advice column made me smile: my high school superintendant used to sing the song to me every time he saw me in the hallway, no exceptions. Except I wasn't bothered by it, unlike this Rita...

--------------
Dear Prudie,
I have the good fortune of having a first name that isn't common or popular: Rita. Unfortunately for me, the Beatles wrote what I consider an annoying little ditty when I was just an infant. I'm used to people singing me a chorus or two when we first meet. And I don't even mind that they think it's the first time anyone was clever enough to make the connection. My issue is with one of my co-workers. She takes every opportunity to sing this silly song as we pass in the hall, or when she walks by my desk, or as I'm sitting quietly in the lunchroom. We are in the same department, sit about two cubicles apart, and we see each other a minimum of six to 10 times every day. I don't want to hurt her feelings, but at the same time, I've started dodging her in the hallways and scheduling my lunch breaks when she's back from hers. How can I tell her, in a nice way, to please stop?
—Not a Meter Maid

Dear Not,
If only your musical co-worker was named Molly, then you could reply with Little Richard's "Good golly, Miss Molly, sure like to ball!" Stop worrying about the tender sensibilities of someone who assaults you aurally 50 times a week and speak up. The problem in these situations is that people often wait until they feel like ripping the offender's lungs out before mentioning that they are annoyed. Since this is the first time your co-worker will hear that you're not entertained by her song stylings, put on a smile and say with as much equanimity as you can that you would really appreciate it if she didn't sing that Beatles song to you anymore. If that doesn't immediately end the choruses of "Lovely Rita," then drop the smile and say each time she starts, "I'm serious. Please stop." Of course, some of us are luckier in our Beatles songs. My favorite starts, "Dear Prudence …"

Wednesday

A guy in my English class called yesterday an "apocalyptic" day. And it was, I suppose: crazy winds, leaves rushing all over the place, and super warm weather (70s F/20s C). "It's like hell approacheth," he said, "in the form of autumn gone mad." Nice metaphor--too bad it's a journalism class and not poetry. Or better yet a "creative take on non-fiction", my personal genre of choice. I'm probably a repressed novelist at heart.

Tonight I'm dressing up and sitting on a Career Services panel about my work abroad (!) and how to secure an internship abroad (suggestion no. 1: speak the language, kinderlach). The panel is supposedly for the nervous overachieving younger students... who probably have more real work experience than I do. In the very least, they certainly possess the more desirable "marketable" skills (such as they've actually studied economics!!). Nonetheless, I'm going to communicate to them my experience in the Commercial Service last year in Madrid, along with some other panelists who also managed to intern at similarly impressive places. This should be, uh, interesting -- I signed up to practice my public speaking skills and the organizers actually selected me, so up and at 'em!

Another curious moment of the day: ran into my major adviser, Prof. E., a professor in the political science department, who randomly let me know that he found me on LinkedIn -- "the Facebook for adults". Uh-oh. Perhaps instead of spending time on the real Facebook (for pseudo-communication) and Odnoklassniki.ru, I should fix my profile up there. We're all two degrees of separation apart, indeed.

Another curious (but not unexpected) thing I found out through someone in my journalism class: Facebook sells global accounts to companies and school administrators that are willing to pay a lot of money for those priviledges. The global accounts permit them to see anyone's profile despite privacy settings. That means that employers really do screen it -- take that, high school kiddies.

All Play and No Work

This weekend I was (thankfully) reminded there is, indeed, social life in Boston.

I haven't had this much fun -- in sequence -- in a while -- not since the few gatherings this summer, and before that most certainly not since Madrid. The bar "scene" here sucks, I can't stand American music, and regular gringo university parties are the stuff of hell, so desperation hits at times. These little events, though hard to come by, are pretty great. I like to be proved wrong on this (I know, right?!) by the reminder that Boston is still a quirky place to be when it wants to be.

Friday night I went home to chill for an evening with my Israeli cousin, who's visiting the U.S. on business again for Intel, his company. Saturday: an awesome "hat-theme" party at Sema & Boris's ridiculously amazing pad in Brookline. The place was complete with a grand piano, a drum set, salsa dancing (not by me, but I watched), and lots of interesting, international and smart people. I didn't take any photos of my own but here are some that I stole from the hosts.

With Lena

Fellow proletariat Ilya & Essie

Charades

People who know what they're doing

Today Alena & I went to see my latest assigned play, a modern piece at the Lyric Stage Company of Boston and then I actually did manage to attempt salsa dancing at this cute club we discovered -- Ryles' in Cambridge, that played salsa, merengue, bachata, cha-cha and the like. We went to a lesson beforehand, and after the class the hall opens up to everyone. I stepped on some feet and got stepped on in return, but it was a pretty good time. I will try to go somewhat regularly, as that seems to be the only way to participate in dancing parties without feeling like a fool, as I always tend to!

El Día Que Me Quieras (YouTube)

I love the cool stuff you can find on YouTube. Here's an awesome pianist from Latin America (he's not professional):


Great!!

Warm October

Global warming is real, I've concluded (unscientifically, but so be it). It's October 18 and 21 degrees C, with 23 prognosed for tomorrow. I remember around this time two years ago I broke out my fleeces and wool scarves, but this I don't mind at all! It's almost like fall in Spain.

But the leaves are falling around the hill on schedule, more or less, and it's that time of year when walking on campus actually seems really romantic (for me, at least, compared to frantic Septembers). Because the university is on a hill, the leaves cover the large grassy lawns near the Ballou hall steps. So the leaves from the trees lining the steps fall on the benches and the stone and under your shoes, and going up that hill is like walking into autumn.

Every year I do a little foliage photo shoot and just capture the thickness of it (the Vals Boston banner you see above was taken two years ago as part of the set). My annual photo shoot, though, takes place at a very particular time when only a small minority of the leaves are green, when the air is cool and crisp and wearing a scarf is an added benefit. In normal weather, we'd still be about a week or two away from that. Maybe this year I'll do my foliage pictures after Halloween, since it's been so warm. If only it could forever stay warm and still be colorful! (I hate the cold.)

For many years growing up, my favorite color was green and my favorite season was summer. I still love green and summer, but arguably my favorite color now is red and the season is autumn. Perhaps it's a side of effect of "growing up".

Update X

My visa to go here came in the mail this afternoon. Muito bem! And to go here, I thankfully don't need a visa -- plus I can pass for honorary Cubana, ¿verdad? (Man, gone are the days when I could go to Paris for the weekend. Боря, cuz, you reading this in Berlin? Disfruta del momento, compadre!)

Today I was telling my community health professor the story about how I ended up in Rio to begin with, back in 1991 (the story you all know). It dawned on me that in 1991, I came to Brazil as a six-year-old citizen of the Soviet Union. In 2008 I will return to Brazil as a twenty-two-year-old citizen of the United States. Life is amusing! Viva Brasil.

In other news, not much is new. School, work, internship, procrastination -- the usual. It's midterm season at Tufts, so everyone is cranky and there is a general atmosphere of "being tense" á lá American collegiate style. I'm okay as far as workload goes (normal/high), but I tend to leave everything until the last minute so I get stressed out looking at other people and then getting to my stuff. Such is the 'hood nowadays, dogz. When's Christmas again?

I Heart NY, Part II

With Lyalya, mom, and uncle


Top of the Rock!

Alfonsina

Korean guy playing my favorite Argentine zamba on guitar. Awesome!

I Heart NY

I went to New York City this weekend with my mom, sister, and visiting Moscow uncle.

WTC site construction at night

Very uh, active demonstration at Union Square

Chrysler at dusk

Lyalya, Fima and me

The Unc and I

At the Rockerfeller Center observatory

Mom

Ляля

Times Square

Tom & Jerry: The Cat Concerto

Symphony Hall last night was lovely. It's always wonderful to get uber-dressed up, sip champagne, and eat free food on Opening Night, whilst pondering melody, harmony and the interpretation at hand. My article about it all will be published in the Daily on Tuesday. (On the left, there I am getting ready to head out. The picture on the right I stole off another website.)

Despite my general dislike of Ravel, the program was nicely finished. We had excellent orchestra-center seats near the aisle, leg room included. Indeed, this is the life, I thought!

One thing the BSO could improve on: invest in some plates (paper's okay!) for the reception preceeding the concert. Patrons were resigned to straddling napkins, champagne glasses, programs and their walking canes! (While we didn't have the latter, we made up for that by taking some more strawberries.) Liz apparently heard one catering person explain the plate shortage rather cleverly: "There's no plates so that people would eat less." Well, that didn't stop the Boston Brahmin army--just added to the Symphony's carpet cleaning bill, I suppose.

I'm in my home, the Swamp, tonight before a tentative NYC trip later this weekend. Depends on how much work I get done... yeah right.

BSO and Peruvian Poetry

Today I am:
a) Taking what will probably be my last ever "senior portrait"/"school picture"... meaning the joyful pose with the ridiculous cap & gown garb.
b) Getting my dose of Boston Brahmins at the Season Premiere of the Boston Symphony Orchestra, with their all-Ravel program. I am not a particular fan of Ravel per se, but Lizzie and I thoroughly enjoyed BSO's premiere when we went two years ago. It's as much fun to people-watch as it is to listen to music (and it's also free, thanks to my "press tickets"). Two years ago, during intermission, we would observe the other patrons and make up stories about them: for instance, I still remember that young blonde in the plunging neckline, on the arm of the 70+ crooner who never left the champagne table. Can we say gold-digger?

Tonight, Boston's richest non-profit sponsors and millionaire elderly socialites all gather in one place once more, and will fawn about one another's acquisitions in the Hamptons... to classical music. But on a serious note, I love the BSO: their perfomance caliber is world-renowned, Levine's conducting is always very sensitive to subtlety, and attending is an experience in and of itself. A good symphonic performance is a rare but sumptuous treat. I try go to Symphony Hall whenever the opportunity arises, and it seems that Liz and I are making the orchestra's premiere somewhat of a roommate tradition!

Yesterday, instead of spending time in the library on my research, I went to a Peruvian and Chilean poetry reading by some apparently widely renowned Latin American poets and professors. The reading was, oddly enough, quite well-attended in a performance room in the basement of our language building. I spent most of the 2.5 hours there sitting on the floor.

I actually really like poetry--something many people don't get-- though I am quite particular about its format and style. I suppose that's why I don't make attending poetry readings my priority--modern styles, in any language, have become too abstract and disconnected from structure for my taste (I'm one of those who seriously appreciates the art of rhyme). This reading had a couple of interesting works and some really heartwrenching imagery about violence and reality, love and reconciliation... but tended to fall into the above category anyway. Still, I went because I just wanted to hear people speak Spanish, so I feel like I got something out of it.

At the reception after the reading, a Spanish-speaking classmate and I got hit on by 60+ year-old Peruvian professors. That's why they're poets. They never change.

In other news, will most likely be in Swampscott for 1 or 2 days this weekend before we head to New York, so if people are around, call!

Propaganda

Propaganda is a fascinating, eerie thing that's around now just as it was around before. We study Soviet and Nazi tactics, and Argentine dictatorship tactics, and Red and Orange and Violet and Velvet and et cetera, et cetera, yet we also live in America, where we invade sovereign countries and mitigate sovereign governments on the sole basis of net PR gain. The techniques have changed, the technology has changed; but really, the motives haven't.

On the one hand, propaganda is living history. On the other, it's living a history through somebody's lie. Through a filter, a stopper, a bifocal lens. Then again, what is history?

Check out this blog that I found today--hundreds and hundreds of awesome Soviet posters. Some amusing, some are funny, some are commercials, some are heroic, some are just plain bizarre... and some I have an odd fondness for because I associate them (ironically!) with childhood, and with victory in World War II and with all that is idealistic and had once -- in someone's dream at least -- been good for the people.

At the same time, I cannot help but wonder how varying groups in random parts of the world -- from the Peruvian senderistas to Mao to Trotskyite terrorists to Stalinist repressions to FARC to the circus that is North Korea et al-- could be proclaim so honestly to live by a banner of big, fat, red propaganda. How so many of them adopted the red and the sickle and hammer, no matter what their real ideology was, how different (or similar?) they were "in practice", and whether that ideology had anything to do with Marxism at all. Does the sickle and hammer really retain its meaning? Moreover, did it ever really have one?

Procrastination again

So... I realize today (pretty much out of nowhere) that I got a good senior thesis idea. Except it's too late to do a senior thesis. Whoops. Well, there goes that.

In other news, my first day of at the Alumni T&L office went pretty uneventfully. It's definitely a more "hardline" office than the other offices I've worked at (as in, this one is run with an apparent tighter fist). There is a lot of work, but thankfully, it's a breeze.

Apparently the university runs trips to exotic locations for outrageously wealthy alumni, and this is the office that takes care of it. My job so far involves reading brochures about ridiculous tourist destinations (my favorite is the "private excursion around the world for just $55,800 per person! See Chile's magnificent Easter Island and Cambodia's Angkor Watt and the Great Pyramids and Miami FL in the same fantabulous vacation!!"); editing boss's letters to clients; sorting pretty booklets about exotic locales and expertly executing my most practical specialty-- photocopying! (Double-sided, triple-sided, hard-stapled, clipped and tallied, quintuple-sided--you name it, I can do it.) Unlike at the Dept. of Philosophy (my former work-study job), I do get to look at pretty pictures of international travels and maybe write little blurbs about how glorious Macchu Pichu is... how sandy are the shores of Santorini, Greece... I'll try to handle this, really, I will...

Forgive the cliché but...

...it's really dawning on me how fast time flies. Three years ago I started college, one year ago I was in Madrid and writing my travel blog, about to take my first trip to Lisboa of 2007-08. How is it already October 2007?

I guess this is good in many ways: the days pass by so quickly now that there's little time for any serious boredom. Friends are busy too: many have real working lives (imagine that!), are doing real research somewhere, or are helping deliver other people's children (Bella, your interests never fail to amaze me!). [Not to mention, of course, the frightening realization that a number of my former Moscow classmates at age 22 are married and HAVE their own children... but that is a rant for another day.]

As for me... well, I'm happily mooching off the student lifestyle I have left. I'm still at my internship, but dropped Arabic (after much debate and self-scrutiny) because it was too much to handle right now. Still, I still seem to possess an uncanny ability to erase time... just not the work that came as a package with the time. I challenge anybody and everybody to a procrastination contest--you stand no chance!

A serious reality, though, is that I have a real job search coming up in the next few months. A search that will have to be attacked apparently through networking, because browsing sites like Monster.com makes me sad (I don't see anything that remotely interests me). I know me well enough to know that withering away, unfortunately, is a very real concern in a regular 9-to-5 if I wake up one morning and think "oh, I don't care". I'm an overly passionate person (with no outlet), so the job must interest me in some way and regardless of pay (no rhyme intended). Such is the bottom line. I'm looking for a position that will--ideally--make me want to get up in the morning.

Okay, at least on some days. Fine--on Fridays. Or at least make me not hate to get up in the morning... I can't stand mornings. But still!!

I know there have to be cool opportunities for people like me, if only I knew how think outside of the "box"... so... I am slowly getting the energy to convince myself to TRAIN my brain! (Again: no rhyme intended.) I have been talking to some folks on campus who fall into the "outside the box" bracket... but still can't get over my laziness and fix my résumé per Career Center's suggestions. Basically, I am taking it at a snail's pace. It's just like my phobia of ordering and printing my pictures from last year's travels (still undone, by the way): the moment I will actually sit down to do it, it will become REAL.

Now, if only somebody would pay me to travel the world and write a blog about it...

Pfff! I've still got 9 months of denial!!

But denial doesn't bring petty cash, so tomorrow I start at my "part-time no. 2", bright and early at 8 a.m. (#%@!) at the office. Well, at least I can thank Tufts for conveniently placing 2 coffee places on the 20-minute walk there. Yes, I am a leftist, studious, mooching, morning latté consumer!

Para los de Madrid

Es posible que les haya enviado este link antes, pero por alguna misteriosa razón lo he encontrado hoy de nuevo. Me recuerda el karaoke de Madrid y como esta canción formaba una gran parte (o mejor dicho la única parte) del "repertoire" de Angela y yo. Es el gran éxito cursi de Pimpinela de los '80 y en este video, se interpreta verdaderamente, con la gran pasión que merece y como el comentario social que esta obra ha demostrado en su importantíssimo contenido a través de los años...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LTvOziYY6WQ

¡Que disfruten!

Russian Relations

I fought my newly acquired cold and went to the Fletcher School of Diplomacy tonight to listen to the lecture of U.S. Ambassador to Russia, His Excellency William Burns. He talked about the challenges in Russian-American relations and the strategic concerns that Russia and the United States share in central Asia and the Middle East; how, despite recent disagreements between our two countries, the "Cold War is over"; and that problems with "Russian democracy" aside, the long-term future appears positive for Russian-American diplomatic relations, which span over 200 years.

It was good to have the opportunity to attend this lecture, and furthermore I felt surprised by the amounts of Russian graduate exchange students from МГУ, МГИМО, etc. (prestigious Russian universities) present. After the lecture, there was a question-and-answer session with lots of hevi rashan aktsent. They all asked intelligent questions about policy and historical events, and a couple of undergrads I recognized did so as well.

I wanted to ask the Ambassador about the situation in Georgia and how that, in his opinion, affected Russian-American relations. Unfortunately, by the time I got the courage to go up to the microphone (the whole thing had a very 'official' feeling), the question-and-answer session had ended and someone had already asked my question.

(I really need to work on this fear of public speaking! A perfect opportunity for me, and... nothing.)

It was an interesting speech because one doesn't get to hear an ambassador every day, but it offered nothing new in terms of predicting future US-Russian relations or interactions. Then again, everyone knows that the role of an ambassador is to deliver, in some sense, canned material.

Still, I imagine his job must be extremely challenging, especially now, since the black-and-white view of Russia and the U.S. is not as valid anymore. Yet every day, I am reminded of how different Russian and American values really are -- and how I am, I suppose, much more "American" than Russian now in my manner of thinking about many subjects (with a few large exceptions, oh, like U.S. foreign policy). However, I do note that I seem to intrinsically "get", on some level, the Russian manner of communicating.

This manner of communication -- which I can't describe -- definitely carries itself all the way up to the diplomatic level. I understand how Americans may have difficulty understanding Russians, how they might come off as stoic or well, delusional; and vice-versa, how the U.S. rhetoric might be seen over there as, frankly, ridiculous.

So much about culture, I think, has to do with language. We may speak both languages, but...

I'm really not sure what I'm trying to get at here. Can't put my finger on it... but it's there.

To simplify very much for the sake of my argument... it's something I see at my internship all the time. Despite fluency in English, the doctors in Tomsk and the doctors here, when I listen to the phone conferences I help set up, sometimes just don't seem to get each other. And it's not that they don't have comparable medical expertise or don't speak English, and it's not any controversial national way to cure tuberculosis that I'm talking about. It's their way of talking, of getting down to business, of taking in the information and regurgitating it, of taking time. The Russians seem much colder. They don't smile on the phone. They don't ask hi how are you, how's the weather over there? Now, let's talk about people who are dying in the prisons.

I think a lot of the problems in US-Russian relations stem from (forgive my triteness) differences in communication on a massive historical scale. These, in turn, owe their existence to fundamental cultural disparities: contrasting manners of seeing the world -- and, consequently of interpreting it with language and rhetoric. Even as a U.S. citizen and resident for 13 years, it's hard to balance these two cultural disparities. Sometimes I think both sides are nuts.

During the Cold War, the U.S.S.R. was, to Americans, a "dark force"; as an American -- and as a Russian! -- I'll dare to say that the idea of Russia as "dark" hasn't changed all that much. Neither has the Russian view of Americans as materialist imperialists. This is paradoxically despite the eerie fascination with (and adoption of!) everything that in my opinion is negative about U.S. culture.

Then again, the rest of the world has already done it.

But Americans, too, see Russians as this nation with a Napoleonic complex and a self-deprecating history -- as though the Russian people just love to suffer.

Probably the most interesting thing that Ambassador Burns mentioned is a simple anecdote about a Russian friend of his in Moscow. He said that his friend is a "Russian optimist" -- meaning, someone who thinks that "tomorrow will be much better than the day after".

Unfortunately, I think that, too, is very true.

От Улыбки Станет День Светлей

Doing some "research" on the Internet tonight for a future project... but it took a little detour.

Если на YouTube.com написать "USSR" и "Chile", каким-то образом, вот что выходит:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7VrAuoIOiQ4
This was among my favorite childhood songs... только тут--с "детьми чилийских патриотов".

And then there was this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Voys6mQug9s (Ностальгия!)

И еще: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qSq-XwINmzE
И совсем: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3wqLr97Vcmw


I distinctly remember being 8 and listening to these kids' songs as I sat on a suitcase. And my biggest worry was how am I going to listen to them in America?

It's amazing how a few simple melodies and silly little arrangements can be so memorable.

No matter where you grow up... I suppose you have to be born in the Soviet Union to understand. :)

Anticipating Winter

Bought a double (triple?) present to myself yesterday: to offset my recent missing Madrid, my birthday, and an advance for 2008.

This winter break I'll be here:

Orlando, Florida

Oh, and after 17 years, here:

-R-I-O-

Camila and I in Rio (1991)

September 20

Well, I am another year older. Thankfully, still at the age when ("you look older than you are") is taken as a compliment. (I think that stops around 27.)

Cool things have happened before on September 20. In 1970, according to the BBC, Soviet troops brought back moon rocks. In 1977, Vietnam joined the United Nations. In 1985, Walt Disney World sees its 200-millionth guest. Also in 1985, my mom gave birth to me (thanks, ma).

Thank you to everyone who wrote and called me today.

"Viva La Revolución"

“Memory” was the key word in yesterday’s session of my Anthropology/Spanish class, Truth, Voice, and Justice in Latin America: The Cultural Politics of Violence.

September 11, 1973 rings a bell to all Latin Americans (whereas for North Americans there is only one Sept. 11, despite U.S. involvement in Chile's). We watched a documentary by Chilean filmmaker Patricio Guzmán, called Chile: la Memoria Obstinada. Guzmán, in the 1970s, filmed a series called La Batalla de Chile, a three-part taping of the events leading up to, during, and after Pinochet’s military coup over Allende’s democratically elected socialist government. Not surprisingly, La Batalla de Chile was banned in its country during the military rule. In Memoria, the filmmaker comes back to Chile many years later and brings the original documentary with him. He then shows it to some of the people who were actually in the first film when it happened, and also tapes the reactions of a group of students watching their country’s history unfold for the first time.

We all agreed that the most striking part of the movie was the reaction of the students seeing it for the first time. They had been stripped of memory, our class concurred, by a military authority and the unexplained disappearances of so many people. Furthermore, their view of Allende, of democracy, of socialism, of human rights and of government itself had been shaped by a thirteen-year dictatorship.

We’d read the articles about the United States releasing the CIA files under Clinton that clearly established an important link between the Nixon administration and Pinochet’s rise to power. Through tries at assassination, attempts to squarely sabotage elections, and even a two-step plan for destabilizing Chile’s entire political system, the United States certainly played its part in altering Chilean history. Yet I still find it shocking how little the U.S. educational system teaches American children about the Nixon interventions. Truth be told, I only started hearing about it—in an academic setting, that is—when I got to university. Thankfully, at least here at Tufts these things are discussed quite openly and earnestly.

One blonde girl in class noted something important. “I read about this,” she said, “and I couldn’t believe it. My parents were living during this time… I asked my dad, did you know about this, how the U.S. meddled in Chile? And he was like, ‘Chile? Is that the long-shaped country or is it the one in the north of South America?’ and I was like, ‘Oh my god’…”

Memory. Many U.S. citizens alive at the time have no memory of Chile’s September 11, or of Latin America as a whole, for that matter.

At this point, I raised my hand and countered that in the USSR—a “closed” country—people were certainly aware of September 11 in Chile, even though Allende had broken with the Soviets’ pushing towards stronger revolution. I don’t see Allende as a radical, I said. I see him as more of a Marxist than a Leninist—committed to the idea of establishing a pacific socialism through the natural progression of society, rather than the violent overthrow over the bourgeoisie, as we had in Russia. Sure, there were mistakes and fiscal mismanagements; but Chile had had potential. While Allende is not a martyr, would George W. Bush be willing to die in the White House to defend his establishment of "democracy" in the Middle East?

Despite Chile and USSR’s differences, I said, students in Moscow felt for Chile’s socialists.

And then the discussion turned to the political climate in the U.S. today. “Why is it,” somebody asked, “that there is such an apathy here? Nobody knows about Chile. Nobody goes to protests because they’re on scheduled on a Sunday at 3 p.m. a month in advance and then it rains or it's cold and everyone's like, damn, I'll just stay home, it’s not like it's important!? Real protests aren't scheduled around someone's workday.”

“There’s no togetherness. There’s no ‘students’ movement’, or union movements or workers' parties.”

“We may care about the fight in Iraq, but nobody mobilizes because there is no effect on America. What happened to the 60s? Where did that go? The anti-Vietnam era?”

“You see the pictures of children in Rwanda, and yet there’s no possible way you can help because it all goes to corporations.”

“There is no solidarity among students.”

Solidarity, solidarity, solidarity.

Why? Complacency, comfort, apathy, fortune, individualism, culture... and about a dozen other theories, equally florid and equally abstract. Capitalism. Too much of it? Yet do people really need to suffer terrible pains on a personal and national level as a prerequisite for having solidarity? I hope not. I would like to believe that what united movements of solidarity was a common desire for a greater good, and not only a reaction to oppression.

The class seemed to agree. At the end of the discussion, I played a Grenada song for them.

But we did not come up with any answers—we were, after all, U.S. college students “intellectualizing” history.

Later, for about a half hour, I talked on the library steps with the thirty-something post-bacc auditor who spoke a lot during the class, mostly about the lack of protesting in the U.S. despite the presence of many important issues. She went on and on about how she has worked with Cambodian refugees, spent time in Palestinian camps, tries to organize marches on Washington, but her married friends dismiss her as the “crazy liberal” because nobody cares... she went on and on about how she thought the story I told the class about my family’s experience was just so inspiring and blah blah blah and how there is just no solidarity...

I heard myself siding with her, for a second feeling almost revolutionary. Yet by the end of the conversation, as I agreed that overdeveloped capitalism is a root cause of the decay of society and that socialism has been misrepresented by corrupt interest-seekers and needs another chance, I felt pure hypocrisy. I say it, I think I believe it... but I look up to people who truly believe in what they do, enough to do something—anything—about it. Me, however? Well, I am just a part of the system where, largely, I grew up.

I listen to the music from LA and USSR, I read the articles and the books, I watch movies, I learn Spanish, I feel myself "apart" from the gringo essence, and think about life and the universe... from the comfort of my dorm room. I have health insurance, I get to travel to Europe and other exotic places with a click of my mouse, and I have a wonderful, comfortable existence in the United States where I am content. I've seen people work hard; but I've never had to work hard at anything. I can read about Chile or Russia and listen to my family's stories. I can even go visit and write about it. Above all, I can analyze and criticize and discuss whatever I want.

Life in the United States is not the savage, bourgeois beast portrayed in the Cold War, just like life in the USSR wasn't a vapid, soulless iron curtain. Life in the United States is, in fact, a very good one compared to other options out there. I have no reason to complain about the objective quality of it. None.

But what have I done to change anything? To influence the parts of the system in this very country that go against what I might believe in? ("Yo que soy americano, no importa de que país...")

I've done absolutely nothing.

Picture This

Katrina and me, on the way to tonight's silly senior pub thingy in Boston. I realize how few people I know in my class -- I can count on 1 hand the pals other than my wonderful roommates! Most of the people who are fellow seniors are also strangers, unless I met them way back when I first started. I think the class has over 2,000 people.

On a tangent: meeting new people was infinitely easier in Spain, and I've often wondered whether this was for cultural reasons or for the "study abroad" syndrome. That's a topic for another day.

...and tomorrow at 8:30 a.m. I've got an interview for a campus job, a paper due (not finished), and two unfinished readings -- for the same class. Hooray, hoorah...

Cultural/Anthropological Question

I've been active recently on Odnoklassniki.ru, an amusing Facebook.com ripoff (though not as clone-like as VKontakte.ru, which I discovered today as an EXACT copy down to the layout). Some of my correspondence from there with former classmates from Moscow brings the following question.

Whenever I get a letter from Russia, it goes something like this, in translation: Oh, it's so nice to hear from you!))))) It's been so many years, I can't believe it!!!)))) what are you doing, how are you, where are you?))))))

Now, I consider myself fairly well-versed in American online slang and can even get around in Spanish online slang (it's pretty yucky, a.l.a., "k tal wuapa"). But oddly enough, I can't seem to figure out some of this new-fangled Russian slang stuff, most of which comes from English anyway (like лаптоп -- это ноутбук, or better yet вауу for wow. !#$&??)

Yet the real question (the one I have been thinking about in greater detail than the international health policy paper I should be working on) IS...

What are these parentheses supposed to mean? Are they supposed to convey enthusiasm (in the olden days, we used exclamation points for that). Are they typos? Nope, too deliberate. Are they supposed to be smiley-faces? :-)

If that's the case, I am not sure whether the guy who invented the real smiley face would approve. Where's the other features of the face that would make it a smiley FACE, like the dot for the nose? And aren't eyes the window to the soul? Where are the eyes on this row of parentheses?!

I suppose we are constantly reminded nowadays that the Internet has its own language, yet it doesn't translate equally--that's for sure.

If anyone can answer my question, I will be much obliged.