Onward and.... onward.

Well, I started today by wrestling a rearing horse, so I guess everything's smooth sailing after that.

Today's party was lovely, I got to see everyone and there was much story swapping and hugging and so much good food I nearly burst. I have accomplished nearly nothing on the homework front, but at the moment I realize that I'm beyond panicking over that. I'll get done what I get done, and then I. Will. GO.

That said, I'm in the penultimate leg of packing, wherein I'm slobbing around the house in my least favorite clothes and having to dig what I need out of bags and then put them back. Actually, that is a very good thing. You see, if you have to pull everything you need out of a bag, all day long, that means that everything you need is packed. Win!

I hope.

Anyway, I'm somewhere between this



and this



.....

I'm going to miss you guys SO MUCH. I got an unlimited Flickr account, and I have a newer, lighter, fewer-batteries-taking, more-pictures-holding camera this time, so lots and lots of photos to come, I hope. Computer time may be limited, so they may come in big batches, but I hope to upload often and well. I'll be taking higher res photos this time, too.

I'm using the same bag I bought for Russia last time, which has also been my main bag on and off for the last two school years. It has weathered more than any bag I have ever owned, and was just washed for the first time. It is green, it is cheerful, it is less American looking than a backpack, and it has lots of straps and pockets to make it the ideal airplane bag. It even has a strap that can be used to compress a coat into an innocuous piece of your one (1) carryon, which must weigh no more than 6 kilos and fit in that dumbass plexiglass box. This makes it the perfect size to balance precariously on and then fall off of your one (1) suitcase, which must weigh no more than 20 kilos and be easily identifiable in a lineup, lest you be transferred to a different flight last-minute.

Traveler's luggage tip № 42: Ribbons, my friends, will save your life. I kept my luggage only by dint of tying bright, bright blue ribbons to the handles last time. The harried airport workers asked me hopelessly if there was any way to spot my bags, and when I replied that they had glittery metallic blue things tied to the handles, a wave of relief washed over their faces. That really helps, they said. And I didn't have to use my emergency shirt and underwear, after all.

Traveler's luggage tip № 42(a): Always, always have emergency underwear.

.....

Anyway, back to the salt mines. All that remains is to finish packing everything I own, finish writing everything that is due, and finish saying goodbye to everyone I love. Eep.

Hey, look!

So I got an email today concerning my living arrangements in Russia. It seems that I'll be living riiiight....


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there!

I think it's about a mile away from the university. The email says that I can get to class by walking or taking Trolley № 20.

I'll be living, it seems, with a host and two children. The gobbledygook below that reads "Mustafina Ilkam Yarullovna." That doesn't follow the naming tradition I know, so either the woman in question is named Mustafina and has a male middle name, or I'll be living with three people named Mustafina, Ilkam, and Yarullovna. Or I'm more confused than I think. We'll see! Whatever the case, the head of the family works in a school.

This is still more information, and sooner, than last time- when I went to Petersburg, I got a name when I was in Russia, and didn't know anything more until I showed up at their doorstep with my suitcase.

It seems that my apartment is one of the big modern ones with businesses on the bottom floor. According to Google Maps, I will share a building with a cell phone company (the same one I used last time), something that might be a mechanic, a pharmacy- no, wait, two pharmacies- a cafe, a holding company, a bank, and a real estate rental company... I think.

As an interesting side note, the cafe is named after these things:

All I know is that they have something to do with potatoes. I'll be sure and report back.


ETA: I found a picture of a building a little further down the street from mine, as well as a couple more of Kazan.

A snapshot to remember me by.

In case you were wondering, getting ready to leave makes me look like this:

Goodbye, my dear, dear...

...edibles.

I don't know what fearsome terrors I will face on the tables of Kazan- pickles in my soup? Unnamable pieces of pig? A total dearth of leafy greens?

All these and more were met- and happily devoured- in Petersburg. I actually quite like Russian food, and won't turn down much that I haven't at least tried, but at the moment I'm seizing the chance to eat those things I'm not likely to find on the road.

At the moment, I'm wolfing down a pile of deliciousness from the Mexican bakery down the road. Jalapeno rolls ftw.

If you ever find yourself in Russia, just remember not to get the hamburger at Petergof.



Packing is going apace.... so many boxes to store away, so little suitcase to bring.

I don't know about you...

...but I speak pretty good English. It is my first language, and was for several years my only language. I would say that I am quite familiar with it.

My knowledge of Russian is, shall we say, less that perfect. (Dr. Friedberg, if you are reading this, you can stop laughing.) Thus, I find myself using a variety of dictionary-like devices, most beloved of which is the indomitable multitran.ru, a fabulous user-edited concoction of dictionary/thesaurus/spellcheck/grammar that is as interactive as all get out.

Usually, it serves me well. Almost always, it has exactly what I need, presented in a way that even my fuzzy little brain can understand.

Sometimes, however, I think that it has been smoking crack.

For instance, to the poor Russian translator seeking the English word for "пиджак", it offers "coat" and "jacket" and "blazer."

Under the 'improper slang' category, however, it also offers "bum-freezer" and "ass-perisher."

Imagine.

When selecting a likely word, myself, I am often haunted by the interesting translations I have seen on the English side. How often have I made the same mistake as the hapless student in Komchatka that believes that 'hoochy' is the proper military term for a house? Or that 'Bossy' is a good term for what we would usually call meat?

Would you, under the same logic, call a piece of dog 'Rex'?

It's a nail-biter, I tell you. All the cross referencing in the world can't save you.

(And yes, I've packed a nice warm ass-perisher already.)

Things to do if you plan on traveling at all:

• Keep your room in a semblance of order


• Get rid of things you don't like or that don't fit, so anything you pack is a good thing to pack


• Buy nothing that needs ironing, dry cleaning or tumble drying


• Have only underwear nice enough that you don't mind hanging them on a clothesline


• Keep current pictures of your home, loved ones, and pets on your computer at all times


• Actually keep all of your foreign electronics in one place


• Have a suitcase that meets transatlantic flight restrictions


• Actually have some of those little travel containers for soap in your possession

Needless to say, I have done very few of those things. Whee!

A Montage of Unlikely Anecdotes

I've been wracking and wracking my brains trying to think of how I can start to describe what it's like to be in Russia, before I actually leave. I've come to the conclusion that it's absolutely impossible. There are no sweeping statements I can make or generalizations that I can really get behind- just the weird ass stories. Here's an excerpt from last year's blog

...as I was walking along the canal, I looked down on the embankment to see a man watching a little Pekingese paddle to shore and then get out and shake off. The man regarded the dog, the dog regarded the man. I assumed that the dog liked to swim after ducks, and the man was letting it do so. Then, as I rounded the corner of the canal, I looked down to see that the guy had that dog up by the scruff and was sort of staring at it at arm's length. The dog seemed to be pretty nonchalant, so I thought maybe this was some sort of drip-dry routine they had. Then, as I walked on, I heard a huge SPLASH and looked down to see the pekingese paddling back to the embankment. The dude threw it back in the canal! Then it got out, shook off, looked up at the guy, and peed on the railing. The man just stared at it, with no sort of expression on his face. Then they just sort of ambled off together. I have no idea what happened after that, except that I then passed someone I'm pretty sure was the guy, walking the opposite direction he had been, sans dog. I checked, and it wasn't hopelessly paddling in the canal anywhere I could see, so I have NO explanation for this.

Weird, right? Well, you can read all those little things on that old blog, and I have no doubt that there will be far far more of that this time, since last time I was only documenting the strangest of the strange.


But for now, in lieu of my own personal craziness, I offer another's illustration. I have told many of you about the horrors of Russian traffic- a subject hair raising enough to thrill scores of cautious drivers. Or people who like crossing the road. (the entry from which I took that excerpt also includes an account of almost being mown down)

I humbly suggest that all of you make your way over to this post on English Russia. Watch the video you find there, and know that that's actually pretty tame, normal Russian driving.

I promise I'll look both ways and run fast.

ETA: It's not that dangerous, I promise!

This Place I'm Going

The city I'm going to is called Kazan. It's here:


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Last time I was in St. Petersburg, which is here:


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As you can see, they're quite far apart.

Kazan is basically on the other side of the world from us here in the Portland area; to find out what time it is, just switch AM for PM, and voila! So noon here is midnight there, and vice versa.

Kazan is an old city- it was founded roughly a thousand years ago, and was conquered by Russia in the 1500's.

What's that, you say? Conquered? Well, the truth is that Kazan is actually the capital of Tatarstan, which was eaten by Russia a good while back but has maintained its quasi-national status. A little more than half of the population identifies as and speaks Tatar, and a little less than half identifies as and speaks Russian. Almost everyone understands Russian, but the street signs, schools, and other public things are all bilingual. Tatar and Russian have basically nothing in common, so that's going to be quite the adventure.

Here's the Tatarstan coat of arms:



There is lovely Islamic architecture throughout the city, too.



I'm looking forward to experiencing a completely different culture in Kazan; St. Petersburg is a young, European city by Russian standards, and Kazan is an ancient, Tatar and Islam influenced settlement.

And just so you know, it's supposed to be 'hot' there- in the seventies!

I'm not asking

...but some people have offered. I'm actually feeling kind of sheepish, since a lot of people have expressed a desire to help me with this trip.

I don't need to buy many things for this trip, but there are a few things I could use. I've added a secure donate button to the side bar, and given my apple ID ( belladonna@canby.com ) in case someone wants to give me a little iTunes credit. New music is always good on a long trip.

Counting Down

Well, it's getting closer to That Time. My room is still rather messy- though I swear there is underlying order- and schoolwork is in that strange lull, like the water rushing out of a bay before it becomes a tsunami wave.

It's strange. When I'm getting ready to leave one place for another, and to be gone for a long time, the whole world changes. At first I think that everything will just quietly ramp up to the frantic last minute departure, but that's never how it works.

What it really feel like, is a slipping of reality. I'm getting ready, doing things, so that I can not be here. When there's still a few weeks to go, the trip doesn't even seem that real, or possible. It's like I'm baking cookies for Santa Clause or something- yeah, it's the thought that counts, but really we all know that Dad is going to eat them on the way to the bathroom at midnight.

After that, there's a brief moment at the axis when it all seems normal, manageable, ordinary, and understandable. That's how it feels like getting ready should always be.

I'm in the last stage now, though. The stage where here seems to dissolve, and there isn't quite material yet. As I say goodbye to all the people and places and routines that I love, I have to think objectively about all of it- what do I need, what will I miss, who will miss me. And as the catalog mounts and I pay closer and closer attention to everything, the world takes on a misty quality. I'm surprised by things around the house, I don't know where to look for things, I forget routines. I can't quite imagine life at my destination, and it seems I'm already forgetting life here.

This lasts anywhere from three days to a couple of weeks beforehand, and usually ends abruptly, like waking up. It could be on the plane, when the stewardesses do the safety pantomime, or when I look down at my own city spiraling down the drain as we climb; it could be gritty eyed over my tea at the airport, waiting to leave at 5 AM; it could be halfway through the orientation lecture in Washington.

Whenever the bubble of forgetfulness bursts, the world is a whole new place. Everything is amazing and vivid and exciting, and I feel invincible.

So. Here's me, bumbling my way to bed in a cloud, and looking forward to the untouchable grace of being on the move again.