Third Time's a Charm?

Well, here I am, with host family #3. They say that third time's a charm, and I certainly hope they're right.

Babushka #2 was extremely controlling. It would be impossible for anyone to follow all of her rules. I tried, I really did. But when all she did was nag and yell at me, I began to block things out. The big blow-up happened when I didn't clean my shoes to her satisfcation. Yes, my shoes. She started screaming at me and pushing me out of the way because of my SHOES. I was fed up with it all and tried to explain that it really wasn't that important, so Babushka shrieked, "It's important to SOCIETY!"

A small story, I know, but it was like that nearly every day. I was constantly on edge and worried about whether or not I was doing things, from folding a towel to buying the right shampoo to having a name that wasn't "too Jewish," correctly. There was no way I could live up to her expectations and no way I could relax.

So I moved. Host #3 is a friend of my teacher Vera's. Her name is Natasha. I've only been here two days, but she seems lovely. Vera called her an "angel." Natasha is an older middle-aged woman who is fairly laid-back. We talk plenty, but she also gives me lots of free time. So much better. Since I have a key to the apartment, I'm able to come and go as I please, and I'm not being force fed anymore! I think this is where I was supposed to be living from the beginning.

Только Локо, Только Победа!

Who knew I might turn out to be a sports fan?

I went to a football match with some friends, and it may have been my favorite experience in Moscow so far. The Lokomotiv fans came into the metro station chanting, and they chanted in our squished train compartment all the way to the stadium.

The game was absolutely fantastic, or at least the people watching was. I hardly know what went on with the game. But the fans were what made it great. They screamed and jumped and chanted and swung their soccer scarves in the air the entire time. None of that stupid sports arena music being pumped through the stadium. And we won! There is a reason football is the most popular sport in the world.

A Collection of Babushka's Latest Racist Comments

-Why?! Why did you open the door?!
-(me) Because I looked at the security camera and saw it was you.
-But I could have been a Negro!

-You know Chechens? They're bad people. They'll stab you.

-Your toothpaste isn't Chinese is it? Everything from China is bad.

-You think she's pretty? She's Georgian! Look at her big nose!

-The only people who don't love Russia are fascists.

-Chinese are bad people. They have slanted eyes.

-Negroes are everywhere in America.

-I hate Washington D.C. because there are Negroes everywhere.

Matchmaker Matchmaker

A conversation I had with my host babushka a few days ago concerning Graham, the other American student living with us.

Babushka: So Rachel, you want Graham to be your boyfriend?
Me: What? No.
Babushka: Why not? He's a good man!
Me: Well yes, he is, but I don't want Graham to be my boyfriend.
Babushka: Why not?!
Me: Because I already have a boyfriend.
Babushka: Ohh, you have a boyfriend, eh? A boyfriend is not a husband. By tomorrow, he'll be saying "I don't love you" and "I don't want you anymore." And THEN you'll want Graham, eh?

Babushkas say the darndest things!

Bringing Out the Big Guns

Nationalism is the thing here in Russia. There definitely seems to be a "love it or leave it" attitude à la the Tea Party. (Unfortunately, this means I hear a LOT of racist comments against Chechens, Asians, Jews and anyone else not ethnically Russian). Flags are everywhere, from billboards to cheese wrappers. The militizia still wear those traditional furry hats.

Shared history is the common denominator between Russians. The hammers and sickles still remain on street decorations, and there's a certain longing for the "good old days." Some older people still revere Stalin. My old metro station had a carving that called Lenin the "sunshine of the people."

It's a strange mix of old and new, and I'm having a difficult time figuring out what to make of it all. I've always been wary of nationalism. Yesterday I climbed on old WWII tanks in a park, which was cool, but I couldn't help but wonder how many people that tank had killed. A certain degree of pride in one's country is admirable, but when families take their toddlers to climb on tanks, I think things have gone too far.

Now You Have Real Russian Brother

My initial host family was a joke. They were all sorts of crazy. They went to bed when I woke up, called me fat, screamed in public places and stole chickens from the synagogue. Crazy, I tell you. Additionally, my host brother, Mikhail, was a creepy. For some reason, he didn't like to be fully dressed. Awkward. Plus since he and his girlfriend slept all day and the dining table overlooked their bed, every meal required me to watch them cuddle on their cheetah print sheets. Weird.

This is Mikahil:

And this is his mother, the chicken-pilfering Inecca Simyonovna:

I ended up being trapped in my room most of the time due to the odd, uncomfortable dynamics of the family. It took a bit of prying, but the school thankfully allowed me to move. Already, things are much better. I'm living with another babushka, Irina Yakovlevna, and a guy from class, Graham. In the past few days, I've already felt more at home here and smiled more than I did the whole first week. Irina Yakovlevna is a typical Russian babushka who certainly likes things done her way, but the overall atmosphere is far more calming. I'm not trapped in my room anymore.

A Toast- To Robbing Banks for Stalin

First night in Moscow was entertaing. My host mom, Inecca Simyonova, disappeared on me for several hours and brought back a friend of hers for a late dinner, an older Armenian man. I forget his name. My host brother, Mikhail, and his wife, Sasha, were there too. I can't be exactly sure, but I think the old Armenian man said he used to rob banks for Stalin.

I don't know how, but the group managed to make a toast over everything. Really, everything. They toasted to my being in Russia. They toasted to Dostoevsky. They toasted to Tostoy. They toasted to Russian music. They toasted to every cultural achievement Russia has ever had and even some Ukranian achievements (which they claimed for their own). And when all the authors had been exhausted, they toasted to vodka. "How could we forget?" they asked.

Such is Russia. The whole experience is a bit intimidating and overwhelming at the moment, but as soon as I stop getting lost and taking two hours to get home from the metro station, things will be much better. At least I got to practice asking for directions? In any case, a toast: To Russia, its language, anв my getting better at it.