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, anŠ² my getting better at it.
