16.11.09
I didn’t go to the chess club this week. Instead I went to see a ballet performance of Romeo and Juliet. It was the second ballet I had visited in Russia, the first being Swan Lake at a famous theater in St. Petersburg about a year ago. The Rostov ballet didn’t match the one in Petersburg. Juliet wasn’t quite as fluid a dancer as the head swan, but I’m not picky when it comes to ballet.
Unlike Swan Lake, I was very familiar with the story of Romeo and Juliet, and it was fun to see it again in a new genre. The best scenes were when the stage was full with the two fueding families (the Capulets and the Montegues, if I remember correctly). In the beginning, there was a fight with many people dancing around, waving and thrusting swords at one another. Then, after intermission, just after Romeo took revenge on one of the main characters from the other family, there was a scene with members of both families mourning their loss and cursing their enemies at the other side of the stage. It was remarkable how they managed to express everything through dance.
To top it all off, one of the main musical themes was a classical peace that I like very much. I’ve written about it before, though not so recently that it’s been included in a blog entry. It starts with tubas sounding two full beats alternating at the lowest two notes, and then violins come in at I think eight beats to a measure with a rather macabre melody. I forget what it’s called, but I think the title has something to do with witches. I’ll call it the Jugernaut’s lied, beacuse the first movement is especially fit for an omnipotent entrance. It was used for the party at one of the family’s places, where Romeo and Juliet first met. For the first movement the family enters their dance hall and starts the ritual dance. Then the second movement comes in, much calmer and more soothing than the first, and that’s when Juliet enters and begins to dance. By the end of the party, the main theme sounds again as the stowaway Romeo is discovered.
I worked a lot last week. Saturday brought some interesting discussions. The previous evening I had somehow decided on the topic of war and peace. I found a chart of the US federal spending in 2008 on wikipedia and shared it with the class. I expressed my disapproval that, according to the chart, the governement spends ten times as much on war as it does on education. I posed the usual question after telling a little bit about America: how does it work in Russia? Nobody knew. They said that the government kept that information secret.
Here’s a naive thought that I shared with my students: when it comes to making progress, a society does best by investing resources in education and research. This is how society comes up with things like computers, mobile phones, the cure to polio, etc. By investing in the military (and military research), society takes a step backwards: the only use for a bomb is for destroying something. What’s the point of that? No student had anything to say. Maybe they were too afraid of bursting my peaceful bubble. A few students did point out that societies without militaries don’t last very long. I don’t disagree. Look at the Native Americans.
Taking the discussion even further in a eutopian direction, we listened to John Lennon’s Imagine, after which I asked the students if such a world (without religion, countries, the need to kill…) is possible, and if so, what needs to be done to achieve such a world. The younger students said that John Lennon was singing about Eutopia, and anybody knows that such a world is impossible. Many of the adult students felt the same way, although there were some who weren’t so readily dismissive. One student suggested that people have to change their souls. I asked for clarification. Russians use the word soul very often. I think the student might have expressed herself clearer by saying that people must change their nature. I found this very interesting. We ended class with the question of how people must change their nature in order to live in John Lennon‘s imaginary world.
I think it was a good note to end the class on. It’s not often that we have something interesting from which to start the next class, but that people should change their nature leads well into a discussion on nature versus nurture, as well as the extent to which a human is not an animal, a topic on which I should probably tread lightly so as not to offend people by suggesting that the difference between a person and a dog is the same as the difference between a dog and a cat - that it is no more than physiological.
What is the difference between a human and an animal? (“Here we go again,” my family members are groaning, but let me share my heathen thoughts with others in the audience.)
Religious people might say that humans have souls whereas animals do not. I think that the existence of a soul is as axiomatic as the existence of a God. Furthermore, I find it axiomatic to say that animals don’t have souls. In short, the religious explanation strikes me as what many religious explanations do: an axiom; it just is so.
Less religious people have suggested that people are intelligent and animals are not. This doesn‘t say much, for why is intelligence more important than the hundreds of qualities that humans lack? After all, the cheeta is the fastest, and the whale is the biggest; why are they considered animals and we not? Most recently someone suggested that animals either don’t feel pain, or somehow feel it in a different way. I contorted with the following thought experiment. Take a dog, a bear, an eagle, several other animals, and one human, impale them all with a spear through the belly and observe that all creatures react in pretty much the same way. How is pain perceived differently for the non-human creatures in the experiment?
Maybe there are other reasons why people are not animals. Please let me know, they might be useful in the discussion. Indeed, if the discussion developes, I should be familiar with all sides, so that I spur them on by disagreeing with everything!
I bought a USB modem yesterday, and am sending this entry from home for the first time. The word processor doesn’t have any spell checking in English. Would you have been able to tell the difference?
Monday, November 16, 2009
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
9.11.09
It’s quarter to five and already pretty dark in my apartment. I think my psyche was feeling the lack of sun-light earlier, or that might have been from a relatively restless night last night - not that it was very restless, but up to then I had been sleeping very well. Strange, since I went running for the first time yesterday in over two weeks, and I had always thought that exercise improves sleep. Or maybe it was the fourteen loses I took at the chess club. The four victories and one draw were too few and far between to vanquish my suffering ego.
Never before had there been so many people there. You would think that more competition means more fresh meat for those starving for a victory, but alas, you end the day wondering where the hell all those chess players came from. There were three young guys, each maybe about twenty years old: one Asian looking fellow, and two others who appeared to be brothers.
As I played the first brother, he might have noticed some uncertainty in my attack. After some of my moves, he would declare the move correct, until finally, with no declaration necessary, he took my rook for free and I ran out of time trying to make up for the loss. The Asian guy didn’t show many signs of weakness. After abolishing my queen side he muttered something to me which I didn’t really understand, I think that I should’ve protected one pawn over the other.
Gilbert Godfrey tied my pieces one to the other as usual, and smirked at me when I managed to pin and doubly attack a piece in front of his queen. There was blood for the next three moves and I surprisingly came out of it only a bishop down. He also muttered something after the end of the match, but I didn’t understand him.
Another player, who I’ll call John Candy, although he looks a lot more like the jungle scientist from Garry Larson comics, I beat for the second time in my career. He’s a good player. I think he plays a little easy on me. He’s true to his name, Dobravolski, which I think denotes wishing well.
I played the Turk for the first time. I don’t know where he’s from, but he looks Turkish, and he won the tempo tournament last week. I gave him a good game for ten moves or so, then lost a piece and collapsed. I lose pieces all the time, regardless of whom I’m playing. The people I beat are firstly those who take too much time thinking about how to finish me off and secondly those on whom I might manage to make up a lost piece if they‘re not careful. The Turk doesn’t doesn‘t fall into either category.
I don’t know if I remember correctly, but I think I saw stoneface lose a game yesterday. Or maybe it was a dream. Regardless, I think he won the tournament.
I had an easy week last week. We were supposed to have the 4th of November off. It was some holiday that Russia started celebrating a few years ago. Now they celebrate some event long ago the significance of which many Russians seem to not know. I understand that Russia used to celebrate the October Revolution in the beginning of Novermber, but for some reason that holiday has been officially replaced with this other one.
I only had one lesson on the fourth, and it was early in the morning, so I had time to buy tickets to the theater that evening and check out one of the gyms. At the gym I asked a woman at a counter what I needed to do to go swimming. I needed shoes for the gym, a swimsuit and towel, and a note from a doctor. It was the latter that troubled me most. It turns out, they had a doctor at the gym who gives people the notes they need. I paid a dollar for the note, a dollar to borrow some shoes, and five rubles for a plastic bag to contain my real shoes.
Evidently, on the door to the doctor’s office was written that you should knock before entering. I had seen the note, but not understood, and barged on in without hesitating. There was only one small room, like an apartment, and the doctor was sitting in the corner, eating lunch and watching TV. He was upset that I hadn’t knocked, but I explained that I hardly understand Russian and he calmed down. He had a look at my back for some reason, and in between my toes to see if there was fungus growing there, then he signed my note and said do svidania. I left the gym foolishly without going to see the pool. I didn’t have my stuff with me, so I figured why bother. At least now I can go there and swim if I feel so inclined.
The thing is, I haven’t felt extremely inclined. In Napa, swimming was a nice complement to other things that were occupying my time. Here, it doesn’t feel so necessary. I was telling my mom the other day: what exercise was to me in the past, music has become.
I play on the guitar when I get the chance. I’m learning slowly but surely. There are several Russian ditties I can play with no sharps and no flats, but after awhile they all start to sound the same. I found a new song with a key signature in two flats. It gives a fresh new flavor of music.
I think of the violin from time to time. I really went at it for a few weeks over the summer before my brothers came home, playing some really hard Bach sonatas that I’d been listening to over the course of the year. My efforts didn’t amount to much, but I tell myself that it’s not as important how it sounds as how you think it sounds. When I played, I didn’t hear the slipped cords and the off notes, I heard Joshua Bell playing Bach’s Violin Sonatas.
There are times when you listen to music that you wonder how nice it would be to be able to create those sounds yourself. There are passages in classical music that just blow me away with their beauty to the extent that no modern music ever has. Some music comes close. Some works on the classical guitar affect me almost as much as the famous European composers, but other than that, music has lost something over the years, hasn’t it? Why would anyone want to listen to pop?
Anyway, I miss the violin again. I’m glad I rented one over the summer. Had I not rented one, I‘d never have known that I‘m still capable of something. I haven’t completely forgotten how to play, and at times, I can play it close enough for my imagination to take over.
As I said above, the days are getting shorter. Accordingly, tomatoes are getting more expensive. I made the switch over to the carrot and beet salad that I ate so often last winter. So far it consists of boiled carrots, beats, diced raw garlic, and plenty of kefir. The kefir adds a nice touch, not just to cool the garlic off, but it also complements the veggies quite well.
In the carrot and beet salad, kefir comes across like sour cream, except it’s less creamy and more sour. Now who would ever think to use sour cream with cereal? I don’t know, but kefir goes very well with muesli. It’s almost the blandest thing you’ve ever tasted, which I’ve come to really appreciate. The lack of flavor is also a flavor, isn’t it? Indeed, kefir takes blandness to a new level, where it’s not just a lack of flavor, but even an anti-flavor.
Kefir is cleansing somehow. It reminds you of what other things taste like. Try tasting an apple after drinking, for example, coca-cola. The sugar content nukes you taste buds and the apple feels like paper in your mouth. But the pureness of kefir leaves you ready to taste the sugar in even the bitterest of green apples! I love it.
It’s quarter to five and already pretty dark in my apartment. I think my psyche was feeling the lack of sun-light earlier, or that might have been from a relatively restless night last night - not that it was very restless, but up to then I had been sleeping very well. Strange, since I went running for the first time yesterday in over two weeks, and I had always thought that exercise improves sleep. Or maybe it was the fourteen loses I took at the chess club. The four victories and one draw were too few and far between to vanquish my suffering ego.
Never before had there been so many people there. You would think that more competition means more fresh meat for those starving for a victory, but alas, you end the day wondering where the hell all those chess players came from. There were three young guys, each maybe about twenty years old: one Asian looking fellow, and two others who appeared to be brothers.
As I played the first brother, he might have noticed some uncertainty in my attack. After some of my moves, he would declare the move correct, until finally, with no declaration necessary, he took my rook for free and I ran out of time trying to make up for the loss. The Asian guy didn’t show many signs of weakness. After abolishing my queen side he muttered something to me which I didn’t really understand, I think that I should’ve protected one pawn over the other.
Gilbert Godfrey tied my pieces one to the other as usual, and smirked at me when I managed to pin and doubly attack a piece in front of his queen. There was blood for the next three moves and I surprisingly came out of it only a bishop down. He also muttered something after the end of the match, but I didn’t understand him.
Another player, who I’ll call John Candy, although he looks a lot more like the jungle scientist from Garry Larson comics, I beat for the second time in my career. He’s a good player. I think he plays a little easy on me. He’s true to his name, Dobravolski, which I think denotes wishing well.
I played the Turk for the first time. I don’t know where he’s from, but he looks Turkish, and he won the tempo tournament last week. I gave him a good game for ten moves or so, then lost a piece and collapsed. I lose pieces all the time, regardless of whom I’m playing. The people I beat are firstly those who take too much time thinking about how to finish me off and secondly those on whom I might manage to make up a lost piece if they‘re not careful. The Turk doesn’t doesn‘t fall into either category.
I don’t know if I remember correctly, but I think I saw stoneface lose a game yesterday. Or maybe it was a dream. Regardless, I think he won the tournament.
I had an easy week last week. We were supposed to have the 4th of November off. It was some holiday that Russia started celebrating a few years ago. Now they celebrate some event long ago the significance of which many Russians seem to not know. I understand that Russia used to celebrate the October Revolution in the beginning of Novermber, but for some reason that holiday has been officially replaced with this other one.
I only had one lesson on the fourth, and it was early in the morning, so I had time to buy tickets to the theater that evening and check out one of the gyms. At the gym I asked a woman at a counter what I needed to do to go swimming. I needed shoes for the gym, a swimsuit and towel, and a note from a doctor. It was the latter that troubled me most. It turns out, they had a doctor at the gym who gives people the notes they need. I paid a dollar for the note, a dollar to borrow some shoes, and five rubles for a plastic bag to contain my real shoes.
Evidently, on the door to the doctor’s office was written that you should knock before entering. I had seen the note, but not understood, and barged on in without hesitating. There was only one small room, like an apartment, and the doctor was sitting in the corner, eating lunch and watching TV. He was upset that I hadn’t knocked, but I explained that I hardly understand Russian and he calmed down. He had a look at my back for some reason, and in between my toes to see if there was fungus growing there, then he signed my note and said do svidania. I left the gym foolishly without going to see the pool. I didn’t have my stuff with me, so I figured why bother. At least now I can go there and swim if I feel so inclined.
The thing is, I haven’t felt extremely inclined. In Napa, swimming was a nice complement to other things that were occupying my time. Here, it doesn’t feel so necessary. I was telling my mom the other day: what exercise was to me in the past, music has become.
I play on the guitar when I get the chance. I’m learning slowly but surely. There are several Russian ditties I can play with no sharps and no flats, but after awhile they all start to sound the same. I found a new song with a key signature in two flats. It gives a fresh new flavor of music.
I think of the violin from time to time. I really went at it for a few weeks over the summer before my brothers came home, playing some really hard Bach sonatas that I’d been listening to over the course of the year. My efforts didn’t amount to much, but I tell myself that it’s not as important how it sounds as how you think it sounds. When I played, I didn’t hear the slipped cords and the off notes, I heard Joshua Bell playing Bach’s Violin Sonatas.
There are times when you listen to music that you wonder how nice it would be to be able to create those sounds yourself. There are passages in classical music that just blow me away with their beauty to the extent that no modern music ever has. Some music comes close. Some works on the classical guitar affect me almost as much as the famous European composers, but other than that, music has lost something over the years, hasn’t it? Why would anyone want to listen to pop?
Anyway, I miss the violin again. I’m glad I rented one over the summer. Had I not rented one, I‘d never have known that I‘m still capable of something. I haven’t completely forgotten how to play, and at times, I can play it close enough for my imagination to take over.
As I said above, the days are getting shorter. Accordingly, tomatoes are getting more expensive. I made the switch over to the carrot and beet salad that I ate so often last winter. So far it consists of boiled carrots, beats, diced raw garlic, and plenty of kefir. The kefir adds a nice touch, not just to cool the garlic off, but it also complements the veggies quite well.
In the carrot and beet salad, kefir comes across like sour cream, except it’s less creamy and more sour. Now who would ever think to use sour cream with cereal? I don’t know, but kefir goes very well with muesli. It’s almost the blandest thing you’ve ever tasted, which I’ve come to really appreciate. The lack of flavor is also a flavor, isn’t it? Indeed, kefir takes blandness to a new level, where it’s not just a lack of flavor, but even an anti-flavor.
Kefir is cleansing somehow. It reminds you of what other things taste like. Try tasting an apple after drinking, for example, coca-cola. The sugar content nukes you taste buds and the apple feels like paper in your mouth. But the pureness of kefir leaves you ready to taste the sugar in even the bitterest of green apples! I love it.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
2.11.09
I always keep at least a few thousand ruble at home in order to avoid having to frequently visit the bank where I can get my money without extra charges. I’m down to my last twenty five hundred ruble at home, so I’ve finally got to go back to the bank.
I was there yesterday, but it was closed. I had just bought a book at the store next to the chess club. I was waiting for the tempo tournament to start. After returning from the bank, I fished for loose change in my backpack to come up with the fifty five ruble tax for idiots who think they can win the tournament, and, after entering, had fewer than ten ruble on me - not enough for a bus ride home.
Of four or five matches, I won one and lost the others. Most of the loses were not so terribly played, but one in particular really jived me, mostly because my opponent was the peppiest, smuggest Russian I’ve yet seen. He was dressed like a Parisian businessman and made his moves (especially the last two) in such a manner as though he were taking out last week’s trash. I had spent a third of my time thinking about my previous move and after all that time overseen what cost me the match.
The room where we were playing was really cold. I found myself nearly shivering although I had a long sleeve sweater on under my winter jacket. I should’ve gotten up, walked around and looked at some other games, but I hardly ever put my opponent in such a position that he spends time thinking about how to reply. Usually I’m the one thinking about the next move. So yesterday I sat and thought and froze. After three hours there were still several matches left in the tournament, but I had had enough. I got out of there and walked home.
The city turned on the heating a few weeks ago. Up to last night, whenever I came home, I usually opened the door to the balcony to let some of the cool night air in. Last night was the first night when I really appreciated the warmth I felt as I entered my apartment. I took off my jacket and put some beans on the stove before taking a seat with the book I bought while waiting for the chess tournament to start, Преступление и Наказание. I had glanced at it before buying it and was pleasantly surprised at how much I understood just by reading random segments. However, reading from the beginning proves to be more difficult than expected.
I’ve been to the drama theater twice. On both occasions I ended up buying a ticket on a whim. The first time, two weeks ago tomorrow, I was walking along Pushkinskaya through Revolution Park. I had to get back in time for a lesson, but I figured since the theater was right there, I’d stop in to see if there were tickets available for Romeo and Juliet that weekend. There weren’t. But I left with a ticket to the show that evening, called “Expecting a miracle.” I had no idea what it was about, but I didn’t care. If I wasn’t going to go that coming weekend, then I would go that evening - when would I have the chance again?
The play was a teeny-bopper love story, about a young man who just returned from obligatory service in the army and whose mother encourages him to study engineering, disapproves of his aspirations to be an actor, and directs any young woman she likes his way. The young man then falls in love with his best friend’s girlfriend who declares that it would take a miracle for her to fall for him. In the final scene the young man delivers with a funny and rather touching clown act - fitting, since the girl, who was an actress, had mentioned she would prefer to be in a circus.
The second play I saw was called “Lessons for Sons and Daughters”. It was based on some classical literature. In one act, two daughters fall for a poor Russian who disguises himself as a Frenchman, apparently to deceive someone out of some money. In the second act, a rich young man needs to get married. He falls in love with just about anyone he meets, and it’s supposed to be funny.
Maybe it was too, but I just didn’t understand enough.
Speaking of understanding, I understand more and more Russian every day. That really isn’t saying much. For me, learning a language means taking 1.01 steps forward followed by 1 step backward. It’s a very slow process. Some people say that there’s a certain moment after which everything becomes easy: You understand and are understood. I’ve never had any such moment, nor do I think there will be one for me. I’ll just plug along at a snails pace and end up hopefully at a more or less proficient level.
To be fair, few normal people learn a language quickly, not even their native language. Indeed, be it your first or your fifth, if you want to learn a language well, I think it takes years. Looking at it that way, it’s interesting to compare one’s mastery of their native language and a foreign language. I started learning Russian four years ago, and have studied it seriously for around two years. I would say that in some ways, I can speak Russian better than I could speak English when I was four years old.
Is that a fair comparison? After all, you have to give a toddler some credit for its youth -they say it’s easier for a young person to learn a language than for a person my age, which I think is contentious. I contend that the circumstances play a huge role: the young person, whether it’s learning its native language or a second, goes to school where they speak the language all the time; after school the young person plays with its friends and watches TV in the language. In order to claim that younger people learn languages easier than older people, a scientist would have to put an older person in the same environment as the young person is in; otherwise it’s just not fair. Have scientists performed this experiment? I almost doubt that they have, for what person my age or older would volunteer to move to a land to speak and listen and learn a completely foreign language day in and day out? Besides myself, I can’t think of anyone crazy enough for that.
A scientist might not let me volunteer either, because if I were to take part in such an experiment, I would put in more effort than anyone twenty years younger could possibly muster. Maybe that’s the kicker: young people can learn a language without any effort. I can’t say that I’m not making an effort to learn Russian. Indeed, in my position I could very easily not learn any Russian at all. I wouldn’t be the first such American here.
I said above that I want to be at a proficient level by the end. The end won’t be for awhile yet. I don’t miss home. I think I’ll spend another year in Russia. Next year, I want to attend a university here, if for nothing else than to take an internationally recognized exam to certify my level in Russian. I could study a few other things as well.
This morning it snowed for the first time this year. I took a thousand ruble and set off for groceries. At twenty five ruble to a dollar, one thousand would be forty dollars; at thirty to one, one thousand ruble equals thirty three dollars with change. Currently the exchange is upwards of twenty nine ruble to a dollar. I spent five hundred ruble for two liters of kefir, a kilogram (2.2 lbs) of pearl barley, a kilogram of buckwheat, a kilogram of raw peas, five hundred grams of black beans, ten apples, a lemon, three heads of garlic, seven small tomatoes, nine bell peppers, a loaf of dark bread, and five frozen chicken breasts.
I loaded up on kefir just in case I’m getting sick. It seemed to me that I was coming down with something nasty yesterday. Maybe it was from sitting in the cold playing chess for so long. I came home to my warm apartment and ate a few raw cloves of garlic. My stomach not being what it was back in the day, I had to down a few glasses of kefir to sooth the burning in my mouth and belly. Raw garlic and kefir are an excellent combination for a snack, and I suspect they pack a punch for any diseases that you might be hosting.
I baked the chicken this evening. It was a success in that I didn’t have a smoky apartment after using the oven, but I wouldn’t mind having a better marinade. I tried honey and mustard with rosemary and red wine. It wasn’t too bad. Maybe I should have let it soak in the fridge longer. Let me know if you have any suggestions on marinating chicken.
I always keep at least a few thousand ruble at home in order to avoid having to frequently visit the bank where I can get my money without extra charges. I’m down to my last twenty five hundred ruble at home, so I’ve finally got to go back to the bank.
I was there yesterday, but it was closed. I had just bought a book at the store next to the chess club. I was waiting for the tempo tournament to start. After returning from the bank, I fished for loose change in my backpack to come up with the fifty five ruble tax for idiots who think they can win the tournament, and, after entering, had fewer than ten ruble on me - not enough for a bus ride home.
Of four or five matches, I won one and lost the others. Most of the loses were not so terribly played, but one in particular really jived me, mostly because my opponent was the peppiest, smuggest Russian I’ve yet seen. He was dressed like a Parisian businessman and made his moves (especially the last two) in such a manner as though he were taking out last week’s trash. I had spent a third of my time thinking about my previous move and after all that time overseen what cost me the match.
The room where we were playing was really cold. I found myself nearly shivering although I had a long sleeve sweater on under my winter jacket. I should’ve gotten up, walked around and looked at some other games, but I hardly ever put my opponent in such a position that he spends time thinking about how to reply. Usually I’m the one thinking about the next move. So yesterday I sat and thought and froze. After three hours there were still several matches left in the tournament, but I had had enough. I got out of there and walked home.
The city turned on the heating a few weeks ago. Up to last night, whenever I came home, I usually opened the door to the balcony to let some of the cool night air in. Last night was the first night when I really appreciated the warmth I felt as I entered my apartment. I took off my jacket and put some beans on the stove before taking a seat with the book I bought while waiting for the chess tournament to start, Преступление и Наказание. I had glanced at it before buying it and was pleasantly surprised at how much I understood just by reading random segments. However, reading from the beginning proves to be more difficult than expected.
I’ve been to the drama theater twice. On both occasions I ended up buying a ticket on a whim. The first time, two weeks ago tomorrow, I was walking along Pushkinskaya through Revolution Park. I had to get back in time for a lesson, but I figured since the theater was right there, I’d stop in to see if there were tickets available for Romeo and Juliet that weekend. There weren’t. But I left with a ticket to the show that evening, called “Expecting a miracle.” I had no idea what it was about, but I didn’t care. If I wasn’t going to go that coming weekend, then I would go that evening - when would I have the chance again?
The play was a teeny-bopper love story, about a young man who just returned from obligatory service in the army and whose mother encourages him to study engineering, disapproves of his aspirations to be an actor, and directs any young woman she likes his way. The young man then falls in love with his best friend’s girlfriend who declares that it would take a miracle for her to fall for him. In the final scene the young man delivers with a funny and rather touching clown act - fitting, since the girl, who was an actress, had mentioned she would prefer to be in a circus.
The second play I saw was called “Lessons for Sons and Daughters”. It was based on some classical literature. In one act, two daughters fall for a poor Russian who disguises himself as a Frenchman, apparently to deceive someone out of some money. In the second act, a rich young man needs to get married. He falls in love with just about anyone he meets, and it’s supposed to be funny.
Maybe it was too, but I just didn’t understand enough.
Speaking of understanding, I understand more and more Russian every day. That really isn’t saying much. For me, learning a language means taking 1.01 steps forward followed by 1 step backward. It’s a very slow process. Some people say that there’s a certain moment after which everything becomes easy: You understand and are understood. I’ve never had any such moment, nor do I think there will be one for me. I’ll just plug along at a snails pace and end up hopefully at a more or less proficient level.
To be fair, few normal people learn a language quickly, not even their native language. Indeed, be it your first or your fifth, if you want to learn a language well, I think it takes years. Looking at it that way, it’s interesting to compare one’s mastery of their native language and a foreign language. I started learning Russian four years ago, and have studied it seriously for around two years. I would say that in some ways, I can speak Russian better than I could speak English when I was four years old.
Is that a fair comparison? After all, you have to give a toddler some credit for its youth -they say it’s easier for a young person to learn a language than for a person my age, which I think is contentious. I contend that the circumstances play a huge role: the young person, whether it’s learning its native language or a second, goes to school where they speak the language all the time; after school the young person plays with its friends and watches TV in the language. In order to claim that younger people learn languages easier than older people, a scientist would have to put an older person in the same environment as the young person is in; otherwise it’s just not fair. Have scientists performed this experiment? I almost doubt that they have, for what person my age or older would volunteer to move to a land to speak and listen and learn a completely foreign language day in and day out? Besides myself, I can’t think of anyone crazy enough for that.
A scientist might not let me volunteer either, because if I were to take part in such an experiment, I would put in more effort than anyone twenty years younger could possibly muster. Maybe that’s the kicker: young people can learn a language without any effort. I can’t say that I’m not making an effort to learn Russian. Indeed, in my position I could very easily not learn any Russian at all. I wouldn’t be the first such American here.
I said above that I want to be at a proficient level by the end. The end won’t be for awhile yet. I don’t miss home. I think I’ll spend another year in Russia. Next year, I want to attend a university here, if for nothing else than to take an internationally recognized exam to certify my level in Russian. I could study a few other things as well.
This morning it snowed for the first time this year. I took a thousand ruble and set off for groceries. At twenty five ruble to a dollar, one thousand would be forty dollars; at thirty to one, one thousand ruble equals thirty three dollars with change. Currently the exchange is upwards of twenty nine ruble to a dollar. I spent five hundred ruble for two liters of kefir, a kilogram (2.2 lbs) of pearl barley, a kilogram of buckwheat, a kilogram of raw peas, five hundred grams of black beans, ten apples, a lemon, three heads of garlic, seven small tomatoes, nine bell peppers, a loaf of dark bread, and five frozen chicken breasts.
I loaded up on kefir just in case I’m getting sick. It seemed to me that I was coming down with something nasty yesterday. Maybe it was from sitting in the cold playing chess for so long. I came home to my warm apartment and ate a few raw cloves of garlic. My stomach not being what it was back in the day, I had to down a few glasses of kefir to sooth the burning in my mouth and belly. Raw garlic and kefir are an excellent combination for a snack, and I suspect they pack a punch for any diseases that you might be hosting.
I baked the chicken this evening. It was a success in that I didn’t have a smoky apartment after using the oven, but I wouldn’t mind having a better marinade. I tried honey and mustard with rosemary and red wine. It wasn’t too bad. Maybe I should have let it soak in the fridge longer. Let me know if you have any suggestions on marinating chicken.
Monday, October 26, 2009
26.10.09
On Thursday one of the secrataries took me to a radio station. The company needed someone to say “Do you speak English?” without a Russian accent. That’s what they told me anyway. Allegedly a few of them had tried, but it just didn’t sound like it should.
I was a little disgruntled at first for being dragged away on a busy day for such a ridiculous reason, but as soon as we left the building, I welcomed the interruption. It was sunny and temperate with about another hour of daylight. It made for pleasant walking to and from the bustops.
The radio station wasn’t far from where I lived, only one stop along Bolshaya Cadovaya past Budionovski prospect, which is my street. At the station, they took some foam padding which you often see on the walls of recording studios, folded it into a tunnel shape and held it around my head as I intimately asked the microphone if it speaks English.
We had to hurry back to the school. The secretary had some business to finish, and I had to get ready for my last lesson of the day. It was one of my group lessons, which in my experience require a lot more preparation than individual lessons. However, as we got off the bus we noticed a small rally going on at the region’s capital building, and I convinced my escort to wait with me for a few minutes to listen.
Evidently, there’s going to be some sort of election in November. I don’t think it’s an important election, otherwise you would notice more advertisements. Maybe it’s not an election at all, and there are just a few propositions to vote on.
We listened for a few minutes to a man from the KPRF, Russia’s communist party, speak about political problems and solutions. He used some vulgar language to describe some of his opponents from other parties, calling them dogs and ‘svolatch‘, which I think Sasha once told me means peat, but which is generally used to describe a person and which I figure is about as rude as ’dickhead’ or ’prick’ in English.
I asked my colleagues how the KPRF can expect to gain any credibility if they’re speaking with such language. They didn‘t have much to say about it. Maybe that language isn’t so vulgar after all.
I went to a soccer game last night. Rostov was playing against the champions of the Russian premier league, Rubin, from Kazan. I had watched Rubin play FC Barcelona in the Champions league the previous Tuesday. Rubin won that match against all odds. Out of the three shots they had on goal the entire match, they scored two, whereas Barcelona, despite their overall domination and many scoring opportunities, managed only one goal.
I didn’t think Rostov would control the match last night as Barcelona had. On the other hand, someone had told me that Rostove had the reputation of beating the stronger teams and losing to the weaker ones. Rubin was definitely one of the former.
Rostov lost, two to one. Neither of Rubin’s goals were really hard-earned. Had Rostov been a little more careful, either or both could have been avoided. The first one came after Dominguez, an Argentinian forward playing for Rubin, intercepted a pass across the center and scored easily. The second happened just before half-time when a Rubin defender stole the ball in Rostov territory and managed a shot, which however well-struck and aimed, the goalie should’ve blocked without too much trouble.
Rostov scored right after the second half started. The goal resulted after a long ping-pong rally in front of Rubin’s goal, so long as to keep the crowd gasping in repeated expectation and disappointment until the ball finally sailed out of a barrage of feet into the net. It was pretty uplifting. There was plenty of time for Rostov to score a second goal, but the opportunity never really came. Rubin also had a number of opportunities, but Rostov mangaged to fight them off somehow. Rubin’s offense was very strong, lead by Dominguez in the center, and a short, stout, and really fast balding guy on the flank.
It was Dominguez who assisted the balding player in the second goal against Barcelona. It was a beautiful goal. Barcelona had, like a computer glitch, lost the ball at midfield and all but three touches later Dominguez had delivered and the short guy had scored. It was remarkable that the two attackers could maintain their composure so well. They hadn’t possessed the ball the entire half, and they wouldn’t possess it again for the rest of the game. Together they had one chance and they capitalized. That’s something Barcelona can’t claim. That made all the difference.
I also watched part of another Champions league match, ZSK, from Moscow I think, versus Manchester United. ZSK is one of the better Russian teams which Rostov has beaten twice this season. The match against Manchester United wasn’t as one-sided as the Barcelona Rubin match, but the British were victorious nonetheless.
All this soccer makes me want to be in a smaller country, where the games are easier to visit. I shouldn’t complain that in Rostov I can only see Rostov play, but if I were in a European country, England, Spain, Italy or Germany, I could travel relatively short distances to see many different games. I learned recently that Milan even has two professional teams: AC Milan and Inter. I asked the Italian who works at the school here, the only other foreigner besides myself and the other American, if Italian people speak English well. He said no. That’s interesting.
Then again, there might not be such high-level chess in Europe. I need to recognize a good thing when I have it!
On Thursday one of the secrataries took me to a radio station. The company needed someone to say “Do you speak English?” without a Russian accent. That’s what they told me anyway. Allegedly a few of them had tried, but it just didn’t sound like it should.
I was a little disgruntled at first for being dragged away on a busy day for such a ridiculous reason, but as soon as we left the building, I welcomed the interruption. It was sunny and temperate with about another hour of daylight. It made for pleasant walking to and from the bustops.
The radio station wasn’t far from where I lived, only one stop along Bolshaya Cadovaya past Budionovski prospect, which is my street. At the station, they took some foam padding which you often see on the walls of recording studios, folded it into a tunnel shape and held it around my head as I intimately asked the microphone if it speaks English.
We had to hurry back to the school. The secretary had some business to finish, and I had to get ready for my last lesson of the day. It was one of my group lessons, which in my experience require a lot more preparation than individual lessons. However, as we got off the bus we noticed a small rally going on at the region’s capital building, and I convinced my escort to wait with me for a few minutes to listen.
Evidently, there’s going to be some sort of election in November. I don’t think it’s an important election, otherwise you would notice more advertisements. Maybe it’s not an election at all, and there are just a few propositions to vote on.
We listened for a few minutes to a man from the KPRF, Russia’s communist party, speak about political problems and solutions. He used some vulgar language to describe some of his opponents from other parties, calling them dogs and ‘svolatch‘, which I think Sasha once told me means peat, but which is generally used to describe a person and which I figure is about as rude as ’dickhead’ or ’prick’ in English.
I asked my colleagues how the KPRF can expect to gain any credibility if they’re speaking with such language. They didn‘t have much to say about it. Maybe that language isn’t so vulgar after all.
I went to a soccer game last night. Rostov was playing against the champions of the Russian premier league, Rubin, from Kazan. I had watched Rubin play FC Barcelona in the Champions league the previous Tuesday. Rubin won that match against all odds. Out of the three shots they had on goal the entire match, they scored two, whereas Barcelona, despite their overall domination and many scoring opportunities, managed only one goal.
I didn’t think Rostov would control the match last night as Barcelona had. On the other hand, someone had told me that Rostove had the reputation of beating the stronger teams and losing to the weaker ones. Rubin was definitely one of the former.
Rostov lost, two to one. Neither of Rubin’s goals were really hard-earned. Had Rostov been a little more careful, either or both could have been avoided. The first one came after Dominguez, an Argentinian forward playing for Rubin, intercepted a pass across the center and scored easily. The second happened just before half-time when a Rubin defender stole the ball in Rostov territory and managed a shot, which however well-struck and aimed, the goalie should’ve blocked without too much trouble.
Rostov scored right after the second half started. The goal resulted after a long ping-pong rally in front of Rubin’s goal, so long as to keep the crowd gasping in repeated expectation and disappointment until the ball finally sailed out of a barrage of feet into the net. It was pretty uplifting. There was plenty of time for Rostov to score a second goal, but the opportunity never really came. Rubin also had a number of opportunities, but Rostov mangaged to fight them off somehow. Rubin’s offense was very strong, lead by Dominguez in the center, and a short, stout, and really fast balding guy on the flank.
It was Dominguez who assisted the balding player in the second goal against Barcelona. It was a beautiful goal. Barcelona had, like a computer glitch, lost the ball at midfield and all but three touches later Dominguez had delivered and the short guy had scored. It was remarkable that the two attackers could maintain their composure so well. They hadn’t possessed the ball the entire half, and they wouldn’t possess it again for the rest of the game. Together they had one chance and they capitalized. That’s something Barcelona can’t claim. That made all the difference.
I also watched part of another Champions league match, ZSK, from Moscow I think, versus Manchester United. ZSK is one of the better Russian teams which Rostov has beaten twice this season. The match against Manchester United wasn’t as one-sided as the Barcelona Rubin match, but the British were victorious nonetheless.
All this soccer makes me want to be in a smaller country, where the games are easier to visit. I shouldn’t complain that in Rostov I can only see Rostov play, but if I were in a European country, England, Spain, Italy or Germany, I could travel relatively short distances to see many different games. I learned recently that Milan even has two professional teams: AC Milan and Inter. I asked the Italian who works at the school here, the only other foreigner besides myself and the other American, if Italian people speak English well. He said no. That’s interesting.
Then again, there might not be such high-level chess in Europe. I need to recognize a good thing when I have it!
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
19.10.09
I had one day to rest after my arrival in Rostov before I started teaching. At the time, I would have appreciated a little longer period to adjust, but looking back, I think that I could only adjust after starting work, so in a way it was good to start so soon. Right after my first lesson, I walked triumphantly into the teacher’s office only to find my colleagues thrusting textbooks in my face declaring that another teacher hadn’t shown up and I was the only one available to cover him.
Up to that time, my experience teaching English had involved meticulous preparation for every lesson. I had poured my blood and sweat into inspiring my students to learn English, I had spent countless sleepless nights calculating the words I would use to explain some complicated structure to people who, on a good day, understood fifty percent of whatever I said.
And there I stood, on the first day of my new job, walking into an unknown classroom with books I’d never seen before in hand, with a faint idea of the topics recently covered in class, trying to think of instructive things to do for the next two hours and fifteen minutes. In the back of my mind I wondered if I was being watched from another room where they had popcorn and beer. Try as I might, I couldn’t find a camera in the classroom.
It turns out that the students were rather advanced. It was easy to start a discussion. We reviewed some previous material, spent some time comparing education in America and Russia, and in the last twenty minutes or so, we finally turned to our books and practiced the passive voice. Who knows if I actually taught them something? I was happy that nobody had fallen asleep. In any case, I left the classroom somehow feeling like a teacher.
Almost all of my students are more advanced than the ones I taught a year ago. I think the company won’t give me beginners because beginners need to be spoken to partly in Russian, and having an American speak Russian is such a waste! I agree, as far as teaching is concerned. I speak nary a Russian word to my students during class. If you consider language as a form of music, note that you can’t teach a violinist to play the cello by using a violin. Or maybe you can use a violin at first to illustrate the various analogues, but eventually you’ll have to use a cello! So I don’t speak Russian in class.
I’m happy to report that the administration has been rather lenient in their request that I speak English outside of class. There have even been a few occasions when my boss addressed me in Russian. While I usually address her in English, I speak freely (though not at all fluently) with my colleagues in Russian. I think it might bother some people, so every once in awhile I utter an English sentence or two to appease the disgruntled ones.
Of nine or so matches yesterday, I only won two of them. My first opponent was Gilbert Godfrey. He didn’t mind playing quickly, even though we both had fifteen minutes. Maybe he thought it was to his advantage to play quick. It didn’t take ten moves before I found the position going more and more in his favor. A piece down, I held my own for the next few moves before a grandiose collapse and my resignation.
I lost the second match too, but in the third match I faced an Asian looking fellow who, although beating me on time the previous week, I had found at least as amateur as myself. Maybe it was a reflection of my first impression of the man’s play, or maybe his attacks and parries really were a bit less effective than those of the other players. Playing black, with pawn to h6, forcing his knight back to h3, followed by knight to d4, driving his queen back to d1, I managed to gain momentum and the queen side all to myself.
I will paint a clearer picture for any chess audience out there (I hope mom can share this with grandpa). I had pawns on e6,e5 and d5, a bishop on d4, my queen on b6, a knight on f6 and rooks on f8 and d8. The king and remaining pawns were where you might imagine them to be. He had pawns on f3,e4, d3, c2 and b3, his knight on f2, bishop on d2, queen on d1, and, having just castled so to protect (and pin) his knight, the king on g1, and rooks on f1 and b1. If I described the position correctly, then I think black is set to win at least the f2 knight. It’s black to play. If you have a board on hand, set it up. I’d be interested in hearing what you’d play.
After winning the knight and forking the queen and rook, I won that match. The Asian guy ran out of time. I didn’t want to chase down all his pawns, so I called it a match. I won the next match too. My opponent had orchestrated a stealthy attack, but as luck would have it, I had coincidentally moved my bishop out of the queen’s way so as to protect the pawn which, unbeknownst to me, had been under attack during the previous few moves. I won a piece in the exchange, only to give a piece away shortly thereafter. My opponent blundered in turn, giving me his queen for nothing, and I notched my second point of the day. The match after that was going in my favor too, but I blew it, as I so often do. The rest of the day for me was downhill from there.
The winner yesterday was the guy whom one of the young women almost beat at table seven during the tournament which took place during my first two weeks in Rostov. I’ll call him stoneface. I don’t think he knows how to smile. Or maybe the nerve endings to his mouth have atrophied from playing too much chess. Why waste the brain power on facial expressions? He is a computer personified. Maybe his only weakness is playing against young women. I would love to see him play the champ, who didn’t take part in the tournament yesterday, but arrived only to watch the last few rounds. The grandmaster was also there.
Walking home on Saturday evening, I encountered some of the chess crowd at Gorkii Park. Among them were the grandmaster and an acquaintance with whom I converse in German. He doesn’t want to speak Russian with me any more than I want to speak English with him - he speaks broken English too, and is eager to practice more. I confirmed that I had gotten his message about the German club meetings, and was about to leave when a random guy interrupted us, inquiring if I spoke English. He explained happily that he was an artist, that he had a friend in New York and was dying to meet someone to converse in English with. I said that I wasn’t looking for any more work, and he replied by repeating what he had said in an even more jubilant manner. After repeating this three or four times, he took the hint and left. I chatted with the linguist for a few minutes, and continued on my way home.
I had one day to rest after my arrival in Rostov before I started teaching. At the time, I would have appreciated a little longer period to adjust, but looking back, I think that I could only adjust after starting work, so in a way it was good to start so soon. Right after my first lesson, I walked triumphantly into the teacher’s office only to find my colleagues thrusting textbooks in my face declaring that another teacher hadn’t shown up and I was the only one available to cover him.
Up to that time, my experience teaching English had involved meticulous preparation for every lesson. I had poured my blood and sweat into inspiring my students to learn English, I had spent countless sleepless nights calculating the words I would use to explain some complicated structure to people who, on a good day, understood fifty percent of whatever I said.
And there I stood, on the first day of my new job, walking into an unknown classroom with books I’d never seen before in hand, with a faint idea of the topics recently covered in class, trying to think of instructive things to do for the next two hours and fifteen minutes. In the back of my mind I wondered if I was being watched from another room where they had popcorn and beer. Try as I might, I couldn’t find a camera in the classroom.
It turns out that the students were rather advanced. It was easy to start a discussion. We reviewed some previous material, spent some time comparing education in America and Russia, and in the last twenty minutes or so, we finally turned to our books and practiced the passive voice. Who knows if I actually taught them something? I was happy that nobody had fallen asleep. In any case, I left the classroom somehow feeling like a teacher.
Almost all of my students are more advanced than the ones I taught a year ago. I think the company won’t give me beginners because beginners need to be spoken to partly in Russian, and having an American speak Russian is such a waste! I agree, as far as teaching is concerned. I speak nary a Russian word to my students during class. If you consider language as a form of music, note that you can’t teach a violinist to play the cello by using a violin. Or maybe you can use a violin at first to illustrate the various analogues, but eventually you’ll have to use a cello! So I don’t speak Russian in class.
I’m happy to report that the administration has been rather lenient in their request that I speak English outside of class. There have even been a few occasions when my boss addressed me in Russian. While I usually address her in English, I speak freely (though not at all fluently) with my colleagues in Russian. I think it might bother some people, so every once in awhile I utter an English sentence or two to appease the disgruntled ones.
Of nine or so matches yesterday, I only won two of them. My first opponent was Gilbert Godfrey. He didn’t mind playing quickly, even though we both had fifteen minutes. Maybe he thought it was to his advantage to play quick. It didn’t take ten moves before I found the position going more and more in his favor. A piece down, I held my own for the next few moves before a grandiose collapse and my resignation.
I lost the second match too, but in the third match I faced an Asian looking fellow who, although beating me on time the previous week, I had found at least as amateur as myself. Maybe it was a reflection of my first impression of the man’s play, or maybe his attacks and parries really were a bit less effective than those of the other players. Playing black, with pawn to h6, forcing his knight back to h3, followed by knight to d4, driving his queen back to d1, I managed to gain momentum and the queen side all to myself.
I will paint a clearer picture for any chess audience out there (I hope mom can share this with grandpa). I had pawns on e6,e5 and d5, a bishop on d4, my queen on b6, a knight on f6 and rooks on f8 and d8. The king and remaining pawns were where you might imagine them to be. He had pawns on f3,e4, d3, c2 and b3, his knight on f2, bishop on d2, queen on d1, and, having just castled so to protect (and pin) his knight, the king on g1, and rooks on f1 and b1. If I described the position correctly, then I think black is set to win at least the f2 knight. It’s black to play. If you have a board on hand, set it up. I’d be interested in hearing what you’d play.
After winning the knight and forking the queen and rook, I won that match. The Asian guy ran out of time. I didn’t want to chase down all his pawns, so I called it a match. I won the next match too. My opponent had orchestrated a stealthy attack, but as luck would have it, I had coincidentally moved my bishop out of the queen’s way so as to protect the pawn which, unbeknownst to me, had been under attack during the previous few moves. I won a piece in the exchange, only to give a piece away shortly thereafter. My opponent blundered in turn, giving me his queen for nothing, and I notched my second point of the day. The match after that was going in my favor too, but I blew it, as I so often do. The rest of the day for me was downhill from there.
The winner yesterday was the guy whom one of the young women almost beat at table seven during the tournament which took place during my first two weeks in Rostov. I’ll call him stoneface. I don’t think he knows how to smile. Or maybe the nerve endings to his mouth have atrophied from playing too much chess. Why waste the brain power on facial expressions? He is a computer personified. Maybe his only weakness is playing against young women. I would love to see him play the champ, who didn’t take part in the tournament yesterday, but arrived only to watch the last few rounds. The grandmaster was also there.
Walking home on Saturday evening, I encountered some of the chess crowd at Gorkii Park. Among them were the grandmaster and an acquaintance with whom I converse in German. He doesn’t want to speak Russian with me any more than I want to speak English with him - he speaks broken English too, and is eager to practice more. I confirmed that I had gotten his message about the German club meetings, and was about to leave when a random guy interrupted us, inquiring if I spoke English. He explained happily that he was an artist, that he had a friend in New York and was dying to meet someone to converse in English with. I said that I wasn’t looking for any more work, and he replied by repeating what he had said in an even more jubilant manner. After repeating this three or four times, he took the hint and left. I chatted with the linguist for a few minutes, and continued on my way home.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
12.10.09
I know there are a number of birthdays are around this time of the year. There’s B from Bloomington, who’s probably still studying probability. There’s T, the Russian girl who I met in Göttingen and who might have finished studying there already. I hope they’re both doing well. And then there’s my grandfather, who will turn one hundred in a week. What a guy!
A week ago Saturday I went to a soccer game. Apparently Rostov has a team in the premier Russian league. If they weren’t in twelfth place, they would participate in the Champions’ league tournament. Somebody told me that they were in sixth place many years ago, and Juventus came to play in Rostov. It was a big event among soccer fans.
When I went to the match, a team from Moscow had come to play. I went with my boss’s other son, who’s a big soccer fan, unlike the son that I’m giving lessons to. We arrived late since my conversation class didn’t end as soon as planned. They had been playing for about 5 minutes when we found a place to sit. The atmosphere was very energetic. There was an old man behind us who kept screaming “zaraza!” which I understand is one of the nicer curses used for expressing disappointment. He said some other things too, but Kolia said that even he didn’t know what they meant. Maybe he just didn’t want to explain.
I was a bit suprised that the players were so big. Maybe it’s because we were sitting close to the field, but I’d say I’ve never seen such thick soccer players. Furthermore, when you watch the Russian national team (which I did just a few days ago), you can’t help but feel sorry for the short and scrawny Russians running around on the soccer field.
The soccer was very good. It doesn’t get much more professional. They played with intensity and precision. It was a pleasure to watch. With twenty minutes left in the second half, Moscow manages to ricochet a shot into our goal, giving them some hope with 2-1. With five minutes left, they scored a splendid goal. The game ended 2-2, a little disappointing since we had been up two goals, but we had fun watching good soccer.
Last Saturday, the Russian national team played Germany in Moscow. I couldn’t help but get caught up in the excitement that some of my students expressed. I didn’t declare it openly, but I was rooting for the Germans, not because I necessarily like Germany more than Russia, but because I had been a big fan of the German team in the past. I cheered for them in 2006, when they lost to Italy in the semi-finals of their own World Cup in one of the hardest fought matches I’ve ever seen.
Another teacher invited me to a friend’s apartment to watch the game. They picked me up after my conversation class, we went to get some food and beer, then went to the apartment. I still remember almost everyone’s name that I met there, among them Spartak (nicknamed after a Moscovian soccer team), and the host, known by everyone as 'the boss'.
I think Spartak was Armanian. He spoke Russian as fluently as the others, but maybe with a different accent. Anyway, if someone has dark skin around here, then they’re likely from an Armanien family. The boss was a scrawny guy with straight hair to his shoulders and a slight beard. He was dressed like an American, that is, so casual for a Russian man as could only be when at home.
The game was pretty good. The only goal was scored by Miroslav Klose. I’m a big fan of this guy. He’s the one who, with the agility of a cat, scored a blazing header to send Argentina home during the quarter-finals in 2006. On Saturday, in the thiry fifth minute, the Russian goalie came out to meet another German forward, who instead of shooting, centered it a just slightly behind Klose, who again demonstrated feline dexterity in getting his foot on the ball at the right angle to send it into the empty goal.
Russia’s captain and biggest star is named, if I’m not mistaken, Arkyshin. During the course of the match, you could see Arkyshin next to the German captain, Michael Ballack. As far as height is concerned, Ballack is to Arkyshin as I am to my Grandmother. If Arkyshin stands up straight, he might reach Ballack’s shoulders, I’m not sure. To be fair, I think Ballack is a giant. Isn’t he over two meters tall? Arkyshin wasn’t an exceptionally small among the Russians. Where were the Rostovian giants on the Russian team?
Russia had a few good chances, but they couldn’t capitalize. So they remain without a victory over Germany since something like 1962. I guess they beat the Germans when it really mattered.
I spoke a bit more with the company after the match ended. My tongue was loose from the beer, so speaking was not as difficult as it often is, also for some reason it seemed I could understand these people better than others. Maybe it’s because they were asking me the same questions. What am I doing here? I asked them in return whether they would go to America to teach Russian if they had the chance. The boss said he would, others weren’t so sure.
At some point I picked up a guitar that was laying there and played a rinky-dink classical song that I learned in Vladimir under Sasha’s instruction. The guitar wasn’t in very good tune, and I wasn’t about to risk breaking some strings trying to tune it, but nonetheless something like music filled the room for a few seconds. Sasha would be proud.
I thanked the boss for his hospitality, and took off with the other guests. We walked to a nearby friends house to get a sober driver, then drove home.
I am a little frustrated with the scheduling at the chess club. They tell you to be there at a half past two, and you finally start playing an hour later. Maybe I just missunderstood when the weekly tournaments start.
Although I normally play blitz matches with my brother, I’ve had my best showing here at a tempo tournament, which took place one week ago. There were an odd number of people there then, along with one old guy who didn’t want to participate in the tournament. He played five minute blitz matches against the odd man out while the others played the round away at fifteen minutes a player. To my pleasant surprise, I gave the man several good games, beating him at least twice, managing devestating forks with my knight on each occasion. The other matches that I played that week weren’t so bad either, not quite so one-sided as they had been in the past.
Yesterday, on the other hand, was, in some cases, a fall from glory. I sat by helplessly as one young man, the same guy from table seven who was at first struggling against the teenage girl during one of the last rounds of the tournament, somehow marched his pawns to the seventh rank within the first ten moves to win some material. On other occasions, I was oblivious to a number of other moves, many of which cost me the match.
I was pleased to make Gilbert Godfrey put some thought into his moves, and happy to play the local champion, the only person to beat wondergirl in the tournament, almost evenly until I gave him my bishop for nothing. The grandmaster in the green tweed jacket watched us play that match. I think he missed watching me toss my bishop away, so maybe I didn’t come across as a complete chess bumpkin.
There was a guy there yesterday who seemed very interested in me. He expressed a great desire to learn English. This made him rather uninteresting for me, but still I listened attentively to whatever he had to say. I had great difficulty understanding him. Maybe I needed a few beers. Maybe it was the topic of conversation. He was telling me about English and American literature at one point, finally singing some English song that I had never heard before at another. He was clearly a big fan of Britain and or America, anything connected with English, it seemed.
You meet these people every once in awhile. They know more about American history, politics, and culture than I do. Maybe that’s not saying much, or maybe they know more than the average American. It makes sense, I guess. For them, America is one of the most fascinating places in the world, and for me it’s not. I grew up there, which counts for something, but not as much as a slight obscession with the country.
I’ve been here over a month now. I’m more or less settled. I still haven’t gone to the drama theater. I would’ve gone yesterday if I hadn’t stayed for the last few rounds of chess. Next time I’ll leave early. There’s one more showing of Romeo and Juliet this month. I’ve seen it before, of course, even in Russian. Still, I'm a big fan of Shakespeare.
I know there are a number of birthdays are around this time of the year. There’s B from Bloomington, who’s probably still studying probability. There’s T, the Russian girl who I met in Göttingen and who might have finished studying there already. I hope they’re both doing well. And then there’s my grandfather, who will turn one hundred in a week. What a guy!
A week ago Saturday I went to a soccer game. Apparently Rostov has a team in the premier Russian league. If they weren’t in twelfth place, they would participate in the Champions’ league tournament. Somebody told me that they were in sixth place many years ago, and Juventus came to play in Rostov. It was a big event among soccer fans.
When I went to the match, a team from Moscow had come to play. I went with my boss’s other son, who’s a big soccer fan, unlike the son that I’m giving lessons to. We arrived late since my conversation class didn’t end as soon as planned. They had been playing for about 5 minutes when we found a place to sit. The atmosphere was very energetic. There was an old man behind us who kept screaming “zaraza!” which I understand is one of the nicer curses used for expressing disappointment. He said some other things too, but Kolia said that even he didn’t know what they meant. Maybe he just didn’t want to explain.
I was a bit suprised that the players were so big. Maybe it’s because we were sitting close to the field, but I’d say I’ve never seen such thick soccer players. Furthermore, when you watch the Russian national team (which I did just a few days ago), you can’t help but feel sorry for the short and scrawny Russians running around on the soccer field.
The soccer was very good. It doesn’t get much more professional. They played with intensity and precision. It was a pleasure to watch. With twenty minutes left in the second half, Moscow manages to ricochet a shot into our goal, giving them some hope with 2-1. With five minutes left, they scored a splendid goal. The game ended 2-2, a little disappointing since we had been up two goals, but we had fun watching good soccer.
Last Saturday, the Russian national team played Germany in Moscow. I couldn’t help but get caught up in the excitement that some of my students expressed. I didn’t declare it openly, but I was rooting for the Germans, not because I necessarily like Germany more than Russia, but because I had been a big fan of the German team in the past. I cheered for them in 2006, when they lost to Italy in the semi-finals of their own World Cup in one of the hardest fought matches I’ve ever seen.
Another teacher invited me to a friend’s apartment to watch the game. They picked me up after my conversation class, we went to get some food and beer, then went to the apartment. I still remember almost everyone’s name that I met there, among them Spartak (nicknamed after a Moscovian soccer team), and the host, known by everyone as 'the boss'.
I think Spartak was Armanian. He spoke Russian as fluently as the others, but maybe with a different accent. Anyway, if someone has dark skin around here, then they’re likely from an Armanien family. The boss was a scrawny guy with straight hair to his shoulders and a slight beard. He was dressed like an American, that is, so casual for a Russian man as could only be when at home.
The game was pretty good. The only goal was scored by Miroslav Klose. I’m a big fan of this guy. He’s the one who, with the agility of a cat, scored a blazing header to send Argentina home during the quarter-finals in 2006. On Saturday, in the thiry fifth minute, the Russian goalie came out to meet another German forward, who instead of shooting, centered it a just slightly behind Klose, who again demonstrated feline dexterity in getting his foot on the ball at the right angle to send it into the empty goal.
Russia’s captain and biggest star is named, if I’m not mistaken, Arkyshin. During the course of the match, you could see Arkyshin next to the German captain, Michael Ballack. As far as height is concerned, Ballack is to Arkyshin as I am to my Grandmother. If Arkyshin stands up straight, he might reach Ballack’s shoulders, I’m not sure. To be fair, I think Ballack is a giant. Isn’t he over two meters tall? Arkyshin wasn’t an exceptionally small among the Russians. Where were the Rostovian giants on the Russian team?
Russia had a few good chances, but they couldn’t capitalize. So they remain without a victory over Germany since something like 1962. I guess they beat the Germans when it really mattered.
I spoke a bit more with the company after the match ended. My tongue was loose from the beer, so speaking was not as difficult as it often is, also for some reason it seemed I could understand these people better than others. Maybe it’s because they were asking me the same questions. What am I doing here? I asked them in return whether they would go to America to teach Russian if they had the chance. The boss said he would, others weren’t so sure.
At some point I picked up a guitar that was laying there and played a rinky-dink classical song that I learned in Vladimir under Sasha’s instruction. The guitar wasn’t in very good tune, and I wasn’t about to risk breaking some strings trying to tune it, but nonetheless something like music filled the room for a few seconds. Sasha would be proud.
I thanked the boss for his hospitality, and took off with the other guests. We walked to a nearby friends house to get a sober driver, then drove home.
I am a little frustrated with the scheduling at the chess club. They tell you to be there at a half past two, and you finally start playing an hour later. Maybe I just missunderstood when the weekly tournaments start.
Although I normally play blitz matches with my brother, I’ve had my best showing here at a tempo tournament, which took place one week ago. There were an odd number of people there then, along with one old guy who didn’t want to participate in the tournament. He played five minute blitz matches against the odd man out while the others played the round away at fifteen minutes a player. To my pleasant surprise, I gave the man several good games, beating him at least twice, managing devestating forks with my knight on each occasion. The other matches that I played that week weren’t so bad either, not quite so one-sided as they had been in the past.
Yesterday, on the other hand, was, in some cases, a fall from glory. I sat by helplessly as one young man, the same guy from table seven who was at first struggling against the teenage girl during one of the last rounds of the tournament, somehow marched his pawns to the seventh rank within the first ten moves to win some material. On other occasions, I was oblivious to a number of other moves, many of which cost me the match.
I was pleased to make Gilbert Godfrey put some thought into his moves, and happy to play the local champion, the only person to beat wondergirl in the tournament, almost evenly until I gave him my bishop for nothing. The grandmaster in the green tweed jacket watched us play that match. I think he missed watching me toss my bishop away, so maybe I didn’t come across as a complete chess bumpkin.
There was a guy there yesterday who seemed very interested in me. He expressed a great desire to learn English. This made him rather uninteresting for me, but still I listened attentively to whatever he had to say. I had great difficulty understanding him. Maybe I needed a few beers. Maybe it was the topic of conversation. He was telling me about English and American literature at one point, finally singing some English song that I had never heard before at another. He was clearly a big fan of Britain and or America, anything connected with English, it seemed.
You meet these people every once in awhile. They know more about American history, politics, and culture than I do. Maybe that’s not saying much, or maybe they know more than the average American. It makes sense, I guess. For them, America is one of the most fascinating places in the world, and for me it’s not. I grew up there, which counts for something, but not as much as a slight obscession with the country.
I’ve been here over a month now. I’m more or less settled. I still haven’t gone to the drama theater. I would’ve gone yesterday if I hadn’t stayed for the last few rounds of chess. Next time I’ll leave early. There’s one more showing of Romeo and Juliet this month. I’ve seen it before, of course, even in Russian. Still, I'm a big fan of Shakespeare.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
27.9.09
I'm typing blind. My computer is on the blink. My screen has turned so dark that I can hardly see the text I'm writing. There was a hope that perhaps the sleep button was stuck, but that has since been excluded from the set of possible problems. My computer knows full wellwhat it should be doing, it just can't display it. I think I'll go to a shop and look for a new computer. I could inquire into about repairing my current one, but I think whether it's an easy fix or not, they'll recommend that I buy a new laptop - who wouldn't after seeing what I'm currently using. It's old, doesn't have wifi, and the screen seems to be busted. If I get a new laptop, there's a good chance it'll come with a wireless internet hookup which I can access from home.
Fridays have been interesting days so far in Rostov. Two weeks ago from last Friday I went into work to find that my only student for that day had canceled. I was a free man! I went back to what looked like a theater, where the bus, after skipping the stop that I wanted to take, had dropped me off that morning. I went inside to discover to my chagrin that the theater hosted ballet and musical performances. I was looking for the drama theater.
There was a woman standing in the middle of the entry hall. I went up to her and asked her if she knew where the drama theater was. She told me it wasn't far further up Bolshaya Sadovaya street, not two bus stops away. I set off on foot.
It didn't take long to get there. There's a big fountain in front of the theater. Statues of four giants are holding up a big dish on their shoulders, out of which a thick stream of water shoots straight up. At the giants' feet there's a circle of alternating turtles and frogs each of which spit water into a wide, shallow pool about them, At the outer edge of this pool thin streams of water shoot up and inward, and then splash into the center of the pool.
There was a crowd of people between the fountain and the theater. It looked like there was going to be a concert. I passed the crowd, climbed the stairs, passed the stage that they were setting up, and tried my best to look like I knew where I was going. There were a bunch of people dressed up very nice outside of an insignificant looking entrance. I wasn't sure if I was an uninvited guest at someone's party. I entered without hesitating.
There was no party inside. I found the main counter, looked at all the advertisements posted nearby and inquired about a showing of Belaya Gvardia - something by Bulgakov that I had attempted to read without much success. The lady behind the desk said it wasn't in the coming program and gave me the schedule for October. Apparently, the theater is closed in the summertime. That makes sense, since there were poeple doing repair on the theater. Here or there paint had been scraped off. People were lugging one thing or another on carts.
I decided to go exploring. On the second floor there were more people dressed very nicely. I asked one of them what was going on. She said something I didn't understand, then explained she worked for the Zags, which is the agency people visit to get married. It was a wedding! I asked if it was OK to go to the third floor (we were on the staircase), and she said she had no say in the matter, or something like that. I continued exploring. The center of the hallway on the third floor is open on one side, so that you can see a lounge on the second floor. The lounge was decorated very nicely. There was someone playing the piano, and a bride and groom standing under an archway lined with flowers and ribbons. I leaned on a pillar at the edge of the opening and watched. A woman behind a desk in between the piano and archway was saying some official words, few of which I understood except the last few, something like, "I pronounce you man and wife." The happy couple kissed and a small crowd of people watching from the floor below me cheered. The party left and the Zags agents started to get ready for the next couple.
On the end of the hallway opposite from where I entered there were men working away at something. I judged correctly that they wouldn't have anything against my presence and continued to walk around unabated. I went down an unexplored hallway, through a few doors and came out on the first balcony of the theater.
There were men working on stage, either testing or preparing something involving a large black curtain which was supposed to hang from above. There were props backstage, including what looked like a trojan horse. The rest of the theater was unlit, but from the light on stage I could see everything. Nothing separates the theater much from others I've seen. The first floor of seating is more or less square while the floors above have seating arranged in circular fashion. Old fashioned lights are found about the entrances into the seating area and around the foundation of the balconies.
I explored some more, going to another floor and seeing the theater from another angle. I didn't leave the darkness of the entranceway because I didn't want anyone on stage to see me. With all the lights on it might have been hard for them, but if I went walking around up there, someone looking in my direction would've noticed the movement.
I left the theater without anyone objecting to my exploration. After exiting the theater, there were a number of policemen about, one of which walked directly towards me. I didn't seriously think that anyone would be after me, so I continued walking. The policeman passed me. I went on my way.
7.10.09
I have a new laptop now. It's the same make as the previous one, just a newer version. I've only had it for a few hours. So far the screen hasn't died, so I'm happy. I don't need much in a computer.
I wrote earlier that Fridays were interesting. But I forget already if it was a Friday or a Wednesday when the secretary informed me that someone had called the office explaining that the water was running in my apartment. It was more disbelief than misunderstanding that I asked the secretary to repeat what she said. She used a verb which I understood as 'to spill', but which in some contexts might be better translated by 'to flood'. I raced home.
Riding the bus home I was thinking of how much a flooded apartment might cost to repair and of the people I knew who had money. Things could be worse; it's not the end of the world; you still have your health - such were the thoughts going through my head. I got home to find the bathroom faucet on full blast and the bathroom floor covered with water. I was pleased to find that the water hadn't gone into the living room - which has a hardwood floor.
I took my dirty shirts from the hamper and dried the bathroom tile as best I could, then raced back to the school since I was late for a lesson. I had explained the situation to the director before I left the school. She said she would explain my tardiness to my student, which happened to be her son. I got back, declared the situation under control, and more or less winged a lesson for 90 minutes. In a way it turned out for the best. I learned how to wing a lesson. I've been doing it ever since.
You might have asked yourself why the faucet was on full blast in my bathroom. Well, that's my fault. I had turned it on before leaving, and had forgotten to turn it off. How could I have possibly forgotten? The thing is, there was no water that morning. A faucet turned on was the same as a turned-off faucet. Evidently, whoever had turned off my apartment's water that morning turned it back on while I was at work.
Welcome back to Russia: That was another thought going through my head while taking the bus home. To be fair, maybe they turn off water in other big cities like San Francisco. I wouldn't know. Maybe it’s more appropriate to say “welcome to the big city.”
I'm typing blind. My computer is on the blink. My screen has turned so dark that I can hardly see the text I'm writing. There was a hope that perhaps the sleep button was stuck, but that has since been excluded from the set of possible problems. My computer knows full wellwhat it should be doing, it just can't display it. I think I'll go to a shop and look for a new computer. I could inquire into about repairing my current one, but I think whether it's an easy fix or not, they'll recommend that I buy a new laptop - who wouldn't after seeing what I'm currently using. It's old, doesn't have wifi, and the screen seems to be busted. If I get a new laptop, there's a good chance it'll come with a wireless internet hookup which I can access from home.
Fridays have been interesting days so far in Rostov. Two weeks ago from last Friday I went into work to find that my only student for that day had canceled. I was a free man! I went back to what looked like a theater, where the bus, after skipping the stop that I wanted to take, had dropped me off that morning. I went inside to discover to my chagrin that the theater hosted ballet and musical performances. I was looking for the drama theater.
There was a woman standing in the middle of the entry hall. I went up to her and asked her if she knew where the drama theater was. She told me it wasn't far further up Bolshaya Sadovaya street, not two bus stops away. I set off on foot.
It didn't take long to get there. There's a big fountain in front of the theater. Statues of four giants are holding up a big dish on their shoulders, out of which a thick stream of water shoots straight up. At the giants' feet there's a circle of alternating turtles and frogs each of which spit water into a wide, shallow pool about them, At the outer edge of this pool thin streams of water shoot up and inward, and then splash into the center of the pool.
There was a crowd of people between the fountain and the theater. It looked like there was going to be a concert. I passed the crowd, climbed the stairs, passed the stage that they were setting up, and tried my best to look like I knew where I was going. There were a bunch of people dressed up very nice outside of an insignificant looking entrance. I wasn't sure if I was an uninvited guest at someone's party. I entered without hesitating.
There was no party inside. I found the main counter, looked at all the advertisements posted nearby and inquired about a showing of Belaya Gvardia - something by Bulgakov that I had attempted to read without much success. The lady behind the desk said it wasn't in the coming program and gave me the schedule for October. Apparently, the theater is closed in the summertime. That makes sense, since there were poeple doing repair on the theater. Here or there paint had been scraped off. People were lugging one thing or another on carts.
I decided to go exploring. On the second floor there were more people dressed very nicely. I asked one of them what was going on. She said something I didn't understand, then explained she worked for the Zags, which is the agency people visit to get married. It was a wedding! I asked if it was OK to go to the third floor (we were on the staircase), and she said she had no say in the matter, or something like that. I continued exploring. The center of the hallway on the third floor is open on one side, so that you can see a lounge on the second floor. The lounge was decorated very nicely. There was someone playing the piano, and a bride and groom standing under an archway lined with flowers and ribbons. I leaned on a pillar at the edge of the opening and watched. A woman behind a desk in between the piano and archway was saying some official words, few of which I understood except the last few, something like, "I pronounce you man and wife." The happy couple kissed and a small crowd of people watching from the floor below me cheered. The party left and the Zags agents started to get ready for the next couple.
On the end of the hallway opposite from where I entered there were men working away at something. I judged correctly that they wouldn't have anything against my presence and continued to walk around unabated. I went down an unexplored hallway, through a few doors and came out on the first balcony of the theater.
There were men working on stage, either testing or preparing something involving a large black curtain which was supposed to hang from above. There were props backstage, including what looked like a trojan horse. The rest of the theater was unlit, but from the light on stage I could see everything. Nothing separates the theater much from others I've seen. The first floor of seating is more or less square while the floors above have seating arranged in circular fashion. Old fashioned lights are found about the entrances into the seating area and around the foundation of the balconies.
I explored some more, going to another floor and seeing the theater from another angle. I didn't leave the darkness of the entranceway because I didn't want anyone on stage to see me. With all the lights on it might have been hard for them, but if I went walking around up there, someone looking in my direction would've noticed the movement.
I left the theater without anyone objecting to my exploration. After exiting the theater, there were a number of policemen about, one of which walked directly towards me. I didn't seriously think that anyone would be after me, so I continued walking. The policeman passed me. I went on my way.
7.10.09
I have a new laptop now. It's the same make as the previous one, just a newer version. I've only had it for a few hours. So far the screen hasn't died, so I'm happy. I don't need much in a computer.
I wrote earlier that Fridays were interesting. But I forget already if it was a Friday or a Wednesday when the secretary informed me that someone had called the office explaining that the water was running in my apartment. It was more disbelief than misunderstanding that I asked the secretary to repeat what she said. She used a verb which I understood as 'to spill', but which in some contexts might be better translated by 'to flood'. I raced home.
Riding the bus home I was thinking of how much a flooded apartment might cost to repair and of the people I knew who had money. Things could be worse; it's not the end of the world; you still have your health - such were the thoughts going through my head. I got home to find the bathroom faucet on full blast and the bathroom floor covered with water. I was pleased to find that the water hadn't gone into the living room - which has a hardwood floor.
I took my dirty shirts from the hamper and dried the bathroom tile as best I could, then raced back to the school since I was late for a lesson. I had explained the situation to the director before I left the school. She said she would explain my tardiness to my student, which happened to be her son. I got back, declared the situation under control, and more or less winged a lesson for 90 minutes. In a way it turned out for the best. I learned how to wing a lesson. I've been doing it ever since.
You might have asked yourself why the faucet was on full blast in my bathroom. Well, that's my fault. I had turned it on before leaving, and had forgotten to turn it off. How could I have possibly forgotten? The thing is, there was no water that morning. A faucet turned on was the same as a turned-off faucet. Evidently, whoever had turned off my apartment's water that morning turned it back on while I was at work.
Welcome back to Russia: That was another thought going through my head while taking the bus home. To be fair, maybe they turn off water in other big cities like San Francisco. I wouldn't know. Maybe it’s more appropriate to say “welcome to the big city.”
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