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!
Monday, October 26, 2009
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.”
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
30.9.09
Sorry that I don't have an entry for the week. My computer is busted, and I'm not about to write an entry on the computer at work (where I'm writing this).
I talked with a woman at a computer repair shop about my computer. She said that the problem is likely the most serious and difficult to fix. It's actually not worth fixing. That's no big deal. I can get a much better laptop than the one I was using.
Until then, ...
Sorry that I don't have an entry for the week. My computer is busted, and I'm not about to write an entry on the computer at work (where I'm writing this).
I talked with a woman at a computer repair shop about my computer. She said that the problem is likely the most serious and difficult to fix. It's actually not worth fixing. That's no big deal. I can get a much better laptop than the one I was using.
Until then, ...
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
21.9.09. 23:15
Saturday I finished my first full week of work. I managed well enough, I guess. My next work week starts tomorrow. My schedule is a little different, but I think the hours are about the same.
I'm still getting accustomed to winging my lessons to a far greater extent than I would have dreamed of doing while working in Vladimir. Honestly, it wouldn't be possible to prepare as much here as I did there, since I have so many different levels. In Vladimir, I only had two levels a semester, so no more than four lessons to plan a week. Here, I might have four different lessons in a day. There's no way I'm going to come up with a detailed plan for each lesson. Nobody's asking that I do such a thing, and as far as I can tell, no one of the other teachers goes to their lessons with a plan in hand.
I'm one of two native English speakers at a school with a faculty of about twenty teachers. I think that the students whom I meet with individually pay a lot of money for their lessons, only a fraction of which I'll be paid. If what I've heard is true, my individual students pay about fifty times more for an academic hour with me than the students whom I taught in groups of up to thirteen last year in Vladimir.
I guess I shouldn't sweat preparing for individual lessons so much. They're not paying so much for interesting and instructive activities as they are for one on one time with a native speaker. I can really milk my first language here. Anyway, working one on one with another student, who needs fancy activities? It might be enough to come to class with a few relevant topics to discuss alongside the usual barrage of drills. We'll see.
I mentioned that there are a lot of other teachers. All of them are Russian except for one other American who's off contract, so hardly works as much as I do (he has other jobs besides his part-time occupation at Language Link). You would think that I have a great opportunity to practice Russian while at school between lessons. Not so. My new boss has requested (or commanded) that I speak English with the other teachers. Evidently, they want practice.
You might as well ask me to stop breathing. For the first few days at work, I almost only spoke English. I was holding my breath. Then I started speaking Russian, and not a few days passed before my boss made her fatal request. I made my disappointment pretty clear, suggested that in order to practice English the teachers could speak with one another in English. She claims that that's not the same as speaking with a native speaker. She's right. It's not the same. It still doesn't mean they couldn't practice with one another. What more is there to learn from speaking with me? Practice is practice.
I should be careful what I wish for. Even if I grant her request in full (which is doubtful), at least I might still hear the Russian teachers speaking with one another in Russian. If they all spoke in English, I might as well be back at the American Home. Still, it's a bit annoying that the Russians should address me in English, not because I wouldn't understand the Russian, I very well would, but because I'm the guy you're supposed to speak English to.
In regards as to how I address them, I'm in a pretty sticky situation. Part of me says I should obey her, at least for a day or two. The other part of me says that she has no right to tell me how to speak with my colleagues. Speaking English with them is not my job.
I went to the chess club again yesterday. Unfortunately, they had held the weekly blitz tournament the day before. The schedule changed since the city celebrated its two hundred and sixtieth birthday this weekend. Instead, they were holding the 6th round of the current tournament yesterday. I started walking around the room, observing some of the games. I had no idea I would end up staying there for three hours.
There isn't a chess club where I'm from. I hardly know how a tournament works. It seems that every participant entered with a certain ranking, from one to sixty something. There were about thirty tables in the room, and only a few were free when I arrived. The tables were numbered from one until thirty or so. It seems that the better a player had performed in the previous five rounds, the lower the number on their table. I inferred this from a list hanging on the wall with what appeared to be the schedule for the day.
Some of the players with the lower rankings had been playing rather well. One of them was the acne-inflicted boy who showed me how I should have sacked my queen when I played him last week. He was sitting at table seven. After making a move and getting up to walk around for a moment, he saw me, came up to me and shook my hand. I felt honored.
Still others with higher rankings hadn't been doing to well. The chubby guy who had been sitting behind a desk in the entry hall when another teacher first escorted me to the chess club was sitting at a higher numbered table yesterday. We had played the week before. Ours was one of the matches where I made in incorrect move - moved into check somehow. Apparently if you make an incorrect move you lose the match. Anyway, I walked by his table yesterday. He saw me and bowed respectfully, almost like you see Chinese people bow. I don't know why he does this. I haven't seen him greet other people, but it may be that he only greets me this way. If I understood the post on the wall correctly (it was in English, after all), then the chubby man was ranked fourteenth.
I also recognized the guy who reminds me of that annoying actor - I think his name is Gilbert Godfrey (I'm thinking of an actor who is cast to be the annoying guy. For all I know he's a nice normal man when he's not acting). He was sitting at table four. After making his move, he saw me standing next to his table, got up, muttered something, to which I replied that I didn't understand him. He suggested that we play a match or two. I declined. He didn't care so much to play chess with me as to win my money.
At table one sat the only two people who had won all five of the previous matches. One of them was a nerdy looking guy in his twenties, the other was the teenage girl who the kind old man had pointed out to me when I first came to the club. She was the one who had recently won some award. She had a high ranking, and if she wasn't already a master, then was a candidate.
I observed the matches at the first twenty or so tables, keeping a close eye on tables one, seven, and a few others. It was interesting watching so many games. Sometimes it would be ten minutes before I completed a circuit, and I would find that they had made only one move, if any at all!
The young man who shook my hand was playing black. He had his queen on B6 positioned behind his bishop on C5. I think this is a typical set up for attacking white's position following a king-side castle. It's susceptible of course to a knight on A4, which white was quick to play. Black, instead of retreating, which is what any sane person would do, gave his queen up for two knights and a bishop, which left white with a queen, two rooks, a bishop and all his pawns, and black with everyone except his queen.
The teenage wonder girl on table one was playing white. I didn't see the beginning of the match. The first position I saw was very strange. It's a position where an inexperienced player such as myself playing white might have conducted a full throttle attack resulting in my own pieces tripping over one another in a confused fashion. The girl was much more patient.
Back on table seven, they had traded bishops, which I thought was to black's advantage. Black proceeded to harass white's kingside with a knight and bishop stationed behind white's front lines.
If chess is an art form, then table four was the work of Picasso. Maybe Gilbert Godfrey was tired of the standard line of play.
Table one seemed to be going in white's favor. That was my impression from the beginning. Wonder girl was proceeding with such deadly patience, you almost felt bad for the geek sitting across from her.
Table seven. Check. Black forked the king and rook.
On table six black had fionechettoed both of his bishops. In my little experience doing this, I always found this left E6 and D6 a little weak. Indeed, it seemed white was going to take advantage there.
On table two sat the first and fourth ranked players, playing black and white respectively. Play seemed to be pretty standard, except white didn't want to move his queen pawn forward. These people are so patient!
On table eight another young woman seemed to be having her way with someone ranked much higher than her. Bishop to B4 check and white, unable to interpose anything for some reason, was forced to move King to E2. Black's pawn on F4 was strong. Queen to H5 seemed pretty threatening.
Table seven. Black had both rooks on the B column, a passed pawn on the C column, and a bishop stationed at G3, keeping an eye on the white king. White had an unopposed pawn on A4 and pawns on E5 and F6. Queen to H6 was a big threat, but white had too much to do keeping black at bay on the queen side.
Table one. Black seemed to have lost an important pawn. The vice tightened.
By this time the chubby man had left. I presume he had won his match without too much effort. Maybe his opponent had made an illegal move.
On table fifteen the man playing came up to me after awhile, asked in English if I spoke English. I answered yes. He said something in English about the German method, not the American, but the German method. I think he knew that I was American, but for some reason mentioned the German method to me. I had been following his game. He had declined the queen's gambit. Eventually, I must have replied to his banter with a really confused look. He scuffled off, embarrassed I think that he hadn't managed to get his idea across.
On table six it turned out that white didn't win the material that I thought it would. What happened is beyond me.
On table seven white threatened the rook on B8 with the pawn on A7. Rook to A8 followed by bishop to F2 check was the reply. The white pawn was lost.
On table one black seemed to be up to something.
On table eight white had slipped out of it somehow. That's why he has a high ranking I guess. I had thought it was curtains for him.
On table fifteen the German method must have worked, for black managed to get a pawn passed an otherwise closed position on the king side. Unfortunately black's king was trapped on the H column by the white king on one side and his own H pawn on the other. He wouldn't be able to queen that pawn with only a bishop at his disposal.
Table one. Black was moving faster now. Maybe it was his only chance, or maybe he saw everything well in advance.
Table seven had changed a bit. Black's pawn was gone now too. What had happened? They must have traded rooks on that pawn too. White only had it's queen and a few pawns left, while black had a knight, a bishop, a rook, and a few pawns. Then white made what seemed like a reasonable attack on the knight and bishop, but resigned after black's response. I don't fully understand why.
On table one, white was in trouble. I was stunned. It had all happened so quickly. I turned away. I didn't want to watch.
On table eight, black had completely blown it. Maybe in an effort to keep the pawn on F5 it had lost some material. It seemed the game was lost too.
Wonder girl resigned. She seemed sad as she recorded the game in her own chess diary. The guy at table seven was recording his match too. I guess these people go over their losses later on. What dedication!
But if there's anything to learn by watching these people play, it's that patience is important. I think my brother and I might be of the simpler type who don't attack twice. Having positioned our soldiers on the field, we're like Scotsmen - we didn't get all dressed up for nothin'.
I won't speak any Russian tomorrow. Maybe I won't speak for a whole week. Why ruin my relationship with my boss so soon when we have the whole year ahead of us? I'm not giving in yet. I'm just being patient…
Saturday I finished my first full week of work. I managed well enough, I guess. My next work week starts tomorrow. My schedule is a little different, but I think the hours are about the same.
I'm still getting accustomed to winging my lessons to a far greater extent than I would have dreamed of doing while working in Vladimir. Honestly, it wouldn't be possible to prepare as much here as I did there, since I have so many different levels. In Vladimir, I only had two levels a semester, so no more than four lessons to plan a week. Here, I might have four different lessons in a day. There's no way I'm going to come up with a detailed plan for each lesson. Nobody's asking that I do such a thing, and as far as I can tell, no one of the other teachers goes to their lessons with a plan in hand.
I'm one of two native English speakers at a school with a faculty of about twenty teachers. I think that the students whom I meet with individually pay a lot of money for their lessons, only a fraction of which I'll be paid. If what I've heard is true, my individual students pay about fifty times more for an academic hour with me than the students whom I taught in groups of up to thirteen last year in Vladimir.
I guess I shouldn't sweat preparing for individual lessons so much. They're not paying so much for interesting and instructive activities as they are for one on one time with a native speaker. I can really milk my first language here. Anyway, working one on one with another student, who needs fancy activities? It might be enough to come to class with a few relevant topics to discuss alongside the usual barrage of drills. We'll see.
I mentioned that there are a lot of other teachers. All of them are Russian except for one other American who's off contract, so hardly works as much as I do (he has other jobs besides his part-time occupation at Language Link). You would think that I have a great opportunity to practice Russian while at school between lessons. Not so. My new boss has requested (or commanded) that I speak English with the other teachers. Evidently, they want practice.
You might as well ask me to stop breathing. For the first few days at work, I almost only spoke English. I was holding my breath. Then I started speaking Russian, and not a few days passed before my boss made her fatal request. I made my disappointment pretty clear, suggested that in order to practice English the teachers could speak with one another in English. She claims that that's not the same as speaking with a native speaker. She's right. It's not the same. It still doesn't mean they couldn't practice with one another. What more is there to learn from speaking with me? Practice is practice.
I should be careful what I wish for. Even if I grant her request in full (which is doubtful), at least I might still hear the Russian teachers speaking with one another in Russian. If they all spoke in English, I might as well be back at the American Home. Still, it's a bit annoying that the Russians should address me in English, not because I wouldn't understand the Russian, I very well would, but because I'm the guy you're supposed to speak English to.
In regards as to how I address them, I'm in a pretty sticky situation. Part of me says I should obey her, at least for a day or two. The other part of me says that she has no right to tell me how to speak with my colleagues. Speaking English with them is not my job.
I went to the chess club again yesterday. Unfortunately, they had held the weekly blitz tournament the day before. The schedule changed since the city celebrated its two hundred and sixtieth birthday this weekend. Instead, they were holding the 6th round of the current tournament yesterday. I started walking around the room, observing some of the games. I had no idea I would end up staying there for three hours.
There isn't a chess club where I'm from. I hardly know how a tournament works. It seems that every participant entered with a certain ranking, from one to sixty something. There were about thirty tables in the room, and only a few were free when I arrived. The tables were numbered from one until thirty or so. It seems that the better a player had performed in the previous five rounds, the lower the number on their table. I inferred this from a list hanging on the wall with what appeared to be the schedule for the day.
Some of the players with the lower rankings had been playing rather well. One of them was the acne-inflicted boy who showed me how I should have sacked my queen when I played him last week. He was sitting at table seven. After making a move and getting up to walk around for a moment, he saw me, came up to me and shook my hand. I felt honored.
Still others with higher rankings hadn't been doing to well. The chubby guy who had been sitting behind a desk in the entry hall when another teacher first escorted me to the chess club was sitting at a higher numbered table yesterday. We had played the week before. Ours was one of the matches where I made in incorrect move - moved into check somehow. Apparently if you make an incorrect move you lose the match. Anyway, I walked by his table yesterday. He saw me and bowed respectfully, almost like you see Chinese people bow. I don't know why he does this. I haven't seen him greet other people, but it may be that he only greets me this way. If I understood the post on the wall correctly (it was in English, after all), then the chubby man was ranked fourteenth.
I also recognized the guy who reminds me of that annoying actor - I think his name is Gilbert Godfrey (I'm thinking of an actor who is cast to be the annoying guy. For all I know he's a nice normal man when he's not acting). He was sitting at table four. After making his move, he saw me standing next to his table, got up, muttered something, to which I replied that I didn't understand him. He suggested that we play a match or two. I declined. He didn't care so much to play chess with me as to win my money.
At table one sat the only two people who had won all five of the previous matches. One of them was a nerdy looking guy in his twenties, the other was the teenage girl who the kind old man had pointed out to me when I first came to the club. She was the one who had recently won some award. She had a high ranking, and if she wasn't already a master, then was a candidate.
I observed the matches at the first twenty or so tables, keeping a close eye on tables one, seven, and a few others. It was interesting watching so many games. Sometimes it would be ten minutes before I completed a circuit, and I would find that they had made only one move, if any at all!
The young man who shook my hand was playing black. He had his queen on B6 positioned behind his bishop on C5. I think this is a typical set up for attacking white's position following a king-side castle. It's susceptible of course to a knight on A4, which white was quick to play. Black, instead of retreating, which is what any sane person would do, gave his queen up for two knights and a bishop, which left white with a queen, two rooks, a bishop and all his pawns, and black with everyone except his queen.
The teenage wonder girl on table one was playing white. I didn't see the beginning of the match. The first position I saw was very strange. It's a position where an inexperienced player such as myself playing white might have conducted a full throttle attack resulting in my own pieces tripping over one another in a confused fashion. The girl was much more patient.
Back on table seven, they had traded bishops, which I thought was to black's advantage. Black proceeded to harass white's kingside with a knight and bishop stationed behind white's front lines.
If chess is an art form, then table four was the work of Picasso. Maybe Gilbert Godfrey was tired of the standard line of play.
Table one seemed to be going in white's favor. That was my impression from the beginning. Wonder girl was proceeding with such deadly patience, you almost felt bad for the geek sitting across from her.
Table seven. Check. Black forked the king and rook.
On table six black had fionechettoed both of his bishops. In my little experience doing this, I always found this left E6 and D6 a little weak. Indeed, it seemed white was going to take advantage there.
On table two sat the first and fourth ranked players, playing black and white respectively. Play seemed to be pretty standard, except white didn't want to move his queen pawn forward. These people are so patient!
On table eight another young woman seemed to be having her way with someone ranked much higher than her. Bishop to B4 check and white, unable to interpose anything for some reason, was forced to move King to E2. Black's pawn on F4 was strong. Queen to H5 seemed pretty threatening.
Table seven. Black had both rooks on the B column, a passed pawn on the C column, and a bishop stationed at G3, keeping an eye on the white king. White had an unopposed pawn on A4 and pawns on E5 and F6. Queen to H6 was a big threat, but white had too much to do keeping black at bay on the queen side.
Table one. Black seemed to have lost an important pawn. The vice tightened.
By this time the chubby man had left. I presume he had won his match without too much effort. Maybe his opponent had made an illegal move.
On table fifteen the man playing came up to me after awhile, asked in English if I spoke English. I answered yes. He said something in English about the German method, not the American, but the German method. I think he knew that I was American, but for some reason mentioned the German method to me. I had been following his game. He had declined the queen's gambit. Eventually, I must have replied to his banter with a really confused look. He scuffled off, embarrassed I think that he hadn't managed to get his idea across.
On table six it turned out that white didn't win the material that I thought it would. What happened is beyond me.
On table seven white threatened the rook on B8 with the pawn on A7. Rook to A8 followed by bishop to F2 check was the reply. The white pawn was lost.
On table one black seemed to be up to something.
On table eight white had slipped out of it somehow. That's why he has a high ranking I guess. I had thought it was curtains for him.
On table fifteen the German method must have worked, for black managed to get a pawn passed an otherwise closed position on the king side. Unfortunately black's king was trapped on the H column by the white king on one side and his own H pawn on the other. He wouldn't be able to queen that pawn with only a bishop at his disposal.
Table one. Black was moving faster now. Maybe it was his only chance, or maybe he saw everything well in advance.
Table seven had changed a bit. Black's pawn was gone now too. What had happened? They must have traded rooks on that pawn too. White only had it's queen and a few pawns left, while black had a knight, a bishop, a rook, and a few pawns. Then white made what seemed like a reasonable attack on the knight and bishop, but resigned after black's response. I don't fully understand why.
On table one, white was in trouble. I was stunned. It had all happened so quickly. I turned away. I didn't want to watch.
On table eight, black had completely blown it. Maybe in an effort to keep the pawn on F5 it had lost some material. It seemed the game was lost too.
Wonder girl resigned. She seemed sad as she recorded the game in her own chess diary. The guy at table seven was recording his match too. I guess these people go over their losses later on. What dedication!
But if there's anything to learn by watching these people play, it's that patience is important. I think my brother and I might be of the simpler type who don't attack twice. Having positioned our soldiers on the field, we're like Scotsmen - we didn't get all dressed up for nothin'.
I won't speak any Russian tomorrow. Maybe I won't speak for a whole week. Why ruin my relationship with my boss so soon when we have the whole year ahead of us? I'm not giving in yet. I'm just being patient…
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
14.9.09
One week ago at this time I was most likely sitting in Moscow waiting for the last leg of my trip. I was pretty tired, since I was accustomed to sleeping at that time of day on the other side of the world. Perhaps it was fortunate I had such a long layover in Moscow, for I needed a few hours to realize that I was waiting in the wrong terminal, where my plane had arrived from New York. I checked my itinerary, and indeed it stated that I needed to switch terminals before boarding the last plane.
I asked a woman at the information desk how to get to the domestic terminal. She explained me the way, shortly after which I was accosted by several taxi drivers who wanted to take me to my terminal. Where they standing nearby as I asked at the information desk? Maybe the information desk was giving out hints about whoever came by.
I escaped the taxi drivers and made it to the shuttle which was supposed to go between the two terminals of Sheremetevo airport. It turned out to be free. What a deal!
I didn't wait long in the domestic terminal before wishing that I hadn't come so soon. I sat there dreading the few hours I had left to wait in a rather grim looking building packed with people. It was raining outside, there was a chill in the air, and all I really wanted was for someone to watch all my luggage for half and hour so that I could sleep.
I fell asleep anyway, but I had my luggage close enough to me that anyone trying to steal something would have to be extremely careful not to nudge me awake. Maybe such care would appear suspicious in a place packed with people?
It didn't matter, I was going to fall asleep whether I wanted to or not. I was like my mom watching a good movie after a few glasses of wine. You could've put hot coals on my feet and I would've dosed through it. So the proximity of my luggage was really a bluff. Anyone could've brushed me arms off and taken what they wanted without me noticing.
The neat thing about that kind of sleep - the kind that's not alcohol induced, but caused by prolonged lack of rest - it's very efficient. I think I didn't sleep for more than a few minutes, but by the time I woke up, I felt slightly recharged. I needed the charge, because getting through that terminal requires a lot of attention. They were constantly making announcements about flights boarding. The sound system was not the best, so even though they repeated whatever they said in English, it was difficult to understand.
Fortunately, all the upcoming flights were listed on a TV not far from where I had found a seat. I got up periodically and quickly walked to where I could see whether they had called my flight or not, then returned. I was concerned because there were two flights listed that were checking in passengers but that took off after my flight. Why wasn't my flight doing check-in yet?
I don't know what I would've done if the flight had been cancelled. The next flight probably would've been until twenty four hours later. Taxi drivers would've loved to give a foreigner a lift to a far-off hotel in Moscow. I would have sooner slept with my backpack strapped to my shoulders, laptop in my arms, and my suitcases holding me off of the cold, wet cement floor.
It didn't come to that. I had just decided to look for an information desk when they finally announced my flight. I got in line.
It was a horrible feeling to realize that the numbers that were shown on the screen after the announcement didn't refer to the numbers on the doorways through security, but to numbers of the desks behind the security stations. It seemed I should've already gone through security! And here I had been waiting I don't know how many hours for them to tell me which security line to get into.
I asked around, and there was another person in my line who was flying to Rostov too, but it seemed to me that he was also a foreigner, so I wasn't quite relieved. Luckily, it didn't take too long to get through security. A large Russian woman wanted to look through my suitcase and backpack. I appeased here with a chess-set and some socks filled with change. I put my shoes back on and proceeded to the counter to check in my suitcases. I sighed with relief when I saw how short the line was. I checked in my bags, got my boarding ticket, went to my gate and waited.
I had never been seated in an emergency exit row before. It's really nice. The other five men in the row were no smaller than I. There were two Europeans among us, one of them about two meters tall (about six feet five inches) and the other much taller than the first (almost seven feet). They spoke a language that sounded a lot like German, but that I hope wasn't - I like to think I would've understood more if it had been. I didn't bother to inquire. I was too tired.
We arrived in Rostov on time, at 11:50 Monday night. My boss was holding up a Language Link flyer in front of her. I walked up to her and introduced myself.
The next day I was to see the school for the first time and become slightly acquainted with how things work there. I was going to give my first lesson the next day (to an individual). In the meantime, upon my inquiry, one teacher showed me were a pool was located, another showed me how to get to the chess club.
The city chess club is not two blocks away from the school. The teacher who was accompanying me there asked a chubby man behind the desk for information, he answered and she translated, but seeing that she wasn't translating much that I didn't partially understand already, I addressed the man myself in broken Russian. I think I offended the other teacher. All of a sudden she wasn't so special anymore.
I returned the following evening to watch some people play in the weekly tournament. There was a very friendly old man there who seemed pleased to have an American visitor. He showed me around, and every now and then directed my attention to players, many of them younger than myself, who had recently won one award or another. Evidently, there are many people with a rating of 2200 and higher at the club. (I think you're a master with such a rating.)
A stocky man in a green tweed jacket arrived. The old man was quick to point him out to me. If I understood correctly, then he's the local grandmaster (with a rating greater than 2500). The old man told me that he had come to watch his students play. I watched the grandmaster watch his students for awhile, then thanked the old man for the tour, and left.
I didn't see the grandmaster's face until yesterday, when I returned to take part in a blitz tournament. I know that face. The face itself resembles that of Robin Williams, but the man's eyes are quite remarkable. As far as I can tell, from a direct glance his eyes are a typical blue, but seen from an angle, they look like jewels. Besides Herr Zimmermann, my first Russian teacher, I haven't seen anyone who has eyes like the grandmaster's. I wonder if it's a gene particular to Russian people. Herr Zimmermann, by the way, also had a face like Robin Williams. Does Robin Williams have jewels for eyes?
The blitz tournament was fun. Grandpa would be proud. I played nine games, lost them all, and didn't throw one temper tantrum.
Chess, like music, like many kinds of art I guess, resembles a language. Everybody expresses themselves differently when they play chess. If I can make any excuse for such a dismal showing yesterday, it's that for the past several years, I've had conversations in chess primarily with my eldest brother. I shouldn't expect to be a match for many people when I've been interacting for so long with only one person!
At least I managed to gain the respect of a few of my opponents. One pimple-faced young man mentioned that I would've won the match had I pushed my pawn instead of my bishop to g6. Following a transparent queen sacrifice, I would've had him (that g5 pawn would've become a queen). In another match, I seemed to have my opponent pinned in every which way. It only took him three or four moves with his bishop, practically the only piece he could possible move without losing material, to manage what must have been his only attack possible, to which I was sadly oblivious.
There might have been another game or two where my opponent had to be careful for a few moves, but for the most part my apparent strategy was to bore my opponent to death with such simple play. Oh well. I'll return next week, if not for the chess lessons, then for the Russian practice. Unlike the club in Vladimir, the players in Rostov really enjoy heckling one another during informal play. There's a lot of cursing going on - that's material you can't learn in any textbook.
They had told me before I arrived that my ATM card would work at the Russian machines. It had worked in Vladimir, no reason why it shouldn't work here. And indeed, it works. I withdrew five thousand ruble, that's about one hundred and fifty dollars, from my American bank account. Then I bought a guitar for about one hundred dollars, and a mobile phone for about thirty.
I tuned the guitar as best I could and took to remembering the few songs that Sasha had taught me when I lived with him in Vladimir. That didn't take too long (I don't know that much). I also have a book with lessons and songs for beginners. We'll see if I have time to make any progress in the next few months. The mobile phone also functions as a radio. I think I have everything I need to get through another year.
One week ago at this time I was most likely sitting in Moscow waiting for the last leg of my trip. I was pretty tired, since I was accustomed to sleeping at that time of day on the other side of the world. Perhaps it was fortunate I had such a long layover in Moscow, for I needed a few hours to realize that I was waiting in the wrong terminal, where my plane had arrived from New York. I checked my itinerary, and indeed it stated that I needed to switch terminals before boarding the last plane.
I asked a woman at the information desk how to get to the domestic terminal. She explained me the way, shortly after which I was accosted by several taxi drivers who wanted to take me to my terminal. Where they standing nearby as I asked at the information desk? Maybe the information desk was giving out hints about whoever came by.
I escaped the taxi drivers and made it to the shuttle which was supposed to go between the two terminals of Sheremetevo airport. It turned out to be free. What a deal!
I didn't wait long in the domestic terminal before wishing that I hadn't come so soon. I sat there dreading the few hours I had left to wait in a rather grim looking building packed with people. It was raining outside, there was a chill in the air, and all I really wanted was for someone to watch all my luggage for half and hour so that I could sleep.
I fell asleep anyway, but I had my luggage close enough to me that anyone trying to steal something would have to be extremely careful not to nudge me awake. Maybe such care would appear suspicious in a place packed with people?
It didn't matter, I was going to fall asleep whether I wanted to or not. I was like my mom watching a good movie after a few glasses of wine. You could've put hot coals on my feet and I would've dosed through it. So the proximity of my luggage was really a bluff. Anyone could've brushed me arms off and taken what they wanted without me noticing.
The neat thing about that kind of sleep - the kind that's not alcohol induced, but caused by prolonged lack of rest - it's very efficient. I think I didn't sleep for more than a few minutes, but by the time I woke up, I felt slightly recharged. I needed the charge, because getting through that terminal requires a lot of attention. They were constantly making announcements about flights boarding. The sound system was not the best, so even though they repeated whatever they said in English, it was difficult to understand.
Fortunately, all the upcoming flights were listed on a TV not far from where I had found a seat. I got up periodically and quickly walked to where I could see whether they had called my flight or not, then returned. I was concerned because there were two flights listed that were checking in passengers but that took off after my flight. Why wasn't my flight doing check-in yet?
I don't know what I would've done if the flight had been cancelled. The next flight probably would've been until twenty four hours later. Taxi drivers would've loved to give a foreigner a lift to a far-off hotel in Moscow. I would have sooner slept with my backpack strapped to my shoulders, laptop in my arms, and my suitcases holding me off of the cold, wet cement floor.
It didn't come to that. I had just decided to look for an information desk when they finally announced my flight. I got in line.
It was a horrible feeling to realize that the numbers that were shown on the screen after the announcement didn't refer to the numbers on the doorways through security, but to numbers of the desks behind the security stations. It seemed I should've already gone through security! And here I had been waiting I don't know how many hours for them to tell me which security line to get into.
I asked around, and there was another person in my line who was flying to Rostov too, but it seemed to me that he was also a foreigner, so I wasn't quite relieved. Luckily, it didn't take too long to get through security. A large Russian woman wanted to look through my suitcase and backpack. I appeased here with a chess-set and some socks filled with change. I put my shoes back on and proceeded to the counter to check in my suitcases. I sighed with relief when I saw how short the line was. I checked in my bags, got my boarding ticket, went to my gate and waited.
I had never been seated in an emergency exit row before. It's really nice. The other five men in the row were no smaller than I. There were two Europeans among us, one of them about two meters tall (about six feet five inches) and the other much taller than the first (almost seven feet). They spoke a language that sounded a lot like German, but that I hope wasn't - I like to think I would've understood more if it had been. I didn't bother to inquire. I was too tired.
We arrived in Rostov on time, at 11:50 Monday night. My boss was holding up a Language Link flyer in front of her. I walked up to her and introduced myself.
The next day I was to see the school for the first time and become slightly acquainted with how things work there. I was going to give my first lesson the next day (to an individual). In the meantime, upon my inquiry, one teacher showed me were a pool was located, another showed me how to get to the chess club.
The city chess club is not two blocks away from the school. The teacher who was accompanying me there asked a chubby man behind the desk for information, he answered and she translated, but seeing that she wasn't translating much that I didn't partially understand already, I addressed the man myself in broken Russian. I think I offended the other teacher. All of a sudden she wasn't so special anymore.
I returned the following evening to watch some people play in the weekly tournament. There was a very friendly old man there who seemed pleased to have an American visitor. He showed me around, and every now and then directed my attention to players, many of them younger than myself, who had recently won one award or another. Evidently, there are many people with a rating of 2200 and higher at the club. (I think you're a master with such a rating.)
A stocky man in a green tweed jacket arrived. The old man was quick to point him out to me. If I understood correctly, then he's the local grandmaster (with a rating greater than 2500). The old man told me that he had come to watch his students play. I watched the grandmaster watch his students for awhile, then thanked the old man for the tour, and left.
I didn't see the grandmaster's face until yesterday, when I returned to take part in a blitz tournament. I know that face. The face itself resembles that of Robin Williams, but the man's eyes are quite remarkable. As far as I can tell, from a direct glance his eyes are a typical blue, but seen from an angle, they look like jewels. Besides Herr Zimmermann, my first Russian teacher, I haven't seen anyone who has eyes like the grandmaster's. I wonder if it's a gene particular to Russian people. Herr Zimmermann, by the way, also had a face like Robin Williams. Does Robin Williams have jewels for eyes?
The blitz tournament was fun. Grandpa would be proud. I played nine games, lost them all, and didn't throw one temper tantrum.
Chess, like music, like many kinds of art I guess, resembles a language. Everybody expresses themselves differently when they play chess. If I can make any excuse for such a dismal showing yesterday, it's that for the past several years, I've had conversations in chess primarily with my eldest brother. I shouldn't expect to be a match for many people when I've been interacting for so long with only one person!
At least I managed to gain the respect of a few of my opponents. One pimple-faced young man mentioned that I would've won the match had I pushed my pawn instead of my bishop to g6. Following a transparent queen sacrifice, I would've had him (that g5 pawn would've become a queen). In another match, I seemed to have my opponent pinned in every which way. It only took him three or four moves with his bishop, practically the only piece he could possible move without losing material, to manage what must have been his only attack possible, to which I was sadly oblivious.
There might have been another game or two where my opponent had to be careful for a few moves, but for the most part my apparent strategy was to bore my opponent to death with such simple play. Oh well. I'll return next week, if not for the chess lessons, then for the Russian practice. Unlike the club in Vladimir, the players in Rostov really enjoy heckling one another during informal play. There's a lot of cursing going on - that's material you can't learn in any textbook.
They had told me before I arrived that my ATM card would work at the Russian machines. It had worked in Vladimir, no reason why it shouldn't work here. And indeed, it works. I withdrew five thousand ruble, that's about one hundred and fifty dollars, from my American bank account. Then I bought a guitar for about one hundred dollars, and a mobile phone for about thirty.
I tuned the guitar as best I could and took to remembering the few songs that Sasha had taught me when I lived with him in Vladimir. That didn't take too long (I don't know that much). I also have a book with lessons and songs for beginners. We'll see if I have time to make any progress in the next few months. The mobile phone also functions as a radio. I think I have everything I need to get through another year.
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