The Cat Formerly Known as Prince

This week seems to be animal themed, as circumstance has left me with no material but household pets and personal anecdotes this week. So, rather than fight the curve, I've decided to continue with one more amusing animal story concerning an animal briefly mentioned in another one of my posts: the cat that uses the shower as a litter box.

Today, I visited the apartment of the cat who poops in the shower; and as I pet the cat, which was acting conveniently cute and innocent, I asked its owner why it was that the cat did that, as it was very bizarre and unusual in both the US and Russia.

And the owner's tale began like this:

When the owner first bought the cat, she bought the cat a litter box, which the cat happily used. However, this was a very intelligent cat, and after several weeks of using the litter box, it noticed that all the humans used this big, strange white thing to go to the restroom.

(We humans call this a toilet. It is called "strange white litter box" in native Catonese.)

 For several days, the cat puzzled over the strange white litter box, trying to figure out on its own how it could use such a strange device. Finally, in frustration, it decided that such a piece of technology was far too complicated, and gave up.

But lo and behold! Not far from the toilet was yet another type of strange white litter box!

Yup, this is where the story starts to make sense

Having thus found its own big white litter box, the cat forsook the primitive ancient ways of the sandy litter box and refused to use anything else. No matter what the owner did, the cat always preferred the big white litter box, so it could feel like a person; and once the owner realized that the big white litter box was easier to keep clean, she relented and allowed the cat to claim the giant white litter box as its own.

At first, I was skeptical of this explanation, because why would a cat learn bathroom hygiene from humans? I chortled just like anyone else would when its owner explained that it was a smart cat, and understood everything people say. And then, as if it was on purpose, she ordered the cat to stop doing something, and it did.

Let me clarify: this cat has a nasty habit of playing really rough in the middle of cuddle sessions. Take today, for example. The cat was sitting on my lap, purring and rubbing its face into my hands; everything was nice, and calm. And then, suddenly, the cat bit into my hand, dug its claws into my arm, and attacked every part of my body that dared move in its presence. (Suffice it to say, the cat was promptly booted off, and lap privileges were summarily revoked.)

Normally, when I start muttering (or cursing) at the cat in English, the cat happily ignores me and continues chomping and clawing away. However, the owner knew its secret; and when the cat started trying to bite her, she looked at it, calmly said no in Russian, and... The cat immediately stopped. After several moments, the cat tried again, and after a gentle but firm rebuke from its owner (again in Russian), the cat stopped its rampage and returned to happily licking her.

I was floored. This cat is actually... smart. And now I know its secret.

So, if your cat ever starts pooping in the shower, feel honored that your cat is smart enough to think it's a person.

Picture Test 2: Epic Picture Time

So, in order to test my camera (which has now resurrected from the dead), I decided I needed to take a picture, import it, and post it.

And boy oh boy, did I ever know which picture to take.

Keep in mind that the picture I've been using to represent the dog that I've been endlessly complaining about looks like this:

Note: This is with the head back and the eyes widening

Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you: the real dog!

Note: This is with the head facing directly forward, doing absolutely nothing

FEAST YER EYES!!!!!

Let's take a look at the two photos side by side.

And that's why it's only hyperbole and a QUARTER.

A story about pets ^^

You know that dog I mentioned a while ago? The one whose face is always frozen like this?

... Yeah, he's been here the entire time. 10 days. I only haven't written about him because my blog would get kind of monotonous:

Today, the dog was really annoying. All day, he was crying outside my door, and 

every time I would try to get him to shut up, he wouldn't be quiet unless I was

either petting him, or he was physically pressed up against me. Seriously. And he pooped

directly outside my door. And peed. Just like yesterday. And the day before that.

And the day before that. And the day before that. And the day before that. And the day before...

... It would be the dullest blog ever, because every day would include some form of the dog crying, barking, pooping, and peeing in the most inconvenient way possible.

Well, now that the dog is about to leave and I can consolidate all of the stories into one amusing (hopefully) post, I feel that it is appropriate to post up a little bit.

This dog has learned how to use its bodily functions as a weapon. Considering its IQ, I have to admit I'm begrudgingly impressed; I wouldn't have expected the dog to put that much information together.

For example, a couple of days ago, I took the dog on a walk in the hopes that taking it outside would 1) prevent it from peeing directly in front of the front door (which it does every day, regardless of if you take it on a walk), and 2) get it to stop crying and barking outside my door (which it does every day, regardless if I'm actually sitting in the kitchen or in my room). I was in such a rush, however, that I forgot to bring a bag with me to pick up its poop; and thus, I was hoping to god that this dog was not going to need to poop.

So, we're walking around the block, and we reach this giant patch of tall grass. This grass is almost as tall as the dog, not that that's saying much; but still, it was a nice grassy area, where if the dog pooped, my inability to clean it up would not have been quite as terrible. The dog struts around a bit, piddles a bit, and then is happily on its way.

Yes! I mentally rejoiced as we turned around the corner. The dog didn't need to poop!

And no sooner did I think this than the dog suddenly stopped and hunched over the sidewalk.

"No way," I growled under my breath as the dog continued hunching, its eyes bulging farther than normal. "You have got to be kidding me..."

And then, the stupid dog pooped directly on the sidewalk. (Suffice it to say, I was not pleased.)

Apparently, that is this dog's gift in life: urinating where people want it the least. For example, my host mom's daughter took the dog with her for one (blissful, quiet, peaceful) night, and the dog apparently peed on her carpet. And yesterday, my host mom yelled at the dog, and it went and peed on her bed. (I told you I was begrudgingly impressed.) This made my host dad then yell at the dog, too-- and then the dog peed again.

The best part of this whole thing is that I've gotten to listen to my host mother grumbling "Impudent" over and over again in bad English. Watching her wave her finger at the dog and call it a hooligan is also quite amusing. She says that she's been counting the minutes until her sister comes back and takes the dog away.

This conversation, however, brought us to cat ladies. Turns out, my host mom knew a lady who had seven cats, and treated each of them like royalty. Each one had their own water bowl, their own litter box, their own food dish. But here's the crazy part: one cat liked meat; one cat liked fish; one cat liked canned food; one cat liked dry food; and so on, and so forth-- and this lady bought each cat what it liked (meat for the cat who liked meat, fish for the cat that liked fish, etc.), and she herself only ate bouillon soup. Seriously! The cats ate better than she did!

My host mom said the stench from the lady's apartment made it nigh-impossible to go into her apartment. The neighbors could smell from the inside of her apartment, too, but there was nothing they could do; Russia doesn't have the pet-limiting laws like in the US.

So, now you know. Certainly explains the crazy cat lady in Moscow who has 113 cats in one teeny-tiny apartment...

A couple of glimpses from a nice stroll

Because I was trying to figure out if I should just always start carrying my phone around (in case Princess can't always make it) and see what exactly the camera can do, I took some really pretty snapshots from my stroll to the Nevsky Prospect Metro Station. This post is going to mostly be photos, with little captions of what everything is (or at least, as much as I know about it.)

Panorama of the other bank of the Bolshaya Neva river

This is that building in the background in the previous panorama shot. No idea what it is.

This is a statue in front of a building that I've walked by several times, but have no idea what it is. I've been calling it "the other mysterious building...

This is the top of the other mysterious building. It's a gorgeous building, as you'll see in the next panorama picture...

But first, this is a fountain in the middle of the other mysterious building.

And this is the other mysterious building. A little bit warped (panorama's not perfect), but still, you get the idea. A very pretty building. Now, if only I knew what it was for...

Not for Dr. Who Fans: Part 2

... This building, if you're a Dr. Who fan and have a phobia of angels, is nightmarish.

If you're a fan of angel statues, this building is really, really cool.

Death of a Salesman: Or, Why Some Bad Reputations Are Deserved

So last night, I had a great, romantic dinner. Candlelight; mood lighting; music in the background; great food; stimulating conversation. I even got to test my reflexes by narrowly missing charring my hand off when I tried to make myself tea.

.... Yeah, you caught me. The electricity was totally out. But I got a fascinating slice of how Russian history-- particularly in the Soviet Era-- is still totally valid and reverberating today.

FLASH TO THE PAST:

SALESMEN DURING THE SOVIET ERA

During the Soviet Era, the way that people would buy things was by rolling up some form of paper (newspaper, etc.) and forming a cone that would hold whatever it was they were buying. Salt, sugar, flour-- it didn't matter. Everything went into that cone.

Just like in the US, in order to pay for your groceries, you would go up to the store clerk and hand them your groceries (in this case, in a paper cone). The sales clerk would put the cone on a scale, weigh it, and then tell you the price.

However, sales clerks had very low salaries, and in order to supplement their wages, clerks were known to overcharge for groceries, usually by placing a magnet under the scale and thus making the grocery weigh more. People would normally go home and reweigh whatever it was that they bought, in order to ensure that they paid for the right amount and weren't ripped off.

Because of this, if a boy was interested in a girl but he was a sales clerk, most women would tell them to hit the highway and never speak to them again.

But it wasn't just sales clerks.

Waiters were hated in Soviet Russia because they would rip you off; whatever you bought, they would eat half of it before the food even reached you, and you'd still have to pay full price. They'd take a glass of vodka, drink half of it, and then dilute the rest with water; take a glass of Cognac, and dilute it with vodka (since vodka was cheaper); sell "fine wine", and then give you poor wine diluted with water.

Any kind of salesman in Russia was rejected by the rest of society; and thus, all the salesmen intermarried, and created their own social code, with different rules and norms than the rest of society. The lying salesman was so endemic to Russia that they had a saying which, if I recall correctly, means that they have spaghetti behind their ears. (No, I don't entirely understand why.)

In fact, when the Soviet Union fell, and Russia switched to privatization, stores realized that they needed new sales clerks. So they put out a call for all sales clerks-- except, if you had any experience as a sales clerk during the Soviet Era, you were automatically excluded from applying for the job.

Old School: The Salesman in Popular Culture Today

Today, (a couple of hours ago, in fact,) I went to a play put on by a really great theater troupe called Theater Licedei. It's a group consisting mostly of young actors from the Saint Petersburg Theater Academy (the biggest, best, and basically only acting academy in Saint Petersburg), and put on plays with their faces painted like clowns. (Sounds strange, but oddly enough, it works.)

The show that I saw today was actually a dress rehearsal for their newest show, Old School, and as such, it was totally free. It was a ton of fun; however, beyond the fact that they actually showed tanks plowing across a bridge while two lovers gazed at the sunset (only in Russia, seriously), the biggest thing that jumped out at me was one of the characters who, as luck would have it, sells fruit.

This fruit salesman (the character, not the actor, obviously) is a drunk, lazy thief, who uses a totally broken scale and then rips off his customers by using his hand to either hold down the side with their fruit, or push up the side with the counterweight, so that every customer ends up paying max price (settled by his random futzing around with an abacus) while getting minimum fruit (usually one apple). This shtick goes on and on for the entire show, until the school teacher (one of the other characters in the play) pulls out her portable scale, sees the actual weight, and bursts into a hysterical screaming fit.

Sound familiar?

Not only that, but every time the salesman did this act in the theater, the entire audience (which, excluding me, was Russian, as proved by the fact that I was literally THE only person in the theater laughing hysterically when they played context-inappropriate songs in English) burst into hysterics. Not chuckles, not a couple of guffaws. Every person in the audience, young and old, was laughing uproariously. 

Why would this gag be so incredibly funny? And why would the theater troupe go out of their way to have one character whose basic function was to mimic that class of people?

And Now Things Get Personal

Yesterday, as I mentioned at the beginning of this post, the power went out. At 8:30, there was power; at 9:00, there was nothing. All day, my host family tried to contact the electric company, but the line kept being busy, or they would give my host parents the wrong phone number. Time kept on ticking by; my laptop died; the sun set; dinner came and went with no power to the fridge, microwave, or toaster over; we pulled out candles, and lit the stove by hand. (Now THAT was a truly terrifying experience; my reflexes could apparently use some work.) We all sat, gathered in the kitchen, listening to my host mom talk about the Soviet times and drinking tea.

Finally, at 9 o'clock or so at night, the workers from the electric company came. They took an extremely long time, and half of the time they sounded like they had no idea what was going on. The explanation they ended up providing at the end made absolutely no sense: apparently, they were saying that somehow the front door, which had been there for 25 years, had magically cut the wires for the electricity between 8:30 and 9:00, an even more wondrous occurrence since nobody had actually gone in or out between the time that the power was on and the power was out.

The workers wanted a ton of money-- 10,000 rubles, or $300 USD-- and once they had brought back the power, they left. Completely unaware of the money they wanted, and ecstatic to have electricity again, I bounded into my room, hopped on my now-charging computer, and didn't think a single thought more about it.

Flash forward to today.

When I arrived back home from Nevsky Prospect (I had walked all the way down to the Nevsky Prospect metro station, and then took the metro all the way home), my host father was meeting with a lady who I had never seen before. Turns out that lady was an inspector, and when she looked at the wiring, it was so bad that she thought my host dad had tried to fix it and make things worse. She couldn't believe that someone from her company could have done such a terrible job with the wiring; and furthermore, the money that the men had wanted, and the work that they wanted to do, was totally unnecessary. (My host family had gotten their electricity redone only two years ago, and once those men said they wanted that much money, they were simply aghast.)

Turns out that the men had not given my host family a paper stating that the electric work was theirs; and once my host family found out about how terrible a job they had done, at first, the workers refused to give the note. Finally, with the inspector's visit and my host mother threatening to call the company to tell them about the terrible job and almost embezzlement, suddenly the workers went from denying responsibility to calling my host family seven times within half an hour, asking if they could come back and redo the work they did last night.

So, it turns out that, in some cases, the reputation is entirely deserved. I wouldn't have believed it myself, if this hadn't happened, and if I hadn't seen the concrete references to this kind of thing in massive quantity. If this isn't a lesson in Russian history and culture, I don't know what is.

A word for the wise... Yes, this means more travel tips

I don't actually have anything to post about today (school and all that), but I thought it might be helpful to point out a few things that make traveling in St. Petersburg a lot easier.

1) The water really won't kill you. One of the first things that I heard about Russia was that the water was so bad that if you were a foreigner, you'd have SOME kind of stomach illness until your stomach acclimates to it. However, as of now, when I asked my traveling companions if they had experienced any issues, their response was the same as mine: unequivocally, no. It might possibly be that all three of us have stronger stomachs than the average person (which I highly doubt), or something might have changed recently in the quality of the water; but either way, none of us got sick, so that's one thing to check off of your list of concerns.

2) Never leave your student ID. Now, I know that this only applies to those who are students, but still, it's something to keep in mind. Student IDs in Russia come with all kinds of fantastic benefits in the form of massive discounts. For example, when Princess and I went to the Russian Museum, we got in for free because we had student ID cards, no questions asked. Or when we went to the Fountains at Peterhoff, I got a discount while Princess didn't, as she had accidentally forgotten her ID. I can write about this in a rather painless fashion, as I only had to pay the discounted 100-ruble ticket cost while she had to pay for normal admission, 450 rubles. Way to take one for the team! Appreciate your sacrifice ^^ Now, it used to be that the student ID would also get you discounts on transportation, but they did away with that here. Even so, the museum discounts are still quite worth it.

3) Never bring your passport. A common misconception (or, at least, I think it's a common misconception; I had this one at first) is that, because you need to have your papers on you at all times, you need to bring your passport with you at all times. Do not do this. This is leaving yourself open for all kinds of trouble. All you actually need is a page with your passport, visa, student information, and entry card photocopied. That should work for your official documentation. And unlike your official documentation, it won't sell well on the black market, and is not that difficult to replace.

4) If you're going to Russia, try to learn a little Russian. Obviously, if you're going to Russia for a week, you're not going to want to try to speak perfectly fluent Russian. That's just unreasonable. But at least go in speaking a little, or knowing someone who does. This will make your life so much easier, your stay that much less scary, and everything that much more manageable. While there are Russians who speak English (or whatever language you may need), you can't rely upon there being at least one in every place you are, and most of the time, if it's really important, you're relying on the help of strangers and dumb luck to get major issues sorted out. (For a good example, refer to Two Days of Traveling and 12+ Hours of Sleep Later, when I had to try to help an American couple who had lost their baggage. The communication issues between the couple and the lady at Customs that the couple almost didn't make it out of the airport without getting arrested. Seriously.) Additionally, even if there IS a Russian who speaks English, there have been times when words in English don't mean what they mean in English. What I'm trying to say is, even if they were to speak perfect, fluent English, there's a high probability that you and whoever you are talking to won't entirely understand each other. Sometimes, that isn't so important; other times, it's crucial.

5) Things are going to be a bit different; just try to roll with it. There's no point in getting frustrated at how Russian toilets are different than American ones (which they are), or how the toilet and the sink are in two different rooms (which they are), or how your gas-burning water heater is actually in the shower (mine is), or how your landlady lets her cat use the shower as a litter box (which my friend's landlady does). Things are going to be different in Russia, but that's part of the fun of it; if you aren't willing to try eating sour cream with everything, or to learn the system of laundry in Russia (which is surprisingly complex), or learn how to ride the metro, you're missing out on so much of the Russian experience. However, at the same time...

6) If you're going to be in Russia for long periods of time, make sure you're comfortable with your living situation. For example, it might be part of the Russian experience, but if it makes you extremely uncomfortable to have an hour-long commute to class every time you have a 9:00 class (like I do), do try to get a little bit more comfortable. If there are rules where you live that you just can't stand and slowly eat away at your sanity, try to change. All in all, the most important thing is that you're in an environment where you're the most able to take in Russian culture and grow as a person; and that is DEFINITELY not happening when you keep missing your classes due to horrific miscommunications and a long commute, or when you're going out of your mind with stress. This does not mean that you have to put ketchup on all of your delicious Russian food in order to feel like you're at home; but if you're in a situation that genuinely makes you uncomfortable, do tell whoever it is that is in charge, if there is anyone.

Also, finally, one last thing that no one ever thinks about until it's too late:

7) Russia is not on daylight savings time. This means that, if you're in the US, or one of the countries that DO follow daylight savings time, adjust accordingly. Your time zone difference is going to shift. For example, between Russia and California is currently an 11 hour time zone difference; however, come daylight savings time, that shift will change from 11 to 12. Or between St. Petersburg and Texas will go from 9 hours to 10. Just remember that if you're ever trying to talk to someone, or puzzling over when you could possibly expect to receive an email back from someone in the states. Everything will be shifted over one hour.

Anyways, now that I've sounded like one of those stupid inspirational travel blogs that I personally hate reading, I deem that this is enough for one night, and thus end this blog post.

One moment, while I question my judgment...

Sometimes, when I look at the stats and I see countries where I know that I know no one, I wonder if the views on my page aren't just people accidentally mistyping when they want to look at the blog "Hyperbole and a Half".

Raisins and Fried Onions

There was once a baker in St. Petersburg who baked the very best cakes. No one knew what his secret was; but these cakes were so delicious that even the tsar bought his cakes every day.

One day, a nobleman received a shipment of these cakes, and was about to take a bite out of one when he looked down and saw a cockroach.

Understandably, he panicked. "What is in my bread?" the nobleman screamed, pointing to the cockroach resting on the top of his cake.

"What cockroach?" the baker asked, looking around as if he saw nothing wrong with the cake.

"There!" the nobleman shouted, pointing directly at the cockroach. "There's a massive cockroach on my cake!"

With deft fingers, the baker promptly picked out the cockroach, tossed it in his mouth, and  responded, "Oh, it's a raisin."

This is called epic level bluffing.

The next week, some other nobleman was eating his soup when he found a cockroach floating in it. Once again, the nobleman (not unjustifiably) panicked.

Totally understandable, at least by American standards.

Once again, the baker was on hand, as he apparently somehow also made soups.

"There's a cockroach in my soup!" the nobleman bellowed.

"Where?" stammered the baker.

"There!" the nobleman roared, pointing at the cockroach.

Quickly picking up a spoon, the baker took the cockroach, popped it in his mouth, and swallowed before responding, "It's, uh, uh, a fried onion!"

Either epic bluffing, or epic cakes, because as far as I know, he wasn't killed after the second incident, either.

Thus, whenever Russians find anything questionable in their soups, the maker of the soup quickly eats it and explains that it's fried onions (жаренный лук, pronounced zharenniy luk).

More history, yay! History of Sennaya Ploshad

In Russia, there is a street that is very, very famous called Sennaya Ploshad, literally translating to dried grass (a.k.a. hay). For those who remember Bruce and the Bruces, there were four rivers that St. Petersburg was built on, and each of these rivers acted as a dividing line between the classes: the tsars, the noblemen, the merchants, and the poor.

Sennaya Ploshad was the division between the merchants and the poor, as well as the stomping grounds of Dostoevsky for its unique social make-up. This street was the stomping grounds of both the criminal and common classes, with pickpockets and prostitutes cozying up to common people looking for cheaper prices on the market.

The street was famous for its rampant crime, and in fact, there was a "mystical" building that was claimed to be the door to another world, because people would walk into the building and (if I understood my host mother correctly) would never walk out. Dead people were found there, and it was part of what made the area so famous.

On a much less depressing note...

Paris once gave Saint Petersburg glass columns with all the countries of the world as a gift, and they placed them in the square of Sennaya Ploshad. Unfortunately, these columns were more made for Paris and less for Saint Petersburg, and with all the traffic, they started falling and breaking. Soon, the glass columns became a safety hazard, and Paris took them back.

A brilliant demonstration:

At first, the French are all like,

Because apparently, I have a ridiculous fondness for illustrating things with pictures.

 And then, the glass columns are all like,

The first ever Glass Monster, courtesy of Google Images and Paint.

 So then, the French are all like,

And that's how I see history.

Why I am not a statistician

Now, this has nothing to do with anything, but I thought I would share this little tidbit, as it has been eating at my soul.

Looking at my stats on my blog lately has been a soul-searching experience. As those with a blogspot know, you can actually break down the stats and look at who's actually looking at your blog. Now, this has both been a boon and a curse. For example, when I see views from the US, Russia, and even Canada, I know that the people who are actually related to me in some way (friends, family, etc.) are looking at my blog.

Yes, I will be the first to admit this was shamelessly ripped off from google.

However, then I keep looking, and there are random views from Germany, Ireland... places where, as far as I know, I know literally no one. This, as sad and pathetic as it may seem, is what blows my mind. All I can think, over and over again is,

... All I can say is, given how easily I am either amused or have my mind blown, it is a miracle that I have survived thus far in Russia.

A note on Russian tastes...

 Warning: Not for those uninterested in men or fashion.

While I am still digging through my bag trying to find the USB with pictures (where could it have gone????), I thought that I would write a little something on Russian tastes.

Originally, living in Russia was an experiment in personal torture, simply because the people here that are my age (late teens to 20s) dress so fashionably that every time I look around, I see something that I wish I could buy but I know that I really don't need. Trench coats, leather jackets, skirts, dresses, shoes... In fact, I had gotten to the point that if I see someone who is my weight or heavier, I either marvel at it (wow, how did they get so heavy?) or wonder if they're also Americans (because how else could they be that heavy?).

However, I have finally seen some rare Russian women who are my size, as well as something even rarer: a Russian trend that I actually don't like.

Now, Russian women love to dress to impress; they kind of advertise their goods as best they can, if you know what I mean. Why, I saw a girl standing on the subway who was wearing a tank-top mini-dress, and the weather today was just under 70 degrees Fahrenheit. (That is some commitment to the cause.)  However, it seems with button-up shirts-- things that button up in general, really-- that Russian women actually prefer things that fit them too tightly, to the point that the buttons are straining to be closed, than things that fit them normally.

Thin women, heavy women-- it really doesn't matter. All of them wear button ups that are two sizes too small.

This comes as a shock for me, considering I originally thought that all things in Russia were cuter except for the men and the dogs. (Refer back to posts relating to men and dogs, and you'll immediately know why-- all Russian dogs seem to be the itty, bitty, rat-like assortment, and all the Russian men are like Demitry in Anastasia.)

TRUTH

In fact, I had my first experience with a Russian man hitting on me just yesterday-- he was passing out flyers, and suddenly when he saw me, he started saying, "Ooh, beautiful, beautiful, hello, beautiful, how are you doing, beautiful? Ooh la laaaa!!" and semi-following princess and I. It was one of the strangest experiences of my life, just because I had no idea how to respond to that other than to laugh nervously and stammer a thank-you under my breath. And Russian men, apparently, have a fondness for openly oggling women-- a Russian man actually positioned himself on the subway yesterday to admire both my and Princess's chests, taking turns looking each of us up and down and then looking between us for the rest of the subway ride as we pretended he didn't exist.

I never really understand what men are expecting us women to do when they do things like that-- faint into their arms? Flutter our eyelashes and coo that no one has ever complimented us that highly before?

It would be nice if there was a giant sign that would light up every time there was an awkward social scenario, and it would tell you exactly what to do; I doubt my sign would ever stop being illuminated.

The Tourism That Belatedly Was; And A Random Pouting Session

Looking at my last post, I suddenly feel quite embarrassed upon knowing what actually happened on the day we were supposed to go to the museum. I grandly announced what we were planning on doing, which then ended up not happening.

(What is the lesson learned here? Don't announce what you're doing on the internet until AFTER you've done it.)

Keeping this in mind, I can now safely say that Princess and I HAVE gone to the Russian Museum, and that it was quite beautiful. Students, by the way, can get in for free, something Russia does that should be emulated in the US. But I digress. I repeat, Princess and I have gone to the Russian Museum. However, as of yet I do not have the pictures to post up, so I might as well have not gone.

However, I do have pictures of the Peterhoff Palace on a flashdrive, which enough searching through my massive and disorganized computer bag should probably produce. It's only the front portion, but Princess and I took many, many pictures, so it should be more than enough for one post.

I am, however, going to take a moment to hate on a blog that I've never read, simply because they took the name of my blog first.

*Warning: Random Pouting Session Commencing*

There is yet another travel blog called "Yet Another Travel Blog", and it frustrates me as it takes the same name but is not as cool as mine is. This isn't just me trying to pat my own back; here is a travel blog, going intensively (sort of) into the culture and history of soon-to-be-multiple countries, and yet this other person took up the domain name and originality bonus for a trip that, while visiting many places (11, I think?), only visited each of them for 2 days.

Really? Really, random blogger person??

Not to sound like a snob, but 8 months is far more blog-time than 22 days. Yes, you were traveling when you were blogging; but now, I can't feel that I have any degree of originality in my sardonic title, and you don't even blog anymore. Way to win, random blogger person. Way to win.

*Pouting Session Ended. You May Now Resume Your Life Without Anything Being Any Different Than Before.*

A Tale of Two Cities

Tomorrow, instead of revisiting the Peterhof Fountains again (as Princess and I achieved yet another tourism fail and missed 2/3 of the fountains), Princess and I are planning on going to the Russian Museum. What I failed to realize is that a museum with such a deceptively simple name could have such a rich history behind it.

Flash to Moscow: There was a very wealthy merchant named Tretyakov who only sponsored young Russian artists. He knew that the young artists could use the money, and he had very good tastes; and using his money, he created a huge collection of young Russian artwork that he then donated to Moscow, on the condition that the world knew that it was HE who had given the art. Thus, Tretyakovskaya Gallery was born, an all-Russian museum in Moscow.

St. Petersburg upon seeing this was aghast. How could Moscow have an all-Russian museum while St. Petersburg did not? Thus, a palace was built, and the Russian museum was born, St. Petersburg's all-Russian museum.

This is just one episode in the epic rivalry between St. Petersburg and Moscow. Apparently, it's always been St. Petersburg and Moscow competing to one up each other. When Moscow had the Tretyakovskaya Gallery, St. Petersburg built the Russian Museum; when St. Petersburg got the Hermitage, Moscow built the Pushkin Museum. It's amazing how much two cities bickering can advance culture, is it not?

Only in Russia...

Today my travel companion (who from hereon shall be referred to as "Princess" for reasons that shall be left unexplained) and I were supposed to go to a park to watch a yearly celebration of the Russian victory over Napoleon in the Napoleonic Wars. There were supposed to be people dressed in authentic garb, horses, statues.... In other words, it sounded like the Russian version of Civil War reenactments, which would be tons of fun.

Thus, my friend and I took the metro over to where the park was supposed to be, walked out, and saw this huge, beautiful park that we were certain had to be where this event was held. We walked around the entire park (to give an idea of its size, it was large enough to contain a Russian amusement park, a small zoo, and a German-style brewery, plus several lakes) but didn't really see any reenacters. Disappointing, but understandable; I mean, you can't be reenacting the Napoleonic wars ALL day, with cannons, and muskets, and horses. Maybe we just went during a down time.

Even so, we happily went home after walking around this park for two-- yes, two-- hours, replete with pictorial evidence and beautiful nature shots that I will share whenever Princess emails them to me. Returning home happily tired, I talked with my roommate to discover that she had been to the same celebration. Unlike us, however, she had had to pay money to get into the park, and she DID see reenacters-- the horses and the cannons and all that.

And that's when I found out that we had walked in the wrong park, because we had walked in the huge, beautiful park directly next to the OTHER huge, beautiful park where the reenactment was taking place.

.... Only in Russia.

Men-- they're the same EVERYWHERE

So, today, one of the girls from my program and I went all the way out to the fountains of the Peterhof Palace. It's an absolutely amazing and beautiful grounds, and I will smother you with pictures (once my friend emails them to me-- we've been using her camera).

However, I thought I would relate two incidents which proved to both her and me that men everywhere are the same.

1) Abusing Artwork

The Peterhof Palace is an AMAZING place to be if you're a foreign tourist, not only because it's a beautiful grounds, but even RUSSIANS go there as a tourist attraction. Today was an especially big day, because after today, the fountains (which we came to see) will be closed, so there was a large crowd there. As my friend and I walked past a fountain-- four spigots surrounding a Cupid in the center-- we noticed one man, in his mid thirties, leaning back as his friend took a picture.

It only took moments for us to realize what was happening, but when we did, our shock and disbelief was immediate: in the middle of a beautiful grounds, at one of the fountains of the likes that there are only two others in the world (one of the places being Versailles), this blockhead was pretending that he was taking a piss. Men.

2) And now for more inappropriate PDA

While walking by another fountain (this place has many fountains), my friend and I turned to see a man and his girlfriend about to pose for a picture: the man picks his girlfriend up off the ground, his girlfriend wraps her legs around his torso, and as the man uses her derriere as a handhold, the happily inappropriate couple smile for a photo of them wrapped together like a clump of angel hair pasta.

Can't tell where one begins and the other one ends? Us neither.

All this to say is, it's not only in the US that men, if given the choice, will happily run their hands all over their respective significant other in public places.

(Actually, I really just wanted a chance to complain about Russian PDA again.)

And now for something completely different

So, while I'm trying to explain Russian culture, I figured that I might as well show you a couple of things that Russians do somewhat differently than we do. These are just everyday things that you wouldn't really think about, but it's incredible just how different they can be.

1) House keys

In the US, our keys are very simple. We might have a security system on our house, but for the most part, to get in and out of a house, all you need is one of these:

Yes, this is technically a British car key, but it's the closest thing I could find to an actual American-style house key on the internet in Russia.

In Russia, however, they have a different system, which is reflected in the different shape of most of their keys:

Now, the two keys on the right are normal (or relatively normal) to us Americans, but that weird tab on the very left is actually a key as well. Every apartment in Russia has a strange indent next to the front door where you press a tab such as the one on the left in order to get in. (Additionally, you have to push a button in order to get out the door as well.)

Do I know why this is? No. I'm just telling you HOW it is.

2) Student IDs

In the US, with our fondness of all things resembling credit cards (apparently), when we have student cards, what we're referring to is something like this:

Yes, it's a fake drivers license, but the point is still the same: we Americans love shiny plastic cards.

Well, not so in Russia. In Russia, when you're handed your student identification, you're handed something approximately like this:

Because I'm sorry, I'm not putting my name and photo out all over the internet.

It might not be obvious from the picture, but all the student card is is two pieces of cardboard on which they write your personal information (in pen) and glue on a passport-style photo of you. It's much bulkier than an American ID, and much more fragile too-- when I first got mine, the photo fell off that very night, and I had to go and get it reglued.

3) Public Transportation

Now, in the US, if you want to get on a train or on the subway, you have to print out a whole expensive ticket and get it scanned, and the entire process is very costly and time consuming. Yes?

Russia to the rescue!

Russian public transportation is super cheap (comparatively), and very simple to use. The way you use the entire metro system is by using one zheton (жетон) at the security gate before the escalators (this is the coin that must be accepted or else the semi-screechy siren thing will go off). A zheton looks like so:

A simple coin, but one that you have to specifically buy. No specific train. No specific time. And each coin costs around 27 rubles-- a little less than a dollar.

So, now you know three things that Russians do differently than the US. Aren't you nice and cultured?

Another mystery solved!

For those who remember all the trials I've been through with my feet (the airport in Finland, this recent go-around with the high heels), I've run into a lot of issues with finding and buying bandaids. The general lack of bandages was so widely spread that at first it seemed like there was a Bandage League of Evil, whose weekly meetings went something like this:

This is the President of the League, of course

And everyone else at the meeting would respond with,

But actually, I recently found out the reason why Russians don't really sell bandages, and it's the best reason I could've ever imagined: they don't need them.

That's right. There is a piece of magic here that they have in Russia that they don't have in the US.

Now, of course, I don't remember what exactly the name is, but the basic gist is that there's a gel that they sell here in Russia for only 19 rubles each (that's literally 50 cents for an entire tube) that acts both as a disinfectant, a cleanser, AND a bandaid. I could literally see the difference on my blisters within moments of putting on the gel; and the smaller blisters were actually sealed shut within one or two applications of the gel.

Like I said, magic.

The only unfortunate part of this is that they don't have this gel in the US, at least not as far as I know. And by as far as I know, I mean that even though I'm going to be taking back as many tubes as I can get away with in my luggage, there is no way that I'm sharing.

Hide your shame

When I took the metro yesterday, I got on as I usually do, found a spot as I usually do, watched people get in as I usually do, and waited for the door to shut as I usually do. Predictably, the doors slid shut; and then, the moment that both sliding doors were firmly together, a man wearing a giant dufflebag turned around and pulled a strange little gadget out of his pocket, a circular base with four flashlights attached. (It was very strange looking.)

Got to give Russians credit where credit's due: they sure know how to get a captive audience.

Standing in the doorway in the middle of the metro, the man kept yelling at the top of his lungs, shouting about how his little flashlight gadget was so stylish, and how it was so useful, and how you could change the angles of the flashlight and use it to decorate your house. For the most part, everyone, including me, simply pretended that he didn't exist.

After a while, a minute or two before the last stop, the man stopped shouting and shuffled over to the other door, preparing to leave. As he moved out of the way, a man who had been standing on the other side of him stood intently staring at me. I mostly avoided his eyes, or looked at his feet, because I had no idea why he was looking at me; and then, quietly, stealthily, he looked around, reached into his pocket, and pulled out one of the salesman's gadgets, contentedly fiddling with the flashlights as the metro skidded to a stop.

Finally! A solution!

I have finally found the solution to the Russian love of overdramatic PDA: place at least three burly, grouchy, tired policeman on every car of every metro that is carrying people.

Now, I know what you're thinking: wouldn't that be like a police state? A military state? Are you advocating repression?

Well, no. The police don't even have to really be able to arrest people; the only thing, I think, that's important, is that they're there, looking very disgruntled and like they're itching for SOMEONE to get in their way  while they're going home.

The evidence is incontrovertible, after all:

When there were three burly, grouchy, tired policemen standing in our metro car, the couple sitting in front of me was perfectly polite and socially acceptable.

Literally moments after the three aforementioned burly, grouchy, tired policemen left the metro car, the couple went from perfectly reasonable to making out in less than one stop (i.e. three minutes).

I rest my case.

Catching up

So, I have the unique experience of blogging from the kitchen today, simply because I'm alone in the house with my host mom's sister's dog. This dog, I have to say, is incredibly needy; I think it thinks it's a lapdog, which would  make sense because of its size. It's really odd, looking, though: its size is halfway between a pug and a chihuahua, and its face is perpetually frozen with this expression:

No, seriously. Happy:

Sad:

Angry:

That is to say, this dog is like Kristine Stewart, except that unlike her, I'm not entirely sure how it's able to breathe.

Anyway, considering the number of times I've recently mis-punctuated "its" (only caught by a quick read through) and just how many hours of classes in Russian I've had today, I thought I would put up a few anecdotal posts before trudging off to go vegetate.

Subway: Because "Metro, Eat Fresh" just doesn't sound as good

Wanting to blend in for the day, today I wore high heels. The administrative building for the institute I'm attending is only 10 minutes away from my house, after all; and since I didn't have any classes today, I figured that all I'd do is walk over there, sit down, have a nice little Russian lesson, and then cheerfully skip my way home, where I could relax and happily let my feet scream at me from within the confines of my room.

Not so. What I conveniently forgot is that today, we were going to the location of the actual institute; which, contrary to the 10 or 15 minutes I had assumed, was actually over an hour away.

To demonstrate:

That pretty little green A is where we had taken all of our classes thus far, and the farthest I assumed I had to walk. Please take note of the metro, shown here:

So, I arrive only to find all of the exchange students and one of our program coordinators heading out the door when I had mistakenly thought we just had Russian class. We walked another 10 minutes (20 minutes walking now, the total I thought I would walk the entire day in the heels) and then got into the Chkalovskaya Metro Station.

ETIQUETTE TIPS OF THE DAY:

When you use the metro, make sure that the gateway machine has accepted your money. This has less to do with the embarrassment of walking into a solid barrier in front of a large quantity of people, and more to do with the loud semi-siren screeching sound that occurs the exact moment you walk into the solid barrier, ensuring that if people weren't watching you embarrass yourself before, they certainly will afterwards. The surest sign to make sure that you do not embarrass yourself (or go deaf) is to wait for several seconds for the light on the gateway to turn green. Simple, yet surprisingly easy to forget, as evidenced by the siren's going off at least once every two or three times I got on the metro.

Additionally, the next hurdle to not accidentally being rude and announcing to the world that you're a foreigner is placing yourself properly on the escalators down into the metro stations. Now, there are certain times when this doesn't matter-- namely rush hour-- but for the most part, when you get onto the escalator, you want to stay to the farthest-most right that you can manage. People will be running down the left side of the escalator as to get down to the stations faster (why, I don't know-- it's not like the next metro won't be coming in less than five minutes; but I digress), and if you are standing on the left or, God forbid, the middle, people will either angrily squeeze past you or pause and glare. Best way to counteract this? Always stick to the right.

ETIQUETTE TIPS ENDED

Anyway, the subway. The entire class of foreigners huddled onto the escalator after getting through the gate relatively unscathed (with the only exceptions being one big screechy siren and our program coordinator getting called off for a random search), and finally went down to the metro line and prepared to board the metro.

Boarding the metro, by the way, is never a good sign when distances are involved. If something was close, you would walk. If something is relatively close, you endure the bus. And if something is really far away (at least an hour's walk), you take the metro.

I could already tell that what I had previously thought would be my feet screaming was actually going to end in my feet either shrieking in agony or simply going on strike and disappearing.

Anyway, the metro was really, really crowded, and as a result, I ended up standing on the entire metro ride, which was about 45 minutes to an hour. While my feet were vehemently cursing at me, I did find one very interesting thing: somehow, wearing high heels made it so that I fell off-balance far less often than I would have thought. I had been forced to take the metro before (when my host mother and I had to fetch my luggage), but then I had been wearing flats, and I had skidded and careened all over the place. (Note: the metro does not believe in gentle stops.)

Now, however, when I was wearing the high heels, suddenly I didn't even stumble when the metro violently lurched to a stop, and the worst that happened was that I was slightly off-balance and had to lean. (This was very lucky, especially considering that one of the times last time when I was wearing flats and fell off-balance, I accidentally kicked a person behind me in the shin.)

Perhaps there's something more to Russian women wearing high heels than just fashion? Hard to say. However, a full dissection of this question will follow later in this post.

Now, for those who just happened to have never seen the scheme of the metro lines in Saint Petersburg, I shall show you and explain:

 

 To explain this seemingly meaningless clump of lines and Russian-speaking dots, there are five different metro lines in Saint Petersburg: line 1, the red line; line 2, the blue line; line 3, the green line; line 4, the orange line; and line 5, the purple line. Now, I told you to remember the metro station that was circled in red earlier; well, that station was on the purple line, here:

 

 This meant that we had to ride all the way down to the connection station, about three stations' worth (while standing on my screaming though incredibly fashionable and well-balanced feet). At the Sadovaya station (which I will explain in just a moment), we had to make a transfer to the Orange line, so much hustling and two elevators later, we were prepared to get on another metro to our final destination.

A note on Sadovaya: A.K.A. Understanding the Russian Metro:

When taking the metro, it's important to understand that only one line runs through each station, and each track only goes in one direction. This is part of what makes Russian transportation so easy to use, and so confusing at the same time.

Because of this, even if they're all part of the same metro "station", whenever there are converging lines within a metro, they each have their own station. And thus, the station at which we transferred had 3 names: Sadovaya (the name for the purple line); Spasskaya (the name for the orange line); and Sennaya Ploshad (the name for the blue line). You have to make sure to go to the right one, or else you'll be looking for the wrong type of subway going to the wrong place, and it'll be a total mess. Note: I didn't say that it would be an uncorrectable mess; however, it wouldn't be very pleasant.

Back to the narrative:

 Having gotten to Spaskaya, we took the bus for four stops (again with me standing; noticing a theme?) and finally got off at our final destination, where I hoped I would quickly be escorted somewhere where I could sit and let my feet cry in peace.

Why, yes, that is certainly a long route.

Well, at first, it seemed that finally my feet's prayers had been answered: we would now take a shuttle to the Institute, where I could finally sit down and--

And then we found out we were walking. 

Of course, they were kind enough to show us the short route-- a shortcut through the park, which I would've enjoyed more had my feet not threatened to kill me in my sleep with every step-- but even with the short route (and me doing my hobbling best to keep up), it still took twenty minutes walking to get to the Institute. Once there, we stood around for a little while, were generally shown where everything is (it's a very small institute, so there wasn't very much to show), and then... we were done. An hour plus travel time, for fifteen minutes' (maybe) worth of information. As our program coordinator said when he discovered that we didn't actually have class today, "Ah... That's unfortunate."

Uptake from all of this? Beyond the blisters, today was rather fun. I got some rather fun people-watching in, such as:

1. Steampunk is apparently a thing here- there was a guy riding the escalator with a pair of steampunk goggles, which was surprising;
2. It is apparently normal to ride the elevator backwards in order to ensure a good face-to-face  conversation (and more than occasionally making out; but we won't talk about that);
3. It is apparently okay here for men to carry tiny, stylish bags that we in the United States would call purses;
4. Russians will wear fanny packs ANYWHERE except where they're supposed to be worn (including, apparently, on their fannies);
5. Russian women have a far higher pain tolerance and/or dedication to fashion than I do, most likely both, because I saw so many of them wearing stilettos and walking as if they were wearing flats; and
6. Seeing Russian women with cornrows is rather mind-shattering, not going to lie.

As for my feet? Well, I did say I had blisters... lots and lots of blisters. Apparently, band-aids are a bit of a rarity in Russia, so when I actually got some, I ended up dropping more money than you would expect.

Worth it? I think that's still worthy of a debate. While I did fit in, the way I was walking by the end of the day made me stand out like a sore thumb. And while being on balance in the metro is nice, having extreme difficulties walking is much less so. Ultimately, I think killing the nerves in my feet is going to be like any pursuit ultimately worth pursuing: long, tedious, and extremely painful. At least it was finally easy for me to not automatically smile while walking down the street.

Not for Dr. Who fans

I would write so much more about these buildings, except that I have absolutely no idea what they are. If I recall correctly, the following building used to be some kind of hiring market, then got converted to a museum, then went back to being a hiring market:

And I'm guessing that the following building is a church? I'll have to investigate in more detail later.

But here's the section that isn't for Dr. Who fans: what I've been calling Angel's Square.

This building, which surrounds Angel Square, is the longest unbroken building in the world. And now, for the part where Dr. Who fans run in terror:

DON'T LOOK AWAY; DON'T EVEN BLINK

You must've blinked.... It's watching you

But seriously, it's a really cool square. There was so much detail that I can't even imagine how long it took to build. For example, the entire floor of the square is paved like this:

And as you can see, it's a really big square. And a really long building.

Now thinking of it, though, probably shouldn't have turned away from that statute...