ode to sunshine

I hate to admit this, because I wish it wasn’t true, but sometimes I find my mood affected by the weather. The gloom of the grey clouds that have been covering the sky for the better part of every day and the puddles underfoot that soak through my shoes and the wind that chills me right through my heavy coat (and sweater (and second sweater)) — they’ve been the backdrop of the home-to-work-to-home-to-work-to-home snowglobe (although honestly it’s more often a rainglobe recently) I’ve been caught inside for the past two weeks (I was sick in bed last weekend and only left the apartment to go to the grocery store).

The worst way to feel unhappy is to be burdened with the sense that the unhappiness is so oppressive that you can do nothing to get out from underneath it. However, even if I were seriously unhappy here in Krasnoyarsk (if I hated my job, if I had no motivation to get out and explore, if I struggled too much with Russian to walk down the street without tripping and falling) I could go home to New Jersey or another part of America and start fresh.

Luckily things aren’t that bad for me — not even close. Today I woke up slowly to the pitch-black seven-in-the-morning sky, but when the sky grew light earlier than usual I realized that, no, it wasn’t spring already, it was just the first clear morning in a while, and the sunrise lit the sky more than it had in weeks because of the absence of cloud cover. I almost missed the bus, but my sprinting efforts paid off, and somehow the bus never even filled up and I was able to sit down for the entire bumpy trip and stare out the window as morning crept up on Krasnoyarsk. Work seemed fun again like it seemed in August and September, and my classroom, a corner room with big windows, was bathed in bright light. As I paced around the playground, I realized that the deep blue sky and bright sun (so low in the sky, even at noon) had helped me grow positive and optimistic, helped me change my perspective, helped me wipe off my metaphorical glasses and remove the dust and grime that accumulates on them naturally.

krasnoyarsk lookin’ pretty good

Due to a recent schedule change I now work late on Wednesdays in exchange for freedom at 1:30 on Thursdays. So today I took the 1:45 bus downtown and tried my hardest to walk down as many new streets as possible. I sat in the big square outside the Krasnoyarsk State Opera and Ballet Theatre for a half-hour, eavesdropping on people’s conversations in Russian and munching on chocolate-covered sunflower seeds. Clouds eventually rolled in as it neared 4 PM, but I’m going to try to keep this fresh new outlook through all types of weather.

Thanks for the title, Delta Spirit.

little creatures, part 2

Working with the younger kids at the kindergarten, which I started doing eight hours a week about a month ago, has been a very different experience from teaching the older kids. Lessons with the three- and four-year-olds are obviously much shorter, much less structured, and more focused around books and crafts than lessons with five- and six-year-olds. There’s less pressure to actually teach and more pressure to keep the kids inside the classroom, to keep them from throwing toys at each other, and to change their clothes when they don’t make it to the bathroom on time.

Developing relationships with the younger kids has also been a different experience from developing relationships with the older kids, whose two- to three-year advantage really makes a difference in their personalities. I feel a sense of loyalty to my original students, the five- and six-year-olds (especially the six-year-olds, because I teach them more often), so at first I was a little reluctant to open up to a new group of students, especially ones so prone to kicking and drooling.

Last Friday, when I was working with the younger kids in the evening, I noticed that one of my students, L, was sitting quietly alone, looking sad, while everyone else played together. L is generally a quiet student, and before Friday I’d only heard him say about two words, but I decided to approach him.

“I miss my mommy,” L said to me, in Russian.

I’m not supposed to speak Russian with my students, but sometimes I put myself in the position of a child about to cry or a new student who knows no English, and I can’t help but speak Russian if it will comfort someone who feels very uncomfortable.

“I miss my mommy too,” I told L, in Russian. “My mommy lives in America. Did you know that?”

L looked at me. “My mommy lives there,” he said, pointing out the window to a light gray building down the street, which was framed by the orange-purple light of the setting sun. L launched into a monologue of sorts about his parents and the rest of his family, and suddenly I couldn’t get him to stop talking. He didn’t leave my side much for the rest of the evening, and even though he still mentioned missing his mother, the look of sadness was wiped off his face, and he looked much more comfortable in the kindergarten.

I didn’t do anything unique to help L feel better, but I’m glad that I noticed his sadness and initiated a conversation with him. Sometimes it’s easy to overlook the quiet, well behaved students in class because the rowdy kids who yell and run around demand so much attention and energy.

Before L’s mom came to rescue him, he told me he liked me and kissed me on the nose.

meet me on the other side, part 2

More pictures from my trip to Stolby National Nature Reserve. Read my post about the trip (and see more photos) here.

meet me on the other side, part 1

some of the rocks at Stolby

Last Sunday my roommates and I (along with some new Russian friends, who acted as our guides) went to Stolby Natural Nature Reserve, which is located outside Krasnoyarsk. “Stolby” is the plural of the Russian word “stolb,” which means “pillar.” The reserve was given this name because of the giant pillar-like rocks protruding from its mountains, providing unique views of the seemingly endless mountains to hikers (and unique adventures to climbers brave enough to leave the path for the jungle gym of smooth (but well worn-in by previous adventurers) stone (and unique flashes of terror for onlookers (myself included))).

the path starts to get steep

To get to the gigantic nature reserve, we sat on a bus for an hour, crossing the Yenisei River and moving west on the other side. (Delta Spirit reference here.) Then we walked at an easy but noticeable upward incline through a forest for about an hour. Eventually the path sloped so far upward that we grew warm (having bundled up for twenty-degree weather) and struggled to catch our breath while our two seasoned guides sprinted ahead, pausing every so often to wait for us.

see that tall orange building in the distance in the middle of the picture? it’s on the same street as the kindergarten, in akademgorodok

At the highest elevation there was at least an inch of snow on the ground, with a sprinkling balanced on the tops of the rocks like powdered sugar on some sort of gigantic pastry. When we finally reached the first stolb the sun had come out (although it was still freezing) and the views were fantastic. When I looked closely I saw Akademgorodok, a patch of buildings (one tall building the main landmark) in the distant forests of outer Krasnoyarsk, and it was nice to realize that the mountains I see slivers of through my classroom’s windows are part of Stolby, far on the other side of the Yenisei.

The thin layer of crunchy snow underfoot; the birches and various coniferous trees surrounding us; the majestic yet still modest mountains; and the warmth of the wooden lodges at the beginning of the trail provided a slice of Krasnoyarsk that I found particularly inviting. Our friends’ extensive knowledge of the trails was impressive, and I would love to return to Stolby enough (especially in the spring and summer) to know the route as well as they did.

There were plenty of people — young, old, dressed for the weather, under-dressed, over-dressed — hiking in the cold at Stolby last weekend. How lucky these city-dwellers are that a place like this exists so close to home.

up on the hill

Paraskeva Pyatnitsa Chapel, as seen in person and on the ten-ruble note

On Saturday I went to Paraskeva Pyatnitsa Chapel, a landmark in Krasnoyarsk famous for appearing on the ten-ruble note. My roommates were all either working or sleeping when I left, so I set out alone, the sun shining and the temperature climbing into the 50s (Fahrenheit, although I’m beginning to force myself to think in Celsius). For the first time in a month (and likely for the last time in about five months) I wore a light coat, unbuttoned, with a light scarf.

The chapel is located far up on a big hill (or is it a small mountain?) north of the center of the city, and the bus I took wove first through my neighborhood; then across the bridge that casts shadows on train tracks and small homes below; then through downtown; then up one side of the hill and onto a busy street; and then at last off the busy street and onto a quiet, dusty one, lined with more small homes. These homes were made of wood or stone, curtains hanging delicately in the windows and dust sitting in the air filling the yards. As the bus twisted and turned, I stared out the window, grateful to be on a new route seeing new corners of the city.

houses surrounding the bus stop

When I got off the bus I was hit with the smell of something burning nearby and the feeling that nothing looked the way it had looked on Google Maps Street View the night before. I poked around the quiet streets surrounding the bus stop, climbing higher up the hill and then descending again, at last reaching the grassy slope of the hill that faces downtown below and the river beyond it and the mountains on the other side. The houses on this street were bigger and newer. I followed the road as it wove along the side of the hill, eventually finding the chapel.

i like this picture because it shows the hill, a bit of downtown, a tiny bit of the mountains, and a bit of everything else

Suddenly it wasn’t sunny anymore. The temperature dropped as a light drizzle began to fall and a strong wind whipped across the top of the hill. I shivered as I took in the views of the city below: the dark blue-gray clouds framing the sky, interrupted by patches of light where the sun poked through over the distant mountains; the traditionally unattractive but undeniably compelling buildings of the city; the Yenisei river, flowing indifferently (or majestically, maybe (which aren’t usually words I mix up, but I’m really not sure)).

I followed the same road back to the busy street the bus had gone up, but instead of taking the bus back down, I walked, lowering myself back into the center of the city slowly, like a child lowering herself into a cold pool, eventually acclimating myself to the sights and sounds and letting them cover me, wondering how any other surroundings (be they the dry air outside a pool or the narrow deserted streets up on the hill (slight Steely Dan reference here)) could have ever felt comfortable.

harry potter

Last week was difficult. Work shifted from difficult to stressful, and my experiences on public transportation were anything but smooth. On Wednesday I had planned on going to a grocery store near my apartment, but when the bus from work filled up to the brim I couldn’t gather the energy to push my way out of the corner of the bus (I find this more stressful than I should, but it is difficult) at the bus stop in front of the store, so I just got off at the next stop, the stop closer to my house, where it’s usually easier to exit because it’s a popular destination and transfer point.

I crossed the street, mentally punishing myself for always choosing the easy way out at the expense of the things I really want to do. On the other side of the street, I saw a woman standing behind a long table covered with books. I’d seen her the week before, and I’d noticed that she was selling a used version of Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix (in Russian, of course). The week before I’d wanted to at least ask how much the book cost (if not buy it) but I made up excuses (my bag isn’t big enough, I don’t need it, it’s heavy so how will I take it back to America with me) to cover up the real reason I just stood there waiting for the bus instead of buying the book: I was too nervous or lazy or tired to speak Russian, and I was too stuck inside my own bubble to speak to anyone, be it in English or Russian.

So a week later I had a decision to make: ignore the book again and turn right and go home; turn left, walk past the book, eye it greedily, and then go home; or turn left, approach the woman, and ask her how much the book cost.

Eager for a reason to stop mentally kicking myself, I chose the last option. Everything went smoothly, and I bought the book for 50 rubles (about $1.50). As the woman handed me my change, she pointed out some other young-adult books she was selling. I thanked her, telling her I’m learning Russian and I need to start with easy books.

All of a sudden, a woman (who I hadn’t even realized was standing next to me), turned to me. “Where are you from?” she asked kindly but but with a touch of abruptness, in Russian. “New York,” I answered, which is of course not true, but it’s much easier than trying to describe the small town in New Jersey where I’m from. (I usually save that description for conversations that last for longer than ten minutes. (Spoiler: this conversation got to that point, and I attempted the description.))

by the way, it’s cold here now

The woman appeared to be somewhere in her 60s, and she was dressed in a long, elegant winter coat and a style of hat that half of Krasnoyarsk (or maybe just everyone over 50) seems to own. Her eyes were energetic behind thick lenses as she launched into a full monologue — she thought she was very lucky to have met me (repeatedly calling me a “podarok,” or gift) and wants to show me traditional Russian classical music. She asked me about my work, about myself, and about how to pronounce “Florida.” She didn’t let go of my arm for the duration of the conversation, taking my phone number and sending me on my way infinitely happier than I’d been when I got off the bus (and infinitely happier than I would have been if I’d gone to the supermarket).

I probably won’t be able to take the heavy book home with me, so I think I’ll leave it here before I leave next year.

under the sea

I just shed my first tears of homesickness since landing in Krasnoyarsk almost two months ago. (I swore to myself that I would never write a sentence like that in this blog, but, hey, I also swore to myself that I would never shed a single tear of homesickness. (I also swore to myself that I would never write a blog. Moral of the story: Do not swear to yourself.))

In general, I cry pretty often, and more easily than most people over the age of six. Still, something has been keeping me from crying too much in the past two months. (Dear family and friends: That doesn’t mean I don’t miss you! (Because I do (sorely).)) Last week, however, I was stressed about work and broke down crying while sitting on the floor in the hallway, putting on my socks. My roommates came out from the kitchen and we talked about things and had a group hug and I felt better in the morning. In an effort to keep my feelings feeling better, I went for a walk between shifts at work. I pushed at some of the boundaries I ran into last month, putting together some of the puzzle-like pieces of the map of Krasnoyarsk inside my head. Light, misty rain fell as the sun shone and buses and cars splashed through huge, muddy puddles left behind from the previous night’s downpour. My shoes and socks got soaked, but I felt alright.

Every morning before lessons I lead “morning exercises” for the kids, which involves simple stretching, jumping, and running, set to music. One of the songs on the flash drive handed to me on the day I took over morning-exercise duty from my coworker is “Under the Sea,” from the Little Mermaid. I was never a Disney kid, so I have no fond memories of watching this movie as a child, but hearing this catchy song during my first month of morning exercises made me wish I did. As I was walking around last week, recovering from the stress-induced tears, “Under the Sea” popped into my head, and I felt that uncontrollable surge of good emotions sometimes brought on by listening to music; the song made me feel like everything would be okay.

Today I was relaxing and listening to Andrew Bird, when all of a sudden I felt that uncontrollable surge of not-bad-but-not-entirely-good-and-definitely-very-nostalgic emotions sometimes brought on by listening to music. I was browsing old pictures and came across one from last April, in which I’m standing around with some friends from school, my pants cuffed at the bottom so a bit of my ankle is showing above my shoes, and, wow, I forgot that I used to wear my pants like that, and I forgot about those shoes, I threw them out at the end of the school year — and then that feeling of not-bad-but-not-entirely-good-and-definitely-very-nostalgic emotion deepened, and I covered my face with my hands and thought about being home and shed exactly two tears.

One of the women I work with has started playing a song called “Clean Up” when — you guessed it — the kids clean up after a lesson or playtime. Even the students most reluctant to speak English sing along of their own accord: “Clean up, clean up, everybody let’s clean up!” It’s incredible how easily the kids learn and repeat phrases when they’re song lyrics. Music is sneaky indeed, meddling with our emotions and our learning habits.

i don’t wanna spoil the party (but we really should go)

I have enjoyed almost all of my visits to restaurants in Krasnoyarsk. Trying new food is fun, and practicing Russian with the waitresses and waiters is a good challenge. Last weekend, on my birthday, we ate at a restaurant with a bar (the kind of restaurant with a bar that becomes a bar with a restaurant after 9 PM) on Friday night. We got there around 10 PM and stayed for over two hours.

A large group of people in their twenties or thirties occupied the table behind us the whole time we were there. The people in this group were clearly celebrating something (even if just the beginning of the weekend), because they barely stopped ordering food and drinks (mostly drinks) the whole night. The diners lounged in their chairs, the smoke from their cigarettes hovering over the table, which was covered with salads and platters and pitchers and glasses. Their waiter kept bringing platters of full shot glasses, returning to the kitchen each time with the empty glasses stacked elegantly in his hands. Everything seemed very extravagant.

I won’t pretend that this group of people can only be found in Russia (because I think they can be found almost anywhere), but within the context of restaurants in Russia (where waitress and waiters give diners plenty of space while eating — no “can I take this plate away?” that comes awkwardly early, no “can I get you anything else?” when people may or may not have decided yet (instead, only short-and-sweet(-or-not-so-sweet)-and-to-the-point statements of confirmation)– and where it seems to always be acceptable for diners to linger (in a bar or otherwise), asking for the check whenever they’re ready) they left an impression on me.

Then, a week later (so last night), we found ourselves at the same restaurant again, this time with an acquaintance of a friend — a very, well, generous acquaintance of a friend, who racked up a $210 bill, sweeping us, wide-eyed, into the same type of celebration I’d seen on my birthday (but with what I’m sure were many more inappropriate comments (rude, sexist, homophobic — you name ’em)). Discomfort led us, full of herring and onion and some murky (and vile) brown drink, to the door. It was a strange taste of what I saw last week, and I don’t think we’ll be calling this acquaintance anymore. (Luckily, we have met plenty of nice people lately to balance things out.)

Title courtesy of the Beatles. Good thing we left when we did.

birthnight

Last Friday (my birthday) after work, Jasmine and I made our way downtown to Matt’s school, where he was hosting a meeting for his school’s “English Club.” There were lots of students at last week’s meeting, and we played telephone and mad libs, and the students (mostly adults, but there was one teenager) practiced their English. This week, however, there were only four students at the meeting: three women, who didn’t speak much English, and one man, who was fluent.

Instead of playing games, we took advantage of the small size of the group and just talked. Matt led the conversation at first, turning to me, Jasmine, and the man who spoke fluent English for help with translations from time to time. After some time, though, he invited me to sit in the chair in the center of the room and speak with the three women. This was a bit of a challenge, but I adjusted the speed of my speech when necessary, finding a rhythm the women could understand, and I quickly felt very comfortable leading the conversation. (Picking up on the speed different students of English need in class or conversation is getting easier.) I enjoyed answering the women’s questions about my experiences in Krasnoyarsk and my life in America. (I gotta say, though, the question “why Krasnoyarsk!?” is getting a bit tiring to answer.)

Matt’s school has an interesting feel to it. It’s just a bunch of small, narrow classrooms on two different parts of the third floor of a building downtown, but it feels cozy. It seems very informal after spending eight hours in the shiny, new kindergarten, but somehow I find both schools equally inviting.

After the meeting, Jasmine, Matt, and I went for a late dinner at a restaurant recommended to us by a coworker at the kindergarten. We really liked it there, staying until 2 AM, eating and drinking and people-watching (more about that later) the entire time.