DAY ONE in Russia.
Things started off great, they really did. I left the plane in an awestruck stupor, unable to believe that this was finally happening. Everyone else clambered off in a hurry, but I just strolled leisurely down the corridor, taking in the views outside the windows: a field, some planes, old industrial buildings. All shrouded in a rainy mist. Far from particularly interesting, to be sure—but they were Russian. I was in Russia. Ya v Rossii!
Now I was super excited for what lay in store for me—I’d go through customs, get my baggage, and meet the professor who’d so graciously arranged for all of this to work. (Turns out some of your linguistics professors are bound to have close friends in St. Petersburg.) I’d also be meeting the son of the dean of the college, a student named Viktor whose English I would be working with him to improve. (Though maybe if I write sentences like that he’d be better off with someone else.) Then we’d be off to the dorm I’d be living in, and they’d take me on the metro and show me around the city!
Things, however, were not going to be that simple. Thankfully, I got through the passport/visa control without the slightest bit of fuss (unlike when I was coming back into the US from CANADA and was INTERROGATED for an HOUR but I’ll get to that some other time). I managed to make it to the right baggage claim without ending up three terminals away like I did once in Houston. My luggage, on the other hand... did not. And as it turned out, it was much further than three terminals away.
I was standing there for a while. To be fair, my first bag—my carry-on suitcase they had just force-checked on the previous flight due to the small capacity—took a while to come out. No big deal. But then I waited. And waited. And I waited some more. And then the light switched off and the sign read “COMPLETE” and I knew I was screwed.
Thus, horrifying revelation of the day #1.
I sighed and looked around me. There were definitely some other passengers waiting around for their luggage too, and theirs didn’t seem to be any of the ones available on the sad little merry-go-round.
This doesn’t actually happen, does it? I thought, and went up to one of the airport employees standing off on the side to ask what to do in Russian. I have no idea what she said, but she pointed over at a counter that said BAGGAGE INQUIRIES, so I decided that it would probably be a good idea to go over there.
There were already a fair amount of other people there, and from what I could tell, they all seemed to have been waiting on the same baggage claim—and thus, presumably, from my flight. Interesting. I was at least heartened a bit to know that I wasn’t the only one affected. Perhaps that meant they’d find our luggage faster?
I shook my head and thought about what it would mean if I didn’t get it back for several days. All of my clothes were in there. And all my toiletries—toothpaste, comb, shampoo, et cetera. I should have listened to my dad when he told me to always have an extra pair of clothes or two in your carry-on in case of something like this; literally all I had in my carry-on suitcase were sweatpants, four pairs of shoes and a Kit Kat bar. Give me a break. I’d have to be hella creative to come up with a new outfit from that. At least all of my important books and electronics were safe and sound in my backpack.
I was pulled out of my thoughts by the welcoming sounds of English—two people appearing to be mother and daughter had come behind me in the line, talking to each other along the lines of “not again” in thick Southern accents.
“Excuse me—were y’all also on the FinnAir flight from Helsinki?”
“Yes!” they exclaimed exasperatedly, nearly in unison. “I think we all were!” added the younger one, who seemed to be around my age.
“Were you also on the one from JFK?” asked the mother.
“Wait, actually, yeah!”
“Mm-hmm, well,” she said, “I think what with our short layover time they didn’t end up transferring our bags over in time. Happened to us before, too.”
“Yeah, and there are four giant pages of paperwork you have to fill out and it takes forever,” added the daughter.
“Oh—you’ve been here before?”
And so began our long conversation while waiting in line. Apparently they were from Tennessee, though they also had roots in Texas, and they had been to Russia a few times to visit friends they’d met at a homeschooling conference there (hearing the word “homeschool” with a Southern accent always sets off red flags in my head). Rachel and Linda (guess which was the mother’s name) and I talked about a variety of things over the next hour—travel experiences, learning Russian, and, of course, Texas—as we waited for the literally four people ahead of us, two-at-a-time, to be done registering their lost bags. They were super nice and fun to talk to, and I was thankful for the company on such a dreary task.
They also had the great idea of using a stranger’s phone to contact the people outside who were waiting for them (with the stranger’s permission, of course). This reminded me that my host professor, Olga, was probably fairly worried by then and that I should also probably find some method of getting into contact with her. So I asked the same poor dude right as he was putting his phone away if I could use it too. Olga answered immediately and sounded utterly frantic, which terrified me at the time, but I’ve since learned that she basically always sounds like that on the phone.
After that call, it was another half-hour until it was my turn to fill out the forms. Thankfully, apparently the rules had changed to where there was only one page to fill out, and it wasn’t even that bad, though it was made way more time-consuming due to lots of random little steps the woman had to do along the way (clarification: not dance steps; that would be awesome). Eventually I took a slip of paper to a customs agent, got it signed, brought it back to the woman, and I was done. Rachel had us all pose for a Polaroid photograph together, and I was on my way.
I basically just walked out of customs without declaring anything and made my way over to the Starbucks where Olga said she’d be waiting. Somehow I was able to recognize her from the photos she had sent me, and she awkwardly greeted me with a half-bow that I think was an attempted nod as I apologized profusely.
“Come, come—Viktor, son of dean, will pick us up now!”
I really don’t know how to describe Olga other than endearingly awkward and adorable. In all of her interactions with strangers, she bears the same bashful half-smile, like a toddler hiding between her mother’s legs in front of unfamiliar adults. She does that polite nod-aka-bow all the time if she’s saying yes politely or greeting someone, and nods vigorously in more familiar situations. She’s also overwhelmingly kind and caring—I honestly can’t believe she’s paying this much attention to my welfare and going to these great lengths to help me out, and in a very grandmotherly way she was also firmly against my taking a cold shower due to perhaps “getting cold” (which, after extensive confusion, I decided meant “catching a cold”). She does not speak English quite as fluently as I had been expecting, but it’s still very good and infinitely better than my Russian, which is how we try to communicate unless it’s about something logistical and important.
But as I was taking all this in about her, we walked out of the airport to a small car pick-up area that reminded me quite a bit of the airport in Monterrey. There wasn’t too much to see in the immediate surroundings of the place: more expansive vaguely green fields peppered with small industrial buildings, the twists and turns of roads, and the occasional tree. But after maybe ten seconds, Viktor’s car blazed in and came to a sudden stop right in front of us in a way that I was surprised didn’t make some sort of tire-squealing sound. He opened his trunk and swiftly got out to introduce himself.
“Hello! I’m Viktor,” he said, holding out his hand. He looked to be maybe slightly older than me, dressed well to match his fairly nice car—Olga had mentioned his family had a lot of wealth. His accent was also fairly British sounding, still clearly Russian but not in a way that I would call thickly accented. “Pleasure to meet you,” he continued.
I shook his hand. “Ochen priyatna,” I replied, wanting to keep things in Russian as much as possible. He laughed good-naturedly and grabbed my lonely suitcase to put in the trunk. Olga went ahead and got in the backseat as I (very characteristically) hesitated about which seat I should take (and it wasn’t even the right day of the week for such a conundrum, dammit).
“Go ahead and get in the front!” he called as he got in, so I opened the door and sat myself down, putting my backpack on the ground in front of me. ‘Go ahead’? How was I supposed to tutor his English if he was already this good?
But before I could finish that thought, he had gunned the accelerator and we shot out of the airport.
I should be clear that most Russians definitely do not drive the way Viktor does. Perhaps it’s the case with most of the rich, privileged kids there—or maybe it’s just him; I don’t know. But whatever the case, he drove insanely: we were constantly speeding up or slowing down, weaving our way around cars on one-lane roads or gunning ahead of other cars at exits and mergings. But it was clear that he wasn’t just crazy—he had serious skills. He executed all of his moves with the utmost confidence, as if it were no big deal, all while engaging in conversation with us, and bizarrely, I wasn’t the least bit worried the entire time, even despite the rain. We passed through highways and watched as more fields and industrial buildings went by, getting closer to the city, and again, even if it wasn’t exactly the most interesting scenery, I was mesmerised.
Apparently he was 24 and studying in some program at a university in China—in fact, he was about to head back there for a week or two for graduation. He’d learned English because his father had hired private tutors for him from a young age, but it had now been a while and he was a bit rusty (or so he said; I managed to detect very little rustiness). Since I was technically to be his tutor, Olga told me to speak in English to him and to correct any mistake he made, but I think I corrected him like once on this weird preposition or something.
We were heading to my dorm. Apparently it was newly remodeled, Olga was telling me, and she was able to get me a room to myself, thank god! I was so excited—I’d get to live in a nice building on the university’s campus, prepare meals in their kitchen, meet and befriend lots of students, et cetera. I wasn’t even too worried about the bag; it seemed to be just an hour’s flight away, so hopefully they’d just deliver it later that night. I couldn’t wait to see the dorm.
And then we got there.
Cue horrifying revelation of the day #2.
Let’s just say that if this is the “after”, I really don’t wanna see the “before”. Fifteen stories of pure concrete and grey brick, discolored and cracked and looking like its builders had trouble understanding what was with all the fuss about right angles anyway. Not exactly a place calling to me to live inside of it. (Apparently it’s photogenic though; trust me, it looks much worse irl.) Not to mention, we seemed to be in the middle of an industrial wasteland—there were at least four other buildings surrounding it that looked exactly the same but in even worse condition, and other shabby residential highrises, warehouses and car dealerships populated the rest of the developed land as far as I could see.
We pulled into the lot and parked silently. I couldn’t tell if Olga and Viktor were as shocked as I was. Maybe it was just remodeled inside? But upon walking in, that was clearly not the case—old cracked linoleum titles met us up the stairs, rusty turnstiles beside the babushkas’ security gate on the inside. Olga talked to them ('babushka' means ‘grandma’ but also refers to the guards, usually older women, at traditional dormitories) and gave me some special documents to prove I was a resident there. Then the three of us went up to my room. The fifteenth floor. Hell yeah. At least I still had some luck?
Cue a minute and a half in one of the slowest (and tiniest) elevators I’ve ever been in. (Only one that beats it is the one in Walker Memorial. Never been in it? It's a wild ride, let me tell ya.)
When the doors opened, we weren’t even blessed with linoleum anymore—the floors were literally bare concrete, and there were no furnishings but for a dusty pool table that lay in front of us looking like it hadn’t been played in years as well as some dirty-looking old couches around it. Well then. At least East Campus has culture.
“Block B,” said Olga, pointing to an opening in one of the corners that led to a long hallway. Ah, we got our linoleum back. The key was waiting for us in the door, number 6. Viktor went ahead and opened it.
I was actually surprised at this point by how nice the room was in comparison to everything else—the beigey off-white of the walls was rather unappealing, but at least it was also un-peeling, and the wooden furniture was all in good condition—two small beds, two nightstands, two dresser-type things, a desk and a wardrobe. The two chairs had seen better days, but after seeing the rest of this place, I was definitely not going to complain at that point. Plus, I got a balcony. We ventured out upon it briefly, and despite the industrial surroundings it was actually quite a nice view.
Still, I couldn’t help but feel bitterly disappointed. I was tired as hell—I’d been awake for about 24 hours by that point, and I hadn’t exactly gotten a whole lot of sleep the week prior—but finding out that the dorm was in this condition, had no kitchen, had little opportunity for social interaction (I hadn’t seen hide nor hair of anyone else on the floor), and was 45 minutes away from campus ran very against my expectations. Which I knew I had been stupid to think, but it still wasn’t a fun moment.
The fun wasn’t over though, because that’s when we tried to switch out the SIM card on my phone with the one Olga got me only to find that it was locked by the carrier. And not only that, but there was no wifi in the entire dorm, either. Revelation #3: I had absolutely no way to contact or communicate with anyone. This was when I started kinda freaking out.
Thankfully, Viktor let me use a wifi hotspot from his phone to let people know I’d made it in okay and to ask my mom to call our phone company to unlock my phone, but what with the time zone difference everyone was still asleep anyway. At this point, between exhaustion, frustration, loneliness and the prospect of having to live in this place for five weeks without Internet or a phone, I was basically on the verge of tears, though I chose not to make this information known to my company. This was really not how I had been expecting things to go.
I was also starving, as apparently were they, so we proceeded to go to a nearby restaurant called Bosfor (like the Turkish strait) that turned out to actually technically be attached to my dorm’s building. It was completely empty inside, but a woman came out to serve us and gave us menus. Now, if you’d have asked me whether I could understand a Russian restaurant menu, I’d have confidently replied to the affirmative. However, let it be noted that the answer is actually a definitive “nope”. Olga and Viktor helped explain things, though, and they also insisted on introducing me to the staff so that they'd know me and understand that I didn't speak Russian well. (I felt vaguely insulted at the time at the thought that I couldn't fend for myself, but honestly, I was kidding myself to think otherwise.) They ended up ordering me some kind of Georgian dish that I didn't much like as well as some stuffed pork that was at least pretty good. We made small talk as the wait and then the meal dragged on, and due to my state of mind I can't even imagine how boring and uninteresting I must have been. Oh, and did I mention that basically the entire past twenty-four hours my nose had been running nonstop like Shalane Flanagan? So I had to continually excuse myself to the bathroom every five minutes to blow my nose raw, which I'm sure is fantastic for first impressions. (Honestly, I’m just glad this has somehow never happened to me on a date.)
I was still connected to Viktor’s hotspot, so eventually my mom got back to me, but she said AT&T’s customer support office was still closed. I sighed. But at least it'd just be a couple more hours until I had signal here, right? They had told us to do this before arriving in Russia, and I was stupid for having forgotten about it, but surely it wouldn't matter whether I was already there or not so long as there was someone on our phone plan able to contact them.
After lunch, though (or whatever the frapth meal this was for me), Viktor announced he had to leave, which was unwelcome news not only because he was cool but also because I wouldn't have access to his hotspot anymore, and any free wifi in Russia apparently generally works such that you need a Russian SIM card to be able to connect to it. He dropped me and Olga off at the local Metro stop, Avtovo, where we were to meet one of Olga’s students, Dasha, who would then show me about how public transportation worked. What I hadn't realized though was that Olga was also going to leave, meaning it would just be very sad, half-asleep me and this poor random girl tasked with babysitting me for a day. And things were certainly going to get awkward. Revelation #4.
Dasha met us at the entrance to the metro station, waving hi to Olga and then introducing herself to me. I didn’t think twice about her pink hair at the time because, ya know, I’ve lived in East Campus for four years, but in retrospect she is one of a whopping total of two people that I’ve seen with unnaturally-colored during hair my entire time here, so I think that’s gotta count for something. Olga left basically immediately after that, only telling us not to go to the city center today like we’d planned since there were student protests and that instead she should just show me how to take a bus to my dorm from that metro stop and then help me get groceries. Great, now I wouldn’t even get to see the cool stuff today; just more of this industrial wasteland.
At first, Dasha asked a couple of small-talk questions in English as she tried to find out which bus to take/where it would pick us up. We darted around as she looked at her phone, leading us to do several 180s and even cross the street and then back. I tried to answer her questions in Russian, except for more complicated things, like trying to explain my suitcase situation. Despite my exhaustion and mood, I tried to be personable and interesting, I really did; I felt bad she had been charged with the task of looking after me. But she didn’t seem to understand any jokes I was making, and she kept asking me to repeat everything I said, regardless of which language it was in. I took it her English wasn’t much better than my Russian.
But eventually she said, “Okay, you know what, let’s go for a walk in city center and I can show you around, okay?”
“Um, but, Olga nam skazala shto—”
She scrunched up her face and waved away Olga’s warning. “It’s fine. The protests are ended all now anyway, and you need to get an idea of the real city!”
And so we went into the city. This is when things finally started to get better.
We walked inside the Metro station and I got to use my new Olga-provided card for the first time, making my way down the curved staircase. Once we made it down to the platform, I was blown away by the stark contrast: Avtovo is actually amazing, and apparently is often cited as one of the most beautiful metro stations in the world.
Dasha showed me the route to the main and best-known part of the city: Nevskii Prospekt, a street around which was gathered most of St. Petersburg’s main attractions. Just four stops on the Red Line and two on the Blue. The Metro actually reminded me quite a lot of the T, I think simply perhaps because the T was the best metro system I’d ever been on, and this was even better—cheaper, cleaner, and yes, even less screechy. Just a lot more crowded is the only bad thing.
Eventually we made it to Nevskii Prospekt. Now I was pretty excited. I think between the misty rain and my tiredness, everything just kinda seemed dreamlike at that point, so I wasn’t really truly able to appreciate the beauty when we walked out of the station. But I definitely appreciated it to some extent—even if I was still miserable. (I’ll go over all the cool sights here in a later email, but let me just say that the area is amazing.)
And so we started walking around, down the prospekt, to the Hermitage, the waterfront, and more. I don’t know when she decided that she actually did speak English well, but we ended up speaking this really nice mix of the two languages—Russlish?—that allowed us to communicate effectively while also letting me practice my Russian skills optimally. It was awesome, and we actually ended up having really nice conversation by that point. But I was definitely not fully there, tired as I was, and I found myself having to apologize on several occasions for being so tired.
“Ty hochesh kofe?” she asked for the fifth time. Do you want coffee?
I don’t drink coffee, I was going to answer for the fifth time, but then my mouth said, “Sure.”
To clarify: after the fourth time she’d asked, I started thinking about why that was the case. I mean, I didn’t like the flavor, first and foremost. It also wasn’t a very healthy habit, and I absolutely did not ever want to be caffeine-dependent. But then I recalled several conversations with fellow non-coffee drinkers in which they said that they could use their caffeine nondependency to their advantage by drinking only it when they really needed it and thus getting the most out of it. I had told myself that I would do that too if ever necessary. And hell, if today’s circumstances didn’t warrant it, I didn’t know what would.
And so I had my fifth horrifying revelation of the day: coffee works. WHEEEEEEEEEEEEE
Okay, so I wasn’t like flying all around the room like I’m sure I’d do on a normal day, but it definitely took me to the highest hyperactive state available to me at the time—meaning, basically, skipping across the crosswalks, bobbing my head to imaginary music, and jumping up and down whenever we stood still for more than a couple of seconds (i.e. me every other day). I’m sure Dasha was thrilled.
But that’s when, in a moment of downtime, I connected to Dasha’s hotspot and found a text from my mom saying AT&T had denied the request to unlock my phone due to our still being on a contract with them. Which okay, I could kinda get. BUT I WAS LITERALLY IN A COUNTRY WHERE THEY DIDN’T EVEN EXIST. What the hell else was I supposed to do?? It wasn’t my fault they didn’t serve Russia!!
Number six. Cue my freaking out again.
But Dasha, as Olga had mentioned to me beforehand, was a very practical person, and she had a very practical solution: buy a cheap Russian phone and use its data to fuel a hotspot for my iPhone and computer. Which, of course, had already been suggested to me, but then she actually took me to a phone store, and there I discovered you can get a smartphone (well, okay, vaguely intelligent phone) for just $50, and two SIM cards with dozens of gigs of data for like $5 more total. Holy frap. Crisis averted!
From there, we walked around a bit more and then headed back toward my dorm. She helped me catch a bus from Avtovo, took me to the grocery store across the street (called Okei) to get a giant tub of water, and then we went our separate ways. As I approached the dorm, a nice atmosphere had descended over the street. People were out and about, walking to and from their apartments high in the sky. The streets and buildings all looked a little friendlier. I felt a warm familiar buzz from my pocket. Maybe this wasn’t gonna be so bad after all.