Friday, December 30, 2005

There's no place like Piter.

I wrote this two and a half weeks ago:

This morning I was halfway to the Nevskii Prospekt station on the metro when my iPod, set on “Shuffle,” started playing Weezer’s “Surf Wax America.” Wedged as I was between a fur-coat-wearing middle-aged woman and a sketchy-looking army guy, the song—and surfing in general—seemed so foreign to me that it was all I could do not to crack up.

And this:

My babushka never ceases to amaze me. I was telling her about how my music class listened to Shostakovich’s 5th symphony, and she started talking about Shostakovich, who, as it turns out, she remembered as being “very modest, but very talented” when she knew him as a piano player.

And this:

My final meeting with Marina was a visit to the English class that she teaches, where I got to sit and look awkward and answer ninth graders’ questions about America. My favorite was this one girl who asked if Americans “take mushrooms in the woods.” What she meant, of course: do Americans, like Russians, go out into the woods to pick mushrooms? I answered that I didn’t know anyone who does so, but I’m sure it happens. Towards the end of the class Marina let the students ask questions in their native language. That same girl: “What kinds of mushrooms do they have in America?”

Now that I'm home it's almost like I have to struggle to hold onto those memories, to that mentality I had in Russia. Already the whole experience is starting to seem less and less like a part of me and more and more like a well of stories from which I will be drawing for a good long while. And I know that's normal, but it's also really depressing.
Part of it, I know, is the sensation of being home for winter break, which, despite my having been abroad, is the same it's always been. Same old town, give or take a sushi restaurant or two. Same old attempting to get caught up on what's been going on with my high school friends, leading to the same old kicking myself for not being better about keeping in touch. And that same old combination of familiarity and weirdness so eloquently immortalized and set to a faux-indie soundtrack in Garden State.
On the bright side, I spoke to Natasha, my host mom, today. The conversation reminded me that, yes, I really was in St. Petersburg and all my memories from there are of things that really happened to me, personally. It also reminded me of just how much I miss it there, especially when Aleksandra, the babushka, tried to talk to me and couldn't hear my voice through the telephone.
Finally, it reminded me that I need to actively work on keeping my Russian sharp. Two weeks out of Russia and already I've forgotten about vowel reduction and the proper use of imperfective aspect. Look for me in Russian L.A., soliciting grammar advice from grocery store clerks.

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