Howdy ho, y'all! And for that matter, HAPPY HALLOWEEN!
Hope you enjoyed the fancy colors. Anyway, this is gonna be a wee bit short since I still have to pack for my 12-day adventure to Moscow, Kiev, and Finland, but I figured that I'd get in the spirit with one last post before I embark on my snowy journey through one of the most questionable Russian airlines of all time. So let's get this party started with one of the strangest and most disturbing concepts of the Russian culture:
Baba Yaga (баба яга)
Now, don't go thinking that this is just some old lady in a pink track suit who can throw a really crazy party, cause this is what she looks like:
Also resembles my flirty face
Now that I've got your attention (maybe,) let me tell you a little bit about this looker. I like to believe that we all have a little bit of Baba Yaga in us, but maybe that's just my bitterness about life acting up. Basically, Baba Yaga is a very old woman who lives in a house with hen feet in the middle of the woods. When it's not doing some sort of special chicken dance, the house is surrounded by a fence made of human bones, poles with skulls on them, servants, and men riding on horses. If a passer-by asks about the riders, she will gladly explain them; if the passer-by asks about the servants, she kills him. No explanation exists as to why this is. When she's not in her chicken house, she's flying around on a giant mortar (yes, as in mortar and pestle. Because who wouldn't choose that as their primary source of transportation,) kidnapping and eating bad children. In the past (and maybe even now,) Baba Yaga was used by Russian parents to prevent their children from becoming little hooligans. So in other words, she's like the Russian Santa Claus, except your reward for being on the nice list is that you get to live.
She's climbin' in your windows, she's snatchin' your people up
If you would like to learn more, you can find the poorly-translated legend here.
Happy Halloween, everyone! Sorry again about the pitiful length.
Well, here I am again, sipping away at some Russian "coffee" at a cafe where the lights have just been dimmed and a mullet-clad waiter is setting romantic candles on the table. It's okay. Who needs romance when you have Mama Masha waiting for you in the nude?
Let me tell you a little bit about how that came to be. So, the other day, I waddled in the door after a day of Russian Adventures. As I am a growing girl, I was famished, so I decided to go and ask Mama Masha if she could start dinner.
So, I go into the family room where she's watching TV, thinking that nothing would be especially out of the norm. Because it's the family room, right? And unless you're a nudist clan, you'd probably be inclined to keep your clothes on in the family room. At least, that was my thought process.
Nope.
I walk into the family room to see Mama Masha spread out starfish-style on the sofa, staring at the ceiling with a contemplative look on her face, like she's really thinking about something. Also, there is not a single piece of clothing on that woman--she might as well have been one of Jack's French girls. Hearing me come in, she turned her head, and we made eye contact. After several very uncomfortable seconds in which no words were exchanged, I booked it out of that room as fast as my small feet could take me. And that was my Saturday night.
In case you don’t know what Mama Masha looks like, just
picture your grandmother in a wig plus twenty pounds. Also without clothes.
Anyway, now that I have placed that image in your head, let’s move onto a
subject that has remained very near and dear to my heart since my first days
out of the womb:
FOOD!!!!!!
I know this has already been used, but I figured that it could pretty easily be applied.
Before I got here, I was planning to let the creativity pour
and do “A Week in the (Russian Food) Life of Alyssa Lindley,” but that dream
was quickly snuffed out when I discovered that most of Mama Masha’s meals
consist of nothing but cabbage and hot dogs. So instead, I will create a blog
post dedicated to “An (Imaginary) Week in the (Russian Food) Life of Alyssa
Lindley,” in which I can fulfill my long-running fantasies concerning an
all-you-can-eat blini buffet and dancing men in tights. So, without any further
ado, let’s get this party started.
Monday
Breakfast: We
will kick the week off with some kasha (каша,) which is basically like oatmeal
but better. As my eating habits resemble those of Paula Dean, I tend to (and by
‘tend to’ I mean ‘only’) eat it with butter and sugar. (On a side note,
Russians LOVE butter. Aside from the happiness and diabetes, Paula Dean has
everything it takes to be a top-notch Russian.) If you’re one of those crazy
kids who’s too cool to stay in one place for too long, you better make kasha
your new BFF, because there are about nine varieties. And I’m not talking
flavors—I mean varieties. The oatmeal-like consistency of kasha has proved to
be optimal for me, as it slides easily down my throat and allows for me to eat
it with two spoons at once while Mama Masha continues to pour more into my
bowl.
Who wouldn't be able to resist this?
Lunch: It’s time
for buterbrod (бутерброд,) y’all! Buterbrod technically means sandwich, but if you have a
steady relationship with your triple-deck provolone and roast beef sub with
extra mayo and pickles, don’t come to Russia, since a Slavic sandwich generally
consists of a slice of bread, cheese, maybe ham, and, of course, dill. In my
time here, I have grown to become one with the buterbrods and now eat them on a
daily basis. Last Friday, as I was in a bit o’a’funk, I made a trip to the
produkti and bought a hunk of cheese and bread, intending to make some
buterbrod. I spent about half an hour sitting on my bed in my underwear eating
my hunk of cheese. The bread remained untouched. It was not a proud moment.
My general expression when I see buterbrod.
Dinner: IT’S
CULETS AND POTATO TIME, CUTLETS AND POTATO TIME! That was to the tune of Peanut
Butter Jelly Time, in case you just thought I was going crazy with the caps
lock. I can’t think of a good way to describe cutlets, so I will just say that
they are like the Russian version of meatloaf. Like meatloaf, it’s hard to tell
exactly what the meat is, but I like
to think that it’s that of the small trembling Chihuahuas that pretty much run
the city of St. Petersburg. Realistically, it’s probably chicken. Or something.
Potatoes are potatoes; I don’t think you need an explanation. However, I will
leave you with this clip from Everything
is Illuminated, which is quite the comical book/movie and comes highly
recommended by me.
Tuesday
Breakfast: Omelet.
With a lot of butter. As mentioned before, Russians seem to eat a lot of hot
dogs, so naturally, my omelets are often filled with them. I usually slurp down
some green or black tea, as well. I burn my tongue roughly 9 out of every 10
breakfasts. Perhaps someday I will learn.
Snack: Although I
eat a breakfast too large for any normal human being to finish, I’m usually
hungry within an hour. If you are one of the wonderful people in Group 3, then
you are probably all too accustomed to the sight of me waddling in (late) to
our second class with a cup of hot chocolate or coffee with whipped cream and a
yogurt or tvorok (творог)-filled pastry. (Tvorok is a Russian dairy creation that looks
like cottage cheese but feels and tastes a little drier. It can be sweet or
savory. Naturally, I prefer it sweet.) I’ve done it probably every day since
we’ve been here, and I do not plan on stopping. I even heard one of my
comrades, while purchasing a (significantly smaller) cup of coffee, say that
she was “pulling an Elle” and bringing a drink to class. I’ve never been
prouder. I have yet to learn the Russian word for whipped cream, so usually I
just say “Coffee with…” and follow it with frantic swirling motions with my
hand. I should probably learn the word for it one of these days, but at this
point my good friend Nadezhda knows my order by heart (JK LAWLZ Nadezhda
actually hates me.)
Dinner: Macaroni
and cheese. And by macaroni and cheese, I mean noodles with shredded cheese on
top. I’m never truly pleased with the cheese-to-noodle ratio (the perfect one
is 17:2,) but hey, cheese is cheese and I will take what I can get. I finish it
up with a cup of black tea and some strange gelatinous apple treat.
Wednesday
Breakfast: More
kasha and YOGURT! However, this is no ordinary yogurt. This is yogurt made from
the tender love and care of Mama Masha and canned strawberries. Also, it’s not
actually yogurt. In Russia, there’s this special milk-dairy-yogurt-maybe
substance called Kefir (кефир) that I drink pretty much by the gallon. They actually
have it in the US; it’s slightly Americanified (and by Americanified I mean
that it comes in birthday cake flavor,) but it’s still a pretty decent treat.
Mama Masha usually makes mine with strawberries. I don’t exactly know where she
finds these strawberries, since I have yet to see any actual strawberries in
the house, but I have learned not to question Mama Masha. Or Russia in general.
Kefir has the consistency and appearance of thick milk, which is unfortunate
when you confuse it for actual milk and pour it on your cornflakes. In my
opinion, it tastes kind of like frozen yogurt.
Another how-can-you-resist it Russian delicacy
Lunch: Borscht (борщ).
Lots of borscht. If there were an America’s (Russia’s?) Next Top Soup Model,
borscht would take the prize and the six-page 17 Magazine spread, because it’s
actually the most beautiful soup I’ve ever laid eyes on. Also, it’s
scrum-diddly-umptious. It’s made from beets, beets, meat (beef), assorted
vegetables, and beets. A lot of people mix it with sour cream (Smetana, or сметана,) but I
prefer to mix sour cream with borscht. Also, bread (khleb, or хлеб.) Russians prefer to
eat this dark rye bread that weighs as much as a newborn baby goat. If bread
could go to school, Russian khlep would be that kid who took up the whole
hallway and pushed America’s wimpy white bread into lockers and gave it
wedgies. In other words, it is also scrum-diddly-umptious.
Another half an hour on Paint.
Dinner: Well, I
might as well devote a section to cabbage (kapusta, or капуста.) If you recall from one of
my earlier blog posts (I assume all of you are loyal followers whose sole
purpose of using the internet is to check my blog,) Mama Masha recently bought
about ten cabbages which covered the table and windowsill. Well, this week, we
ate them. All of them. Just the two of us. This past Tuesday, which was a
particularly bad day, I came home from school, put on my pajamas (naturally,)
and shuffled on into the kitchen in the hopes of finding solace in a delicious
and carb-filled dinner. What did I get instead? Ketchup-soaked cabbage, a
cabbage salad, cabbage-filled bread, and two hot dogs. I actually cried. I kid
you not. We now only have half a cabbage left. I plan to throw an hors
d’oeuvres party when it’s gone.
Thursday
Snack: As
Thursday is a pretty tough day to get through (10 am to 5 pm, including 1.5
hours of my literature teacher Vladimir Shatshev and another 1.5 hours with my
tsivilisatsiya teacher who hates the world and has a large gap in his teeth,)
my friends and I sometimes make a trip to the ever-faithful bar. While I wish
to drown my sorrows in vodka, I usually treat myself to an embarrassingly girly
cocktail and some garlic-fried bread. The Greeks say that the food of the gods
was nectar and ambrosia, but given their “go hard or go home” attitude, I
like to think that they finished up their hearty dish of offspring with a plate
of this delicious Russian treat. It’s basically strips/short slices of black
bread soaked in garlic and fried and covered with more garlic. Health freaks
may wrinkle their noses and shake their heads while nibbling on some kale chips
and drinking carrot juice, but you know what? I am too busy stuffing my mouth
with this fried delicacy to justify myself.
ERMAHGERD BRERDSTICKS
Dinner: Creamy
mushroom soup and пелмени, or pelmeni;. It’s kind of like ravioli but smaller and
filled with meat (again of the mystery variety.) This isn’t my favorite dish,
but unfortunately, it’s Mama Masha’s. She covers it with sour cream, but I
prefer mine with butter. She actually scolds me when I ask for her to leave off
the Smetana, but whatever, I do what I want!
Friday
BLINI. The crème de la crème of Russian food (I was going to
say “the golden goose of Russian food,” but somewhere my instincts were telling
me that wasn’t an expression. If it is, then it’s the golden goose of Russian
food.) For those of you who have somehow missed my many explanations of blini,
it’s basically a bread that’s somewhere between an American pancake and a
French crepe. Also, it’s delicious. Mama Masha has promised me a feast of blini
at 9:00 am tomorrow, and I get the giggles just thinking about it. It will take
me some time to fall asleep tonight. People generally eat breakfast blini with
jam and Smetana, but really, you can put pretty much anything you want in
blini. The only thing limiting you is your imagination, and your imagination
has no limits. (I made that up. I am quite proud.) Sladki (сладкий,) or sweet, blini can
include chocolate and bananas, Nutella, condensed milk, jam, or sweet cream,
and savory blini can include ham, cheese, mushrooms, cabbage,
Smetana, or chicken.
Me every day of my life:
Sorry about the large gap; I couldn't figure out how to change it without removing everything else from the page. Well, that's about it for now. I took a Russian cooking class, so I'm going to put some pictures up from that. We made borscht, blini, and some kind of pie. It was delicious. Most of the other students had two blini and one cup of soup; I had four blini and two cups of soup, plus a blini to go.
What? Could it be that I'm updating my blog again? Could it possibly be that I have nothing else to do other than sit in my room with a plate of cheese (stolen from Mama Masha) and plot out recounts of my life on the struggle bus? Yes, perhaps it could. However, as of now, the woodland critters are abuzz with special news: today, I am transcending the media. Yesterday, I spent my evening in front of a video camera in order to give you the special privilege of seeing my chubby face in action. So, without further ado, I give you my technological creation.
I couldn't get a picture of the video so I just chose a picture of me with a wombat. Sorry.
Also, I don't know why it's called "Capture2012" or whatever. I couldn't figure out how to change it. Sorry about the jank look. I would spruce this page up but I've had enough internet for today.
Hey, hey, you, you (I don't like your girlfriend;)
Well, it’s a Saturday night and I’m listening to Mary
Poppins in my Perpetual Party Dress. In about thirty minutes, I’m going to
leave the comfort of Mama Masha’s cabbage-filled kitchen (I came home from my
Russian Adventures today to find approximately ten cabbages on the windowsill
and table. I sense a cabbage-filled week ahead) to hit up an abandoned bomb
shelter club with some French gentlemen. However, I figured that before I begin
this night of sweater-capes and phlegm, I would bloggy-blog it up to the best
of my abilities. But what am I bloggy-blogging it up about, you ask?
Russian museums.
Now, if you are part of the 75-90 age group to which this blog is probably targeted, you may want to grab a pace-maker, because you are going to get more excitement out of this than the annual two-for-one sale on Frango mints (that was a shout-out to you, Grandma.) Anyway, in case you all were unaware, St. Petersburg, and all of Russia for that matter, has more museums than Hillary Clinton has pantsuits. (Which, if you don't follow the official Hillary Clinton style blog, is a lot.)
If you don't believe that this woman should rule the galaxy after seeing this, then there's something wrong with your brain.
For real, though, if you want to find out every tiny detail about something that no one else in America cares about, come to St. Petersburg. And I'm not just talking about famous ones like the State Hermitage (Государственный Эрмитаж) or the Russian Museum (which are both incredibly beautiful.) No, I'm talking about the ones set up by that guy who lives in his mother's basement and who, by day, researches the reproduction methods of termites, and, by night, writes fanfictions about old Catdog episodes. Want to get your drink on in an educational way? Check out the Vodka Museum. Can't get enough of being well-hydrated? Pay a visit to the Water Museum. Have a cat fetish? For just 99 Rubles (3 American dollars,) you can analyze a cat-a-fied rendition of the Mona Lisa and participate in weekly round table discussions with the creme de la creme of "crazy cat ladies" concerning what true happiness really means to felines. (I'm not kidding about this. Technically, the museum itself is in Moscow, but I don't think you can truly say you've lived until you know that this exists. Please check out its website, you will not be disappointed.)
In case you can't read it, its official logo is "You can know more about cats in art...You can know more about cats...You can know more about..."
Think that's just a bad translation? Well, it's not; I promise you that it says the exact same thing in Russian. Anyway, today I’m going
to be talking about a few gems my friends and I have found during the course of
our romps about the Motherland’s greatest city. We’ll start with the Hermitage.
I know I usually include a comical caption, but there's really nothing funny to say about the Hermitage. Sorry.
The Hermitage is/was
the Winter Palace and acted as the Tsars’ home until the Bolshevik Revolution
in 1917. For Americans under the age of 25, it was the
building where Anastasia went to find Dmitri but ended up hallucinating
dead relatives and attracting unwanted attention from talking
bats. Anyway, once you wiggle your way through the throng of Asian tourists
filming the building, the place is actually beautiful. According to one of our
tour guides, “Russian joke says you have to spend one year in Hermitage to see
all paintings.” Some other knee-slappers included “Russian joke says St.
Petersburg has 300 days of rain a year,” and “Russian joke says St. Petersburg
has more museums than people.” Feel free to break those out when your next
dinner party goes south. And, just so you know, they will get mad if you don’t
laugh.
Anyway, it actually
probably would take me a year to talk about all the paintings in the Hermitage,
so I’ll just show you my favorite. The disarrayed shoes on the ground
supposedly symbolize an affair between the two lovers, and the dog is supposed
to represent fidelity, but, being the mature art critic I am, I just think it’s
the bee’s knees that this old lady is getting her jollies by camping out in the
corner.
My future right before my very eyes. Sorry about the boobies, y'all.
"Boy Blowing Horn." You rock that horn, boy.
Okay, this was pretty cool. Every hour the peacock would spread its tail, a squirrel would eat its nut, and the owl would do something equally fantasmical. It doesn't work now, so if you want to see it in action, you could buy your own peacock-owl-squirrel set and train them. Or, you know, close your eyes and imagine. Whatever works.
Anyway,
I grow tired of my spiel on art. Let’s get to the pickled oddities.
The
real museum is actually called Kuntskammer, and I think it’s an anthropological
museum. I’m too lazy to double-check, so if you want to know, knock yourself
out and have a party with Google. The real reason why anyone (aside from
anthropologists, I guess,) visits the museum is because of the room filled with
artifacts that can only be described as pickled oddities. You ever just wake up
and think, “Man, last night was so crazy, the only thing I want to do right now
is look at a two hundred-year-old deformed fetus in a jar of formaldehyde. And
some crabs. Shucks, it’s too bad those don’t exist.”
Well,
you know what, kid? You’re wrong. And you know what else? IT’S FACT TIME!
The
Kuntskammer (aka the Anthropological Museum, maybe,) was the first museum to be
founded in Russia. Everyone’s good friend Peter the Great, being the
trailblazer that he was, one day decided to partake on a voyage to collect
two-headed animals, deformed fetuses, and whatever else he could
find along the way. When he came back, he put them all on display and invited
his citizens to come and look. Although it sounds kind of creepy (which it was,)
he actually did it so that the people could learn that the deformations
everyone was gawking at were not due to devilry, but this magical little thing
calledscience.
This actually took me about half an hour on Paint.
He even enticed them with free glasses of vodka, because
really, what is an afternoon of education without alcohol? At least, that’s my
motto. Today, the place is decked out with Peter’s fetuses (which also sounds
like the name of a soap opera,) skeletons of two-headed calves, teeth (Pete considered himself to be a pretty good dentist and practiced on his subjects,
apparently,) and some sea shell collages. Oh, and crabs, for the marine
biologists out there. There’s also an iron stick that Peter the Great hammered
out himself. I don’t think it does anything besides be a stick, but I’ll give
him props for being such a versatile person—he really should have a liberal
arts department named after him. I’m going to put up some pictures, so if you
are of the faint of heart (that’s you, 75-90 year-olds,) you can skip ahead to the picture of the pony in shoes.
Peter was a weird dude.
A two-headed cow.
Peter's death mask. From the looks of it, he died just pre-jowl phase.
Anyway, here's that picture of a pony in shoes I promised you.
AWW, JUST LOOK AT THOSE LITTLE SHOES! Anyway, that's all for now. I'm actually going to attempt to do a "vlog" (I believe that's the hip internet lingo for it) next time, so get ready to see my chubby face in action.
First and foremost, I would like to apologize for and warn you about my declining abilities in the English language. I have found that, as my Russian skills continue to remain stagnant, my knowledge of the English language is decreasing, leaving me to stumble around St. Petersburg communicating in grunts and interpretive dance.
Anyway, I have received numerous requests (all from my mother) to explain an average school day. Please buckle your seat belts, because by the end of the wild ride that is a day in the life of (Russian) Alyssa Lindley, your boat may be so rocked that you'll never recover again. I will write it in schedule-form so as to vary my blogging style.
8:00: I am woken up to the sound of my host mother pounding at the door and yelling, "АЛИСА, ИДИ КУШАТЬ!" or (ALYSSA, COME EAT!) Normally, my expression looks something like this:
After scarfing down an absolutely scrumptious breakfast of either kasha, blini, or blinochki, my host mother comments on how much I am able to eat (and this is actually a true statement,) and I trudge on over to my room to get dressed. After I одеваюсь (odevayus, or dress,) I look something like this:
9:00: I board the Приморская (Primorskaya) metro station and partake on the uncomfortably sweaty journey to school. The Russian metros are actually some of the deepest in the world (around 105 meters below ground,) with each elevator ride lasting about three minutes; when you board it you can't see the bottom, and it slightly resembles a tunnel to hell. In all my travels, I have determined that the real purgatory is actually a never-ending ride on the St. Petersburg metro escalator. Nice try, Dante.
10:00 (but more like 10:05): I arrive for classes. I won't really go into detail, since most of the time I just doodle and/or eat cream puffs, but I will show you this picture of my literature teacher Vladimir:
Don't worry about not being able to understand it; it makes just as much sense to me. See the confused and slightly embarrassed looks on the kids' faces? Yup, that's every Monday and Thursday for a glorious one hour and thirty minutes of Vladimir Shatsev.
2:30: I EAT. For the price of 110 Rubles, I am able to purchase mediocre soup, a mediocre pastry, mediocre chicken, and CIROK! For all of you Americans, Cirok is basically chocolate-covered cheesecake. I don't know why it hasn't made its way over to the good ole U.S. of A. yet, but I have a theory that if I bring some back and put them on a stick, they will instantly become a sensation. Also, in case you were curious, when I typed in "Russian Cirok" to find a picture for you, the only search option was "Miley Cyrus Asian." That doesn't have to do with any of my blog, but I just thought you should know.
Cirok
What I look like whilst eating Cirok.
3:30: Go on Russian adventures!
9:00: Get home, watch bad Russian TV, do homework, go to bed.
Well, that is a typical day. If you are still reading, I will now continue to talk about one of the oldest and possibly strangest Russian traditions:
THE BANYA
I hope that impressed you. Anyway, a banya is basically the Russian version of a communal bath. However, as it is Russia, there is so much more to it than sitting around and stewing in your own filth. No, you have to beat the filth off. Let me tell you the "down-low," as the cool kids would say it.
So, last Tuesday, my program director Katya, eight girls, and I bundled up and metro-ed on over to a seemingly normal building hidden in an alley. We got in, crowded into an elevator, and found our designated room. And then, we got naked.
A picture of the banya. Sorry about the poor quality, but it was a little steamy.
Once we had de-clothed, we filed into the room. Now, for those of you who don't know me, I have a little problem with perspiration. For those of you who do know me, you are probably clawing at your eyes at the thought of me stewing in a 235-degree room. Needless to say, it was bad. Several small animals drowned.
So, after sitting in the hot room for as long as your body can handle it (or until your eyes start to feel a strange burning sensation,) you totter on out and jump (or in my case, wade) into a VERY cold pool. After you've cooled down, you totter on back into the room. The process then repeats. Meanwhile, you're trying to ignore the fact that you are crowded into a room in the nude with eight girls you've known for about three weeks and trying not to permanently blind them with your albino skin.
But is that it? No, of course that's not it, for this is Russia. After so long, you become bored of the "cold pool to hot room" thing. So what do you do then? Bring out the birch branches. You lie down on your stomach while someone else (in this case Katya,) brings in a bouquet (do branches come in bouquets?) of birch branches. The other person then whacks the branches up and down your body. You turn onto your back, and the whacking is repeated. Here is a photo of the process:
Unfortunately, the bearded man was extra
As weird as it sounds, the banya was actually a really awesome experience. It's been around Russia for ages, and it still remains an extremely integral part of the country's culture. So can you guess what time it is now? FACT TIME! During the Soviet Union, the government made an effort to ban banyas due to their "sexual connotations." However, as the Russian people considered it such an important part of their traditions, they fought to keep them open (which, if you know anything about historical Russian protests and the Russian "что делать?" or "What can you do?" mentality, is actually pretty astounding.)
Also, I was quite delighted to find out that the banya has a "spirit" that dates back to very early Russian paganism. I introduce to you банник, or Bannik:
What a happy guy. Well, that's all for now, folks! On a side note, I really want to say thank you to all of my friends and family who have kept in contact with me and been asking about my time here. It means a lot to me, and I miss you all very much!
Пока пока!
PS- I know a lot of you have seen this before, but if you haven't and you're having a bad day, at least you're not this guy:
