Sestraretsk in Pictures and Captions

One week later, I met my American acquaintances and Oleg at the Finlyandskii Vokzal, expecting to walk through "a nice neighborhood of St. Petersburg" as Oleg said.




This nearby statue commemorates Lenin's return to Russia. On April 1st, around Gogol's 200th and April Fools Day, Petersburgers would awake to find that Lenin was missing his behind.


We took this elektrichka. The locals circumvented the ticket kiosk and security to pay the conductors directly.


One hours later, we arrived at Sestraretsk.




We did see a "nice neighborhood" as we walked into the forest near the Gulf of Finland,

trekked down snowy hills and braved icy steps.


A group of strays followed us the entire way, even after our picnic.


Sestraretsk was near the northern front of the blockade.


Now it is an expensive sanatorium.


This photo has already assisted me in multiple rambling monologues regarding how much I miss Russia.


Oleg would later be considered discomfortingly friendly and some Americans would start avoiding him.


We briefly walked out onto the frozen Gulf of Finland, before arriving at our destination:


This well did indeed contain tasty water.



We walked and then ran after this train. We almost did not make it.

Maslenitsa

The official beginning of spring and end of Maslenitsa, forgiveness day, coincided on March 1st. We were told that strangers would ask for our forgiveness, but few did.



I walked for about 3 miles with American and Russian acquaintances to the Central Park of Culture and Recreation on Elagin Island.


It was the largest gathering of Russians (~1000) and the first family gathering I had seen. The crowd hardly resembled the staunch-faced Petersburgers I rode to school with everyday. The elderly were absent, while 20-somethings and families transitioned through the various stages of merrymaking: drinking, eating, dancing, kissing, fighting at the behest of someone in a bear costume

and lighting dolls on fire.



We missed the burning of the largest effigy symbolizing winter.
I will not forget the friendliness of Russian strangers. Oleg, a friend of an acquaintance, gave us tea and delicious bliniy (~crepes).

We formed a circle with strangers and yelled our wishes together.

Melting

Russians generally tend away from small talk and empty words; weather does not constitute a menial topic of conversation in Russia. If the weather is “bad,” as usual, it often means delays resulting from traffic accidents and can reflect the speaker’s sense of oppression. “Nice” weather heralds increasing rates of procrastination and P.D.A.’s.

Petersburg’s weather may be so salient because of how it differs from my hometown (snow falls at most once per year) or my general elation; in particular, I still remember one day in late February when the ice covering the sidewalks and hanging from roofs first started to melt.

Forgetting the warnings of deadly falling ice, I walked along the street for about 2-4 hours searching for a place to eat with a business lunch and spend time before dinner. The falling ice was surreally beautiful, but it hit one acquaintance on the shoulder.

Russian versions

Our program coordinator predicted that we would re-create American food with Russian ingredients at the dorms; but it would never be the same in restaurants or in dorm kitchenettes. “Russian versions” seemed like flawed and failed imitations; pizza often lacks sauce and burritos can be made without beans. But then I remembered that we have “American versions.”

Fajitas

Roommate's fajitas with salted salmon

"Burritos" without beans

"Pahlava" (Baklava)

Burritos

But as my roommates made fun of me for making fajitas every week, I realized that American culture has many categories for food. Whereas my food almost always had a name, my roommates cooked outside specific recipes. I wonder how our categorical perception of food interferes with dietary reasoning:

a. The idea of breakfast can contain fruit, but our other two meals rarely do.

b. The salient categories of food fail to describe nutritional value: Italian, Chinese, Mexican, sweet, spicy etc…

Beauty

I have been worried that my decision to study Russian was mainly due to one of those popular reasons based on beauty: the sound of the language, women, architecture, literature etc… I did not want to take part in a silly cliché. From the beginning, I would admit that I was studying Russian to read literature. At first it was because its themes resonated with me, but then as I studied literature, I came to appreciate its beauty. Now that I’ve spent some time in Russia, I’m willing fess up: beauty probably played a large role in my decision.

And that’s ok.

When the Kunstkammer tour guide showed us a fetus’s arms and legs trimmed with lace in a jar full of greenish liquid, she said that at that time science, like art, had to be beautiful too. I realized at that moment that our understanding of beauty has profound implications for the way that people perceive and reason about the world:

All of those crisp, imaginary dichotomies are probably the product of our affinity to symmetry.

In day-to-day speech, we use euphemisms.

And yes, our tendency to list of things in threes probably has something to do with beauty. (But then again, it takes a minimum of three to establish any sort of series)

I thought math was an elegantly beautiful way to explain the world and that’s why I studied physics. But in that first semester, I realized that the mechanics of the world did not interest me. As a form of expression, math seemed so narrow in comparison to language. As a result of my Russophilia, I chose this language.

I often think of myself as the mathematician who escaped from a drab, grey cubic fate. I no longer quantify my assuredness with a percentage, but I still retain some ticks. I tend to count the give and take in relationships and nearly to the point of compulsion, I cannot help but walk the shortest distance between two points. Alone, I walk the line, but when accompanied by a special someone, I’ll walk any sort of pattern.

Instead of quantities, my education has made me more conscious of the qualia of life. I understand beauty now in a more holistic sense.

What role does beauty play in your life?

Consciousness and Education

I have continued thinking about thinking, even though I’m not taking any Cognitive Science classes in Russia. This is a reassuring sign that I might actually be using this knowledge and that at least, it has become part of my consciousness. No, not that measly 2% of thought comprising everything you are aware of, but yet does not even seem to be involved in the “decision” making process as demonstrated in Libet’s experiment (http://www.consciousentities.com/experiments.htm). I’m talking about the manifestation of knowledge in life.

I once borrowed Yeat’s quote in a fateful explanation of my educational philosophy: “Education is not the filling of a pail, but the lighting of a fire.” At that moment, that fiery metaphor mapped onto passion: good teachers make students passionate about subjects. True. But the true rub is the pail and fire together: education cannot be quantified because it is enlightenment. I’m assuming that Yeats did not know about lumens. But he was right in general; a person cannot be filled with ideas like a pail because neural connections constitute knowledge; strong connections will be manifest in a person’s life like light. Education can be measured by how much it shines in a person’s life. My experiences in Russia have made me more conscious of this.

I knew of the blockade. I knew that many died during the “siege of Leningrad,” but many elements were missing from my frame. I only understood its significance in relation to “our” victory against Germany. I did not know that about half the city died, that people walked on one side of Nevsky Prospect because of the bombardment, that Shostakovich stayed in Leningrad, and that my godmother’s relatives ate the handle of a leather briefcase from a guest so that they would not starve to death.

Russians are very conscious of the siege of Leningrad. Are you?

The value of my education is my greater consciousness of Russia. I would also love to say that literature has made me more conscious of life, but really all of those mental simulations don’t help as much as the real thing. One of the pieces of Tolstoy’s love advice I took away from the eleven days I spent with Anna K was that sometimes there is only one moment in which two people can express their feelings to each other. But this knowledge did not help me in that moment; instead it has helped me lament the event:

With gentlemanly intent, I walked Masha home from the ballet two months ago. Conversation went well as always, but we never would walk in parallel again; I would never have another chance to hold her hand. But what will haunt me the most is the specter of the kiss I missed. Despite the well-known cliché, I did not expect her to move. As I said good night, her head ascended as she shifted her weight to the tips of her feet. My stomach sank once I realized what happened. In hopes of learning from this, I would like to blame my slip-ups for the failure that followed.

My friends encouraged me to pursue her to make up for it. Yes, it was referred to in terms of chasing and hunting. After a few failed kissing conspiracies, traps if you will, the sweetness slipped into the realm of creepiness as I slipped and crammed compliments into our conversations. I was trying to plan the perfect kiss proposal, but the chase became literal as I practically ran to speak to ask her in a fantastic crescendo of awkwardness. It certainly merits its own post, because I’m not going to forget my first rejection anytime soon.

The ostensible reason was that too little time remains and that she is too busy for a relationship. I can be a desperately imaginative reader and would love to continue reading this tragicomedy as a romance and believe these reasons. But then again my Evgenii Onyegin barely asked questions about me, never complimented me or asked to see me without asking for something. I think these are the most solid indicators of her true feelings.

Considering the return on what I invested, I would do it again anyway. It’s helped me realize how little I know about love and yesterday’s, nelovko (ungentle, rough) embarrassment will make a great punchline to a most fascinatingly humorous anecdote. I also feel like more of a person now. Living seems to be the best way to gain consciousness about myself. 19th century Russian Literature does not seem to prepare youths very well for 21st century situations, but it might help in explaining them like consciousness explains our actions.

Dear Reader,

I apologize for my negligence; I have been too busy to blog. And with the little more of a third of my time in Russia and its dregs left, I most certainly cannot spare much of it to sit on my ass and write about it. But the following ideas have been haunting me as of late; when you’ve long since imagined the precise phrases and the composition’s structure has emerged, it’s time to write. So sit back, while I try to impress you with some of that learning I’ve been doing.

-John