A Russian Ramadan

Friday, October 12, 2007

Although I've already been awake for over an hour, there is no sign of the sun as Defri and I exit the obshezhitiye into the brisk pre-dawn. We round the obshezhitiye towards Ulitsa Vosmova Marta, walking carefully across the rubble that is now Ulitsa Stepana Razina. I comment to Defri that between the dark and the upturned street it looks as if we're walking through a war zone. We make our way up a slowly waking-up city towards the metro stop. Along the way, Defri nostalgically describes to me what his family is doing to celebrate this day, a day that has already arrived in Indonesia.In Russian, today is Ramazan Bayram. This day is more familiar to me as Eid, the festival that marks the end of the month of fasting in the Muslim calendar. We are on our way to meet some friends in the Uralmash district of the city, then head north to a small town that is home to what Defri tells me is the nicest mosque near Yekaterinburg. We make our way to the subway, passing quickly through the usually packed turnstiles and onto the train before morning rush hour really begins. I am struck by the abnormally high percentage of men onboard, the morning shift of the metallurgical factory we are currently travelling under.

We travel the 5 stops to the end of the subway line (despite the intricate subway plans displayed in the trains and stations, we have indeed just travelled the entirety of Yekaterinburg's metro system) and meet Rinda, another Indonesian friend at the station. We resurface to darkness and, after working through some changed travel plans, we begin to look for the bus stop. The streets are slowly coming alive, and the bus stop is considerably more crowded than the subway lines. A tram pulls up and a group of 40 or so gypsie--90% of the passengers--pour out of the doors. I have seen these people in various parts of the city before, and have already had some not-so-pleasant encounters, and, despite the warnings and stories of friends, I am trying not to let my attitude towards them be soured. This particularly group is comprised entirely of women with covored heads and children in colourful dress. Half the women have children on their hips, the other half are watching the rest of the pre-pubescent crowd who seem to wander automatically with outstretched, upturned palms and puppy eyes to all those who pass them by. As I ponder the demographics of this group I realzie that have never seen a man, or a boy over the age of 8 for that matter, amid their ranks. Begging, perhaps, is women's work.

Our bus pulls up and some of the children rush to climb on. The konductor--the woman who collects the fares--starts yelling, telling them they cannot get on this bus. When these warnings fall on deaf ears, she physically starts pushing the children down the steps onto the street. I am frozen where I stand, simultaneously horrified and unphased in my fatigue by this strange incident. Defri starts to board inbetween the children with Rinda following behind, though they are met with strong words from the konductor. " You cannot ride on this bus," she says, this time obviously directed at Rinda, with her covered hair and darker skin. Defri tells her that Rinda is with him, but she repeats this command and when Rinda continues up the stairs she is pushed backwards towards the street. Rinda does not react, but calmly begins climbing the stairs again. "She is with me, not with them," Defri repeats. The konductor continues to object, though I am now standing behind Rinda so she cannot be pushed off. Defri pushes his way onto the bus and the doors close. The konductor comes to collect our fares and I hand her the usual 9 rubles. She yells something I don't understand, until Defri interjects with the name of the stop where we are getting off. She tells me that if this is indeed where I am going, then I need to pay 16 rubles. I pay the difference and Defri and Rinda do the same, ready to do anything for this woman to leave us alone. Once she leaves, Rinda leans over to me and whispers in a level English "that was so racist." I, who was not assaulted in the least, am near tears, though I sense that this episode was tragically not out of the ordinary for Rinda.

The bus rattles through the increasingly congested streets as Rinda, Defri and I converse with our eyes. At the next stop a man with a black beard, wearing the traditional loose, long cotton dress and white prayer cap boards the bus. The konductor comes to collect his fare and he pays her 9 rubles. Defri asks him where he is going, and when he confirms that he too is going to the mosque Defri asks why he only had to pay 9 rubles. The konductor overhears this exchange and tells us that we have to get off at the next stop. This bus will not be going to the mosque today. When Defri tries to ask why we had to pay 16 rubles and why she didn't tell us this when we first boarded he is met with a cold silence. Once she leaves, our new travel companion extends a hand to Defri and offers quietly "s praznikom," the generic Russian holiday greeting. Defri returns the greeting and his eyes show the relief of knowing he is among friends. We get off the bus at the next stop and make our way across the street to another bus stop where we meet a dozen or so other men who are also heading to the mosque. I smile to myself, as this increasing concentration of Muslim men on the side of the street reminds me of walking down Erb St. on a Friday afternoon. The horizon is beginning to brighten, washing the skyline of tired smoke stacks and steeples in a late autumn light. As it is already approaching 8 o'clock, the start time of the service, our bearded friend tries to flag down a car. A marshrut with a Muslim driver finally pulls over, and we pile inside. Rinda climbs into the front, and I find myself the sole woman in the back of the overcrowded van. The men shift around to make room for me on the back bench. I'm drawn to the smile and laugh of a young man in a colourful prayer cap facing backwards. He has kind eyes that smile along with his mouth as he converses with his neighbour. I guess that most of these travellers are of Tajik origin, though I've generally lost faith in my ability to distinguish Central Asian ethnicities. They have the faces of the manual labourers that I pass on street corners doing the seemingly endless work of laying brick sidewalks. They have the faces of the women who wash the floors of the university. They are the faces of a sizeable underclass of workers--legal and illegal--who are not always well liked by government officials. For now they are among friends--brothers--as we make our way to the mosque.


We arrive as the sun has just appeared over the horizon. I don't have much time to check out my surroudings--we are late and are bustled inside. I awkwardly try and cover myself with the perfume-scented scarf Jenny has lent me for the occasion. Rinda and I along with another young woman are led through the basement, full of men, up some stairs to the main floor, also full of men, then up a further set of stairs to a balcony. At the far end of the balcony is a row of elderly women, sitting on a bench to ease feeble knees. One of them motions for me to sit beside her in the remaining space on the bench, and Rinda takes a seat on the floor beside me. I finally have a chance to look at where we are. The mosque is stunning--the walls are decorated with a careful calligraphy and windows inlayed with geometric designs, and ceiling above us opens into a dome of elaborate design. I settle into the sturdy voice of the man leading the prayers. After a few more minutes of studying my surroundigns I realize that we and the elderly women beside us are the only women in the mosque, while there are probably 250-300 men. Another man delivers a message of sorts, and I begin to feel the effects of an early morning and our unpredictable travel. Rinda gently lays her head against my right leg, and I know I am not alone in my fatigue. The message comes to an end, and the final prayers begin. A number of other younger women have gethered behind us, and I move to the back to make room for them to pray. One of the woman keeps asking Rinda for instructions, explaining that she doesn't know how this particular prayer works. I watch silently as the 300 congregants of the mosque rise and prostrate in unison, save for the old women who remain on their bench. The prayer finishes and Rinda gives me a confused look. "I don't think they did it right," she whispers. Sure enough, 10 seconds later the cantor appologizes for not doing the correct holiday prayer, and the cycle begins again.

When the service ends, Rinda begins talking with some of the women around us. One of the women, dressed in a long brown skirt and scarf, continues to ask Rinda to explain what is going on. They ask about where she is from, where I am from, and comment on Rinda's beautifully embroidered white full length dress. She explains that all women in the mosque in Indonesia wear such dress, and we continue to chat while we wait for the men to clear out. Rinda whispers to me that it is strange that these women are so unfamiliar with what is going on. She tells me, however, that very few Muslim women in this city leave the house. She is the only woman I have seen in the city who covers her head, and she confirms that she is definately the only student at the university. I am intrigued by this phenomenon, as it seems a complete reversal of the men-women ratio in the Orthodox churches that I have frequented. When most of the men have cleared out of the basement, we head downstairs to collect our shoes. Rinda can only find one of her shoes, and we spend another 10 minutes searching the corners and shelves for the other one. We exit the mosque to a crowd of people gathered around the corpse of a cow (still visibly in the form of a cow), that is being cut apart with an ax for people to take home. We head around the corner and up the stairs towards the bus stop. Part of the gypsy crowd we met before seems to have made its way here as well, instinctively knowing where they will find a crowd, perhaps even a crowd in a generous mood. We take a few pictures, then board the bus.

In full daylight, I am better able to see where we have come. We drive through a village of sorts of dilapitated wooden buildings, with quaint painted windows and fenced yards, interpersed with 5-storey Soviet apartment blocks. We pass two more mosques, one is small and made of wood, the other closer in size to the one we have just come from, though less well kept. Outside of both mosques, people are smoking meat and conversing. This village--part of the 905 belt of Yekaterinburg--is home to many of the Central Asian residents of the city, and explains why the downtown remains relatively white.

We make our way back to the metro stop, then take the subway back to the circus. I mention that I am hungry, and Defri's face lights up. "Let's go to Kupets to eat" he exclaims, "we need to celebrate." We enter Greenvich, a newly renovated mega-shopping centre, and head upstairs to the food court. I order soup from the Uzbek booth, Rinda orders pizza, and Defri blini (a traditional crepe-like Russian dish) with strawberries and whipped cream--I realize that they have ordered probably the only two meals that do not contain meat. Tired and hungry, we enjoy together the first day-light meal Rinda and Defri have had in a month. "S praznikom" we say, clinking our mugs of tea, and I laugh to myself at the unusuallness of the morning, brought to an end with an equally unusual meal, a Canadian and two Indonesians in Russia, eating pizza and blini to celebrate the end of Ramadan. Perhaps, however, it is not the food, but the act of eating together, the act of communally partaking in the nourishment of our bodies, that is at the heart of the holiday feast.

Home, I Said (Or, Everything is Illuminated)

October 9, 2007

Overture to the Commencement of a Very Rigid Search
Taking advantage of no longer having classes on Fridays, Mark, Guilherme and I set out to find Shartash, a lake at the edge of the city that we always talk about going to but never seem to find the time. With no more than a rough idea of where in the city the lake was located, we hopped on a tram (at first, the wrong one), and set out. The following is a photographic documentation of our adventure… If you do not understand the sub-titles (and for an illustration of why I have re-entered the world of omnivorous human beings), I highly recommend watching the movie by the same name as this title (Everything is Illuminated).

Commencement of a Very Rigid Search
















A Very Rigid Search

Illumination

























Finally at the shore of the lake, I flip open my Mary Oliver book and happen upon this poem.



The River
~ Mary Oliver

Just because I was born
precisely here or there,
in some cold city or another,
don’t think I don’t remember
how I came along like a grain
carried by the flood

on one of the weedy threads that pour
toward a muddy lighting,
surging east, past
monkeys and parrots, past
trees with their branches in the clouds, until
I was spilled forth

and slept under the blue lung
of the Carribbean.

Nobody
told me this. But little by little
the smell of mud and leaves returned to me,
and in dreams I began to turn,
to sense the current

Do dreams lie? Once I was a fish
crying for my sisters in the sprawling
crossroads of the delta.
Once among the reeds I found
a boat, as thin and lonely
as a dead young tree. Nearby
the forest sizzled with the afternoon rain.

Home, I said.
In every language there is a word for it.
In the body itself, climbing
those walls of white thunder, past those green
temples, there is also
a word for it.
I said, home.

I sit for a moment, in the clear and cold and light of the shore of the lake, in the circular nature of life, in the awe and silence that only sitting beside water illicits. For lack of other words, I will include here a piece I wrote while living in Riviere-du-Loup this summer.

Ode to the Saint Laurence (and all other wondrous lakes, rivers, seas and oceans of the world)

Et je situerai l’homme où naît mon harmonie

Ma langue est d’Amérique
Je suis né de ce paysage
J’ai pris souffle dans le limon du fleuve
Je suis la terre et je suis la parole
Le soleil s’endort sous ma tête
Mes bras sont deux océans le long de mon corps
Le monde entier vient frapper à mes flancs
J’entends le monde battre dans mon sang

Je creuse des images dans la terre
Je cherche une ressemblance première

~ Gatien Lapointe, extrait d’Ode au Saint-Laurent ~


I have a friend who was born in the lush green mountains off the Turkish coast of the Black Sea. He told me once that he could not live without water. An obvious declaration, perhaps—without water, we would die of thirst—but he was not talking about the water that we drink. We were on a boat, crossing the Bosphorus, a river that was the centre of the great capital of the Ottoman Empire—Istanbul; a river that is at the centre of the soul of the city and all the inhabitants of this wondrous place. He was describing the water of our souls. He was speaking of his need to live near water because without it, he does not feel himself complete. Although we were on the other side of the world, I understood this sentiment, as it is a feeling that I also know well, a feeling that I have known many times in my life—beside many rivers lakes and oceans that render me incapable of explanation, lost for words to describe the stilling of the soul that this water incites—but a sentiment that, although I know it well, I still do not understand.

Now, on this side of the Atlantic, I descend the hill on my bike, a light salty wind cleans my face. I have just arrived, finally, to the banks of the river. I stop, momentarily, because the river—this river here, the Saint Laurence—renders me mute. This is a phenomenon that belongs to all of the wondrous lakes, rivers and oceans of the world. I search for words again, but there are none. What is it that pulls us towards water, that draws us in with gentle, confidant arms? What is it that forces us to stop for a moment, to pause, to breath, to reflect on our lives past and future? What is it that renders me mute, lost for words? Perhaps it’s the freedom of the wind as it carries a light salted air from the ocean towards the setting sun. Perhaps it is the soft pink of the dusk sky that fades to orange, then violet and finally towards night and a blanket of stars? Perhaps it is the gentle tide lulling against the rocky shore—rocks that have been formed by centuries and millenniums of running water. Perhaps it is the endless expanse of sky, clouds, sun, mountains and the horizon that rolls without end and incites the soul to journey farther, deeper.

Perhaps it is the simple beauty that I have just here described. But I think it is also an understanding of the historic significance of these rivers. The Bosporus was—and remains—the spine of a city that was the centre of an Empire. This river was crossed by sultans and emperors for centuries, and Istanbul’s current form and location is owed to the existence of this mighty river. And the same is true for the Saint Laurence, a river that was once called—and for good reason—“The Grand River of Canada” because it was by means of this river that our country was colonized in the way that we know today. When we feel the weight and historical significance of these rivers, their importance for our lives today and the social form of our world, it is impossible not to be filled with a sense of awe.

This indescribable phenomenon of sitting near water is probably the result of a combination of the sheer beauty of their landscapes and the weight of their histories. There is something, however, beyond this. I think that perhaps it is because we are like the water to which we are drawn. We need stability and consistency in our lives—like the mountains and the rocks and the sky and the riverbed. But we also need, like water, constant movement. We need to constantly be growing, learning, exploring, like the current of a river or the tide of an ocean. Perhaps that is what draws us towards water: it is our perfect companion, a companionship in which we are completely at home. This river, that constantly changes just as I, that is the sum of innumerable parts—rocks, sun, rain, history and the unpredictable actions of countless individuals—just as I. And like me and the rest of our wondrous species, this river will join the ocean, where it will disappear into another body, where it will join the beauty of all the other wondrous rivers, lakes, seas and oceans of the world. Where, as Lapointe writes, we will search for—and find—our ressemblance première .

Золотая осень

Zolotaya osyen. It’s Thursday night and Mark, Guilherme, Jenny and I are celebrating the approaching weekend with a trip to the local brewery/pub—Tinkhoff’s. Jenny offers to pay the difference between a pitcher of Tinkhoff’s standard brew and the seasonal special, zolotaya osyen, or, “golden autumn.” The beer that comes to our table is not golden as the name implies, but the amber of leaves that have already fallen, browning as they become more brittle. “Isn’t that the name of a painting?” I ask. Shishkin or Levitan, perhaps? Or is it “Zolotaya Rozh” (Golden Rye). This one Jenny and I agree on, though I can still picture another painting in my head, a painting on the bottom right hand corner of my textbook, a river and cutting through the lower right, autumn-coloured birch trees flanking the left shore.

October 2, 2007
It is Tuesday afternoon and I have a few hours to kill between class and choir rehearsal. I check out the shoe store next to the university, then decide to wander down a street where I think I may find a vendor selling pumpkins. I turn accidentally a street too early, but decide to continue and see where it goes. I walk past some familiar looking stairs, and find myself at the back entrance to Ascension Cathedral, one of the oldest remaining cathedrals in the city, that is now paled by the Church-of-the-Blood that stands across the street. Just beyond the stairs is the corner of what looks to be a park. I walk closer, and beyond the iron-post fence I see an endless golden blanket of birch leaves scattered on the forest floor, floating on the surface of the water, and dancing their way from the tree tops to the ground. I have seen pictures of this place—of the Romanesque pavilion on the small island of the pond—and always wondered where in the city it was, and am excited to have finally stumbled upon it. I follow the iron fence half-way around the perimeter of the park until I finally find an open gate. I wander the main paths for awhile, then allow myself the pleasure of trampling through the drying leaves, enjoying the familiar crackling underfoot, until I finally make my way to the bank of the pond. I follow a small set or stairs down from the bridge and sit beside the water. The sun is shining, and bouncing off the water and the yellowing willow tree under which I am sitting, this small corner of the pond is bathed in an incandescent shade of gold—zolotaya osyen.

For the first time since we arrived in this city, I can breath.
More to come... not quite finished

This is Where I Live

September 23, sometime in the wee hours of the morning

I haven’t been able to write lately. Not for lack of time or new faces and experiences, but more out of that feeling with which I am sometimes overtaken—the feeling that I have nothing worthwhile to say. And while I’ve been searching for something significant, prophetic, awe-inspiring, I have been missing what is right here in front of me. Trying to wait out the copious amounts of caffeine Jenny and I consumed today, I stumbled across the blog of Betsy, the American who lived on the other side of this wall last year. I read her final entry, her farewell to this place, if you will, and was transported in a way I do not know if I have experienced before. Transported away from here, into the mind of someone I have never met, into the stories and experiences of a stranger, and yet as I read her words I was brought squarely back to here, to this “fading-Soviet dorm” as she called it, to the white and blue walls of our kitchen, to the machine gun-like sounds and vibrations of the hot water pipes, to the blaring techno music so kindly broadcast to our windows, to the idiosyncrasies of our neighbours who frequent the blue-and-white-walled kitchen, to the efforts of the sun to break through the grey sky, to this modest corner of the Urals that is to be my home for the upcoming year.

And so I will write about this, my home: 16a, ulitsa Chapaeva, Obschezhitiye No. 6, Komnata 207, Yekaterinburg, Russia. This is what it looks like on paper. An address—a street name, a room number, a city, a country. This is where I sit as I write these words. It is, as Betsy so aptly described, a fading Soviet dorm. Built sometime in the 1960s, it is a 9 story red-brick building, with an elevator that does not go past the 6^th floor, or hold more than 4 partly starved people. I live, though my room-number does not suggest, on the third floor, with a window overlooking the main entrance. This means I have a wonderful view of the comings and goings of the residents of this building—and a front-row seat (wanted or unwanted), to the drunken foolery that goes on every night. Beyond the main entrance there is a garden, with flowers that should survive another week before giving in to the approaching winter. Behind this there is another “garden,” or at least in Russian it is, the detski sad, or “Children’s Garden” (playground). The children may outlast the flowers by a week or two, until nimble fingers will no longer be able to hold the metal bars of the swing and the space will most likely be overtaken by wild dogs. To the right of the playground is a pile of garbage—mostly old furniture, but also some dumpsters. There is a swastika painted on the shed next to these, and, in English, the word “skinhead.” On the dumpsters to the other side of the playground are scrawled the words stolovaya (cafeteria), kukhniye (kitchen), bufet (buffet), and restoran (restaurant). I am never quite sure what to make of this spray-painted statement, not sure if the artist was naming what these dumpsters were for him (I doubt this, however, as most of the people who frequent these dumpsters are women), or if he was just making a quiet observation, a jest, or something in between. This is what I see through my window, my window to Russia. This is where I live.

Mediating this view is a window, a window that I wake up to every morning. In the window sill now sit two candles that I inherited from Josefina, a birch-tree wall hanging I inherited from Tugrul, a lamp shade I inherited from Midori (the Japanese girl who lived here last year) a picture of two geese, a plant I bought last week, some grammar books I borrowed from Jenny, and what remains of yesterday’s baking experiment. On the window hangs a small Lawren Harris print, a Gandhi quotation, and my favourite picture—three canoes at sunset on Little Crow Lake, the gunwales of the canoes illuminated by the remaining light of the sun before it slips behind the horizon. Things from others’ homes, things to remind me of home, things to make this feel like home. One level back are my curtains, red and white curtains that Josefina put up when she lived here last year, and for which I am eternally grateful. In front of these stands my bed, a hammock-like piece of furniture to which I have added to planks of wood—boards that Betsy used last year. My pillow-case is louder than the curtains—a pattern of pink and orange and red that Jenny bought at the recently-opened IKEA and donated to this pillow to hold its wayward feathers in. It is out of place among the grey and brown standard issue bedding of the residence, but it is, for now, mine. Next to this is my night stand, then my desk, and against the other wall, those of my roommate. Yoon Ka Hye is from Seoul, here, like me, to study Russian for the year, though for the time being we really have no common language. Her Russian is more basic than mine, and her English about the same. At night, I listen to her speak Korean with the characters of her dreams. During the day, we speak in gestures and offerings—coffee, chocolate, yoghurt, baked goods, smiles. For now, this is enough. We share this room, this corner of the Urals. This is where we live.

Beyond my room is a small foyer, littered with shoes, boots, coats for all seasons, a small fridge and an even smaller washing machine. On one end of this corridor is our shower, a place I do not really want to talk about, and on the other a small room with a toilet and another with a sink. We share this with Jenny and Josefina, the American-missionary from Minnesota and the aspiring-Swedish writer who inhabit the room next door. There room is more lived in than ours—Jenny has been here for 5 years, and Josefina for 2, though she has just recently moved from this side of the wall to the bed where Betsy slept last year. This room is home to such luxuries as a real dresser, a working TV, an espresso-machine, and a library of English and Russian literature. Most importantly, it is home to an old friend and a new friend who will be an integral part of my Russia experience, who will help me keep my sanity, who will share this corner o the Urals. This is where we live.

Our small apartment is enclosed by a large green steel door of sorts, with a lock that looks like it was welded in after the original door was made. It is a finicky lock—it will only lock or unlock from the outside if it is set at a specific angle, a lesson I learned quickly after being locked out, and probably locking someone else out. On the other side of this door is a small foyer and entrances to two other apartments. In one live a woman and her young adolescent son, the other is shared by a young couple and a baby, and another young man. These are our neighbours. At our end of the foyer is the entrance to the kitchen that we share—yes, this is Soviet architecture at its finest. The kitchen has two small stoves, an oven with a precariously attached door, two sinks, a purring fridge, a clothesline, a table, and some makeshift shelves. The windows are decorated with flowers, snowmen, and Napoleon Dynamite window-clingers, and in an uncharacteristically nationalist mood, Jenny and I hung our flags (and a small Swedish flag that I made out of construction paper) on the clothesline—a reminder of where we come from and a little life to distract from the grease stains and flaking paint. Jenny has been wary of the reactions she would get by hanging her flag, and I’ve decided to make it my mission this year to allow her to be comfortable in her Americanism. Our neighbours rarely use this room anyway—only to smoke and occasionally bake, so we have decided to make it our own. This is where we live.

Beyond this room is a building populated by Russians—teachers and their families, students—as well as all of the foreign students of the university (approximately 30 Chinese students, 20 Koreans, and 15 others). Guilherme, Mark and Defri live on the other side of the building on the top floor, in the room where the Turks lived two years ago, two floors above my old apartment. This section of the building is guarded by a dejournaya, a (usually) elderly woman who sits in a glass box and regulates who comes and goes to the upper floors. If you are not a resident of these floors, you are officially supposed to leave your documents, though a few of these women recognize me from before, and I’ve discovered that if I turn the corner and continue up the stairs with enough conviction and a small (or no eye contact at all, depending who is there), then I can get away without this layer of bureaucracy. If I want to sleep in my own bed, however, I must respect the 1am curfew, when the door between the 6^th and 7^th floor is locked, along with the main entrance. This entrance, too, is guarded by a usually elderly woman sitting in a glass box, a metal turnstile, and usually two younger guys in camo security gear who watch the comings and goings of the residents. We must show our ID when we enter, and leave our ID when we have guests. As hard as I try, I will never understand this security, this remnant of Soviet bureaucracy, and although I find myself frequently committing small acts of rebellion, I know that I must follow the rules, because this is where I live.

Nearly a week has passed since I began this entry, and, like Betsy, I am now writing in our kitchen, the tapping of the keyboard and the humming of our fridge, the rustling fall leaves and Russian pop drifting through the window combining in an odd musical way, making this space seem less empty and cold than it is. For now it is a comfortable temperature—they turned the heat on this week, and since we have no control over how much heat comes out of the heaters (an amount that won’t change until it’s turned off next spring), most of the windows of the building have been opened wide to air out the now sauna-like temperatures of the rooms. The leaves outside the window have turned and are starting to fall, and it is strange to think that I will watch these trees shed their dress to be greeted by bows heavy with snow, then to springtime buds and new leaves. Like the leaves, I will watch the city live through the seasons, the short days and long nights of winter near the 60^th parallel, the cold wind of the Urals, the dirty melting of the snow, and then the excitement of spring. It has been a hard week, in many ways, as I try and find my place in this building, in this city, in this country, as I struggle with what it is I should be doing with my time here, combined with the ongoing fatigue of living in a language that I only half understand. But sitting here watching the yellow lives whipped up by the wind, I find a quiet excitement at the prospect of living through the cycles of the year in this place, of discovering this city, this country, of testing my own emotional and intellectual limits, of developing friendships with those who also call this place home, of actually turning this place into a home. For better or worse, in sickness and in health, ‘till next summer does us apart, this is where I live.