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February 2014

A Rant on Poetry

I’ll never forget the smug cynicism I felt last spring when my professor handed us Ezra Pound’s poem “Papyrus.” The poem is as follows:

Spring . . . . . . .

Too long . . . . . .

Gongula . . . . . .

 

I quickly scribbled my own version to show how much artistic talent I thought a poem like this took. My version went something like this:

 

Summer . . . . . . .

Too short . . . . . .

Arugula . . . . . .

 

Unfortunately, my professor overheard the laughter of my two classmates, and had me read my creation to the whole class. I was slightly embarrassed, but I also felt justified in expressing my frustration with modern poetry.

Poetry and I have had a love-hate relationship since I entered college. Before college, I was pretty much unaware that any form of poetry existed beyond your standard rhythm and meter based creation. At this point, I loved poetry. I loved hearing the alliteration and cadence of the Edgar Allan Poe type, and I even felt that I had a knack for writing verse, evidenced by an occasional Facebook note (remember when people wrote those?).

Then, in college, I submitted one of my rhymed masterpieces to the school literary journal, and I heard crickets. When the journal was printed, I found to my bewilderment and dismay that there was not one rhymed poem in the whole book. As I read through the poems, anger started to fester as I realized that I didn’t “get” any of the poems. The word choice seemed random, there seemed to be no unifying theme or structure, but here they were, shouting at me from their cozy black and white abode that they had been good enough to print, while mine hadn’t. I felt the like the awkward outsider not let in on an inside joke.

Even after being slapped with the reality that rhyme was no longer in vogue in the literary world, but was rather something sequestered to cheesy Hallmark cards and children’s books, I refused to give it up. My sophomore year, I started dabbling in free verse, just to see if it was all it was cracked up to be, but I remained loyal to my quatrains. In my creative writing class, we had the chance to read a sample of our work to the class, and I chose to share the rhymed poem that I had put my heart and soul into, and a free verse poem that hadn’t taken me more than a few sittings to write. This is what happened:

I read my rhymed poem to the class, and when I finished, my professor gave me a confused look, as if he really had hated it, but was trying not to show it. He gave me a haphazard tip on how I could improve, but it was clear he was having difficulty showing how much he didn’t like the poem. To get an idea of what the style was like, here’s the last verse:

So bring back color, vibrancy to black and white review,

Define the wine, the bread; refresh with glimpses of the new.

Come break the barricades to meaning guarded by the lies,

And shatter repetition with your wordless loving eyes.

A little shaken, I moved onto my next poem, which was about growing up as a magician’s daughter. Here’s an excerpt from this poem:

On those long car trips home through summery Maine

I leaned my cheek on the sheer glass

following powdered sugar stars on walls of navy ice.

Or if my brother was there

we’d giggle in our late night childish joy,

we were made up characters from a different world

Just a simple description of my childhood, I thought, nothing too special. But after I finished this poem, my professor’s expression completely changed. He loved the poem, and even said he wished he had come up with the phrase “powdered sugar stars.”

I started writing more free verse poetry although I was secretly suspect of its elevated state being a hoax, and my poems started getting into the college literary journal. Although I did work hard on my poems, they still took me less time to write than my rhymed poetry, and I remained simultaneously exhilarated that I had gotten my foot in the door of this literary society that I still didn’t understand, yet critical and disgusted by the poems that I still couldn’t get anything out of.

My poems were free verse now, but they were clear and specific. I viewed my goal as a poet as conveying an idea or emotion with a precision that prose couldn’t give. These other poems seemed to find joy in obscuring meaning.

The more I talked with English majors about my quandary, the more I realized that as a whole, they approached poetry differently than I did. For me, if a poem didn’t “make sense,” the author was doing a disservice to the reader, but for them, poetry wasn’t always supposed to make sense. You weren’t supposed to take apart a poem like you were disassembling an appliance, otherwise, you would kill it. Point taken, I reasoned.  But then, how do you distinguish between a quality poem and a shoddy poem?

Is this

a poem

simply because I

have forced it

into six

neat lines?

I imagined the renowned poets of the 20th century guffawing over beers about how they’d tricked critics into believing their lazy scratchings had artistic value. Williams Carlos Williams would say with giddy tears in his eyes, “and then I wrote about how ‘everything depends on a red wheelbarrow’! And they loved it!”

Beckett would slap his knee heartily and Pound would give Williams a fist bump, and they would continue their poetic scam to the end of their days.

And then there’s the case of Billy Collins, the “everyman’s poet” of the late 20th and early 21st century. Collins said “I think a lot of readers are frustrated with the obscurity and self indulgence of most poetry. I try very assiduously to court the reader and engage him. I am interested more in a public following than a critical one” [http://www.cprw.com/Hilbert/collins2.htm].  “America’s most popular poet” has repeatedly proven his finesse in fulfilling this goal; take this poem for example:

Another Reason Why I Don’t Keep A Gun In The House

The neighbors’ dog will not stop barking.

He is barking the same high, rhythmic bark

that he barks every time they leave the house.

They must switch him on on their way out.

 

The neighbors’ dog will not stop barking.

I close all the windows in the house

and put on a Beethoven symphony full blast

but I can still hear him muffled under the music,

barking, barking, barking,

 

and now I can see him sitting in the orchestra,

his head raised confidently as if Beethoven

had included a part for barking dog.

 

When the record finally ends he is still barking,

sitting there in the oboe section barking,

his eyes fixed on the conductor who is

entreating him with his baton

 

while the other musicians listen in respectful

silence to the famous barking dog solo,

that endless coda that first established

Beethoven as an innovative genius.

This poem is both witty and accessible to the general population. I definitely didn’t feel I was being excluded from an inside joke. Still, I have to wonder what exactly it is that makes this a poem. If you took away the visual structure and made it into a paragraph, it would read just like a fun piece of prose.

So readers, these are my questions: first, what makes a poem a poem? And secondly, what makes a poem a good poem? Am I justified in my frustration with modern and post-modern poetry, or is there something I’m missing? If so, please let me in on the inside joke. In the meantime, I’m going to go write a villanelle.

 

 

 

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If the Master and Margarita had a Sequel

Last night, I finally hit the halfway mark in the first full-length classic I have attempted to read in the original, Mikhail Bulgakov’s The Master and Margarita! (Well, I actually attempted The Brothers Karamazov last summer, but that turned out to be way above my level at the time.)

Portrait of Mikhail Bulgakov, graffiti from the stairwell of the Bulgakov House, photo taken December, 2010
Portrait of Mikhail Bulgakov, graffiti from the stairwell of the Bulgakov House, photo taken December, 2010

I first became enamored with the book back in 2010 when we read it in my literature class in Nizhniy Novgorod. It grabbed me from the first page with it’s deliciously creepy opening scene in 1930s Moscow where an eccentric “intourist” named Woland argues with two atheists against their claim that Jesus never existed, then predicts that one will die by getting his head cut off, which happens not an hour later when he slips on sunflower seed oil and falls in front of a tramvai.

It soon becomes clear that this foreign visitor is none other than Satan, who has come to Moscow with an eclectic entourage, including a talking black cat and a tall, skinny man in a checkered suit and a broken pince nez, to drastically change the lives of the city’s intelligentsia.  This story-line is successfully braided with the tale of a brilliant writer, “the Master,” and his lover Margarita, and the Master’s novel itself, which imagines the last days of a Jesus-based character Yeshua Ha-Notzri and his hearing before Pontius Pilate.

Although this book is extremely entertaining from a surface-level reading, it becomes even more intriguing when you delve into the layers of philosophy and criticism of Stalinist Russia that make up the meat of the novel. It is no surprise then that The Master and Margarita wasn’t published in the U.S.S.R. until 25 years after Bulgakov wrote it, and even then, 12% of it was censored!

"Manuscripts don't burn." A famous line from the novel.
“Manuscripts don’t burn.” A famous line from the novel.

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So while I won’t give any spoilers to the book (which I do recommend you read!), I will share a few reasons why I think that if The Master and Margarita had a sequel, it would be set in Elabuga. One of the reasons the novel stands alone is that Bulgakov found the sweet spot between fantasy and reality, (what literature nerds would call magical realism) to the point where the strange events that the Devil brings to Moscow seem chillingly feasible. I have found this little town in Tatarstan strangely mirrors the feel of the masterpiece. On one hand, as some have said, Elabuga is “the realest place on earth,” but at the same time, I often encounter little mysteries that make me feel like I’m in a fairy tale, sometimes wondering if Woland will step out from behind a tree and start talking to me.

Here are a few of my Elabuga experiences that have kept me on my toes:

Mystery #1: Woland’s distant cousin?

The novel opens up with the “intourist” Professor Woland, (Satan) predicting that Berlioz, head of a literature firm, will have his head cut off, and that his companion, Ivan, a poet who writes under the pseudonym Бездомный, or “homeless,” will find himself in a mental institution. While conversing, Woland gives the men his business card. I had a strange conversation in the lunchroom at my university with a guy I like to call “Woland’s distant cousin.”He even had gold crowns on his right teeth, like Woland. After finding out I was an American, he called me an “intourist,” the reference so common during Soviet times, then he used the word бездомный (homeless) in conversation. Finally, he started telling me about a Bulgarian Professor Lozanov, whom he had studied English under during the Soviet Union. The method was very intense, he said, for the first four months, you were allowed no visual aids or texts, you simply had to learn by hearing and remembering. The last five months of the the nine month program, however, you were given books. Then, he looked at me with a strange smile on his face and said,

“the thing is, it was so intense, that after that year under Lozanov, everyone in my group died except me.”

My eyes went wide, not sure if he was joking. He kept up his broad smile, his gold crowns shining, and said “yes, I’m the only survivor.” And then, to top things off, he handed me this business card:

Фото

This professor had basically covered chapter 1: gold crowns, business card, “intourist,” бездомный, and last but not least, death/mental overload.

Intrigued by this Lozanov fellow, I googled him and found almost everything this professor said about him to be true; his nationality, his methodology, the time period. The only thing I couldn’t find was information about a whole cohort of Soviets dying after a year with him. But as a Russian friend of mine said, “maybe it was secret information, and he accidentally spilled it.”

Mystery #2: The singing opera man

Around November, I started to hear this strange noise from inside my dorm room at random times. The sound would usually go on for periods of ten to twenty minutes straight, and sounded like a cross between an old-man singing opera and a ghostly moan. In November, everything in Elabuga seemed weird to me, and I think I just subconsciously accepted it as one of the quirks of my new surroundings. I didn’t tell anybody about it for over a month, and when I finally did, I realized how crazy I sounded. I mean, really? The ghost of an old man singing opera?

The sound continued, and around mid-December I had come up with a brilliant theory: it was the call to prayer from the mosque about 3/4 of a mile away from my dorm. After all, hadn’t I heard the call to prayer once in one of my classes, seeing how two of my girls closed their eyes and began to pray. An hour after that class, while walking home, I heard the opera voice not too far from the mosque.

But none of it really made any sense. I could still hear it loudly and clearly from the inside of my dorm room, a good 15 minute walk away from the mosque. One evening a friend came over who is also Muslim and she heard the sound. “What is that!?” she asked, scared.

I shrugged my shoulders. “I hear it every day.”

“If I were you, I would be scared to go to sleep at night!” She then assured me that it was most DEFINITELY not coming from the mosque. The next week, I heard it while I was outside of the dorm, the sound more resonant than I had ever heard it. I quickly grabbed my phone and began to record the sound, crunching through the snow, trying to find where it was coming from. I couldn’t tell if if was emanating from my dorm, or from another building that surrounds the mini-courtyard.

The audio file is as far as I’ve come in my little  investigation. No Russians I have asked have any idea where the noise could be coming from, and they seem to be just as intrigued as me.

And finally: The Devil’s Tower

This place makes me want to write books.

Фото

Фото

So it’s not exactly a “mystery,” per se, but it’s a really mysterious place, and with The Master and Margarita‘s obsession with the use of any form of the word чёрт, or “devil,” the Devil’s Tower would fit right into the narrative.

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This sign tells us that the area surrounding the Devil’s Tower was inhabited in the “Early Iron Age” (7th-8th centuries), and that at the end of the 10th century the Bulgars built a military fortress. The tower with white-stoned citadels is the only remnant of the Volga Bulgars during the pre-Mongolian period. Archaeological and  architectural research has found a building on this site that is the remains of a fortress-mosque, built no later than the 12th century.

The view from the Devil’s Tower is a breathtaking panorama of wintry Elabuga life: against the backdrop of forest green and white, today I saw the tiny figure of a man ice-fishing in the Toima River, a man and babushka strolling down the slippery street far below, and beyond, the colorful churches and buildings of Kazanskaya Street. So in spite of all the strangeness and mysteries and unpredictability of this town, well, probably because of them, I’m really starting to feel a connection to this place. Whereas last semester, I was just trying to keep my head above water, now I have time to think and reflect and actually enjoy this town that is so very Russian, yet has a personality all it’s own.

#SochiProblems: Russians Respond

We’ve all seen the pictures of the apparently disastrous conditions of the Sochi Olympics, and if we’re honest, many of us Westerners have laughed in glee at the “peach juice” that is actually contaminated water, unfinished hotel rooms and (heaven forbid!) separate bins for used toilet paper. The 320,000 person following of the Twitter account @SochiProblems, which, according to Sarah Kaufman is 100,000 more than the number of followers of the official Sochi Olympics account, highlights the fact that for some reason, Americans find it really amusing to make fun of the land of vodka, snow, and the gulag, as stereotypes would have it.

Фото

Oh look, the Sochi ad in Elabuga fell down. Everyone point and laugh!

I in no way claim to be innocent of poking fun at the quirks of living in Russia. In fact, until I read this excellent article by Sarah Kaufman, titled “#SochiProblems is More of An Embarrassment For America Than It Is For Russia,” I hadn’t felt any contrition for the way I complained about not having a toilet seat in my dorm or using the line, “when I was in Russia,” as a transition to one-upping a friend’s horrific travel story. Kaufman makes the case that Americans’ gleeful reaction to less than ideal conditions in Sochi springs from “cultural misunderstandings borne out of sheltered ignorance,” which was a great starting point for discussion with my 5th year students. Since I discovered #SochiProblems, I have been curious to hear what Russians think about Americans’ snarky Sochi commentary as well as their broader perspective on the Olympics, so for газета (newspaper) class today, we discussed Kaufman’s article. Here’s what they had to say:

What do you think of Americans’ reactions to the conditions in Sochi?

One girl expressed surprise that Americans would make fun of their conditions; she had spent a summer in the US and had heard only positivity from an American gymnastics coach about the upcoming event. Her friend, who had also been in America, showed no surprise, expressing that it made sense journalists would find the place unsuitable; after all, they were used to better conditions. In fact, many students voiced understanding of visitors’ qualms at Russian conditions. The general sentiment of the class was gracious, essentially, “we are used to these conditions, but that doesn’t mean we think less of others if they are not.”

Are you offended?

Again, students were very gracious to the whining Americans, while still expressing some offense at their homeland being mocked by outsiders. They could all be diplomats! One girl loosely quoted Pushkin as saying “a man hates his Motherland, but he is offended if someone else says something bad about it.” Many students echoed this idea, and the same girl who quoted Pushkin told me, “you see, we can complain to each other about our terrible conditions, but if you start complaining to me about how horrible your dormitory is, then I will be a little offended.”

Another student added to this thought, expressing that Russians themselves perpetuate negative stereotypes about their country by constantly complaining about conditions and the government. On the other hand, she said, even Americans who rail on Barack Obama still tend to be patriotic. “As for us,” she continued, “we see the best route as a ticket out of here!” (Baba Olya, anyone?) The class laughed when she said this, but she made a great point: if Russians don’t talk well of their country, why should they expect others to?

Why do you think Americans are reacting like this?

One young man posited that Americans might view Russia as a threat, and as a class we discussed the possibility of lingering Cold War sentiments tainting Americans’ view of Russia. Embarrassingly for Americans, ignorance also may play a role. One student visited the United States, and when she told someone that she was from Russia, the American echoed heartily, “Oh, the U.S.S.R.!” I guess it’s hard to escape a Cold War mindset when you think it’s still going on.

Another girl came up with a metaphor that encapsulates what I think many of my fellow American -born Russophiles can attest to: “I think the journalists see it like a scavenger hunt. They look for what is bad, and then they write about it.”

“Why do you think they do this?” I asked.

“For amusement,” she answered.

I loved this metaphor, because I think it perfectly describes what many Western adventurers to Russia aim to get out of the experience. The first few times I went to Russia I was intrigued by the “wildness” of it, and things that would be inconvenient in the long run turned into exciting stories I could tell my friends. Part of the fuel that fed my fire for Russia, was the romanticizing of these conditions as somehow adventurous, definitely more interesting than life home in America. And it’s easier to sensationalize or make fun of conditions when you can pack your bags after being there for a week. So for all this talk about schadenfreude sparked by remnants of Cold War sentiment, I think that something simpler and more universally human might be involved as well: the longing for adventure and story.

Are the Olympics a good thing for your country?

Most students felt torn when answering this question. On one hand, as a student said, the Olympics are reviving sports in Russia, which since the fall of the U.S.S.R., have been comparatively weak. In Soviet times, she said, Russian athletics were much more competitive, but that recently, “sport has almost died in Russia.”

Many agreed that the Olympics were an important historic event for Russia, but that the costs might outweigh the benefits. Over $51 billion dollars was spent on the games, and one student quoted an estimate that if that money were divided equally among Russia’s 143 million, each person could buy his own apartment. I’ve quickly learned that when talking with Russian students, if you say the word government, a conversation about corruption is not far behind, and many voiced frustration with the financial corruption that permeates their society. Even if a gigantic sum of money was supposed to be distributed to the Russian people, one student argued, it wouldn’t get there, because pockets of corruption are not limited to big endeavors like the Olympics, but are everywhere.

One major thing I took away from our conversation is the need for Americans to stop basing their opinion of the Russian people on the actions of its government. I was impressed by the positive attitude my students had towards Americans in spite of the snide Twitter account. To be honest, if I were them , I would be doing my best to sarcastically shut down the opponent, but they didn’t seem to see America as an opponent. Rather, they were gracious towards journalists’ reactions to their homeland, that, as the poet Tyutchev wrote, “can’t be understood with the mind.”

Умом Россию не понять,
Аршином общим не измерить:
У ней особенная стать —
В Россию можно только верить

Ф. И. Тютчев

No, You Can’t Kiss Me! (Никогда не Разговаривайте с Неизвестными)

“Never talk with strangers.” Никогда не разговаривайте с неизвестными. This simple advice would have saved me a lot of trouble if I had been conscious enough to heed it.

“Never talk with strangers,” or you just might be hit by a flurry of unstoppable events that snowball into your demise, at least that’s what happened to Mikhail Berlioz and Ivan Bezdomniy when they ignored this axiom on the sultry, Moscow summer eve that opens The Master and Margarita. Now, I certainly didn’t meet the dramatic fate of Berlioz or Ivan (read the book!), but my unexpected adventure did begin in good old Moscow.

When I stepped on the train to Vladimir, I had no idea that I would soon be unwillingly locked in a Russian soldier’s embrace, his determined gaze meeting my horror-filled eyes as he got ready to plant an unwanted kiss on bewildered lips. Этого не может быть. Но это было. Here I was, stuck in an agonizingly long second, his homely face with pathetic, unintelligent brown eyes looking at me like I was a piece of grade A American beef…

THE STUPID GIRL WHO JUST WOKE UP

Now I won’t lie, the Russian platzkart has always exuded a bit of romance to me, the possibility for late night conversations with a handsome and charming traveler while speeding through the taiga has always seemed more epic than than a stale stroll on the beach. But just to get things straight, “Lieutenant B.”, as we’ll call him, was neither handsome nor charming. It all happened when I woke up on my platzkart bed to see a soldier in full uniform sitting on the bed across from me. He was homely and a bit stocky, with greasy brown hair and brown eyes. I must have looked startled at his presence, because he quickly said, “don’t worry, I’m just here to charge my phone, the only outlet is at the front of the train.”

File:Platz-Karte passenger car.svg

The layout of a Russian platzkart. Photo Credit: Glucke, Wikimedia Commons

“Oh, don’t worry about it. It’s fine,” I yawned, shooting him that reflexive, wide smile that my sleepiness had prevented me from censoring. That was my first mistake. In America, when a girl smiles, it’s polite. In Russia, when a girl smiles, it’s an invitation. Whether he heard my accent or not, I don’t know, but while my guard was still down, he asked me, “where are you from?”

Without thinking, I shot back “from America. I’m a teacher here.” Second mistake. Stupid, stupid, stupid girl. At the word “America,” something changed in this nonchalant Russian soldier, and before I knew it, he was sitting at the table across from me, ready to talk. Again, I stupidly took him at face value, thinking, “what’s the harm in some small talk? I only have an hour left on the train.” I asked him if he had a family, and his calculated response warned me of his real intentions.

“No.” he said. “I wouldn’t have gotten acquainted with you if I were.” With eager, puppy dog eyes, he told me “you’re very beautiful. It’s me who’s the ugly one.” Although I tended to agree, in reflexive “politeness,” I said “nyet,” and smiled.

When he offered tea, my first reaction was to hesitate; after all, the age old trick is the drug in the drink, but he seemed to read my mind, and said “relax,” and showed me a sealed tea bag to prove that his intentions were less than criminal.  He excitedly got two mugs from the conductor and poured us tea. Not wanting to be rude (stupid, stupid, stupid girl!), I sipped the tea very, very slowly, convincing myself that if the drink was drugged, then I wouldn’t get enough of it in my system to do any damage.

I joke about my “stupidity,” but in reality, by the time he had brought the tea out, I had realized that letting my guard down in those first few moments of consciousness had invited me to play this game of cross-gender interaction by his rules, rules that were very different from American girl-guy flirtation. There is a much more pronounced power differential between the sexes in Russia, and it became clear that this soldier felt a certain power over me. At this point, I did not want to make him angry. I had no idea how reactive his temper was, nor did I think anyone on the train would help me if something did happen, so I resorted to trying to play his game as best as I could, hoping that I could bide my time with fawning pleasantries until I could escape into the fresh Vladimir air. As the conversation went on, my nervousness took center stage, and the very words I didn’t want to say kept coming out of my mouth. Long story short, he found out I was single, and then he really turned on what he thought was the charm that might get him a green card.

RUSSIAN PICK-UP LINES

I don’t remember the sequence of Lieutenant B.’s wooing session, but the cheesiness and systematicity of his whole routine was hard to forget. In less than twenty minutes, this Russian soldier played me terrible Russian pop music to set a romantic mood, then sang me his own song, after which he said confidently. “You love it when I surprise you, don’t you?” (Ты любишь, когда я тебя удивляю.) He showed me pictures of himself as a child, and he asked me if it was hard for me to be without a man in my life. He could be my boyfriend just for the train ride. He could come to America with me.  He even bluntly asked, “so, do you like me?” But it was his Martin Luther King Jr. style speech that made me want to flee the train more than ever.

“What are your dreams?”he asked. After I answered, he began.

“I had a dream, to buy a car. I bought a car. I had a dream, to become a soldier. And I have a dream,” he looked at me suggestively, “to kiss a foreign girl.”

Oh no he didn’t.

“My friend dated an American, and he says they are so much more interesting to go out with. He says they’re different. And Russian girls have no soul. If you have money, they’ll be by your side, but if you lose it, they’ll leave you without a second thought.”

EATING PIG FAT

Yes, it got even weirder.

“Have you ever tried sala?” he asked. Now sala is a Russian food I had done a good job at avoiding on previous trips, but I had actually put it on my Fulbright Bucket list as something I wanted to try. From what I had heard, sala was gelled meat fat that you put on bread. Apparently, also the food of love. Lieutenant B. ran to his seat and brought me back a slice of brown bread with two chunks of congealed fat. I took a bite into the chewy, bacony fat and breathed a sigh of relief when it didn’t make me throw up. “So, do you like it?” he said.

“It’s not bad,” I said honestly, at which he decided to gift me with an entire bag of cut up fat and brown bread!

PHOTOSESSION

About this time, his soldier friend appeared in my section of the train, and Lieutenant B. asked him to take a picture of us. He wrapped his arms around me hard while his friend snapped a picture, and then, this was that fatal moment when he looked at me as if he was about to go for that foreign-girl kiss.

“Nyet,” I said firmly.

“On the cheek?” I made a face, and before I knew it, his mouth was planted on my cheek while another picture was snapped. Oy. His friend left, then he came over to me, combing his hair, (which apparently was supposed to be attractive?) and asked me, “Can I please just kiss you before you get off the train? I just want to feel the difference.”

What!?

Well, he would feel a difference for sure if he actually dared, my lips were so chapped they were cracked, and***ahem***, never having kissed anyone before, he’d probably leave with the impression that American girls were the worst kissers on earth. But more importantly, never having kissed anyone before, there was no way that I was going to let my first kiss be with some random soldier who saw me as nothing more than a check off a bucket list.

He was persistent though, and before I got off, he asked again, and in frustrated Russian, I said “I can’t!”

“What do you mean, you can’t?”

“I don’t kiss people that I just met,” I told him. He finally accepted this, and I breathed a sigh of relief as I exited the train. But I walked along the platform to the train station, I felt a tap on my shoulder, and I turned around to see Lieutenant B behind me, shooting me a creepy grin. I quickened my pace, thankful that he didn’t decide to follow me. Soon, I was safe with my friends in Vladimir, memories of the soldier taking a more humorous than scary tone, but I will say that this experience opened my eyes to the need to be on my guard at all times while traveling alone, especially in a culture where what I consider to be simple politeness can be taken as an invitation to kiss me, then marry me and then finally, get that visa to America…

Pictures from England

I’m visiting friends in Vladimir right now(!)where I spent the summer of 2012 studying Russian. I have so much to write, but I didn’t want to forget to post pictures of my 10 wonderful days with my parents in England. Since typing from a phone at a snail’s pace is a frustrating way to blog, I’ll let the pictures do most of the talking. Enjoy!

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Oxford Castle: almost 1,000 years old. First a castle, then turned into a prison until the mid 90s. I felt like I was in an episode of Robin Hood! (Those of you who know me well will understand how exciting it was ;)…..)

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Views from Eynsham, the village in Oxfordshire that we stayed in.

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And of course, I would find a samovar in England…

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Dad and I before seeing Les Miserables

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Best parents ever!

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Mom and I

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We ate lunch at “The Eagle and Child,” a pub where C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien used to meet to discuss their writing.

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