The language question

The language that is called Bosnian, Croatian, Montenegrin, Serbian (BCMS) is commonly referred to and was once known as Serbo-Croatian. After the Dayton Accords and the development and strengthening of Bosnia and Herzegovina after the Yugoslav wars, Serbo-Croatian became Bosnian, Croatian, Serbian (BCS). Montenegro gained independence from Serbia in 2006. Last year, as Montenegro is attempting to pull itself onto the world stage, the Montenegrin language threw itself into the BCS combo. Thus, we are now calling it BCMS. The Montenegrin government has been working to reform the language and get the peoples of the world to recognize that the language of Crna Gora is not like the others. In an attempt to tip their hat to Montenegro (and possibly throw Serbia the bird), the U.S. government tells us students that we should recognize the M in BCMS.

This recognition is easier said than done for us students. Despite each of us choosing a language within the mix to focus on, we essentially learning a hodge-podge of one language that has become four distinct dialects with particular grammatical and vocabulary nuances over more than a decade. Hence, one might argue that I am learning four languages. The jury is still out; there are many elements to consider.

the bombing ridge...

I went to Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina this weekend. As I hope you know, Sarajevo was heavily bombed and nearly destroyed during the Bosnian War of the Yugoslav Wars. The Dayton Peace Accords were signed in 1995. The twenty year anniversary of a devastating war approaches and signs of the damage suffered remain. The bulk of the city has been rebuilt or resurfaced, but markers remain. Buildings are still riddled with bullet holes; bomb crevices remain in the pavement as ‘Sarajevo Roses,’ construction continues, and many buildings are left to ruin.

Sarajevo Rose -- a shell fell here

Citizens take pride in their resilience and ability to rebuild their city and their lives. However, some still hold on to the past. As buses approach the city from the southeast, passengers will see a factory in shambles. Half the roof is bombed out, fire damage is pervasive, and shell remnants can be see across the entirety of its structure. Why does such a vast structure at such a vital and visible place in the city sit untouched? A young Bosnian-Croat college student said, “You wonder why it still exists like that? The people of Bosnia want you to remember. They want the world and anyone that enters Sarajevo to remember how they suffered.”

holes

I have never walked through the streets of such a place. Land mines are still buried all around the city. An ancient Jewish cemetery will sits as the bombs left it; people afraid to step foot in it because of the land mines that remain. Monuments were constructed to remember the fathers, mothers, and children that died. Bosnians, Croats, and Serbs continue to live side by side, many of them holding on to bitter hatred, others attempting to live in peaceful and reconciled unity. A generation of young adults grew up without fathers.

Attempting to argue that these people do not have their own uniqueness, culture, social customs, and existence seems absurd to me. Having studied it, heard it, and existed in this place, not recognizing Bosnian as its own distinct language is baffling to me. These people, this place, their language is not Serbian; it is not Croatian; it is not Montenegrin.

The word on the street in Podgorica says that I am wrong. Five middle-aged gents in a bar in Podgorica tell me that the only languages of my BCMS claims that actually exist are Croatian and Serbian. Five Montenegrin men, all of whom were born in Podgorica, informed me that the Montenegrin language doesn’t actually exist, but rather, they and the citizenry of Montenegro actually speak Serbian. I am told that Bosnian is not a language. Further, they tell me that no genocide actually happened during the Yugoslav wars. The victims of atrocities were actually the people of Serbia and Montenegro. Serbs were the victims.

As we were leaving the bar, Ranko asked us if we would return again tomorrow. Interestingly, rather than saying ‘sutra,’ the Serbian variant of ‘tomorrow’, he said ‘šutra,’ the Montenegrin variant of ‘tomorrow.’  The people of Montenegro speak Serbian and Bosnian is not a language. I rest my case.

Lettuce starved!

I always forget how the Slavs love meat. I learned this years ago; however, I always seem to forget. Russians love meat. It is rather absurd really. As much as I missed leafy greens while living in Russia, I never noticed that some sort of veggie based salad always accompanied the meat. I thought the meat consumption in Russia is high. They have nothing on these folks in Montenegro! I have never seen anything like it. Meat for every meal. Breakfast. Lunch. Dinner. My life here in the Black Mountains has taken veggie starved to a whole new level. Don’t get me wrong, I love meat, but I am desperate for a giant salad. In fact, write this down, I want a giant salad for dinner when I get home. The first meal shall have no meat. Greens and veggies only. Corn on the cob and a massive ceasar (sp?) salad sounds amazing. I would rather not each cheese for a while if that is alright.

Thankfully, the meat is good. There are several dishes in particular that are lovely. These are all things that you should look into sampling. Čevapčići, Burek, and Pljeskavica. Čevap are these little mini sausage like things that are often eaten with a soft cheese product, known as kaymak, and onions. They are a mix of beef, pork, and lamb (there might be some veal in there too). I am told that Sarajevo has the best Čevap; I will let you know if this rumor is indeed true. Burek comes in all sorts of varieties. Regardless of the form, it is a pastry like product that consists of meat, cheese, potatoes with mushrooms, or spinach with cheese wrapped in phyllo dough. It is amazing… and heavy. Pljeskavica might be produced in the US by making a mini-meat loaf, squishing it into a patty, and grilling it. Very tasty, but often on the salty side. The reality is that most things here are very salty. These folks are running right down the artery clogging fast lane. I hope that I make it out alive!

Have you ever had a peanut flavored puffed Cheeto-like product? I have; they are called, ‘Smoki,’ and they are very very interesting. I tried really hard to love them; I just don’t seem to be a lover of non-cheese puffs that taste like peanut butter. There are pizza and sour cream with basil flavored potato chips here though, and they are both lovely. Also fantastic, the deserts! I suppose that Montenegro and Russia are very comparable in this regard. Cookies, cakes, chocolate, waffley, etc.

Sadly, I still don’t love Turkish coffee. My pallet likes it far more than it once did, but I find myself constantly wishing that I was sipping from a mug of Intelligentia that was just poured from my Technivorm. Even the coffee with whipped cream from Masha doesn’t compare. Despite my yearning, don’t think that I am complaining! Coffee, any kind of coffee, is wonderful for me. In fact, every morning, I wake up and enjoy drinking a steaming cup of Jacob’s instant coffee more than you can even imagine. I am happy as a clam.

Montenegro has not let me down in the beer department. The selection pales in comparison to the alcohol producing abilities of Russia or the States, but this little country does all right with the few that they brew. The winner in my world, no question, hands down, is Nikšičko Tamno. This is the dark version of Montenegro’s famous Nikšičko beer. It is beyond satisfactory. I am not sure if I am content with it because I successfully found a beer darker than Stella Artois within days of my arrival, or if it actually is a fantastic beer. Regardless, it has one me over.

The reality is that this little Crna Gora is a lovely place. I am lettuce starved, and my general vegetable consumption is unfortunately low, but really, I am not suffering.

Words on the street…

Not knowing a single word of the language, I began studying BCMS 7 weeks and 2 days ago. Considering the life span of the average American woman, 7 weeks and 2 days is a blink. Compared to the pain of my previous Russian language adventures, 7 weeks and 2 days is child’s play. You would think that I have learned next to nothing. The reality: I can do anything. The words on the street are the proof that’s in the pudding, and it all began with a taxi driver by the name of ‘Boris.’

My Saturday was spent sleeping in, sipping instant coffee, uploading photos, and spending time with one of the most lovely families I have ever met in a delightful city called Nikšič (Nikshich). Biljana Amidović was one of my professors at Pitt. She lives with her husband Elvir and their two children in Montenegro’s second largest city. The lot of us went gosti-ing (visiting) on Saturday, and a delightful time was had by one an all. The highlights of the day were rakija (shljiva and losa), beer from Serbia, Croatia, and Montenegro, my favorite Russian salad, chocolate covered baklava, and oodles of food. We rode the bus to Nikšič; I bought the bus tickets. Seven weeks of BCMS language study and I bought the bus tickets for 6 other people that have been studying the language for a full 2 years or longer (Natalie, who has been studying BCMS for only 7 weeks herself, bought our return tickets). Amusing ourselves on the bus, we made plans for a beach filled Sunday in Montenegro’s most famous coastal city of Budva. After returning to Podgorica, I had a lovely chat with the woman at the bus ticket counter about the price of fare to Budva and the bus schedule, then I walked outside, negotiated a cab for 4 euros, tried to talk the guy down, told him he was crazy, and proceeded to call a cab company and get us two cabs home for 1.20 Euro each. In the cab, I asked our driver how much it would cost us to cab it to Budva, 26 Euro, he said.

We arrive at our dorms, and there, sitting in his bright yellow cab is Boris. Having calculated that 26 Euros split between 4 people is a far better deal than riding the bus for 6.50 Euro, I mozied up to Boris and asked him how much to Budva. We chatted back and forth, he seemed swell enough, and we arranged for him and another cab to pick us up at 10am. Well, it turns out that Boris is fantastic! Not only did he pick us up and drive us an hour to Crna Gora’s most lovely tourist laden beach, but he picked us up for the same price! I don’t want to over toot my own horn, but I am enthralled with the success that I am finding with this language. I could move to a BCMS speaking country tomorrow and exist very happily (as far as language abilities go). This is an amazing thing!

We spent the day on the beach of Bečići, laying towel to towel next to hundreds of Slavic strangers. The sea stretched out before us, and mountains hugged us on three sides. The combination of my Slavic heritage and 7 hours of laying in the sun have baked me to a lovely golden brown. I am delightfully pleased with my experiences on the Black Mountain thus far, and if I can manage to communicate myself into a few more fantastic situations, I suspect that I will have at least enough entertainment and natural wonder to fill my tank until next year’s international adventure.

Down by the sea…

I am not sure if you have heard, but Montenegro is beautiful! This is a very mountainous land; however, the wonder of it is the mountains and the sea. We left Podgorica Friday morning, and the lot of us American students were speechless as we traveled through the mountains en route to the sea. Surrounded by mountains, without warning, we stumbled upon the Adriatic. With breathtaking ease, the hills come down into the sea. It is indescribable how fantastic it is to see two drastically different things seamlessly existing in one world. I love mountains more than just about any other planetary feature. Mountains and water are even better, but mountains and the ocean together! Amazing! Without even trying, it seems that I have discovered the best place on earth (although, I still haven’t been to New Zealand).

Friday was a day full of excursion and adventure. We ventured out to the historic city of Kotor (home of the famous Bay of Kotor) and the village of Perast. The old city of Kotor is bizarrely reminicent of Seville, Spain (one of my favorite cities). The water is as blue as the sky and the clouds were perfect. Nestled between the winding streets of Kotor’s walled ancient city… a fashion runway. This is no joke, right there in front of a massive cathedral that dates back to the 10th century stood a runway… lights and all. Priceless.

After a brief tour of Kotor’s Meritime Museum, exploration commenced! Overlooking the city of Kotor, nestled on a high cliff, is a fortress. After convincing the ‘gate man’ that I shouldn’t have to pay 3 Euro to hike up the mountain to take a few snap shots, given that I had no intention of actually entering the fortress, my flip-flop soled trek began! Ninety degrees and a big mountain’s worth of sweat later, I saw breathtaking beauty and cloud shadows on water that will long be remembered. Racing to the bottom of a mountain that will more than likely forever remain nameless and a fortress that more than likely has an expansive and fascinating history that I will never know, I hit up a pekar (baker) and the WC, and we were off to Perast.

The highlight of the tiny and historically preserved town of Perast is an island monastery and cathedral. Both of these tourist hot spots were swell, but I was much more enamored by the big yachts floating about in the mountain surrounded bay. I was struck with an epiphany. Retirement! Forget motoring about the States, I am going to buy a sea cruiser! My retirement shall be spent yacht-ing about the world. All it took was 30 short minutes of reflection while sitting upon a rock on a cement island on the coast of the Adriatic Sea and I can see my life forming before me!  As if a glimpse into my future wasn’t enough, the day ended with swimming, sun bathing, and beer in a little village that I will never forget.

The land of the Black Mountains

It is not quite the former USSR, but it is the former Yugoslavia, and well, I am here. My language learning has taken me to a whole new place. I am in Montenegro, that is, as they call it, I am in Crna Gora (or for the English speaking pronunciation… Tsrna Gora). For all of you quizical minds out there, that translates as ‘black mountain.’

A brief recap of events leading me to this lovely land of the black mountains… I have been studying BCMS (Bosnian, Croation, Montenegrin, Serbian — previously known as Serbo-Croatian) for the past 6+ weeks. The United States Department of Education decided that it is worth their while to pay for me to study BCMS (crazy!), just as they have spent the last year paying for me to study Russian (also ridiculous). Wonderful, hilly Pittsburgh has been my home away from home for the last six weeks. I completed my entire first year of BCMS study over the last six weeks (this is absurd), and I am now here in the delightful Montenegro for the next four weeks. Ljiljana Duraskovic, my amazing BCMS professor, poured copious amounts of knowledge into my concussion damaged brain and sent me off to her homeland. I am here, studying from 9am to 3:30pm daily, wondering how it is that I speak BCMS so well after only six weeks. It really is a tremendous thing to be able to go into a store, ask which kielbasa is the best, and order 100 grams of said kielbasa.

The truth: Montenegro is no Russia. It may be problematic, but Russia has become my norm, and it seems as though I want the rest of the former Communist world (at least the European part) to compare. Really, the problem with the rest of the former Communist Europe (except for parts of Belorussia and Ukraine) is that they don’t actually speak Russian! It is crazy! Despite this problem, I appear to be adjusting. I have a terrific roommate, Natalie Mauser-Carter, who was one of my very best pals in Pittsburgh, and I have managed to find all sorts of things to amuse myself with during my free time.

The details: I am studying at the University of Montenegro’s Institute of Foreign Language. Montenegro has mountains everywhere (this is a fantastic thing!). Montenegro has a massive sea coast (this is terrific!). Montenegro has lakes all over the place (also stupendous!). Hiking! The beer is decent. Nikshichko Dark is pretty amazing, actually. I get to drink instant coffee (LG)! Goodness, it had been a year since I had my last mug, and oh, how I had missed it. It is hot as hell (literally) here. Podgorica, the city in which I live has a massive bridge. It was donated by the Russians. I might go bungee jumping into the world’s second largest canyon. This is a lovely place.

I will share much more amusement with you in the coming days and weeks. Until then, enjoy these delightful photos…

The place on which I lay my head...

Millennium (Russian) Bridge!

Swimming in the river!

River swimming and a Russian bridge!

You now see that the reality is that I am simply improving my tan, drinking a new variety of beer, and learning some new words in a different language…

My life is here, I wish you were too…

At this very moment, I am eating an éclair. A homemade éclair that my roommate made. Have you ever tasted a homemade éclair? I never had… until I came to Russia. It is now clear to me that homemade éclairs are just about the best thing ever. I just wrapped up a dinner of mashed potatoes covered with a sort of pork stew. Have you ever tasted a Russian potato? They put Idahoes to shame. I am pretty sure that I have the best live-in cook/friend that the world has to offer. I wish that you too could experience the wonders that my pallet enjoys on a daily basis. These are just a few of the things that I will miss.

There are two elements that make my life here lovely. The first is the little things, the things that are so often overlooked, the things that are so delightful. To name a few… crab flavored potato chips; fried sunflower seeds; taking a gulyat (walk) and watching all of the other peoples as they gulyat; sitting in my apartment and listening to the old or not so old men as they sit on the street taking in a beer or a vodka, just being; the smell of my office building when I walk in in the morning; walking through the market in the morning as the vendors are opening their stalls, drinking their morning coffee, smoking their cigarettes and bantering back and forth between one another; the smell of my apartment when I hang laundry to dry; ironing my t-shirts before I wear them; drinking beer on the street; all those things, and a few more.

The second: fantastic unexpected happenings that make me feel alive, like I am home, like I am me. These happenings come in two forms. They are a person. Someone being fantastic, doing something fantastic, or just loving me fantastically. This usually comes in the form of a little kid. Example: Arriving at someone’s house to the welcome of three kids screaming my name with delight, running from all directions to give me a hug; or a kid walking with me hand-in-hand to the bus stop, just to make sure that I get there alright. Or, they come in the form of a thing. Example: SOCCER.

There was a road trip this weekend (something that also makes me very happy). We hopped a bus for a 7 hour journey to Tikharetsk to see the sister, Ira, and her new husband, Oleg. There were several highlights to this trip. 1. I slept on a real mattress, something that I had not done for 7 months and one week! It was heavenly. 2. I bought new blue jeans. They are more gray than blue.They are skinny. 3. I spent quality time with some fantastic peoples. 4. I drank kvas (a lovely Russian beverage made from fermented bread). 4. I played SOCCER!

I love soccer. I love soccer just as much, if not more, than playing in the dirt. Even better than your typical brand of soccer… it was dirty soccer. Fantastic, super black Russian dirt, dirty soccer. I was so dirty and sweaty and bloody and happy. I walked into the house, Katya looked down at my feet and up at the rest of me and said, “Oh Lord. Are you kidding me? All that dirt from playing soccer?!” She then looked at my face and a smile spread across her face and she said, “Oh, you are so happy. It has been so long since I saw you that happy.” This is how I love soccer. It makes me happy as a clam. I am still floating on the happiness. I am hoping that it carries me to Saturday when I get to play in the dirt.

Oleg’s parents now call me nasha sportsmenka (our sportsman — the girl version) and are delighted by my not so typical Russian personality. They inform me that the next time I am in Russia for an extended period of time, I will be living with them. I tell them that I am not so sure how this will work out, but when we open a HOPE Russia office in Tikharetsk, the land of deep wells, clean water, and railroad crossings, I am all theirs.

RIR: Cookin’ in the Sun.

It has been a month since my return to Russia. Actually, I am late. As of Tuesday, I will have been here for five weeks.  I have eight weeks left. Eight weeks. I don’t know how this happened. Really, it has been forever, while it simultaneously has been nothing. I have no words.

Ira and Oleg. They are in love. It is fantastic.

Since my return to the lovely land of the reds, things have been quite busy. There was a road trip to Tkharyets for a wedding. I drove. Delight. Then there was a road trip to Rostov. I rode a marshrutka there and a bus back. Oh, how I did not miss the trek to Rostov and back. Shortly thereafter, there was a dandy jaunt to Moscow. I have now seen Moscow in every season. I must say, spring and summer are the best. Well, actually, I think that summer would win out with a bang if it were not so darn hot. I still love the Moscow metro more than

My face and the rest of me, crooked, in Moscow.

just about anything. A United States visa was secured for one very happy Russian. We took a train home. It was late. Thus, we landed after the last bus to Volgodonsk had left for the evening. This is not the ideal situation. Yeah, we

took a taxi home. Well, the Russian version of a taxi, i.e. some guy that we picked up at the airport who with for the negotiated price delivered to our doorstep with a smile. Five thousands Rubles later, or in your language, 165 USD later were were home. As painful as it was, this covered three hours in the car; it is a hike, and frankly, it is a far nicer trip in backseat of a car than scrunched into a marshrutka.

What else goes on? There used to be a parking lot outside my window; a lovely brick-type building is going up. The hot water was here, then it was gone. Twice. In general, things they are a changing, while they continue to roll along in the same manner as usual. There has been all sorts of work and all sorts of play.

It is hot in Volgodonsk. I could never have imagined that a place that is so God awful cold in the winter can be so beastly hot in the spring/summer. Despite this inability to imagine it, I am now living it. I am not exactly sure of the temperatures, but shorts and tank tops are already necessary when bumming around the apartment. The sun is scorching, the air is dry, and my allergies are killing me. The weather here already feels of summer in Ohio. When I sat down here, the sun was ablaze, I was adorned in my wife-beater, attempting to quench a thirst that has been raging for days. In the snap of a finger, the winds started to blow and within five minutes, it was torrentially down-pouring. This is how we live. The weather has been like this for going on a week now.

Despite the temperamental weather, our spirits are up. Winter was rough, we will take the heat. In fact, we will take it with a smile, and with it, we will cook-out. There is no translation for what it is that we do exactly. It is sort of a mix between grilling, barbecuing, and well, plain old cooking out. It is also none of those things. It is shashlik. You might think of shashlik as kebab; it is not kebab. Shashlik is a favorite tasty pastime of all Russians. It is marinaded meat, typically and most ideally (in my opinion) pork, that is cooked on a skewer (similar to kebab), over an open fire. Imagine a campfire that has died down, the embers are raging but there is no flame. This is the perfect environment for shashlik — smoked, marinated, Russian meats. Fantastic. We take every chance we get to prepare shashlik. It takes hours; it is a real commitment; it takes planning; it is amazing.

I cannot tell you how it makes my heart happy to squat over smoldering embers for three hours, turning little mettle skewers, dousing out any flames that arise, until my meats have turned a lovely, crisp brown. It is just as good as digging in the dirt.

And so goes life. I bought plane tickets the other day. I will be landing in Cleveland with a Russian in tow on Saturday 10 July at 18.54. I traded in my favorite kelly green Chuck Taylors for a fancy new white pair; thank you, Moscow. My feet are happy. Rufus Wainwright plays on the iPod streaming through the lovely speakers that my terrific grandma purchased for me. The rain is still pouring; the thunder booming; the lightning striking. Things here in Volgodonsk are as lovely as ever.

Digging in the Dirt.

As you may have picked up, life as of late has been a bit rough over here on my side of the pond. In an attempt to find some solace from the discomfort that has been my nine to five, I have been wracking my brain looking for answers. Years ago, when contemplating what I wanted to “do when I grow up,” I used to attempt to translate my passions and interests into a career. In discussing the possibilities of my life with my dad, we often butted heads. I wanted to do something that I love, he informed me that this might be a problem, as what I love may become what I hate. He has frequently told me that work is called ‘work’ for a reason. It is not supposed to be fun. It is work. Frankly, I am pretty sure that I still disagree with him on this issue. However, it is now clear to me that even if my work allows me to do something that I generally love and am passionate about, it will still be work. It will, for the most part, not be fun.

Coming to this realization, I think that I am currently in the process of learning a very valuable lesson. Work is work; it is not my life. Life is life; work is what I do so that I can live the rest of my life. I am trying to remember this as I trudge through that middle portion of my day. When I am not in said middle portion, I am trying to live.

How do we live?

We wear shorts and flip-flops. We drink beer on the street. We dig in the dirt.

Much to my chagrin, I am told that I ‘grew-up on a farm.’ What is a farm? I have asked myself this question countless times. I still do not have an answer. Regardless, I am pretty sure that I grew-up on one. There were fields, there were animals, there were tractors, and I was good friends with this kid my dad likes to call ‘Manual Labor.’ These days, being good friends with Mr. Labor is not terribly common in the good old U.S. of A.. It seems that as we move further and further into a technological and consumer driven society, our relationship with Manual is becoming ever more commonly neglected. Well, here in Mother Russia, generally speaking, we still have a very loving, nitty, and gritty relationship with said Manual Labor. In fact, without Manual, the bulk of the folks around here would struggle to survive.

According to the International Monetary Fund the gross national income, adjusted for purchasing power parity (as in, the amount seen here buys the same goods in Russia as it would where you are living), in the Russian Federation is 9,660 USD per person per year. Now, consider that Russia is home to more billionaires than any other country in the world (that brings a large sway to the numbers), and think what the ‘typical’ Russian is living on. The minimum subsistence wage (i.e. The minimum wage necessary to live. Period. As in, put a roof over your head, not starve to death, and clothe yourself) in Russia is 4,630 rubles (148 USD) per month per person. According to the World Bank, 13.5% of the Russian population, that is 19 million people, cannot adequately feed, clothe, and house themselves. Twenty-five percent of the population (35 million people) are highly vulnerable to falling below this level of subsistence. The poverty line here in the Russian Federation is 1,056 rubles per person per day. That amounts to 34 USD a day, 1,054 USD a month, 12, 648 USD per year. The highest paid person I have yet to meet here in the lovely Russia makes 25,000 rubles per month. She makes 798 dollars per month, 9,576 USD per year. The highest paid individual that I have ever met in Russia lives below the poverty line. Given this state of affairs, finding other avenues to support oneself are key to the survival of the typical Russian.

Thus, we have the dacha.

What is a dacha, you ask? A dacha is a patch of dirt. A dacha is typically found amidst hundreds of other patches of dirt in a massive field located outside a Russian city. To call it a field, generally, would be too much. Really, it is more like a garden. This little garden, is how many Russians survive as they live day in and day out below the poverty line. This patch of dirt, this little bit of land that allows one to grow and subsequently can vegetables is often the difference between a life that is seemingly normal and one that straddles sustainability. Not everyone has a dacha; some people share dachas; others have family members that live outside the city, lending them a bit of dirt.

I love dirt. I have loved dirt since I was a small child. Even better than dirt… digging in the dirt. Imagine the excitement that I encountered when told that it was time to go to work. In the dirt. Katya’s (the roommate’s) parents live in a village 30 minutes outside of Volgodonsk. In many regards, her family has become my family. Thus, when the kids are called in to work, I am included in the pool. When informing me that mama demanded our muscles on Friday after work, Katya was apologetic, informing me that she was well aware that I would be of no help, but that I should at least show up and ‘act like I am doing something.’ In response, I said something along the lines of, ‘Are you kidding me?! I love dirt! It will be just like home! Oh, I am so happy, just thinking about it.’ She laughed and said something along the lines of, ‘Um, I am pretty sure you are going to be useless. It is hard work. It is dirty. You cannot do this work.’ I said flippantly, ‘Are you serious?’ She said, ‘You get that we don’t have a tractor, right?’ I said, approaching insulted, ‘Do you think that I got this strong from sitting on a tractor?! I am a great helper!’ Stiffling her giggle, she said, ‘Yeah, I don’t believe it, but we will see.’ I said, ‘Uh huh, you will see.’

Apparently, it was a big joke with the whole family. It would seem that the Americans have left a less than flattering impression on these Russians. I let them laugh, as I told Katya, that if she wanted, she could just sit back and relax with mama while I did all of the work. It was the topic of humor for the week. Then, Friday came. I worked my middle of the day 9-5, grabbed the kid (otherwise known as Sam the dog), and hopped a marshrutka to the less populated, more dirt-abundant, village of Romanovskaya.

After a stern conversation with mama and papa in which I was informed that I would not be wearing my new white Converse All-Stars in the dirt, I rolled up my pants, laughed in the face of the gloves that were offered to me, hit the dirt with my bare feets, and quickly left the other helper (Miss I am Better at Digging in the Dirt than You) in the dust. After approximately 20 minutes and one ‘I am tired and need a break’ breaks from Katya, she decided that it would be a better use of her time to just hand me the tomato plants as Manual Labor and I were spending quality time together.

The fruits of my labor will not be ripe for the picking until August. However, I got just what I wanted out of the evening. I lived. I was not at work, and it was fantastic. I informed mama with a smile that I would be quitting my job and moving to the back yard. She told me that the next time she needs help, I can bring Katya if I want to, but if I don’t feel like bringing her, it would be alright if I leave her at home. Being a part of a family is the greatest feeling. Being part of something that is necessary for survival is endlessly rewarding. Proving Katya wrong is priceless, and digging in the dirt is the best sort of therapy.

Thus, life will be life, work will be work, and I will dig in the dirt again on Tuesday.

RIR: Act III begins with a jolt…

Act Three, the return to Volgodonsk is off to a rocky start. Life, at this point, is a beautiful mess. I have mixed emotions; I don’t know where to begin.

I now have four stamps in my passport with trains on them. This makes me smile. Strange, maybe, but I love stamps in my passport. I also love how the European ones have a picture of the mode of transportation by which you entered or exited the country. Four trains.

After hopping my 17 hour train out of the smelly hole that is Zaporozhe, Ukraine, I arrived in Morozovsk, Russia. I was greeted by the smiling face of my fantastic Russian papa, Vladimir. Oh, the joy of coming home to someone that loves you. As if this was not enough… he let me drive home! First day back to the Mother Land and I got to drive a car. Delight!

My arrival to my lovely apartment entailed balloons, flowers, and one very happy roommate. Again, the joys of coming home to someone who loves you. My return to Russia has brought several other delightful and not so delightful things…

There was a wedding. It was out-of-town. My Russian pseudo-sister got married to the handsome Oleg. Pop was short on qualified drivers. Thus, I was enlisted. Initially, I was quite excited about the prospect of driving for 9ish hours over two days. The next time you get the opportunity to be the driver in a car with one Russian roommate, a Ukrainian mom, a Russian aunt, and a Russian babushka, do not, I repeat, do not accept. Holy headache. As if the quality of the Russian roads, one bad knee, and crazy Russian drivers are not enough…

In the future, I will be flying solo, and in cases of passengers, they are not allowed to comment on the quality or speed of driving unless they actually know how to drive! In general, this will make for a quiet car. Despite the pain and suffering of my far too long journey, I now have free range use of the lovely white Toyota Camary wagon with its steering wheel on the right-hand side. Road trips are in the works, stay tuned.

The city turned off the hot water. Again. Three days. I now know that cold water showers are far more painful in April than in July. When I say painful, I actually mean painful. It should also be noted, apparently, it is terribly bad for one’s health to take cold showers in April. You should never do anything in the presence of a Russian that is bad for your health. Consider yourself warned.

I made a trip to Rostov with one happy roommate and purchased a United States Visa. In a week or so, we will see if they will actually give us a visa, or if they will just keep my money with a smile. This trip also entailed a jaunt to a restaurant titled, “American Pizza.” It should be called, “Not so American Pizza” instead. I saw Lenin and Pushkin too. They are still standing tall and proud as ever.

Most exciting of all involves babies. (1) There is a new one in my family. Last week, the second of my two brothers and his lovely wife successfully welcomed Charles Franklin Rankin III into the world. Charlie is brilliant, just like the other two fellows that he was named after. Being far away is hard on this one… worse than missing Thanksgiving and Christmas. I feel like I am missing life. In a potential attempt to find some solace from all that I am missing, my little family (me and the Katya) welcomed Sam into our home. Sam is a puppy. He is real; he lives in my apartment, and he is Russian. He is also brilliant.

I find myself crazy contented and painfully miserable. My work responsibilities upon my return to the HOPE Russia Volgodonsk office are very much not what they once were. They are not what they once were, meaning, I actually have them now. Data analysis and numbers crunching are a thing of the past. Well, I am still doing those things too, but I am now the eyes and ears of the boss and the boss’ boss. Being the eyes and ears of the man is not a particularly pleasant job. I am still waiting for the pile of messiness that this work has buried me in to sort itself out. It has to get better. Right?

Work is painful at the moment. Home is delightful. I keep trying to remind myself that work is not my life. I am trying to disconnect. It is hard. I find myself wondering why I am here trying to help these people if they don’t want my help. I keep finding myself wondering why Russians are so stubborn.

On the flip side of the coin…

I have family here. I still love this place. I feel like I am home. I hung out with a two little boys this morning that think that I am about the greatest thing since sliced bread. I have a puppy sleeping in my lap that loves me in unexplainable amounts. Hugs are in abundance.

My heart is happy. But… I am emotionally exhausted. Life is hard. I had a talk with Leah, my fantastic American roommate in the Zaporozhe, just before I left. We talked about how life will be different in Russia, compared to what it was in Ukraine. I said that it will be harder, that life in Russia is just really hard. I knew this. I prepared for this. All the same, I forgot how hard it was.

I am tired. Really tired. I am seeing now, more than ever, how swell life in the Land of Liberty really is. Please, do not take the little things for granted. I am over here missing them desperately. Take a minute and enjoy them for the rest of us that are here in the not quite so lovely places.

Hindsight.

I graduated from high school in 2001. I am currently 27 years old. I graduated from college in May 2009. Last year. Exactly four years after I was scheduled to.

Life is a series of choices. These choices take us through ups and downs. There is good and bad. Things are given and things are stolen. My brother sent me an email today. Attached was an email that I sent him and several others in the fall of 2002. He said simply, “See how far you’ve come.”

I never thought I would get to where I wanted to be. Since the wrapping up of high school, I had wanted to learn Russian, to go somewhere, do something, and better the lives of the suffering. I started down the road that led me here in on 2 September 2001. There were massive hiccups along the way. Dying grandparents. Run-ins with concrete block walls that resulted in a sever concussion and short-term memory loss. The partial tearing and/or hyperextension of every ligament in my right knee. Appendicitus. Cancer. Two torn up ankles that landed me on crutches for nearly 6 months straight. Run-ins with doors being smashed into the head by angry drunk boys that resulted in a second severe concussion. Broken hearts.

I was expelled from Ohio University after my first quarter there. I wrote a fantastic letter convincing the talking heads to let me stick around a while longer. Ultimately, I left because my life was a mess for almost the entire duration of my relationship with the school. I started at Kent State University in the fall of 2006. My plan was to study International Relations with a focus on Russian area studies. Comparative Politics. This one class, comparative politics with Dr. Julie M. Mazzei, changed my life. I had never had such a passionate professor, who cared so much about what she was teaching, who wanted her students to care about what she was teaching. I already cared about the things that she was teaching, but her style, her approach, her love for justice taught me that it is okay to want something better for myself, for the world. Later on down the road, I encountered a seminar in Russian Politics and Economy with Dr. Andrew Barnes. Andrew taught me that it is okay to have a freakish love for all things Russian. He also taught me that it is okay to be brilliant, that this brilliance can be used for something fantastic. I graduated summa cum laude from Kent State. It would not have happened without these two individuals, and a handful of others.

I wanted to be a doctor when I started at OU. I pictured myself working for an organization like Doctors Without Borders, or working in some desolate place that had sick peoples and horrendous medical care. I am not a doctor. I am a long-term expatriate intern for HOPE International, a fantastic micro-finance institution that is trucking along, day-in and day-out, making a feeble attempt at poverty alleviation. I have been living abroad, in Russia and Ukraine, in not so lovely places, for days short of 6 months. There is nothing glamorous about what we do here; I work with Excel and management information systems in Russian all day, but I love it. I am indirectly making a difference in the life of every client that walks into the Russia offices.

In September, I will begin my journey with Ohio State University. They awarded me the FLAS Fellowship, which will cover my tuition and fees and hand me 5,000USD per quarter. I will graduate in June of 2012 with an M.A. in Slavic and East European (Russian) Studies. After I get this piece of paper, I will continue down the path of making the world a little bit better for someone, somewhere, and if I am lucky, I will speak Russian while I am doing it.

See how far I’ve come? I am exactly where I wanted to be. Everything that happened, all of the struggles, the pain, and the mess happened for a reason. It made me the person that I am. Thus, in some strange twist, it was the choices that I didn’t make that got me exactly where I wanted to be.

Hindsight. It really is 20/20.