First Impressions

My first view of St. Petersburg was from the back of a minibus that was transporting a group of my friends and I to our respective host residences.  The city seemed vibrant and teeming with life, a place caught between the traditions of all of its history and the press of new technology.  The first to be let off were Molly and Salina, whose host mother was waiting for them on the sidewalk to lead them up to their new home.  The next place we stopped was on a rather narrow street where the apartments loomed high above us on either side.  It looked Soviet.  Phil said, "Wow, whoever lives here is really lucky."  I wasn't so sure - I hadn't been paying close attention to where we were, but this place didn't exactly look welcoming to me.  Suddenly, our escort who was sitting in the front seat turned around and called "Erin?  This is you."  I took another good look around and tried to think the best of the place which would be my home for the next two months before clambering out of the bus, suitcases in tow.  Our escort had already gotten out of the bus and was standing on the sidewalk, speaking with an older woman of medium stature and strawberry-red hair.  The woman looked at me and smiled before taking the larger of my suitcases.  So this was my host mother, Tatyana Trofimovna Gonmarova.  (The name looks much prettier in Cyrillic.)  I gave her a weak smile and a shy "Zdravstueyte" (Hello, very formal) before following her across the street to an imposing wooden door beside which was a keypad.  T.T. (it's easier for me to refer to her here this way, but I would never presume to use an address so informal when speaking to her) punched a passcode on the keypad and opened the door, beckoning for me to follow.  We walked up a flight of stairs to her apartment, at which she began a complex process of turning keys and sliding bolts in order to open the double door (Nikola's apartment in Belgrade had also had a double door, but it was much less formidable or difficult to open).  When she had finally gained us entry to the apartment, she proceeded to take off her shoes in the doorway, which was my first real taste of Russian culture.  In Russia, shoes are never worn indoors, and for good reason, since the streets are often slushy in the winter and springtime.  Instead, people are expected to have tapochki (slippers) that they wear at all times inside, since bare or stockinged feet are also considered quite rude.  Having been adequately forewarned of this, I had packed the comfortable slippers that I had received as a Christmas present the previous year (and I was more glad than ever to have asked for them), which I promptly removed from my carry-on and placed on my feet.  T.T. smiled at this, and I fervently hoped that I was making a good impression. 
T.T. indicated to me which room was to be mine: directly to one side of the doorway, it contained a large shkaf (free-standing closet) connected to a cabinet-bookshelf, a spacious couch, and an antique-looking desk and chair on which stood a solitary lamp.  The room was probably 8 feet wide and 25 long, and with the sparse furnishings it seemed very empty.  T.T. showed me that I could hang some of my clothes in the shkaf and that she had also cleared off one of the shelves for my use.  There were also a couple of shelves above the closet part of the shkaf, but since the ceilings are nearly 15 feet high, these were too high for me to access.  I promptly fell to unpacking and making myself as much at home as possible, taking care to put things away in a neat and orderly fashion (although I would not be capable of doing it any other way).  In this way I passed the time until supper (and since I did not arrive at the apartment until nearly 6:30, this wasn't a long time).  When T.T. called me for supper, I saw more of the apartment and noticed how large it was, especially for someone who as far as I could tell, lived alone.  I saw T.T.'s bedroom (or at least, a room with a bed) on the other side of the main door, a large living room with a TV, couch, and large standing mirror (but otherwise almost no furniture) across the hall from a sort of study, in between which stood yet another couch.  There doesn't seem to be very much furniture in T.T.'s apartment, but she certainly has a plethora of couches.  I believe I've counted four so far, and I've never been in the study (she usually keeps the door closed).  The floor in the main part of the apartment is tiled with beautiful brown tile (not cheap laminate) although the floors in most of the side rooms are wooden. There's a step up between the bedrooms and living room and the kitchen and bathroom which I keep having to remind myself about.  I'm just waiting for some evening or early morning when I forget and go sprawling across the floor, but so far, so good. :P  As in many Russian residences, there are two "bathroom"s.  One is called the twalet and is a very small room containing only a toilet and a sink.  The other, called a vannaya, is more what we would consider a bathroom, containing a toilet, sink, mirror, shower, and washing machine.  The hot water pipes in the apartment (like the heating, both hot and cold water are centralized and come from a single place in the middle of the city) are not working right now, so there is very little hot water, only what they can heat with a small boiler.  It makes taking showers interesting, although it's still better than in Honduras (where we had a platform outside surrounded by tarps and a 50-gallon bucket of cold water).  The last room in the apartment is the kitchen, (kyxnya in Russian).  It is surprisingly tiny, especially considering the spaciousness of the other rooms in the apartment.  It contains a refrigerator, a table with four chairs (which barely fit around it), and counters and cabinets along three walls at the far end.  All in all, the kitchen can't be more than 8 by 15 feet or so.  T.T.'s apartment is currently undergoing renovations, as I later learned, so there is no sink or stove in the kitchen: dishes are washed in the vannaya and cooking is done on a 2-burner portable electric stovetop (I'm sure there's a better word for that, but it escapes me right now :P).  However, there isn't very much counter space as it is - I can't imagine the kitchen with a sink and stove.
Supper consisted of cooked pasta with cheese sprinkled over it and a couple of small hot dogs (I think T.T. was trying to be as American as possible).  I gladly ate it, but was a little bit disappointed that it wasn't any traditional Russian food.  Supper is also where my difficulties began - as is only natural, T.T. began politely inquiring as to my home state, how old I was, what I would be doing for the summer, etc.  Although I know all of this vocabulary in theory, I quickly discovered that knowing a word on a test or a flashcard does not mean that you will be able to recognize it when it is spoken or that it will come to mind when trying to respond to a question.  As a result, communication was very limited and consisted mostly of T.T. repeating questions three or four times while I stared at her blankly and strove to understand what was being asked of me.  T.T. often stopped and inquired "Ti ponimaesh?" (Do you understand?) to which I usually had to reply "Ne ponimayoo" (I don't understand).  Unfortunately, T.T. speaks only a few words of English, so if she couldn't get the meaning across to me in Russian, that was it.  As the meal wore on, I began to see how little a single year of language study prepares one for even basic communication with a native speaker, and I began to despair a little.  However, not being someone prone to despair, this only strengthened my resolve to learn the language as quickly and as well as possible, if only for my personal comfort and well-being.  (I did, however, begin to doubt at this point the practicality of studying abroad in Germany during my junior year after only studying German for a year...)   At one point, T.T. lamented "It's really too bad that I don't speak English!" (In Russian, of course.  Whenever I tell you that she said something, you can safely assume that she said it in Russian and it has been translated for your benefit, courtesy of me. :])  To which I quickly replied, "No, it's really a good thing, because I need to learn Russian!" (Whenever I tell you that I said anything which you can infer was in Russian, you can safely assume that it was not communicated to my interlocutor nearly as elegantly or precicely as I would have said it in English.  I'll let you know if that ever changes. :P)  Dreading the worst, T.T. asked me whether Latalia (my roommate for the summer) spoke Russian any better than I.  I informed her that, though I could not speak to Latalia's exact proficiency level, she shouldn't expect her to speak much more fluently (case in point: that is what I meant.  What I said, literally translated, was "I don't know.  Maybe.  Probably not."  Not so pretty, but it gets the job done).  Despite all of these difficulties, I was able to communicate that I hailed from the great state of Maine, I studied at Princeton University and had just finished my first year of studies there, as had most of the other members of my group, that there were around 15 of us and that we would be having classes every weekday starting Monday.  Pretty impressive, if I do say so myself (although this was over the course of about an hour, which much "umm..."ing, looking up words in a dictionary, finding rudimentary substitues, and staring blankly). 
After supper came the next dreaded Russian ritual.  T.T. asked me "zhelyonee chai ili chornee chai?" I had known this was coming, but I was no more prepared for it.  Tea.  Now, I have nothing against the beverage in and of itself, but I've never been a big tea drinker, even after my mother picked up the habit.  The fact is, I think tea is disgusting, or at least most varieties that I have ever tried.  And I've tried it several times.  But in Russia tea is the drink of choice: hot or cold, with breakfast, lunch, supper and several times in between.  This is partially a practical matter: the tap water in St. Petersburg is not potable, and the climate is cold.  Thus, a warm drink made from boiled water serves the dual function of keeping one warm and sterilizing the drinking water.  But that doesn't mean that I was any more ready to start drinking tea with every meal.  But, I "screwed my courage to the sticking-point" (Macbeth, Act II, Scene 5... or something like that ;]) and asked for green tea, with sugar.  At which T.T. promptly gave me a strange look and told me that green tea wasn't taken with sugar.  How would I know that?  I bravely sipped the tea as she watched me (and tried very hard not to make a face).  I still don't like tea.  It's like when I went to Honduras.  I hate baked beans, and always have.  Unfortunately, rice and beans are the staple of the Central American diet, and I ate beans for the entire twelve days that I was there, every meal.  But that doesn't mean that I like beans any more now (if anything, I have an even greater dislike for them).  I figured it would be the same way with tea: I would drink it because that is what is available, and though I didn't like it, I would survive.  I would "soldier on", as my Russian professor would say.  (Don't feel too bad for me at this point.  It gets better later ;])
After supper I resumed unpacking, meticulously emptying my suitcases and stowing them in an empty corner.  T.T. came in when I was nearly finished to give me my bedding, and she continued her attempts at conversing with me.  When I happened to mention that I had been in Serbia for the past week, she was very interested and I had to go through the usual barrage of questions (this time in Russian, so I was glad that I had had adequate practice in English ;]).  Somehow (I don't recall how) the fact that I had pictures from Serbia came up, and T.T. asked to see them (they're from the wedding we went to on Saturday, from the professional photographer, and they're quite good).  When she saw the picture of Nikola and I, she exclaimed "You guys look so much alike!  You could be brother and sister!"  The thought of Nikola being my brother made me laugh, and she asked, "You don't think so?"  When I took a closer look, I told her that I could see the resemblance, although I didn't think we looked all that much alike.  She looked through the remainder of the pictures and picked out three: a closeup of Nikola and I, one of me with Aca, and a close-up that the photographer had snapped of me watching everyone dance with a smile on my face.  She especially liked the photo of me, remarking "What a pretty photo.  Don't you think?"  I agree - it is a remarkably good photograph (especially since I don't consider myself particularly photogenic).  She set up these pictures on my desk and then smiled at me - I guess I have my room decorated now.  It is nice to have those constant reminders of my time in Serbia; I love pictures.  I only wish now that I had brought a few pictures of my family and friends, like I did for college - they don't take up much room and it would be nice to have some pieces of my life in the States around.  Oh well, live and learn, I guess :[
Although I had only traveled from Belgrade (a 2-hour time difference), since I had gotten so little sleep the night before I was more than ready for bed by 10:00.  However, something that I failed to take entirely into account about St. Petersburg is the fact that, since the city is so far north, the sun literally almost never sets in June.  They're called "White Nights" and it's a cause for celebration and festivity, but not when I'm trying to catch up on sleep... :P  Although it was 10 pm local time, it looked to be no later than 4:00.  And, like Aca's room in Belgrade, the window in my bedroom was only covered by lacy, transparent curtains instead of proper blinds or window shades.  Here we go again...