Ha, we didn’t even spot a single one. They are probably all hiding underground in the metro or warming their tails at a homeless person’s barrel fire. Rats don’t seem to appreciate the cold and windy Parisian winter days though the sun may be shining.
One could call it a truly unique phenomenon. It happens mostly when the axial tilt of the earth hits a certain angle and all heat appears to be vanishing from the Northern hemisphere (my place of origin by the way). About that very same time Putin’s Special Defence Forces send their Marshall Snow to haunt European homes and punch the peaceful Westerners’ wallets with their entire icy might. They have hardly recovered from last year’s attempts on their lives and now they are again strained to the brink of their existence. There is a clear correlence between dropping temperatures, the approach of Christmas and the all-out unfolding of the capitalist terror. Normal people would refer to it as “Winter”. Long story short, Nata and I traveled to a famous French city called Paris on a surprisingly hot winter evening just after dusk (at about 5pm). A friendly French guy with an astonishingly good level of English gave us a ride in his car that smelled of gasoline. He tried to fill up his reserve tank and spilled some into the inside of the trunk. To mitigate this smell, we rolled down the windows whenever we rolled at a speed lower than 90 km/h (that’s about 56 Freedom/Hamburger). While almost asphyxiating for the better portion of 5 hours and trying to find an acceptably comfotable balance between the cold and the smell of Horizon Zero Dawn after the explosion, we had some lively discussions. Blabla.car remains a recommended means of traveling.
Once in Paris, a grey and hasty world awaited. An inumerable number of swift cars were rushing to and fro on all sides. It became all to clear that we had reached the busy rush-hour of a metropolis. My first instinct was to think about empty promises of a car-free city dominated by bicycles (and rats) that we so often saw on the media. Instead, we found a rushing place that smelled of diesel – out of the frying pan and into the volcano…. Then Nata and I parted ways – she went to stay at her cousin’s, I went to join my Eesti connection whom I had met many eons ago in Georgia. We shared a few glasses of honey liquor in her above-average-sized Parisian flat. Good night!
Intro done. Lettuce get down to business.
The last time I was in Paris I had a positively dreadful time. Always rushing, never truly enjoying its rich history, diversity, splendour and charm. I have had my share of the Japanese “Paris Syndrome”, I had been severly let down and depressed. This was to change this time.
Though, of course, the city has some nice sides, is has more uncomfortable ones in store. I’m talking about social inequalities that has people living in segregation according to their income and ethnicity. If you look underneath any bridge in the city, you will be able to spot grapes of homeless people who will regularly be moved by the police, so that they may never again feel like they have a save spot to return to. I’m talking about the sheer enormity and density of the city that can become overwhelming and, I believe, dangerous during “canicules”, the heat-waves, that are bound to strike European heartland more often in the following decades. The relatively sparsity of green areas and trees in general are a factor that play into a feeling of disconnectivity with nature, and is dislikeable. Paranoia has also struck the city: The monument most known by the world for its solid metals looks and its partiularly striking airiness – it’s mostly made from air that hovers in between the large cast iron beams – has been fenced in and standing underneath it (!) will cost you dearly. It also troubles my heart to see so few a solar panel on the dreamy rooftops of the city…
In a way, Paris is indeed the impersonation of France. There’s huge social inequalities, problems with immigrants, environmental concerns, an arrogant loftiness and an almost fanatical dependence on nuclear power (this is slowing shifting to truly renewable energies).
I feel disinclined to continue writing the blog post in such a demeaning way. I’m no Parisian landlord after all. I am not going to exhort my dear and wonderful readers by charging them 1000€ /month to visit a single blog post. Quite on the contraire! It’s all for free! And you can leisurly stray these pages as you see fit. Or back off and find your inspirations somewhere else. However, if you have a minute to spare, have a look at the following points, that I am yet to discuss:
Croissants
Stealing bikes
Museums
Sub-culture
Other very surprising and humane things
Croissants
This absolute legend of an Italian blogger made the test. He traveled all the way to Paris to check the best croissants of the city… when suddenly he was introduced to the French national hobby fierce strikes linked to the assassination of a minor(ity) driver by the French state thugs. This was a though thing to do, given the reputation of the country of “a place that you drive through to get to Italy” (Top Gear) and a torn stomach from too much butter.
I tried a similar experience, but far less guided and with less obesity involved. In the end I can say that the experience was wonderful and some croissants were seductively tasty, while other boulangeries could learn a lot from Luxembourgish bakers.
Stealing Bikes
Thanks to the progressive and innovative nature of the major of Paris, Anne Hidalgo, the city has planned a few improvements that already mean and will mean positive implications for the future. Not only has she pledged to clean the Seine river for the 2024 Olympic games in Paris, but has constructed long distances of bicycles lanes, plans on banning heavy SUVs (an absolute atrocious climate catastrophe and acompletely uneccessary luxury good) and generally wants to turn the city greener.
How does she want to realise all of these ambitious plans? By turning to the people of Paris! A referendum for instance shall decide whether Parisians want to allow SUVs on their roads. Or by providing free subscriptions for city bikes (durations over 30min will be charged though). Many thousands of recommendations and propositions have flooded into her office, that shall help rethinking the city with regard to social, democratic and environmental challenges. A text-book socialist.
Technically, I didn’t have to steal the bike. It could have used it for free to discover the streets of Paris. But I ran out of mobile data before I could register. As I checked the bicycles, I noticed that one of them was loose, not attached to the station. So I took it, despite it having no functional gear and barely any braking capabilities. Due to some misunderstanding or miscommunication, the museum where Nata and I wanted to meet was significantly farther away. Instead of riding 15min to the Musée d’Orsay, I cycled well over 45min in my Soviet-made blue, woolen overcoat on a bike with no gears. I arrived drenched in sweat and I had lost a borrowed scarf.
Thanks Charles for this pic ❤
Museums
Paris has got all kinds of museum. There’s the world-famous ones such as the Louvre or the Centre Pompidou, however, there’s a further million or so lesser-known museum and they are all jewels in their own right. We didn’t spent much time in museums, surrounded by old stuff and things that may or may not have belonged to a former colony, because we had much to see in general. One museum I would have like to see was the Baltic Amber Museum. How cool is that? (we didn’t it visit it. If you did, please write me in the comments)
Sub-Culture
As I’ve already mentioned before Paris is no homogenous city. It’s divided into districts, called arrondissements. For an outsider the structure of the city can be confusing as it doesn’t follow an easily recognisable pattern. It rather follows a historical growth. It started as a fortified settlement on one of the Seine islands, then grew in a snake-shaped, circular pattern as it expanded onto the surrounding hills. The farther you get away from the center of the city, the more discernible social inequalities get. While the 16th arrondissement is a posh and unholy place, the 13th is more French, whereas the 18th is where all the former colonised peoples are lodged. You can also find a wonderful Georgian restaurant there called Colchide. I stay in the 13th and found it really homely and agreeable. Plus its walls were covered in political dissent, art, personality. Here’s a few pics:
Aliyev is an assassin.Fine, I saw ONE rat.Game idea: Everytime you see the anarchy sign, take a shot.Nett hier, aber waren Sie schon mal in Baden-Württemberg?
Other very surprising and humane things
Free drinkeable tap water! Everywhere. Guaranteed for free. You don’t even need to ask for it. I know, for some this may not seem like a big thing – in Italy you get a free glass of water for every espresso you order – but I live in a filthy rich country, where capitalism has reduced the most basic of all human needs to nothing more than a potential source of income. It might not be much, but it somewhat restores my hope in humanity, especially as Nestlé has totally dried up city of Vittel’s springs and groundwater.
Cheaper bread, because 1 day old.
Cheerio, that’s all for now. If you haven’t been there, go on and visit the city for a few days, have a stroll, steal a bike and visit some museum. That’s why you want to go there anyway. However, in case you try to have a romantic moment with your significant other half, better go to Estonia in the middle of winter. It can offer you so much more in terms of privacy and the alcohol excesses that you crave.
The snow storm is beating violently against my windows. They are already completely covered in snow, no light escapes my room anymore. The doors open arduously and the windows stay shut. Fresh air would be fine, but not at the price of a severe drop in temperature and a puddle of water in the middle of the room. What next you may ask? Wait for the blizzard to be over to go to the store and grab a cold one in attendance of the boys? Well, there is a chance that they will never get through the walls of frozen water. They might just get stuck and will be force to nag each other`s dying feet while waiting for a change in atmospheric pressure or help to –
come34qw
77777777777777
Excuse this gibberish. In a futile attempt to express its creative and communicative self to its distinguished feeders, the house cat decided to climb over my keyboard. It`s clearly lacking some finer coordination to properly use the keyboard. Don’t mind her too much.
Maybe you would like to hear a short overview of what happened this year? Some of it you may have already read in previous blog articles (about my time in Georgia and Türkiye), but what happened afterwards? Do you care to know how I ended up in yet another snowy and cold place?
Well, regarding all the shit that went down this year, starting from a large-scale invasion of Ukraine by Russia, the re-election of both Winnie the Pooh in China and ultra-right-winged Netanhayu in Israel, the crack-down of peacefully protesting ladies in Iran and everything in between, it’s seems vain of me to try and profile myself and my life. I will content myself with sharing some travel pictures at the end of the article. Scroll down for the slide show 😉
I was on a Erasmus+ project in Türkiye, in Antalya, where, after very conflicting and ambiguous instructions given to us, we had some audio-visual and entertaining learning material at the ready to present it to local schools in Antalya. The aim was to show them a way how they could fully independently teach themselves some values and skills. It was the 24th of February. While we were riding on the bus, I got the news of the massed assault on Kyiv, the near complete destruction of Ukrainian air defenses. I was in schock. All of this half-assed PR trick – going to schools to present our work and taking pictures of it – felt ridiculous. Even more than before. With this “Special Operation”, as the fascists liked to call it, I felt personally attacked. I had studied Russian for 5 years, visited Russia and had lived among them. And suddenly this important and plentiful phase in my life tasted bitter, trampled on, ruinous. An era of nebulosity had commenced, that had gradually scattered during summer as the Ukrainian army made some greater breakthroughs. Also, for once I felt the ubiquitous European unity that politicans loved to use, but never fully managed to convey to a wider public. I’m still on very good terms with my Russian, Ukrainian and Belorussian friends. They have all distanced themselves even more from Russian politics.
So, dear readers, Ukraine is officially European, not Russian. It certainly is not a “brother nation” of Russia. It seekes it alliances elsewhere, somewhere where it had not been belittled and its sovereignity not mistreated for a century and more (it certainly has been by the major powers of WWI and WWII, but they have given up on their claims on Ukrainian soil. Save Hungary and its Victator Orban…)
Now I live in Tallinn, Estonia. A country that had been subjected by the Soviets for a long time too and had suffered a similar fate as Ukraine (no Holodomor though). The anti-Russian sentiment is enormous too here, there’s no denying it, no embellishing of this fact. It’s deeply rooted in everyone’s mind, ranging all the way from the former Soviet citizens to the young and educated. I’m working for the German-Baltic Chamber of Commerce, the AHK, and have a lot of time to follow the news, which has become one of my most important drives during this winter. I get to follow all the inequalities, the hate and disasters, the massive rearmement, the wars and troubles that entail death and suffering – all while pretending to be working for the company. 2023 will hopefully show some light.
Surely, it is not my intention to paint the devil on everything. I greatly enjoyed reading about COP27 in Egypt, though little yielding as it may be, it sent another important message to the world. Especially since some activists were rather aggressive and were confronting the global destroyers of the environment. I hope that their feeling of unassailability fades! Plus there is so much good worth fighting for and people and leaders have taken steps to tackle some problems. I was surprised by the US, by Joe Biden and his unquestionable support for Ukraine, and by Brasil that they are were so braindead as to vote for Bolsonaro again. We have grown closer yet again. Many of us.
Well, let’s get to the fun part.
Itinerary of 2022. Starting from snowy Kutaisi, I crawled through Türkiye, skipping the Balkans, sojourning in Luxembourg, traveling through Eastern Europe and finally starting work in Tallinn, Estonia.
Pictures taken in 7 countries. Can you guess which ones? This part is dedicated to my friends. It’s hard to include all of you beautiful people, please, don’t feel offended if you don’t find yourself here.
This here below is an extract from the projects that I joined or have undertaken myself. They include setting up a stop-motion film set in a hotel in Antalya, doing my Scuba diving lessons, living in Georgia and surviving Corona-related boredom by drawing portraits and doing a more or less sucessful short film in Detmold. And there was another film made in Türkiye. Here’s the link:
The road to happiness is paved with many a difficult obstacle. It’s a deliberate choice to walk it, to suffer on the way and perchance to find a destination. But, goaddamn, it’s still better than working 40 meaningless hours a week!
Okay, now to the final words to conclude all of this. 2022 was a challenging year for many, including myself. It has also been a year of opportunities and of realisations. It may have paved my way for the future, thanks to many supporting and beloveth friends and for all those people that popped up and showed me an alternative path or brought some brightness into dark days, when all lights seemed to have faded. Somehow I know what lays ahead of me now, and though I don’t know where to my feet will guide me, it’s gonna be a meaningful passage through the world and time. So, here’s to some wisdom: Choose a meaningful path – it’s up to you and only you to decide what brings you meaning-, stay true to yourself, choose happiness. And most importantly: Choose life.
Krgyzstan is a true Kaputnik-State. Which means that it works, despite the fact that absolutely nothing is meant to function. You get the idea immediately within the first 5 minutes in the country: Grammatical errors in the official airport signs, no means of renting cars, an absence of busses and the likliness that your flight will be delayed, because a cow decided to nap on the runway. Just like they do on every other road.
Can you spot the mistake?
Maybe the latter is exaggerated. It is, however, very surprising that 30 years after declaring its independence and controling vast mineral ressources, Kyrgyzstan would still not be able to run a few buslines – or marshrutka (vans) throughout some part of the most central regions. The only train line that does exists, apparently runs only once every week!
Even this thing is able to conquer the mountain. Why not a bloody bus?
Every official state worker seems to be corruptible. Take a random street cop for example: instead of writing a fine for speeding for 500 som (around 5€), he gladly and woolfishly accepts 200 som that go straight into his own pockets. The higher the rank, the higher the bribes get.
Unsurprisingly, this treacherous nature that is so visibly displayed by the important people of Kyrgyzstan, is imitated by its other inhabitants. I have the impression that almost each and every (male) citizen will try to cheat you of your money. Deals that are agreed on, can easily be altered to the locals wishes, desires and, of course, to the tourists/travelers growing frustration.
At one point… something snaps within the tourists troubled, oxygen-deprived and most oftenly over-heated brain. And then the haggling starts. When in Rome, do as the Romans do. Bargain for every cent/som as if your life depended on it. Do not trust any of the prices.
It so happened that, while staying in Osh for a few days, me and one of the 4 Israelian guys staying in the same hostel, went to buy some Coke. The prices on the markets were close to 60 som for 1.5 Liters (for warm and filthy Coke), whereas the one we found in a real shop was tagged at the dastard price of 80 som. So we haggled.
“80 som? That’s prosta outrageous! Never in my life have we found anything this inhumane and despicable. Have you seen the prices on the market, have you? This is already only barely acceptable, but 80… 80 som? I need this money to feed my poor, gray donkey a little bit of grass that he so deserves on his old days. He’s already limbing on his two hind legs, but he wants to go back to his mountain village to see his donkey wife and donkey children before the inevitable happens, yalla.”
We managed to push the prices by 5 som. Not great, not terrible. But when trying to pay, we ran into some serious issues: we did not have enough coins. We were going through our combined wallets and pockets and found only about 70 or so som. That, plus about 10.000 more, but only in big bills and we had already entered a stage of stingy deception that there was was no turning back. In the end, we got it our way and, though embarrassing as it was, we achieved a little discount.
On that day we truly understood some of the Kyrgyz mentality. All thanks to a completely rotten government.
The Isrealian desert rat that can eat an infinite amount of pasta.
I’ve got this request from a fellow student and a dear friend of mine, whether I’m going to write about friendship and my relationship with some people that I got to know in Russia. And I thought that, yeah sure! Why not tell a few stories.
What exactly did she ask? Hold on, gotta check it quickly… aha… yeah! She wanted to write about “us”. I was also surprised about this way of putting it. Indeed, she wanted to do it herself and I gently wished her good luck, telling her to deliver “качество” (Russian for quality). Apparently, I must have misunderstood her, for she corrected herself, requesting me to do it. “So, like, about our friendly relationship, the Erasmus kids or Kazan?”, I wondered. Then she suggested me to do a combo of all three things, believing I would come up with something suitable for her request (somebody has to believe in me at least), and that it would be amazing if I could add some nicknames to polish the story a little. So be it! Here’s one to friendship.
Going through the articles that I published on Russia so far I distinguished a relatively persistent negative trait that connects my impressions on different topics. Of course, it would be unfair to treat everything as if it had been awful or unpleasant. Though there were times where I had wished to be far away, longing for a common sense of rationality or a simple vegetarian restaurant, the opposite was also sometimes the case. It was the constant energy and support of a handful of people that kept me going through this experience. I feel like I owe them a lot. For it was their complete determination to abstain from any surrender of their personality that made them so valuable an asset to the group dynamic of our class and to my mental well-being. All of us faced the same problems – some were, of course, more prepared for them then others – giving that their language skills were more advanced, be it that they could cope with the general food quality easier than me -, my friends remained true to their principles and personal ideologies. Now that I’m considering who’s the most deserving to have a part in my story, I’m experiencing difficulties deciding. All of my friends from there had their own personal characteristic traits that made them stand apart from the crowd. On top of that, I wish not to anger anyone by not mentioning them. I will, however, restrict myself to the most close friends of mine.
First of all, I would like to present KyöstiOfficial to you. It’s basically the only one who actually truly had his nickname during the project, stemming from his Instaprofile. KyöstiOfficial has the special ability that he does precisely and only exactly what he wants to do. Never would he forcefully make himself change his mind. Nor would be pretend to like something that he was, in fact, against. As he appeared to be a strong-minded personality who would never betray his own intentions or lie to anyone, we always sought to introduce him to our casual hangouts. What’s more is that he was constantly high on snooze, pushing small baggies of tobacco in between his upper lip and his gum (which added something to his mysterious and unique nature). He most secretly attend the Russian classes: He would be sitting in the back rows, not steering a muscle during discussions rounds in the vain hope of not being asked to add to our thin round. He was certainly not invisible, and indeed he was greatly appreciated by all the teachers, despite his intermediate Russian. It was possible that for the exact reason that they all loved him (and so do all of his friends) that they always wanted him to speak. Life can be really troublesome sometimes… Жизнь не сахар!
With him I rode all the way to the Russian steppe in search of some peaceful place, that probably reminded us of our homes, where the mind isn’t disturbed by the constant chatter or the constant harmful car emissions. The path there had us come up with creativity to figure out how best to react to changes in planning. In the end it seemed like a never-ending recalculations, with mathematical formulas in disarray. Blablacar switched into hitchhiking, bus, train, hitchhiking, almost taxi and more hitchhiking. His patience was truly unbeatable during this trip. We may not have bought the Sterlitamak magnets, we managed to take a pic with dear Vladimir Iilich in Salavat.
This is not Lenin
Except from our irregular trips somewhere or the camping in woods, we didn’t leave Kazan together as one complete group very often. On one of those occasions we went to take a bath in march. The vapour was escaping the steamy tent in large white clouds as we protruded the place to take refreshing refuge in the clear water of the Blue Lake, the Глубакое озеро. Having felt the strange aqua-thermal sensation, we longed for the smiling group of students who all studied Russian and their engulfing warmth. Many of us had gone through much during that time – the adaptation to the absurdity that was on Russian level was comforting and challenging, for most were happy to return home after their stay (at least for a still unknown time) – so that the support and guaranteed respect for each other was always something we could count on. Let loose in a somewhat bizarre world, we created bonds between each other that would overcome nationalities, or rather, thrive thanks to the differences in our upbringing and culture. Some lived up to the expectations of national stereotypes (e.g. a predilection for drinks in Finish people, the spirited, Italian hand movements while talking,…) while others shook the foundations of the classical way of displaying the life of their specific home country. It was especially the Germans (or those living there) who did their best at shattering any German stereotype: punctuality and efficiency. We would eventually reach a certain point, where even the most obstinate teacher would stop questioning our late arrivals in class.
Clearly one extraordinarily remarkable character is the musician and friend of fine arts and he’s no other than Mr. Schubert. First name: Ludwig. You wouldn’t believe what value a brilliant name such as his possesses; it can literally grant you access to place that would have been out of your reach. In many occasions it fully astonished new acquaintances. They would be merry. As a fine addition Ludwig sometimes added that he’s playing the piano, which instantly made him become something of a musical icon. Even the officials usually plaintive world was shattered for a millisecond, so that they gave him the key to the piano room where he could play all by himself for hours. I wish for him that he eventually gets him piano at home in Berlin. It would mean an infinite evenings of jolly evenings!
He was one of my first acquaintances when I moved to Berlin and has ever since welcomed my into his flat. There we would discuss our time in Berlin and the near future – all that with a glass of wine at hand. The idea to visit Russia and to experience all of its absurdities would eventually strike us as a promising plan. Little did we know at that time that we would be dropped in an intensive two weeks of dealing with bureaucracy and preparing for the interview with an official from a Russian university, which, despite the coffee and black tea in our bloodstreams, went fairly acceptable (I might have called the city St.Petersburg by its old name Leningrad).
As devoted readers may have already read, we did move to the Russian city of Kazan right on the Volga Хуйолга river for reason of academic studies. We would share a shared flat with a brainless English guy – dear old Mikey-boy kept us wishing that he might take a looong and frosty stroll through the endless forests of Northern Siberia – and discover all of Russia’s countless absurdities and contrasts. Thanks to his photographic interest I could rest my freezing hands in the warm entrails of my jacket without bothering too much about taking photos. If I spotted something, it was easier for him to capture the moment, rather than risking frostbite myself. Whenever we returned to our shared room, we would warm ourselves with some illegal alcohol that was always comfortably stacked away in the dark corners of our wardrobes and prepare a simply dish, such as French onion soup. A nice onion soup requires long hours of slow cooking and some more of that illegal substance called wine; it’s smell filled the hallways, equally distributing the odour of white wine throughout the building.
Much more can be said about our tricky situation in Kazan and the way we mutually assisted each other in dealing with bureaucracy, strict authorities, stubborn teachers and our inner temptation to let everything be, but I’d rather end this part by referring to an older article (i.e. Breathing in the air of Glasnost and other stories from within the Ural mountain range) and my greatest gratitude towards him for following through with our silly plan to its end.
One plan that didn’t fully fail, despite ever changing means of transportation that drastically change throughout our preparation time at home and during our stay in Russia, including as many possibilities as six: buying an authentic LADA with which we could have traversed all of Russia in a speed similar to the development of public opinion in Soviet Russia, renting a car, taking a train, hitchhiking, taking marshrutka or even asking for military support (considering Ludwig’s uncle’s proximity to Russian military, this appeared somewhat within the limits of the possible). Even our initial idea to move to Yekaterinburg instead of Kazan was quickly thrown overboard. Little of what we planned actually did come into effect.
We are in a crass contrast to the Italian students. All of them appeared to know what their future will look like. That is, apart from on an emotional basis, where they surprised us and, mostly likely, themselves with their sudden changes in partners. The absurdities didn’t seem to bother them as much since they hadn’t really put too much consideration into this matter.
Both Russian mindset and its language seem to be about equally complicated to understand and mastering both at the same time requires a lot of attention and work. There’s different ways of how best to deal with this problem. Combining them worked best for me, as I got to e.g. listen to songs (mostly Viktor Coi) and then analyse the lyrics so in order to memorise new words by hearing the words repeatedly in your head while rambling through Kazan. Other ways could include literature or playing a theater role in a Russian piece. There were those students who approached the language learning process from a practical direction. However, apparently a language can be treated solely as a means of communication, therefore, dealing with the cultural or political aspect can be disregarded as useless. Some of our fellow foreign students had, prior to Russia, learnt a very decent level of Russian that was almost flawless when it came to grammatical aspects, however, they had troubles naming a single Russian band upon meeting us. They were immune to all of the nonsense that was forced on us, because they hardly questioned the system in any critical way which gave them an incredible advantage. It was especially the Italian students, who were surprised to know that the system Putin has (re-)introduced some very silly laws (though some locals were also not informed about it as well).
Maybe it was the obvious oblivion for most features of Russian musical culture and questionable political delusions that made a handful of people disciplined to a degree that they could communicate almost entirely in the Russian language outside of (sometimes) frustrating courses while, simultaneously, prepare for IELTS test and translate all of Homer’s Odyssey from English into Italian. Time to introduce to the blog a new Italian girl: Beatrice, the girl that goes by a different name, but who inspired me to write this very entry that you are reading at this moment.
Beatrice is extremely devoted to the cause and took up the challenge of living in Russia and learning the language with ease – or at least so it appeared. Blessed almost exclusively with positive character traits she could have served as an inspiration to us when it comes to punctuality, hard-working, language acquisition and reliability concerning homework. And, indeed, she was one of the few foreign friends that I’ve acquired during my stay in Kazan who would insist on speaking Russian. Though my brains came steaming out of my ears after the initial first weeks of lessons (a great adaptation to the language occurred with great force – the cold of the Russian winter helped cool our overheated heads), discussions during our walk through dense snowfall back to the student’s dorm tickled out a little bit of energy.
What shocked me therefore, for it is in crass contrast with my perspective, that she was practically entirely unaware of modern Russian culture, music and even politics. Why burden oneself with learning a language as complicated as Russian if of is all but dimly aware of what to do with it? Possibly out of contemplation that, at the end of one’s studies, there WILL be job opportunities (e.g. as translator/interpreter)? Although I am grateful of her efforts to make me be understood by Russian natives, I am not sure if I managed to raise her interest in Russian culture.
Russia, the land of contrasts, where everything should be expected, especially as it to megalomaniac ideas or ideals that grazed off of both sides of the extremes. This probably stems from the harsh climate that provides the coldest of winters and the hottest summers alike – Russia, the great sauna. And in this conditions people had come up with gigantic living quarters that stretch as far as the eye can see, though, одновременно, containing as many constitutional elements as any right-winged populist speech – that is little to nothing. In between enormous hubs of technological progress that are scattered all over the stupendous surface of Russia lay 1000s of miles of backwardly nothingness.
The diversity of the Russian soul manifests itself in its inhabitants and in those who reside in it, even temporarily. On one hand we have the hard-working Italians, whose energy didn’t diminish all throughout the semester, while on the other hand we have Uka, the Inebriate Mongolian Viking.
Uka – epitome of laziness and sociability, mostly in combination with procrastination and alcohol abuse. Though always defending the grandeur of the Mongolian empire or whatever is left of it, his patriotism does not present a hindrance to interculturality, especially concerning exchange of musical knowledge. Therefore, Uka manifests itself mainly in two ways: a fostered sense of belonging to the Mongolian nation, enabling him to carry on lengthy discussions about this very country, laying out major historical aspects and political manoeuvres of the leading families to anyone (particularly to Chinese people), and the willingness to absorb every kind of musical recommendation, placing them in a cognitive spectrum – some genres feature qualities over other genres, with certain mixes amplifying in an ultimate greatness, namely Level 5. Level 5 mostly contain traces of folkloric songs, combined with elements of modern rock/metal. Some may say that this is Post Modern music. Here are some examples:
Old friends sharing their experiences with governmental experiments concerning Acid in the tap water
Half-sarcastic, though witty transition! Despite the repressive nature of our student’s dorm and its arbitrary nature, we got into touch with some Russian fellows from out of this dimension. Credits go to Kyösti.Official for this one, as he introduced The Dudes to us. The dudes befriended each other already at a very young age and probably swore at that time that they should destabilise Kazan as much as possible by incessantly challenging Russian laws and codes of behaviour. This expression of civil disobedience, though not necessarily always wanted or anticipated by themselves, displayed itself in a profound liking of foreigners, whom they invited to home parties; those would often escalate into trespassing onto a construction side.
Are they considered to be a threat to the state just because they climb abandoned places?
Maybe. It’s Russia. But this, far from being the worst things that we could have done, was barely a drop in an ocean of stereotypes and dangers (not just to the state, though). Not only had Pasha, one of The Dudes, tuned his car to such a degree that the acceleration was bound to self-obliterate the vehicle (while cables were hanging out from the front part), he also had a lot a gadgets in his flat that could pose a threat. It’s one thing to have some radioactive isotopes stored on the balcony where everyone smokes, it’s another to have extremely reactive Potassium stored it as well – in due course he’d demonstrate this element, and throw it down his balcony into the snow beneath; a formidable explosion followed its impact. They were some of the most exceptional people though. A radio communication set in the living room, a few guitars plus amplifiers that would made the neighbours go on a late-night rampage to the restore order, a good load of beer and a loaded playlist of car tuning always ready on youtube added up to an outstanding party. Those were the moments when my stuttered and strangled Russian rendered me particularly speechless – a feeling that is mostly negligible while hitchhiking.
I was glad to be with them, here at the end of all things
It’s difficult to asses how many more names, places and faces should be named, and, doing so, how many more names should be disfigured and regurgitated in a grotesque way. Despite the fact that all have individual traits 180° opposite to the ones even of like-minded people, some specific characteristics could only be tickled out, as the group dynamic came into play.
Ludwig and I have way to the combined Finish effort (Kyösti.Official and The TitAntti) at consuming beer before Русское кино in order to make the films a tad funnier. It was one of those precious masculine moments: 30 minutes of tranquility and sunshine, just about enough to soften the emotional downfall that followed the previous lessons. Beer shaped this lovely friendship.
Coincidence got me thinking back to Luxembourg, thanks to the two classmates of mine who both originate more or less in the same region as my humble self. I’m delighted to realise that, whenever I return home, there will be friends waiting whom I have met in the far East and therefore share a unique fondness of heart.
ComeIn, the cheap Anti-Café on the student’s dorm’s campus, often instigated me to spend my sunday evening in a discussing way, protecting well-grounded arguments for a good cause, beneficent to all. It was the single-most international meeting point in Kazan. Any ethnicity or nation was represented, and a vivid exchange never failed to establish between those who attended. The conclusion of this somehow found expression in us playing frisbee during the happy evenings of Ramadan, while listening to Russian Hard Bass and screaming “Parkour!” like absolute madmen (and women).
This last picture will accurate exemplify our relations, taken beside the Глубакое озеро in the fading months of winter, just after a refreshing swim. One will never know what’s gonna await one at the end of it all. Much that was will be forgotten, fading away, becoming rumour and eventually legend. And our moments were legendary, in our particular idiom. And that’s life for you. Some moments are so precious, that they are worth waiting and remembering.
“А “жизнь” – только слово, есть лишь любовь и есть смерть… Эй! А кто будет петь, если все будут спать? Смерть стоит того, чтобы жить, А любовь стоит того, чтобы ждать…“ – Viktor Coi, Легенда
The time after exams was marked with a concluding travel in the northern regions of Russia. Our wanderlust had long been waiting for the escape from university and academic responsibilities, as neither me nor Ludwig had had any break in studying for the last 8 or 9 months (not including shorter holidays like Christmas or the madness around 9th may). Despite the failure of our initial plans of renting a car and comfortably cruising through Ural mountains with the eager desire to visit outstanding Russian cities like Asbest or Nizhny Tagil, we embarked on a journey that would have us wonder at the other, brighter sides of Russia that I myself had only experienced to a minimal amount. If you are by now wondering why you have never heard head of these cities, don’t trouble your mind for it was the purest coincidence that let us to Nizhny Tagil – it was but a meme that I found on the Internet before coming to Russia.
Russia is that big of a country, that when it’s 10am in Moscow, everything is still 1994 in Nizhny Tagil.
Right after the disgraceful ending of our academic semester in Kazan, we met up with the other exchange students for a beer, then took the night train to Ekaterinburg where we had the great privilege of staying at a Russian friend’s place for our time there. Ekaterinburg… the city where we initially wanted to do our exchange; the city that surprised us as soon as we arrived; the city that had held us in awe as long as were there; a city full of pleasant surprises. In fact, the place often felt somewhat related to a Western city, as it offered a rather free choice to the inhabitant when it comes to overcoming usual social restrictions that were always sensible in Kazan.
It, furthermore, is considered the Ural capitol of Rock music. After long strolls through EKB we stumbled upon a park surrounding a pedestrian lane around a embedded rivulet. From there a small tunnel underneath a main road in the centre led to a greater basin of that same rivulet. The tunnel was insofar remarkable and astonishing as it was the so-called “Виктор Цой Туннель” (Viktor Tsoi Tunnel): all of the walls were covered in paintings and graffitis of the deceased, but still illustrious singer/song-writer that carries the nickname “the Last Soviet Hero”. In the middle of it always stands an Asian-looking singer (Asian, but not Indian… it was rather the East-Asian looking type), replaying greatest Tsoi hits, while exploiting his own appearance to earn large amounts of money.
Besides many other memorable places one building in particular struck us as unbelievable: right there, in the middle of a Russian city, stood a perfect example of an Armenian church in red bricks. A Barevzez to the priest paved the way for a guided tour through the church and over the premises. After a few explanations our surprise and disbelief vanished as effectively as Vampires when they see sunshine for the first time; the amount of Armenians living on Russian ground is significantly higher than the population of the originating country itself. After providing us with knowledge he recommended us to visit an Armenian restaurant in town – after the painful acclimatisation that was the almost tasteless and meat-heavy Russian kitchen, every bite of indubitably authentic Armenian cuisine made my taste buds shiver from excitement.
Before you continue, you should look up some pictures of Nizhny Tagil (Нижний Тагил) and let the view have a first impression on you. This is what we did. And everyone with whom we talk to about our idea of seeing this lovely Soviet industrial horror was in turn looking at us with a face of a Teletubby. And, indeed, arriving in the city and seeing it with our own eyes confirmed all of our wildest imaginations. That is: Thick clouds of smokes escaping the many factories intestines, all indicating a different intensity of danger to the health; Soviet buildings all over the place; stray dogs roaming the roads; and drunk men squatting in the parks.
All in all a promising start!
Not even ten minutes after our arrival, a few drunkards saw us two strangers walking around with photo material and immediately insisted on posing for a portrait of them, that we immediately printed out for them (one exemplary I used as a postcard and it should already circulate somewhere in Europe).
Sitting in a Vienna-styled café and Pirogi restaurant, we checked the Internet for places to stay and eventually decided to book an Airbnb for little money close to the central city. However, there appeared to have been a misunderstanding between the unfortunate owner of the apartment and a money-grubbing office behind, that were not even aware, that the place was for rent online (one phone call had already cleared our path, whereas the following one undermined the slightest possibility of the existence of that same place). As the payment had already been completed, we insisted on moving into the flat for the time our stay, and eventually ended up sitting in the office with the employees waiting for their unpleasant boss to show up. About four hours, a couple of teas and the additional payment of another 1000roubles caused the temporary evacuation of the mistreated owner and her two children. Right after sundown he headed out again to further explore the city, despite the unlucky star it seamed to stand under. While moving around aimlessly, Ludwig and I stopped in a wonderful backyard to take in all of the architectural details and the invigorating harmony of buildings and nature. A car stopped. The driver and his wife noticed me and Ludwig taking pictures. A few words were exchanged. More inhabitants appeared out of thin air and joined us. And before long we found ourselves in a car on its way to a bar that is being provided with local beer – beer brewed by a Mexican guy who studied the magic of brewery in Berlin! A beer that was truly excellent in taste and design of the bottles. I can only heartily recommend any friend of the hop brew to pilgrimage to Nizhny Tagil and support the local brewing art!
A great beer! Really! Trust me! Mexicans can create amazing beer – legally!
Random people desperately trying to understand what we were doing in their city
The initial idea of our trip to Nizhny Tagil was, however, a completely different one: we wanted pictures, pictures of industry! Of the raw, polluting power of the purest of all Russian factories. In fact, we wanted to capture the whole scale of monstrosities that is the patriotic Russian tank industry (Tagil is fond over its tanks. The local souvenir industry is making a large split between showing the beauty of Tagil and, on the other hand, showing the full potential of its factory output).
Little did we know that on the next day the city was engulfed with genuine patriotic sentiments over a marine battle that was won by Imperial Russia over a 100 years ago. As the only logical result, by midday all the men in the city had already consumed a dangerous amount of alcoholic beverages and strayed around the city, waving flags of the Флот (fleet). This, of course, meant some beautiful motives for Ludwig. After turning down a few invitations to vodka we made our ascend to Лисья Гора [Lisya Gora] from where me made some incredible shots of the dimly lighted, terrifyingly polluting factories that would make every climate activist go on a rampage.
The strange beauty of pollution at night time
After shivering for easily 3 hours in the cold wind that had been continuously harassing our position, we decided to pack our stuff and leave, though without being perfectly satisfied. As the night started descending upon us, the flame ceased a little, and the steam escaping the factory on a regular basis served as the main motive. The minute our stuff was packed away, the flame rose up to an height, yet unknown to us while another white cloud was spit out of the deepest intestines of the urban nightmare. The mixture created the effect of what looked like an enormous explosion over the factories.
Unfortunately, we didn’t manage to capture it. It was stunning. Simply breathtaking. The hours of exhausting waiting for the perfect moment would have been absolutely worth it, but our patience had left us five minutes too early.
On the following days, we said goodbye to EKB by drinking beers and hearing about locals expressing their concerns towards either immigration to Europe or homosexuals in general… big country, same absurd fear everywhere. They, however, provided us with an unexpected gift that had us rejoicing for many hours and carried us through the city on eagle’s wings. The reputation of the city, i.e. rock capitol of the Ural, loudly resounded through the evening streets. With the coda harmoniously ebbing away, we split from our friends in EKB and prepared for the trip back the next day.
At the train station, an unexpected sight caught our sight. A souvenir that is a fine addition to my collection of small presents from Russia.
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Russia has this weird tendency to always be a little strange. This even applies to other spheres of life that one wouldn’t think of straight away. This weekend I had the extraordinary pleasure of experiencing my first short-distance hitchhiking trip: to the Raifa monastery. While the destination was but 30 minutes away by car, it already served as staff gauge for further upcoming trips. I was accompanied by a German girl, Sophia, who lived most of her life in a city right across the Mosel River, so basically in visual range to Luxembourg – I had to travel all the way to Kazan to meet my neighbour.
Raifa monastery has little amazing to offer to its visitors. It has the typical white-stoned walls, its golden cupola, the brightly and positive religious fresco that cover every single inch of the inner walls and, last but not least, it’s golden, shiny icons. And I may not be an expert on the matter, but I’d claim, that some icons value more highly than others. This is, some shine brighter than others, have been blessed zealously than others thus increased in magical/spiritual powers (how much mana must a priest or bishop invest to get a +10 Protection for Relatives bonus?) and show a different holy person or wise man. Even though I do not possess a picture to prove my testimony, there was a literal queue waiting to touch and even kiss an icon of Maria with Son. And the religious fervency with which they (i.e. especially women with children or babushki) threw themselves at a representation of holy people that no one has set an eye upon within the last 2000 years, made me question the rationality of these fine and humble people. Even on a different level, would it not be sufficient to carry the belief in one’s heart, rather than to spread it with ones lips on a picture that has been touched by thousands before? Is it not a little silly and hypocritical that one prays for a child that serves in the army (e.g.), rather than to make sure, that war isn’t a necessity at all? Would an active, defensive position not achieve more than putting ones trust in a being/spirit/dream and sometimes nightmare, that does little more than listen?
After witnessing this absurdity display of raw and untroubled Orthodox faith, we wandered around the premises of the monastery, investing into water from a heavenly water spring and holy bread and used the celestial privies. We made a careful inspection of the divine stone walls, that slowly started to crumble and inspected the cherubic monastic gardens. Blessed are the decorations outside the walls, for they are humble, yet still fascinate the eye of the observer; the modesty is more to the Lord, for he renounces the simple outward appearance. The propriety and decency weighs heavier than gold and polish, and they are more appropriate for people who profess to worship God.
One more detail in the monastery that startled me before turning to hitchhiking. What are monks supposed to do while living behind holy walls, untroubled by modern hysteria? Praying for oneself and meditating can be arduous work, since one will sooner or later encounter a bottleneck and run out of ideas. Therefore, one has established a place, where children can spend their time and listen to the dramatic and fascinating stories of their favourite biblical heroes or visit a military cemetery (spreading the word of God requires modern technology). Plus, if the children are gone to play with army equipment, yet one still has no time to worship our Lord, one can leave a small tip in the monastery; a monk will take over the labour and invest all of his magical power in protecting ones relatives before the evil forces.
A small note on hitchhiking in Russia: It’s working perfectly fine! Though we didn’t travel far away from the city, a no point did we wait more than 10 minutes and each driver was unique in a very specific way. However, the second car that helped us managing the final part of the road to the monastery was of greatest interest, as the driver was either suspicious or unwilling to helping us; it was but thanks to his passenger, who he picked up along the road as well, that he stopped. The passenger, however intrusive he might have seemed, promptly invited us to beer and sausages and was very keen on learning more about us foreigners, traveling to Russia, for he appeared to be blissfully astonished to hear this; especially, as he wondered whether Europe was cleaner than Russia (interesting comparison anyway). He was so absorbing in his manner, than he immediately succeeded in convincing the unaware driver to made a minor detour to the monastery, where the eventually left us off.
Our return to the city of Kazan was guaranteed by a former Танкист, a tank driver, who had served in the former GDR – it is very common for me to meet former soldiers while hitchhiking, who had all served in Socialist Germany for some years and who, without exception, all adored the German beer – and was on his way home.
Please excuse the bad quality
Our voyage ended back in the city of Kazan, where we were greeted by a world, completely opposite from the one that we had just left: Welcome back to Soviet Union!
Some of you might be slightly familiar with the rich Russian history. I will not continue with a full rendition of what has happened before, only state the most important factor that all major events have in common: time. Certainly, never has anything ever happened, is happening or will ever happen anywhere in this world or the next without the factor time. This accounts for all creation, all matter in the universe, all countries and all gummibears alike.
(Space is, of course, just as important. Historically speaking, however, space and time are not proportional. If you compare the first mention of historical relevance of two given countries, then you would quickly see how Luxembourg is relatively smaller than Mother Russia, despite the prominence it already enjoyed in Roman times.)
Time is a vital ally of Russia. In times of war, the military could just wait for the right moment to start a counter-attack. Sometimes the government would wait for its industry to slowly wake up. Most of the Russian people need to be patient for winter to end its long lasting choke-hold so that they return to their actual work or hobbies. In fact, this waiting is so deeply enrooted in the culture that is has found its way to spoken and written language alike: friends of the language should have a look at the usage of the aspects of the various verbs of movement.
In fact, time and patience or so important to the culture that everyone arriving in Russia is already welcomed with a lot of paperwork that will test their patience to the breaking point. You may want an example for the better understanding of this problem: If writing this blog required Russia bureaucracy to be written, that would mean that I would have to visit at least 5 different offices in 3 different buildings that are distanced by at least 500m (this is especially unpleasant in winter times when the temperatures drop below -20°), sign a dozen papers in official Russian and show three different types of copies of the exact same picture.
The door to the accountant’s office. Text says (among others): “Come in one by one!!!”, “Please, leave nothing behind”, “Working times”, yallah yallah
In reality, the situation is even worse.
Traveling to Russia, especially in the framework of a program as official and well-known as Erasmus+ will have you at your knees, begging for a quick end. The way leading up to our departure was paved with quicksand, rather than actual stones that could have facilitated or accelerated our movement. Every movement bringing you closer to being accepted to Russia and receiving a scholarship already requires a considerable number of signatures and time (meaning: 2 different Learning Agreements, 2 different Motivation letters as our first choice spontaneously changed, a number of meetings with the responsible, a CV and so on and all of which should be handed in in at least 2 languages and in different styles). All of this process took about 2 months of work, varying in intensity.
Moving on. The real work, however, awaited us after crossing the border to Mother Russia. The first days in the country that had been at choke-hold of frost for many months were marked by an overwhelming and utterly and completely nonsensical amount of paperwork that had to be carried out in great hurry and in dozens of offices. As one is required by law to register wherever one goes at any time, so that the surveillance state knows where its subjects and foreign elements plot against him, we immediately had to go through a medical examination in order to enter the prison/dormitory. This went as follows: A Turkmen girl impatiently waited for us in what was soon going to be our new cell/home and let us through the Poliklinika where a couple of doctors inspected our health, to make sure that we didn’t have Syphilis, Tuberculosis or some weird mutation of Western values or ideals (the latter they didn’t check). This small inspection exacted of us some hours of our lifetime, combined with a thorough visit of the many-store medical building.
The documents thus retrieved at the end of this examination granted us the right to actually enter our house (House 7, inhabited solely by foreigners). Once inside of the building, we very hurried through two more bureaus where we had to sign another wave of documents. They were, as all other documents or contracts, written in a complicated Russian – it is not entirely out of the world to believe that we transfered our souls to the Red Army in the course of our actions. Afterwards we could finally leave our luggage in our new living quarter where we were greeted by our new flatmate with a hospitable and warm “Oh! I didn’t expect any guests!”, before we put our snow capes back on and made haste to be back in our coordinators office. He, that is our coordinator Rustam – we figured that our nickname for him “Rastam” would be more accurate, if only he could grow his hair and started smoking hashish – then congratulated us on having achieved the rank of Novice Bureaucrat and for having survived the first day of our 5-month stay.
The day eventually came to end with two aliens falling into their beds in their cells in this prison in a strange and cold country, that had only given us a short impression of what the actual paperwork here could look like. At this point, when our exhausted bodies longed only for rest and the cessation of these absurd procedures, a sudden panic shook us awake: This had only been the first day, yet we still hadn’t chosen any of our courses that we were to visit, nor actually paid for the jail sentence/dormitory. In the course of the following weeks and months of our stay, we have learned to live with these absurdities and take it rather as a comical game, rather than an unfortunate and miserable stroke of injustice against us foreigners. It is a fact, that all beings who were regrettable enough to be born here, or those that have willingly and purposefully moved to Russia suffer very alike – with the minute distinction, that some were lucky enough to know Russian to a degree, that they can at least understand when they sell their kidneys to some authority when signing any paper.
However, once you have left the greatest part of the work behind you or have learned to live with it, then you will see that life moves swiftly and you may be surprised at the amount of meaningful work that a person can fulfil here, if they have overcome the hindering traps, obstacles and whatever may pave ones path – success is all about conquering the first steps and using all the help one can possibly find.
A small insight into the paper terror that we had to go through
After being thrown into the absurdity that is Russia and surviving the first week without any frostbite, we got acquainted with the local mafia. Yes.
Strolling through unknown places often results in a permanent distortion of one’s horizons. One feels vulnerable to be moving in a location as the possible dangers are unidentified, yet at the same time it is oddly attracting, because it holds secrets that will never be undiscovered if one choose not to leave one’s “Comfort Zone”. The possibility of meeting interesting new people or running across a bar or restaurant that may just become one’s favourite despite the old-fashioned appearance are quickly reduced to a bare minimum. Unfortunately, this will cause in a drainage of inflow of information to the brain and will surely result in a gradual disinterest in the world and its countless hidden beauties.
Taking this place for example!
Be the Trinity to my NEO!
A typical local’s bar on the outskirts of Kazan. Its facade hardly welcomes anyone to move inside. Built in a 90s/post-Soviet fashion, it must have welcome and produced a number of alcoholics, probably directly equal to the amount of children born in this district within the period of roughly 30 years. Even though its look does not promise anything, the value of this very unique place should at no point be belittled. The sudden introduction of a, say, foreign element could provoke various reactions: One of them could be the spontaneous urge to show what their perspective on their home look like.
As Ludwig and I have moved out of our Comfy Zone and faced new living conditions, we constantly seek to push our horizons to new limits – many projects have already been discussed, travels planned, cooperations with friends and local “partners” schemed. In order to discover our new habitat, we decided to visit this strange-fated bar called NEO along with our Italian friend (for discretion reason, we shall henceforth refer to her as Maria). Simply because NEO already indicates two strangely distanced things. On the one hand, it means something new, a start to a truly Russian experience with many of its stereotypes confirmed. On the other hand, it could be discussed whether it is a reference to the film character Neo from Matrix; he, who escaped the illusion that his old life was to go through a phase of shock and terror, but who eventually learned to embrace the reality and grow up in it (the phase of liminality made his see the truth). After emptying half a bottle of vodka in our dear dorm, we swiftly ordered a fresh one once we entered NEO. We were greeted with suspicious looks who turned into well-meaning ones the second we started speaking Russian.
The scene was as follows: The place barely had any decorations on the inside, with the exception of a few badly printed versions of famous Russian artworks. The prices were very low, close to the ones you would get in any ordinary shop in Kazan (i.e. around 400 Rubles/5€ for ½l of tasty vodka). The products were very standard; one could buy the usual kinds of alcohol, cheap beers, snacks and dried fish enveloped in plastic. All guests (all men apart from the middle-aged woman Natasha) were playing cards for money, only Evgenji was dozing away all by himself – to be fair, I have no idea what his name was, but he practically instantly got up from his seat when Natasha demanded it.
We got off on the right foot. I was nicknamed “Pushkin”, we drank vodka and played Russian card games. After a few drinks, our conversation became more eager and we suddenly found ourselves outside with the locals, who turned out to be part of the mafia. Natasha was the most prominent, and at the same time most hospitable person. This may mostly due to the fact, that she didn’t buy for any of the consumed drink and snacks and her unlimited power when it came to ordering people according to her will. But what else can you expect from the daughter of “the man who owns the Crimean Peninsula”. Holidays in Ukraine guaranteed! (Goodness, I will be lynched by someone for this…) After finding out that she was pregnant with her 5th child already, we asked her if it wasn’t a better idea to stop smoking entirely instead of switching to Marlboro Light. Though a complete abstention from cigarettes probably won’t help the fact that she had intoxicated herself throughout the whole evening with coffee, vodka and different cognacs. After this everything becomes blurry and cloudy in my memory… The combined brain power of Ludwig, Maria and me managed to fill some of the hazy parts: we drove around in a taxi all night long in search of the most beautiful flowers of the city, so that Natasha could decorate her mother’s grave. A typical monday evening, apparently. Every now and then we settled down in some place in order to eat a great load of food (possibly Georgian, but this part is extremely unclear) and have new drinks.
Not the actual grave
My memory fully returned to my at sunrise. Just as the first lights of the next beautiful day slowly pushed away the darkest shadows of the night, we decided to leave Natasha to her mafia business somewhere outside of the city and headed back to the student’s dorm. The guards must have much rejoiced at the aspect of writing down mine and Ludwig’s name as we came lurching to the outer gates of our prison (first of 3 warnings) – I do believe that, by returning at the first light of the young day in a condition that is beyond good and evil, we actually provide the fine gentlemen and ladies with a purpose in their lives. Of course, they did not note Maria’s name. As soon as we awoke, the recollection of loose pieces of memory had begun – and so did this blog article.
With the new contacts and the knowledge that a fascinating Russian adventure can kick off at any given moment, we assure you, our dear readers, a continuation of the quality offered so far.
Another chapter in this life in Russia was opened on the second day by introducing us the full-scale surveillance state that is the Kazan Federal University student’s dorm. People from free-thinking countries are stripped of their freedom, by willingly applying to this dormitory. After signing countless documents, going through major issues with bureaucracy, crawling through ice cold streets (-20° with strong winds) that are fully covered in thick and slippery covers of snow just to receive another “important” stamp that brings you closer to a self-induced abandonment of your right of freedom.
A high fence, littered with surveillance cameras all over, represents only the first obstacle. The two openings in that very fence are guarded by guards who keep a close eye for anyone (literally anyone) trespassing: friends, family, other students, nobility, proletariat or even terrorists will all be treated alike – a perfect representation of a classless society. Those who accept to be humiliated through million steps of horribly inefficient bureaucracy in order to get a yellow paper with their name, a stamp and a photo on it, will be allowed to give up many freedoms that they so dearly held onto. The houses cannot be entered after 10pm. After that, the doors are closed for anyone unknown to this house (about 30 in total). Students from other houses from the same dormitory premise must never enter another house. A true exchange with various groups of people and especially with locals thus seems to be doomed to fail. And from experience we know that communication with members of the Chinese National People’s Army is always problematic, as their foreign language skills are often reduced to a bare minimum, coupled with an extremely inefficient accent.
Alcohol, as well as other narcotics, are of course strictly forbidden. Though we wouldn’t be surprised if they were still circulating here. Not even the most militant and restrictive control state can get rid of what they label as “evils”. It is furthermore very unlikely that anyone can ban all forms of vodka from any place in Russia.
Also, some of the pavement gave way to a huge hole…
Concerning the rooms: The state of complete control extends itself to including fellow students to spy on each other, as there are those “responsible” who check on every room on their floor for order and the illegal smuggle of liquids. If you are caught too often neglecting hygiene or cleanliness of your flat, you can be banned from the premises.
Our beautiful Gulag
What Ludwig and I can say so far about our room situation is this, that our dear flatmate (dear clearly isn’t the right word to use in context with this individual) from Liverpool, England appears to fully and utterly incompetent. For the sake of anonymity, let’s call him Mike. Not only is Mike interested in only two things: having sex with Russian girls and pushing with wispy body with proteins and meat – an awful smell engulfs everything whenever he cooks – but he doesn’t wish to take responsibilities whatsoever. He may push his body with every kind of synthetical product on the market, and yet cannot lift 4 bags of trash and bring them downstairs. Clearly some mismanagement! As he doesn’t respond to our questions concerning the rubbish question, we will clearly be forced to beat our good advice into his protein-consumed brain.
However, life with Ludwig didn’t prove itself difficult in any way. We share a similar interest in music and alcoholic beverages – unfortunately they are fully prohibited and there’s no way we’re gonna smuggle illegal goods into a repressive student’s place – and find ourselves in a similar situation concerning bureaucracy. For the moment, I believe that our cohabitation will be peaceful… even if our new bathing towels indicate a different picture.
I did the test and asked random people about the first thing that pops up in their head when they think about Russia; the answers were as follows: Vodka, Putin, bears and beautiful women. (You should try this as home too. If anything else comes to mind, let me know.)
A picture of beautiful Vladimir Vladimirovich, taken in the University
I, however, just recently started connecting this country with something more than the cliché ones. As a matter of fact, I choose to go to Russia on my own to get further acquainted with what else one may find in this absurd place. I came to Russia to study in the academic framework of Erasmus, and for that reason we received a little financial backup (hence the title). To Kazan, to be quite precise. A hotspot of peaceful ethnic cohabitation. But I did not come alone. I am joined by dear Ludwig from Berlin on this adventurous journey through this cold and to the greatest part inhospitable place. None of us could imagine a continuation of their studies without the other, since we’ve met on the very first day of the university and ever since created an everlasting bond of friendship… we will certainly not get through the “Homo Scan” without the sirens going off (unfortunately, they are in every Metro station).
Here’s a picture of him:
My blog will continue more or less the same way that it used to. New, outstanding, unusual experiences will be noted in the usual opinionated fashion. If we find ourselves in a situation where we see the typical prejudices challenged or affirmed, you can almost be certain that an article about this topic will appear. For that very reason, there will probably be an entry on the keywords mentioned above, that is: Vodka, Putin, bears, and the like.
However, small changes shall be made. Contrary to the political tradition in our new habitat, I am open for different opinions and would very much rejoice at the sight of some commentaries or ideas for new entries. Which aspects of Russian lifestyle would you like to hear about? Maybe the cuisine? Or perhaps, you would enjoy a little travel story about a meeting with a bear? How about a direct comparison between Tatar and Russian hospitality?
There is even more! Ludwig is an excellent photographer. For that reason, we decided to put our skills together and promote my blog with his pictures and vice versa. Though, it is not 100% guaranteed that the quality of pictures will always stay the same, as we might walk different paths during our time spend here. For that reason, I might have to rely on my own pictures.
One last detail: The blog shall henceforth be translated into German as well. For those among you who prefer German to English, and for those who learn German and find it helpful to compare the two languages. (A complete absence of mistakes will, however, hardly be possible to obtain).
Feel free to share, comment, read and, most importantly, enjoy!
NoMethDragon 