Just as I think I am adjusting to life in this hot, busy city, new surprises jump out of the smog to put me in my place. A simple raid of the freezer section of the supermarket and the delighted discovery of frozen blueberries resulted in the familiar flicking of dictionary pages to figure out exactly what I had bought- because the sour imposters on my morning porridge sure as hell weren’t no berries (they were currents. Black currents, to be precise). After a day of class I felt like I was finally beginning to get a grasp of this beautiful and difficult language, which was all turned upside down when two platform-wedge sporting Russian fashionistas asked me for directions (Russians, asking me for directions. Ironic, right?) and I not only didn’t understand a word they purred but also had no idea where I was, let alone where they wanted to be. And that is to say nothing of the dignity-destroying mistakes I make in class- Just yesterday my teacher asked what I often cooked for breakfast, to my emphatic reply; ‘Oh, I always cook cat for breakfast!’, accompanied by a massive grin on my face. (The word for cat, koshka, and porridge, kashka, are regretfully similar). And then, after affectionately recalling the animals of Australia (snakes, boxing kangaroos, spiders etc), Elena (my amazing and almost saintly patient teacher) told me that I could single-handedly stop immigration to my country if they gave me a job at the embassy and asked me to tell prospective immigrants all about home. Well.
However, my silly mistakes and oft-criticised phonetics belong in class, and my real immersion in this language and city begins as soon as I shoulder my bag, put on my sunglasses, whip my hair back and forth Russian style and head off into the hot, hot, heat. Over the past week I have meandered through the monastery where tsars used to send the unwanted women in their lives to get all holy, almost been smothered by tiers upon tiers upon tiers of fluffy, frilly, sequined wedding dress when trying to pass by a wedding party only to find the whole path consumed by the bride’s dress (well, I assume there was a bride in there somewhere; I actually couldn’t see her), sheltered from a storm in a park with the best black rye bread I have ever, ever had, hommus and more Sense and Sensibility (which I have since finished. I was not overly impressed), watched Russian period drama (period drama. In Russian. Lord-ee), and have attempted to address the sad reality that I have no Russian friends (dance parties in the elevator of a morning aren’t as fun as you would expect, especially the shaky elevators in my building). And yes, I am aware of the lack of fullstops in this paragraph but there are just so many stories to tell that as soon as I start a list, I can’t seem to stop myself. However, the purpose of lugging my computer to my windowsill perch this morning was to hit y’all up with some pics, which my last entry was lacking. So I will quit with my lists, and instead give you a snapshot (pun, what?) of my life in Moscow thus far. With plans for a Soviet-themed extravaganza of a theme park thing, a famous market and maybe a nudist beach or two this weekend, look out for another chapter in Lucy-making-a-fool-of-herself-in-the-country-of-irrational-footwear-choices-and-women-constantly-and-obviously-forgoing-underwear (there I go with my lists again) early next week.
However, my silly mistakes and oft-criticised phonetics belong in class, and my real immersion in this language and city begins as soon as I shoulder my bag, put on my sunglasses, whip my hair back and forth Russian style and head off into the hot, hot, heat. Over the past week I have meandered through the monastery where tsars used to send the unwanted women in their lives to get all holy, almost been smothered by tiers upon tiers upon tiers of fluffy, frilly, sequined wedding dress when trying to pass by a wedding party only to find the whole path consumed by the bride’s dress (well, I assume there was a bride in there somewhere; I actually couldn’t see her), sheltered from a storm in a park with the best black rye bread I have ever, ever had, hommus and more Sense and Sensibility (which I have since finished. I was not overly impressed), watched Russian period drama (period drama. In Russian. Lord-ee), and have attempted to address the sad reality that I have no Russian friends (dance parties in the elevator of a morning aren’t as fun as you would expect, especially the shaky elevators in my building). And yes, I am aware of the lack of fullstops in this paragraph but there are just so many stories to tell that as soon as I start a list, I can’t seem to stop myself. However, the purpose of lugging my computer to my windowsill perch this morning was to hit y’all up with some pics, which my last entry was lacking. So I will quit with my lists, and instead give you a snapshot (pun, what?) of my life in Moscow thus far. With plans for a Soviet-themed extravaganza of a theme park thing, a famous market and maybe a nudist beach or two this weekend, look out for another chapter in Lucy-making-a-fool-of-herself-in-the-country-of-irrational-footwear-choices-and-women-constantly-and-obviously-forgoing-underwear (there I go with my lists again) early next week.
