i went down the elevator this morning and the lobby was a tornado. it sounded like a wind tunnel. i jammed my weight into the door just to get it to open a crack. snaked out. its still for a minute but its raining. cold cold raining. and then this insane wind comes and it doesnt really have one particular direction and im grabbing the sides of my hood and pressing them against my face to keep my ears warm and my eyes are so tight against my face because of the wind and my skirts going crazy and waters creeping up the very top of my boots down into my ankles. ok so this is winter. suck it up america this is winter. and then my nose is dribbling. and i kind of let it go for a teeny bit and my hair goes a little crazy and blows right into my nose. and i peel it off and theres blood on my fingers. the winds doing a crazy piece and waters pelleting my face and bouncing off and i have a bloody nose. and its mixing with the rain droplets a bit and its getting in my hair a bit. last time i had a bloody nose i think i was seven. dont you get those only in dry weather? the gross roadkilltrim on my hoody has these tiny little bits of blood but they're super diluted. watery ketchup. i am jaywalking to the metro across crazy russian drivers and my face is sprinkling bits of bloody rain. dont worry, i fixed it in the corridor with some wads of paper from my backpack. think today is the first day i can safely say the weather sucks.
i dont understand how there was a windstorm in the metro when the trains were still and we're 200 feet below.
Monday, October 27, 2008
Sunday, October 26, 2008
great estonian blow out
i dont really know why they shucked us all over to estonia.
except for that its the most beautifulgreensafefriendlyembracingacceptingcalmyetyoustillknowyourineasterneuropewhenagagleofpoplerunsbyandplaysagamerunninginacircleanddisappearswithaleafshakinggustofwind.
heres to joking on the bus that when we got to the border the sun would peek out and everyone would be smiling and asking what language we wanted to converse in and here, here's a flower and a glass of wine. just in time for rocktoberfest. which means a bunch of swedish deathmetal bands playing in an eroding building like a castle where the windows hang on by threads or maybe that is just the wine but no one cares the difference anyhow. we wanted to follow the ruckus but standing outside the hotel and perking up our ears wasnt good enough. ask the concierge. its not russia; she found it all in seconds on the internet and circled it on a map with a smile. and we trecked up a hillside and asked a few tourists and went too far and asked in a gas station and they all smiled and helped. we had to ask one last place but we got it down and wandered over. we could see the crowd outside. black. vests. some chains. zombies dripping off their faces kind of tshirts. they're all late thirties and getting fat. they're all ready to rock. after one more cigarette. we head in. big guy at the stairs. liz charges the stairs and in seconds he kindly removes her. 600 krun. no thanks for that, thats about 60USDs. wander around the parking lot looking for deserters who might give us their stubs. no such luck. go to the other side of the building and watch the windows shake as recycle bin or maybe its figer claw starts playing. slightly sad to be on the inside looking out and slink away down the hill. live music and old people in a cruddy hooky old people bar. get comfortable and eat chips with ketchup salsa and true estonian drink. too bad about the deathmetal estonia. we wont hold it against you.
speaking of parties
friday i came home from school and museum tired. and dinner wasnt on the counter.
and three bottles of jager were.
gena said in the kitchen "oh, we're having people from church over." sometimes when they have people over i feel just like a zoo. becky washington from the americas. they usually have the same questions. are you married. do you have a boyfriend. are you a dancer (i really think they think all people from america are fat and that i must be a dancer. duh why else would i be not overweight and in russia. its a nice idea though. maybe soon i'll say yes. live the fantasy.) where do you live in america. why dont you. have a boyfriend we mean. im not complaining; sometimes your tired. sometimes you dont like people watching how you hold your fork or fold your candy wrappers. sometimes they talk about you while your at the table. and you kind of have to pretend your clueless. its just more polite. he didnt say exactly when. they 10 minutes later the doorbell is ringing and russians are streaming in. im hit by a wave of shy and duck in my room. and russian children keep peeking in. we exchange silly faces. we exchange silly faces for about 30 minutes. a brave one comes in and we girl talk. i dont understand. she doesnt understand. we're best friends. we stare at eachother alot. i can just tell she totally gets me and we're best friends. gena says i can come eat cookies. i go eat cookies and they're drinking jaeger. and eating cookies. and watching church slideshows and listening to younglife songs like "our god is an awsome god" but only in Russian. they're looking at the way i hold my tea but its not so bad. they translate a little bit; all the words i know in russian. although it just means we're compatible. they offer vodka filled chocolates; and when they leave vodik and i bond. he only plays with a knife for like 2 of the minutes we're together. and never points it in my direction. not even once.
and three bottles of jager were.
gena said in the kitchen "oh, we're having people from church over." sometimes when they have people over i feel just like a zoo. becky washington from the americas. they usually have the same questions. are you married. do you have a boyfriend. are you a dancer (i really think they think all people from america are fat and that i must be a dancer. duh why else would i be not overweight and in russia. its a nice idea though. maybe soon i'll say yes. live the fantasy.) where do you live in america. why dont you. have a boyfriend we mean. im not complaining; sometimes your tired. sometimes you dont like people watching how you hold your fork or fold your candy wrappers. sometimes they talk about you while your at the table. and you kind of have to pretend your clueless. its just more polite. he didnt say exactly when. they 10 minutes later the doorbell is ringing and russians are streaming in. im hit by a wave of shy and duck in my room. and russian children keep peeking in. we exchange silly faces. we exchange silly faces for about 30 minutes. a brave one comes in and we girl talk. i dont understand. she doesnt understand. we're best friends. we stare at eachother alot. i can just tell she totally gets me and we're best friends. gena says i can come eat cookies. i go eat cookies and they're drinking jaeger. and eating cookies. and watching church slideshows and listening to younglife songs like "our god is an awsome god" but only in Russian. they're looking at the way i hold my tea but its not so bad. they translate a little bit; all the words i know in russian. although it just means we're compatible. they offer vodka filled chocolates; and when they leave vodik and i bond. he only plays with a knife for like 2 of the minutes we're together. and never points it in my direction. not even once.
it's your birthday party. happy birthday darling
just excited is all. i'd been wanting to go to helsinki for my birthday and we're going now and maybe a mini cruise over to stolkholm if liz can overcome her fear of traveling in steerage and guess who's coming for the fun.
three days after the fact but i'll still be there. pretty pretty pretty happy.
sara said "why dont people ever come to St. Petersburg?" well sara, not entirely true. MC Hammer was just here. We were in Estonia. And Sigor Ros showed their face. We were in the retirement home for orientation.
and we saw xiu xiu. and it kinda sucked. yea, when you put all the cards out it kinda sucked. the club you played was pretty nice and we saw the waiters bringing you imported beers and sandwhiches and letting them hang out in a nice VIP room. and we saw you not even start until an hour late. and play with your heads down and not look at the audience once. they said "thank you this is our last song." so it wasnt their fault that no one in the audience understood that it was their last song (one of my favorites). and then here comes the diva encore charade. they're packing up their instruments and everyone's kinda staring at them waiting for another song. there was light applause but they didnt get it. and the band just disappears without saying thanks or something. and they're gone for a minute. and then the Russians get it. and someone bold shouts "play more." and people take a second and then "yea, more." and finally, a stiring of "more" and a "pluz" or two. and Xiu Xiu opens the door and everyone shuts up. and Xiu Xiu waves very bored and shuts the door. one minute of silence. and then someone bold shouts "more." and we give up; crawl to the back and get near the stairs. and then they come out and people clap and they play a 3 minute thing and they're gone again. and a tray of cocktails follows them. cocktails in glasses. not gin in a can or plastic bottles. and they're gone for good. and the australians we've just now befriended boo them. and call them bastards. and i can't really tell them no. totally divaZ.
p.s. i didnt detail that i was shoved in someones armpit and had the firmest assgrab of my life. and i didnt mention that the tickets we're 700 rubles=30 USDs. and that they only played for probably under 30 minutes. totally divaZ.
three days after the fact but i'll still be there. pretty pretty pretty happy.
sara said "why dont people ever come to St. Petersburg?" well sara, not entirely true. MC Hammer was just here. We were in Estonia. And Sigor Ros showed their face. We were in the retirement home for orientation.
and we saw xiu xiu. and it kinda sucked. yea, when you put all the cards out it kinda sucked. the club you played was pretty nice and we saw the waiters bringing you imported beers and sandwhiches and letting them hang out in a nice VIP room. and we saw you not even start until an hour late. and play with your heads down and not look at the audience once. they said "thank you this is our last song." so it wasnt their fault that no one in the audience understood that it was their last song (one of my favorites). and then here comes the diva encore charade. they're packing up their instruments and everyone's kinda staring at them waiting for another song. there was light applause but they didnt get it. and the band just disappears without saying thanks or something. and they're gone for a minute. and then the Russians get it. and someone bold shouts "play more." and people take a second and then "yea, more." and finally, a stiring of "more" and a "pluz" or two. and Xiu Xiu opens the door and everyone shuts up. and Xiu Xiu waves very bored and shuts the door. one minute of silence. and then someone bold shouts "more." and we give up; crawl to the back and get near the stairs. and then they come out and people clap and they play a 3 minute thing and they're gone again. and a tray of cocktails follows them. cocktails in glasses. not gin in a can or plastic bottles. and they're gone for good. and the australians we've just now befriended boo them. and call them bastards. and i can't really tell them no. totally divaZ.
p.s. i didnt detail that i was shoved in someones armpit and had the firmest assgrab of my life. and i didnt mention that the tickets we're 700 rubles=30 USDs. and that they only played for probably under 30 minutes. totally divaZ.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
my first time
ive been riding the metro alot more lately and not using the mashrutka like i used to. i kind of appreciate the long walks to and from and through the park. all the trees are naked now and it makes the morning sky look extra eerie and if you go early enough everyone is slightly sleepy and no one has the heart to push. plus i gotta work of them ice creams and it saves me a couple rubbles. so i can buy ice creams.
but every once in a while i see a mashrutka door roll open and some stuffy miss get out looking like shes going to vomit and i miss it a bit. mashrutkas are basically fancy van/mini vans loaded with rediculously placed seats and zero seat belts and they run on set routes but you have to flag them down and you have to pass up your money and you have to yell when you want out. my method is to cross my fingers that someone gets off so i dont have to choke through saying russian "stop." people pack in and your riding jerky and sometimes they let too many people in so their all kind of akwardly standing in the minivan. for a good streak of time this gang of babushki would get on at the same stop at the same stuffedup time. first time i was sitting sideways. babushki tumbles in and nestles her crotch on my knee. second time babushki tumbles in, gives me crocodile smile with anticipation and nestles her crotch on my knee. kind of hope its a one time thing. becomes a daily routine. wonder who's her rebound knee.
i was nervous the first time i ever jumped onto the thing. even less russian than my supermarket list of russian now. like a gum wrappers worth, if even. you put your hand down next to you like your telling a dog to sit. the ridiculous yellow mashrutka pulls up next to me and the door rolls open on its own and everyone inside is still moving from the sudden jerk. i try to figure out where to put my money. i kind of hold it out for the lady in front of me. dont know that you pass money by shoving it into their face. the mashrutkas going fast. teeter to the front. hand him my money. get change. teeter back. we're going 60. mph. between rush hour. he drives on the curb for a moment. going 70. no ones batting an eyelash. almost hit a mercedes going 70. hes pissed. our drivers pissed. they're trying to run eachother off the road. we roll down the window and were cursing at him and by we i mean the driver. half his body's out the window. the mercedes spits. and by the mercedes i mean the mobby guy wearing a leather jacket and driving 80 and trying to run us of the road.
but i made it to school in 20 minutes. beat that greenline transfer to redline metro route.
but every once in a while i see a mashrutka door roll open and some stuffy miss get out looking like shes going to vomit and i miss it a bit. mashrutkas are basically fancy van/mini vans loaded with rediculously placed seats and zero seat belts and they run on set routes but you have to flag them down and you have to pass up your money and you have to yell when you want out. my method is to cross my fingers that someone gets off so i dont have to choke through saying russian "stop." people pack in and your riding jerky and sometimes they let too many people in so their all kind of akwardly standing in the minivan. for a good streak of time this gang of babushki would get on at the same stop at the same stuffedup time. first time i was sitting sideways. babushki tumbles in and nestles her crotch on my knee. second time babushki tumbles in, gives me crocodile smile with anticipation and nestles her crotch on my knee. kind of hope its a one time thing. becomes a daily routine. wonder who's her rebound knee.
i was nervous the first time i ever jumped onto the thing. even less russian than my supermarket list of russian now. like a gum wrappers worth, if even. you put your hand down next to you like your telling a dog to sit. the ridiculous yellow mashrutka pulls up next to me and the door rolls open on its own and everyone inside is still moving from the sudden jerk. i try to figure out where to put my money. i kind of hold it out for the lady in front of me. dont know that you pass money by shoving it into their face. the mashrutkas going fast. teeter to the front. hand him my money. get change. teeter back. we're going 60. mph. between rush hour. he drives on the curb for a moment. going 70. no ones batting an eyelash. almost hit a mercedes going 70. hes pissed. our drivers pissed. they're trying to run eachother off the road. we roll down the window and were cursing at him and by we i mean the driver. half his body's out the window. the mercedes spits. and by the mercedes i mean the mobby guy wearing a leather jacket and driving 80 and trying to run us of the road.
but i made it to school in 20 minutes. beat that greenline transfer to redline metro route.
Monday, October 20, 2008
how im hungry
liz says "that image of a child sad because the top scoop of their ice cream fell never happens in Russia."
100percentthetruth. although thats because its too darn cold not too darn utopian.
i cant get enough ice cream. about a dollar a pop on the streets; perhaps 80 cents for the goto classic. ive never eaten so much ice cream in my life. and ive never eaten ice cream with gloves or had the chocolate part slip down on my scarf (i ate it anyway. in russia ima beast). you are 80percent more russian looking while eating the good stuff on the streets; 80percent more likely to get asked directions in russian.
ben says "peesh" in bulgarian is a crude word.
somuchsothethruth as confirmed by the bulgarian wonderful magdalen (no i dont actually like michael jackson as much as when i sing it with magdalena) but doesnt make it any less tastey.
peesh is like a better version of a plain donut for about 8 rubles/.40USDs and even better when you get it cruising the backmarket contemplating a chanel beanie or 10 classic movies on one DVD for about 2USDs although it might not work in your tvset ever or a taser or a little baggie of whatever those roma women are selling that look like tiny green pellets and they only sell them under that tunnel.
and i say i cant decide if i love the russian brother of a 'dilla better because its on the street for a dollar50 and so much variety like mushroomcreamsauce or cabbagesourcream or simplesimplydeliciouscheese or potato. there are 3 competing stands and each serves a little different style and i can tell you where you wanna get what. i do miss real chips and salsa thats not ketchup and i do dream of thai food and pizza.
still vegetarian; never need no tongue or bear. so there.
100percentthetruth. although thats because its too darn cold not too darn utopian.
i cant get enough ice cream. about a dollar a pop on the streets; perhaps 80 cents for the goto classic. ive never eaten so much ice cream in my life. and ive never eaten ice cream with gloves or had the chocolate part slip down on my scarf (i ate it anyway. in russia ima beast). you are 80percent more russian looking while eating the good stuff on the streets; 80percent more likely to get asked directions in russian.
ben says "peesh" in bulgarian is a crude word.
somuchsothethruth as confirmed by the bulgarian wonderful magdalen (no i dont actually like michael jackson as much as when i sing it with magdalena) but doesnt make it any less tastey.
peesh is like a better version of a plain donut for about 8 rubles/.40USDs and even better when you get it cruising the backmarket contemplating a chanel beanie or 10 classic movies on one DVD for about 2USDs although it might not work in your tvset ever or a taser or a little baggie of whatever those roma women are selling that look like tiny green pellets and they only sell them under that tunnel.
and i say i cant decide if i love the russian brother of a 'dilla better because its on the street for a dollar50 and so much variety like mushroomcreamsauce or cabbagesourcream or simplesimplydeliciouscheese or potato. there are 3 competing stands and each serves a little different style and i can tell you where you wanna get what. i do miss real chips and salsa thats not ketchup and i do dream of thai food and pizza.
still vegetarian; never need no tongue or bear. so there.
my big sleep
spent the weekend in estonia and failed to make it into deathmetal but danced with the estonians and ate chips with ketchup salsa with the dead beat old crowd and ran for the first real time in a really really long time and thoroughly enjoyed it and ran out on a peir and was covered in sea spray and then more stuff happened and a few more happened and wasn't ever scared not even once. not even crouched on the ground eating crumbling toast all by myself.
and then i came back carsick and the elevator to the metro stopped and started and david and i swallowed our hearts because we all almost fell 3 stories down those stairs and when i got home i vomited.
then slept 16 straight hours and didnt wake up once. and never made it to school.
and now all my russia friends are pissed.
and i'm in love with you still estonia.
more stories from stonia, i promise.
and then i came back carsick and the elevator to the metro stopped and started and david and i swallowed our hearts because we all almost fell 3 stories down those stairs and when i got home i vomited.
then slept 16 straight hours and didnt wake up once. and never made it to school.
and now all my russia friends are pissed.
and i'm in love with you still estonia.
more stories from stonia, i promise.
Saturday, October 11, 2008
up by your bootstraps
for a second there i think i was seriously thinking about thinking about fleeing the country. and they havent even given us our passports back. i want toast and to be surrounded by understanding people and scrabble and work and bicycle bicycle bicycle and knowing the city and not being too scared and not being too different and pizza and mountains and swimming and non-life threatening stories and warm people and my ankle boots.
jarlath told me that "the way that i look" is "a hazard." what does that mean anyway? and what does that mean i'm supposed to do about it anyway? how many glamour shots did that stupid study abroad company make us submit and if they really though "the way that i look" was going to be "a hazard" they could have refused all the money we threw at them and arent really getting back in return. they told me if i fuck up again i'll be sent home and i had this plan of going out with a bang and if i saw one more person slumped in the street or another grabby drunk where no one cares about you it was about time to go big and get sent home. of course things like that never work out that way for me and id probably just get arrested for stepping on the grass and itd be goodbye ruskies.
fortunately, st. petersburg has incredibly quick turn around in ways i cant explain.
so i just wont even try.
it helps to remember why im here.
my boots are all fixed but my favorite ring's still broken.
just know that the city's just not the same alone. or without yous guys.
no one buy a leather jacket while im away. im totally over seeing them. and the thungs that wear them.
Friday, October 10, 2008
real beats
but for every amazing performer there has to be a really bad one. you know, balance out everyones life. like the one on nevsky who sings and i dont even know the name of the goddam song "whats up pussy cat." and im sure he doesnt know english. but he sings it regardless.
i was standing in the metro after a really long day and i had just gotten on going the wrong direction and dozed off and made it to the end of the line and had come back up the line and had to transfer.
and from the middle of the station this really shrill flute. playing killing me softly.
again, photothank sarah.
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
why i like law and order
because i watched russian law and order and drank hot tea and shortbread sandwhiches filled with chocolates shaped like cupcakes and teddybears in the concierge desk while keeping tabs on the tenants and having my back repeatedly pat, of course.
last thursday (why thursdays; always thursdays) i jammed my key into the lock and twisted 20 times and nothing happened. and 50 and nothing happened. and im so tired and take off my shoes even though its socially unacceptable and 20 more times. and nothing happens. sometimes you just want to go home.
my phone is still in the hands of the police so i go down to the front desk and its the woman who asks me the same question everytime. and every time i apologize, and shes started saying "do you understand yet? yet?" and now i say "maybe tomorrow" but probably the wrong way because she just repeats herself and shakes her head. her hairs just like dorothy hammle.
so i ask for the phone. and she talks for like 30 minutes. the hard part: people dont use intonation when they ask questions, so its debatable whether they're asking you a question or not. "Can I, please? telephone?" it doesnt call the city just the apartment. she doesnt think i get it. i do. i get frustrated; im so tired and my feet hurt and i want my blankie. i want my blankie so bad i go outside and sit on the swingset for 5 minutes and cry a little bit. i feel just like a child. i go back in; i'll wait at the door until my family goes home. i can sleep in the hallway. i go in and she grabs my hand. we're gunna go find a phone that calls out she says. i dont wanna but she puts on her coat and bolts her office and scurries off, telling me to follow. then it starts pouring and we're going from building to building, mary and joseph, trying to find a phone. and i just kind of follow her like a little pet. a soggy pet whos a foot taller than her. i keep asking her where we're going. shes not exactly answering.
we give up. she brings me to her office and tucks me in on her couch. i tried to fight it but i just submitted and let her pat my head. she asks some mafia man entering the building with his wife if she can borrow the phone. he speaks a teeny bit of english. he gives me the phone and i call my family. they dont believe me. its a key; of course it opens the door stupid american girl; dont bother caalling once the key opens the door.
the don disappears. can you try the door concierge? i see her in the elevator go upstairs and disappear. i see the don and his wife come down. they bought art that day; a 5 or 6 foot tall oil nude. perfect. they wanna try. we go upstairs; the nude leans up against the wall. everyone gives it a try. then 20. "i have a friend. opens any lock in any safe in any bank. lives in the building over. he will fix this mess." not even 2 minutes he is there. he works his magic. and nothing happens. works it 20 times. no luck. he seems throughly disappointed.
back to the office. bad crime tv, snacks, tea, blanket and a lady with an auburn bowl cut. who pats my back. and reads trashy novels. and taps her foot to the law and order theme.
last thursday (why thursdays; always thursdays) i jammed my key into the lock and twisted 20 times and nothing happened. and 50 and nothing happened. and im so tired and take off my shoes even though its socially unacceptable and 20 more times. and nothing happens. sometimes you just want to go home.
my phone is still in the hands of the police so i go down to the front desk and its the woman who asks me the same question everytime. and every time i apologize, and shes started saying "do you understand yet? yet?" and now i say "maybe tomorrow" but probably the wrong way because she just repeats herself and shakes her head. her hairs just like dorothy hammle.
so i ask for the phone. and she talks for like 30 minutes. the hard part: people dont use intonation when they ask questions, so its debatable whether they're asking you a question or not. "Can I, please? telephone?" it doesnt call the city just the apartment. she doesnt think i get it. i do. i get frustrated; im so tired and my feet hurt and i want my blankie. i want my blankie so bad i go outside and sit on the swingset for 5 minutes and cry a little bit. i feel just like a child. i go back in; i'll wait at the door until my family goes home. i can sleep in the hallway. i go in and she grabs my hand. we're gunna go find a phone that calls out she says. i dont wanna but she puts on her coat and bolts her office and scurries off, telling me to follow. then it starts pouring and we're going from building to building, mary and joseph, trying to find a phone. and i just kind of follow her like a little pet. a soggy pet whos a foot taller than her. i keep asking her where we're going. shes not exactly answering.
we give up. she brings me to her office and tucks me in on her couch. i tried to fight it but i just submitted and let her pat my head. she asks some mafia man entering the building with his wife if she can borrow the phone. he speaks a teeny bit of english. he gives me the phone and i call my family. they dont believe me. its a key; of course it opens the door stupid american girl; dont bother caalling once the key opens the door.
the don disappears. can you try the door concierge? i see her in the elevator go upstairs and disappear. i see the don and his wife come down. they bought art that day; a 5 or 6 foot tall oil nude. perfect. they wanna try. we go upstairs; the nude leans up against the wall. everyone gives it a try. then 20. "i have a friend. opens any lock in any safe in any bank. lives in the building over. he will fix this mess." not even 2 minutes he is there. he works his magic. and nothing happens. works it 20 times. no luck. he seems throughly disappointed.
back to the office. bad crime tv, snacks, tea, blanket and a lady with an auburn bowl cut. who pats my back. and reads trashy novels. and taps her foot to the law and order theme.
Sunday, October 5, 2008
gypsy encounter #1
the hospital is the most magical place in russia i promise.
i hate saying that because stephanie's in a wheel chair. i hate saying that because its a hospital.
it was beautiful yesterday; the sun made an appearance and there were yellow and red leaves blanketing the little village where stephanie has been living for about a week. the place with the weaving dirt paths, uneven stone and the magic blue door. stephanie got cigarettes and she wanted a stroll. i never knew how much id let myself go until i was huffing and puffing behind stephanies wheelchair. the red one. thats the good one. even if im suspicious that only one of the handbrakes is really actually functional.
stephanie ties her foot up in a sock and we abuse the elevator button. the elevators are like little rooms and they have little old persons in them and a coat rack and each one has its own slew of kitten posters or glittery religious calendars and a hard bench that may or may not be where the little persons lay to rest. i think may more than may not but this is all just speculation.
we weave around the backways of the hospital permitter and stephanie promises us a gypsy caravan. a wooden, mobile gypsy hut. and we peer in the windows and its full of wooden bunks built into the walls and dim and hardly functioning little lights. and we dont even hear the door open but all i hear is liz scream. and there, in the doorway: bonefied gypsy man. ratty raggy clothes, ratty raggy hair; bad teeth.
my first gypsy man. my first gypsy caravan.
of course we fled the scene immediately, just as another appeared in the doorway. they couldn't smell our innocents; we smelled like cigarettes.
i hate saying that because stephanie's in a wheel chair. i hate saying that because its a hospital.
it was beautiful yesterday; the sun made an appearance and there were yellow and red leaves blanketing the little village where stephanie has been living for about a week. the place with the weaving dirt paths, uneven stone and the magic blue door. stephanie got cigarettes and she wanted a stroll. i never knew how much id let myself go until i was huffing and puffing behind stephanies wheelchair. the red one. thats the good one. even if im suspicious that only one of the handbrakes is really actually functional.
stephanie ties her foot up in a sock and we abuse the elevator button. the elevators are like little rooms and they have little old persons in them and a coat rack and each one has its own slew of kitten posters or glittery religious calendars and a hard bench that may or may not be where the little persons lay to rest. i think may more than may not but this is all just speculation.
we weave around the backways of the hospital permitter and stephanie promises us a gypsy caravan. a wooden, mobile gypsy hut. and we peer in the windows and its full of wooden bunks built into the walls and dim and hardly functioning little lights. and we dont even hear the door open but all i hear is liz scream. and there, in the doorway: bonefied gypsy man. ratty raggy clothes, ratty raggy hair; bad teeth.
my first gypsy man. my first gypsy caravan.
of course we fled the scene immediately, just as another appeared in the doorway. they couldn't smell our innocents; we smelled like cigarettes.
evil twin
10/03/08 NON-WELLS FARGO ATM TRANSACTION FEE $5.00
10/03/08 ATM WITHDRAWAL - MANEZHNAYA SQ 1MANEZHNAYAMOSCOW RU 0908 $115.67
10/03/08 NON-WELLS FARGO ATM TRANSACTION FEE $5.00
10/03/08 ATM WITHDRAWAL - MANEZHNAYA STR MANEZHNAYAMOSCOW RU 0908 $192.78
im in st. petersburg. not moscow.
and there's 4 more. officially fucked.
10/03/08 ATM WITHDRAWAL - MANEZHNAYA SQ 1MANEZHNAYAMOSCOW RU 0908 $115.67
10/03/08 NON-WELLS FARGO ATM TRANSACTION FEE $5.00
10/03/08 ATM WITHDRAWAL - MANEZHNAYA STR MANEZHNAYAMOSCOW RU 0908 $192.78
im in st. petersburg. not moscow.
and there's 4 more. officially fucked.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
story time is over kids
sometimes i feel like ive been subjected to living in this ridiculous story and wonder why and wonder when its going to stop and wonder what i did to deserve this. and maybe its nothing about me at all, and maybe this happens to everyone else and maybe im the only person who finds it so amusing and amazing. and maybe that parts still true, but i wonder why it doesnt stop and why im always at the butt end of it. and then i realize that i do things like go to russia and ive got to hold myself partially responsible.
i dont think ive ever wanted stories less. not now, about a week ago. because all i have is a story. a crazy, what happened next, villians and gangsters and allyways and shadowy door posts and soviet jails and vomit on the floor and gypsy cabs and eastern europe kind of story. and i could never tell you all the middle inbetween. ive blacked out before and ive known little before but it just wasnt that way this time. i've also had two beers before. i think we would both be okay with admitting a crazy night of boozing and counting our blessings and taking it easy. it wasnt that way this time. we know the same story and thats it. the same peices, the same parts. we know we lucked out and i cant help but feel awful that stephanie's waist deep in a cast and im completely unmarked. she has the kind of break skydivers get. we had two beers 40 minutes apart and now we're missing 1 and a half obviously important hours. we had two beers so now no one believes us. i think its the part with the laughing man that gets them.
ana said to stephanie: "what a story. it sounds like out of a movie." jarlath said: "what a story. sounds like something from the KGB." i thought maybe just museums and libraries from now on. visiting stephanie and patting her head.
and then i went to visit stephanie and it was another story.
stephanie's hospital was a 40 minute ride from the street where they got her. liz and i wanted to see her; more so after she called me looking for answers cause she couldnt remember and i had to tell her there was nothing to tell her. we took the metro and transfered. even the metro stops bizarre. more bizarre than usual. and then we thought we might wander. we stop this older woman and she goes "students? hospital? i will help you." not in english, in russian. no english she says. she says no english in russian. shes really delicate looking and her eyes never really seem to focus and shes smiling too much. maybe shes doing drugs. shes probably trying to make is do drugs with her.
she stops at the bus stop. shes on drugs and this is getting confusing. thats the street over there? were asking. yeah shes saying, but then why are we at the bus stop. she gets on a bus. we start looking for someone else nice. someone else nice whos not doing drugs. dont you want to go to the hospital? she says. we get on the bus but we still dont believe her. when its her stop we ask where we get off and she says to come with her. we still dont believe her but we go. its this forested area with patches of birch trees and tall green grass and delicate pathes. it looks like a fairytale except for that its doted with these yellowing brick soviet-style apartments and shops that dont follow any kind of pattern.
we talk to her in bad russian. her daughters a wife in vegas. shes going to vegas in october. small talk. its alot of walking. her eyes are crazy and i dont see that we're going to any sort of metropolis. she might jut kill us. for drugs. after a half hour and ditches and rain we get to a yellowing wall. with a brought blue door. "hospital." she didnt understand.
and then we open this heavy, totalitarian fairytale door. and there in the middle of the forest of russia is a huge hospital complex. we thank her and shes gone.
im okay with that story. i just wish i could tell you why i had to go visit her in the hospital. or why we both dont remember the break.
i dont think ive ever wanted stories less. not now, about a week ago. because all i have is a story. a crazy, what happened next, villians and gangsters and allyways and shadowy door posts and soviet jails and vomit on the floor and gypsy cabs and eastern europe kind of story. and i could never tell you all the middle inbetween. ive blacked out before and ive known little before but it just wasnt that way this time. i've also had two beers before. i think we would both be okay with admitting a crazy night of boozing and counting our blessings and taking it easy. it wasnt that way this time. we know the same story and thats it. the same peices, the same parts. we know we lucked out and i cant help but feel awful that stephanie's waist deep in a cast and im completely unmarked. she has the kind of break skydivers get. we had two beers 40 minutes apart and now we're missing 1 and a half obviously important hours. we had two beers so now no one believes us. i think its the part with the laughing man that gets them.
ana said to stephanie: "what a story. it sounds like out of a movie." jarlath said: "what a story. sounds like something from the KGB." i thought maybe just museums and libraries from now on. visiting stephanie and patting her head.
and then i went to visit stephanie and it was another story.
stephanie's hospital was a 40 minute ride from the street where they got her. liz and i wanted to see her; more so after she called me looking for answers cause she couldnt remember and i had to tell her there was nothing to tell her. we took the metro and transfered. even the metro stops bizarre. more bizarre than usual. and then we thought we might wander. we stop this older woman and she goes "students? hospital? i will help you." not in english, in russian. no english she says. she says no english in russian. shes really delicate looking and her eyes never really seem to focus and shes smiling too much. maybe shes doing drugs. shes probably trying to make is do drugs with her.
she stops at the bus stop. shes on drugs and this is getting confusing. thats the street over there? were asking. yeah shes saying, but then why are we at the bus stop. she gets on a bus. we start looking for someone else nice. someone else nice whos not doing drugs. dont you want to go to the hospital? she says. we get on the bus but we still dont believe her. when its her stop we ask where we get off and she says to come with her. we still dont believe her but we go. its this forested area with patches of birch trees and tall green grass and delicate pathes. it looks like a fairytale except for that its doted with these yellowing brick soviet-style apartments and shops that dont follow any kind of pattern.
we talk to her in bad russian. her daughters a wife in vegas. shes going to vegas in october. small talk. its alot of walking. her eyes are crazy and i dont see that we're going to any sort of metropolis. she might jut kill us. for drugs. after a half hour and ditches and rain we get to a yellowing wall. with a brought blue door. "hospital." she didnt understand.
and then we open this heavy, totalitarian fairytale door. and there in the middle of the forest of russia is a huge hospital complex. we thank her and shes gone.
im okay with that story. i just wish i could tell you why i had to go visit her in the hospital. or why we both dont remember the break.
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