So what has my life been like here?

I live in one of those depressing multistory, monument-to-utilitarianism apartment buildings. But while my neighborhood's exterior may belong in a slideshow of art's failed reconiciliation between aesthetics and modernism (though when I forget to wear my glasses the, dirt on the concrete i guess almost create that "weathered charm" effect that that makes people like decadent cities like Venice so much) the inside of my apartment isn't a sad place. Its very cozy. Lots of oriental carpets cover the floors and hang on the walls...not too different from from my home in New Hampshire...only so much cooler beacause I'm actually in the orient...sort of, but I don't think I'm too far from the silk roads where caravans originally carried such rugs(apparently the world's narcotic supply route roughly follows such ancient pathways and Irkutsk, with some of the highest rates of heroin usage in Russia, certainly qualifies as a major break-and-bulk point) and I have seen two camels give rides to tourists through the city's central market on several occasions, so I guess I can always fantasize...about what I'm not really sure.



Anyways, beyond a few rugs on the walls, the smells from the kitchen probably contribute most to the extreme hominess of the apartment. Something is always being painstakingly prepared... and I am always expected to eat it. I usually do because everything is REALLY good (except the salads covered in mayonaise...for breakfast...that I wishfully think are bowls fruitloops in milk when my tired eyes view them from far away), but I'm never able to finish...and this I think upsets my babushka...our resident coordinator warned that Russian mothers view fall as a time fatten up their sons to provide them with natural insulation against the cold winter.



There is plenty of fat even when I don't finish...we add sour cream to everything from pancakes to soup, the milk tastes more like half and half and cookies or cupcakes accompany every meal. I'm often forced leave the cookies untouched after the three course lunches....a potential bone of contention I passively started to confront by bringing them to my room to eat later. After seeing an empty cookie plate left in the dining room one day, however, my Babushka frantically baked another batch for me, saying "it looked like you finished them all this time, and I was sure you'd want more as soon as possible."

But my babushka's amazingness extends far beyond her cooking prowess. She used to serve as dean or asisstant dean or some sort of administrative figure at the International department of the Irkutsk State University (where we study). She was in charge of international students back when the only international people allowed in Siberia were Mongolians....so she always has plenty say about the shortcomings of Ulaanbaatar's higher education system of twenty years ago (though the shortcomings of my Russian communication skills make these conversations pretty one-sided), when she's not busy looking after her 85 year old husband, 35 year old son who still lives time at home, and immaculately shiny floors that must nevertheless must be scrubbed everyday. Her husband is also very nice but has difficulty hearing, and I have difficulty understanding rapidly spoken Russian idiom, but we smile and hold doors open for each other and he turns on Russian soap operas for me when it looks like I've been studying too long. The son knows where New Hampshire and Maine are located asked me during our first conversation some very specific questions that I didn't quite understand about lobstering.

The city of Irkutsk turned out to be more attractive than I expected. Log cabins/life-size gingerbread houses are scattered everywhere across downtown. During the eighty degree weather we experienced after our arrival, their various pastel facades allowed me to imagine I had chosen to study abroad in a tropical carribean city...It's too cold to imagine that anymore though. Wide boulevards flanked by nineteenth century architecture that certainly support the paris of siberia rep. cut through the city's center near parks with ornate gazebos (and, in one, a twenty-foot radius drawing of packman on concrete?) that line a big river. But walking residents are forced to enjoy the city's aesthetics at their own risk because pedestrians are just one more minority whom Russia holds no respect for...a danger we were warned about that was confirmed on our first day when one student saw walkers dive out of the way of an oncoming abulance. Here green lights are more likely to turn yellow to warn people in crosswalks than to stop oncoming traffic......on the rare occasion that the crosswalk has some sort of official designation. Using the sidewalks to avoid speeding ambulances can prove treacherous, however, because loose manhole covers hiding deadly boiling water have apparently claimed a few lives accross the years. But having spent my life in the villages of New Hampshire and Vermont, I've never really been categorized as a pedestrian before...so its difficult to know how severely my rights have been infringed upon.

Despite the killer manholes and fruitloops that turn in to coleslaw, however, I'm pretty happy to be in Irkutsk. This is the most remote, yet most urban place I've ever lived in...so I guess I'm just glad to be learning to navigate cosmopolitan life while fulfilling my post-His Dark Materials fifth grade dream of spending the rest of my life in a cold deserted wasteland like Svalbard (A big island in the Arctic Ocean...Watch the Golden Compass movie when it in comes out in December and you'll better understand the roots of this desire!).