tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-48957913036753182942024-02-18T19:37:58.691-08:00Shannon loves RussiaShwalizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01783918042202653130noreply@blogger.comBlogger26125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4895791303675318294.post-25810960535013635382010-09-23T10:18:00.000-07:002010-09-23T11:11:00.132-07:00The Day I Kicked the DogTwo years ago, I vocally criticized the statue of a quietly resting dog in the Mendeleevskaya Metro Station. I was quickly told the legend of a stray dog that once quietly also lay in that same spot, until his frame became an obstacle for an umbrella-toting babushka. Apparently, in her fury at being upheld, she raised her umbrella, and with a single stroke, she pierced the poor, sleeping dog's skull. In their shock and anger, the people of Moscow placed this simple memorial statue in the very place it happened.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">---<br /></div><br />My morning started with a plastic bag. What's inside the plastic bag, you might ask? A banana, a tupperware of the leftovers from the previous night's rice dish, and a breakfast roll. Little did I know that this small grocery store bag carrying my breakfast and lunch would put me in such a position as it was about to.<br /><br />As I do every day, I rode my small marshrutka van to work. I looked at my watch. Plenty of time, no need to rush. I strolled peacefully, listening to Mumford & Sons on my ipod, enjoying the beautiful, slightly chilly morning. Approaching the underground passage, I pulled my jacket and scarf just a bit closer, and briskly walked down the steps.<br /><br />There he was. The dog. Staring at me--almost laughing at me, it seemed. I looked at his dusty, yellow fur matted down with city dirt. He is one of many happy stray dogs in this huge city. They roam around in packs or alone looking for food and warmth. They ride the metro, knowing full-well where they are going, thinking this is their city. On this day, this unsuspecting mutt learned who I was--a short, little Amerikanka with no patience for his shenanigans.<br /><br />Our eyes met, and he smiled. Then there was the smell. My little plastic bag was emitting smells of deliciousness, and the mutt strolled toward me, still seemingly laughing.<br /><br />Now usually for me, these stray dogs are like unwanted men. I am able to avoid their advances with a demeaning glance and cold body language, but this dog was the <span style="font-style: italic;">Pride and Prejudice </span>Mr. Collins of all dogs. Persistently, he ran after me, and jumped on my arm. I pushed him away and continued walking with an unamused, cold stare. Catching the scent of the goods in my bag once more, he bit at my groceries.<br /><br />"No! Bad dog!"<br /><br />Undeterred, he jumped on my arm once more, lightly and playfully gnawing on my arm. This was unsettling. I know all too well that when a dog initially nibbles on your arm and you refuse him, the next bite will be more fierce. After another push, his clench became a little firmer.<br /><br />That's when I kicked him.<br /><br />My only thought being of holes in my favorite and only Fall coat, I felt my foot rise off the floor and lightly meet his body. As he yelped and released his grip and ran away, it was then that I realized I had kicked him in his "secret regions". Oops?<br /><br />I also quickly walked away, afraid of further attempts. While I continued to walk, now sure that the mutt had not followed me, I saw an old woman outside in the park in her pajamas. She was unexpressedly enjoying being surrounded by a huge pack of dogs, feeding them her leftovers as they playfully nipped and licked at her.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">How is she possibly enjoying that? They're filthy and STRAYS, no less! </span>I thought. <span style="font-style: italic;"></span><br /><br />When I reached the school, I was laughing with shock (because that's the generally inappropriate response I have when I get nervous), and I anxiously told my Russian assistants the story.<br /><br />Their response was barely what I--although probably exactly I should have--expected.<br /><br />"Oh Shannon! Poor dog! How could you??"<br /><br />I'm sorry? A dirty, disease-ridden dog starts to nibble on my tender arm and you feel bad for <span style="font-style: italic;">him</span>???<br /><br />I of the Mendeelevskaya dog statue came flooding into my mind, along with fellow images of old babushki spending time in the parks to affectionately watch the strays eat their leftovers.<br /><br />That's when I realized:<br /><br />This city <span style="font-style: italic;">does </span>belong to them. I stand corrected.Shwalizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01783918042202653130noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4895791303675318294.post-14278091338327867112010-09-18T02:49:00.000-07:002010-09-18T03:14:10.724-07:00The ToothbrushHere's a story about a day of absolute horror that I experienced a few months ago. Yes, I am just now writing about it.<br /><br />Earlier that week, I had purchased a beautiful, new toothbrush from the local supermarket, and I was so excited to use it. It had all sorts of special things about it--fading bristles that let you know when it was time to buy a new one, special grips for maximum tooth-brushing comfort, soft bristles. It was going to be the best toothbrush ever.<br /><br />So, I began enthusiastically brushing my teeth, in of course the same amount of time I had previously, just with more rigor.<br /><br />A few weeks later at the kindergarten, I could feel my throat starting to feel absolutely terrible. As usual, it was the beginning of a sickness, and my tonsils felt like they were on fire. So I did something totally normal. I went home, and I opened and ate an entire carton of Ben and Jerry's ice cream. It was the only thing that came close to soothing my throat, and in my newfound comfort, I fell asleep with the spoon still in my hand.<br /><br />When I woke up, the lingering ice cream taste in my mouth was no longer so delicious and sweet, so I ran to my toothbrush! Now, just prior to that, my roommate had been walking around the house getting ready to leave, and I could hear him moving things around in the bathroom. I paid no attention to this.<br /><br />I stood up to get to my toothbrush, and as always, when I picked it up, I thumbed the bristles. I don't know why I do this. I just always do. To my shock, the bristles were wet. Wet? How could this be? Why would MY toothbrush be wet? <span style="font-style: italic;">Maybe they fell down and someone washed them off?</span> I thought, so I thumbed the other toothbrushes. Not wet. Then it donned on me. <span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br />OH MY GOSH. MY ROOMMATE WAS JUST HERE. I'VE BEEN SHARING A TOOTHBRUSH WITH MY ROOMMATE. OH MY GOSH, OH MY GOSH, OH MY GOSH.</span><br /><br />I quickly ran to my phone, and sent my roommate a text message.<br /><br />"Um...which toothbrush have you been using?"<br /><br />The answer came shortly after.<br /><br />"The green one."<br /><br />My response?<br /><br />"Oh my gosh. I think we've been sharing a toothbrush."<br /><br />To my chagrin, my roommate answered, "In some cultures, I think that means we're married. Sorry."<br /><br />How could he?? How could he confuse our toothbrushes? Doesn't he know which one is his and which one is mine? MINE WAS NEW!! How could he confuse them? That is so disgusting! For the past month, I have been sharing a toothbrush WITH MY ROOMMATE. SICK!!!<br /><br />The following conversation took place later that evening.<br /><br />Roommate: Yeah, that's gross. Have you been using my green one?<br />Me: YOUR green one?? That toothbrush was MINE! Uuuuuugh!<br />Roommate: No, that one was definitely mine.<br />Me:No, green is my favorite color. Of course I would buy a green toothbrush.<br /><br />And then I remembered. I always buy kid toothbrushes because I have small teeth, but the supermarket didn't have any more kid ones, so I DID go for green, but they didn't have any good ones, so then I found a blue one with all the bells and whistles. The blue one (which was now in the trash with all the other toothbrushes that I had tossed in my shock and confusion) had been mine.<br /><br />It wasn't him that confused anything! <span style="font-style: italic;">It was ME!!!</span> And what was my logic? That green was my favorite color, therefore, I would be the only one in the house with a green toothbrush. Of course!!! What an idiot!!!<br /><br />I buy pink toothbrushes from now on.Shwalizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01783918042202653130noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4895791303675318294.post-19701054214577522492010-04-24T02:51:00.000-07:002010-04-24T03:12:18.761-07:00Oh dear...It seems I'm not particularly good at writing blogs. Eek.<br /><br />There's so much about life that I feel like could improve. I have untapped potential, but I'm not so sure of how I can reach it. It's become clear to me as of late that it is necessary for me to get to this potential and push to my fullest extent. I moved to Russia in the beginning to reach dreams and goals that I had a lot of hope in. I think I've reached some of those goals, but there are still some that sit there like gaping abysses that I have yet to conquer.<br /><br />It's an overwhelming feeling, really, just knowing that you've got so many things to do until you start doing what you THINK might set you up for vocational satisfaction. I realize now that in leaving, I set myself up in a place where I could potentially be stuck for a very long time, and never attain any of the goals I had. Of course, determination will lead me elsewhere, but how do I get there? I know what to do, but it's like going into a marathon without practicing for years, and specifically without a trainer.<br /><br />Why do I need a trainer? I've never really been very self-motivated. Always determined, but rarely good at being self-motivated.<br /><br />I still have not decided exactly what my focus will be for graduate school or exactly where I want to go. I need to study and take the GRE. I need to decide if I'm staying in Russia or moving elsewhere in the interim between Graduate School and where I am now.Shwalizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01783918042202653130noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4895791303675318294.post-53556223951137235132010-01-25T08:00:00.000-08:002010-01-25T08:39:49.612-08:00When People LeaveRecently, a very dear friend of mine left Russia to move back to Germany. This has left me distraught in the realization that this is the life of an expatriate amongst other expatriates. A life of meeting different, amazing, beautiful people who touch your life and experience things with you that few others can and then they leave. Or maybe you leave. Either way, someone leaves and, assuredly, both feel like a piece of them has been hollowed out with a blunt, discomforting object.<br /><br />By the time Inessa went home, she and I had grown significantly closer. With her leaving, this terrible realization that my world here is fickle and temporary came flooding into my mind. All of the situations I find myself in here will eventually become fond (or not so fond) memories. Friends will leave and return to their lives, and we will keep in contact and see each other every once in a while if the possibility arises. For so long, I could ignore this, but with Inessa's departure, I had to face it. Already, many of us are planning our great escapes from Russia--where will we go next, what obligations do we have to fill, how long do I have until I have to settle down in a place called "home"? Where is home? Is it here in Russia? Am I meant to stay here forever? We are ready for the next steps in life, but not quite ready for the end of this journey. The excitement is subsiding, and the pain of separation is rearing forth it's ugly head.<br /><br />I'm not quite ready for any of that, but I know that the world I have created around me seems to be dissolving. I need to begin preparing myself for it. More people will leave to continue a "real life", and soon I will do the same. Where I will be going, I do not know. As cruel a mistress as Russia is, she is difficult to imagine life without.<br /><br />I once did a "brave" thing in leaving <span style="font-style: italic;">for</span> Russia, but now I need to figure out how to leave <span style="font-style: italic;">her</span>.Shwalizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01783918042202653130noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4895791303675318294.post-92047673546792282922009-11-16T09:12:00.001-08:002009-11-16T09:32:47.439-08:00Contentment.It has now been over a year since I moved to this country.<br /><br />In this past year, I have learned so much about myself, about Russia (and Russians), and about life in general. I know it seems so cliche, but I know so much has changed. I can feel how I have changed. I know I have been forced to reconcile myself with moral and practical issues for the sake of inner peace and the peace of those around me. I have had some INSANE experiences, both good and bad. I have missed home, and I have ached to come back to Russia when I have left her. People have always told me that once you come here, you never want to leave. Something about being here draws you in deeper and deeper, and as much as you disdain some portions of life in Russia, there is always the fervent attachment. I know long after I have moved on, I will always remember and long for my life in Moscow. She molds your heart and your mind in such a way that only people who have felt what you have felt will understand. It's a love-hate relationship that seems like a terrible country song.<br /><br />It's also strange to be repeating events of when I first arrived. I left California directly after my birthday. I have passed another birthday, and other calendar events when I heavily felt the weight of being so alone have come and gone again, but this time, with the company of dear friends whom I feel I have had for many, many years. It takes a while to make a life in a new place. I remember my mother distraughtly talking to me after the many moves she had made with my stepfather, and at the time, I don't think I fully understood how hard moves like that can be. I probably still don't fully understand, but I can at least sympathize a little bit.<br /><br />My goals for coming here have remained the same. Nothing there has changed at all. I still fully intend to study Russian Literature, and I am still actively taking steps to learn Russian. It often feels like I have made little to no progress, and it is perpetually a discouraging situation to realize how far I still have to go. I can, however, look back on how much I spoke when I first arrived with pride because I know I have come much further than I realize.<br /><br />Right now, I am happier and more contented that I ever have been with life. I realize these moments are fleeting because there are always improvements to be made--always. But right now, I can look out my window and see the beautiful city that I live in, with the ever-intriguing people that walk her streets, and I know that this is where God wanted me to be and I can see why.<br /><br />Again....like a bad country song...sorry, guys. I really hate country.Shwalizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01783918042202653130noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4895791303675318294.post-65924582982489723222009-09-12T01:00:00.000-07:002009-09-12T01:34:31.351-07:00More newness...I had good intentions for today...really I did. I was going to sleep in for as long as possible, take a nice long shower when I woke up, and finish unpacking my room...and then MAYBE clean some parts of the house that I thought needed it. Well, I woke up early, sat around watching episodes of TV on my computer, took the long, much needed shower, and have done everything I can since to avoid cleaning and unpacking. Oh well...<br /><br />I had a GREAT time traveling Europe for three weeks. I spent the first week in Paris with my brother Andrew and his lovely wife Mary. I saw some sights, ate some really wonderful food, and spent special time with two people I really love. I also met some German girls that I was quite fond of, and one Russian guy who I wasn't really that fond of.<br /><br />I spent the second week in Barcelona with a Russian friend of mine named Vika (Victoria) that I work with at the Playschool. Barcelona is an artistic city that I wouldn't mind living in someday. It was a whole lot of fun with Vika. I am now madly in love with Gaudi's works.<br /><br />I spent my last week on an Orthodox pilgrimage in different parts of Ireland, staying mainly in a place called Letterfrack (Connemara). Ireland is greener than anything else I've ever seen, and the people are really great. I kept thinking "Why in heaven's name would my family ever have left this great place?!? I mean...potato famines aside...". Right, I know. Potato famines are a big deal. If they hadn't moved, I probably wouldn't be here today. Anyway it was really interesting to see this place that I had heard so much about, and whose culture I thought I knew so well.<br /><br />The pilgrimage was really interesting as well because it focused on monasticism in Ireland's early history. We, as Orthodox, learn so much about the Desert Fathers, and the hardships and sacrifices they underwent when they moved out to the wilderness. In that same vein, Ireland is also a place where people have run for monastic settlements. Due to flippant weather and secluded islands, they have great difficulty growing crops, and getting from one island to the next. The hardships one experienced in Ireland were comparable to what our Desert Fathers experienced, just in a much wetter climate.<br /><br />I was quite fond of the seclusion, finding it a great opportunity to reflect on my own life--especially concerning the last year I've spent in Moscow. Of course, I've lost enthusiasm for different things that used to be more or less important to me, some things that have been better or worse for my soul. There are also habits that I have grown to appreciate and some that I am more remorseful over. As always, there are people that I have lost communication with because of the time difference or lack of ability and convenience. If that's you, I'm sorry. Let's try to get reconnected.<br /><br />Anyway, now I'm back home in Moscow. I moved into a new apartment in the very center of the city. I have two roommates, one of them being Corie Anastasia Hurley (one of my best friends from CA). I've also cut down on the amount of work and city-travel I usually do to save time for more important things in my life--one of them being my health. I'm still taking Russian lessons, and probably be starting German lessons in October sometime.<br /><br />My new kids at the school are also really, really great. Some of my kids who had very, very special places in my heart are gone, but now I have their younger siblings, and some new kids that will quickly snuggle their way in. I'll be honest--I often feel that Moscow eats away at my soul, but working with children seems to heal what is taken by big city life. Their sweetness and purity gives me motivation and happiness when I lack the strength to find those things within myself.<br /><br />Hopefully, I'll get to post pictures soon. My computer is an old man, so it takes ages to load anything.Shwalizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01783918042202653130noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4895791303675318294.post-30602444245865949422009-06-24T00:56:00.000-07:002009-06-24T02:42:11.984-07:00Sunny and Cold...and MikaComing from California, I had no idea what affects the weather has on someone's behavior and emotions. It took all of my energy to be peppy and happy in the winter, and now that the sun is coming out more frequently with warmer days, my moods have started to match more effortlessly. When it's a cloudier day, everyone's mood matches it as well. We just don't really have that in Orange County.<br /><br />School has finished, and we are here now planning for the next year. After a week of planning, I will begin 3 weeks of my school's summer camp program. Then, in August, I will head to France to visit Mary and Andrew! YAY! Then to Barcelona, Spain for my birthday, and then to Ireland for an Orthodox tour of Irish Saints with Metropolitan Kallistos Ware. After I return, I will move (yet again) to another apartment. Hopefully, this will be the last.<br /><br />I'm beginning to really feel the stress to finish up here and get moving with the rest of my plans. I am planning another year here, and then moving on toward furthering my education. I have so many years ahead of me, filled with so much to accomplish, but I'm ready to get going. I know I'm here to learn Russian, but my life here is so busy that it's almost monotonous. Is that even possible?<br /><br />I feel the winds of change a-comin'!Shwalizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01783918042202653130noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4895791303675318294.post-22467244002908828162009-05-27T11:46:00.001-07:002009-05-27T11:59:57.228-07:00It's been a while...sorry...Before you all start throwing rocks at me for my lack of blogging, let me just say SORRY! Sometimes, time just gets away from you. I'm sure everyone can understand that :)<br /><br />What's been happening with me on this side of the world?<br /><br />I'm still working at the kindergarten. I took another job for the weekends as an English nanny with this incredibly wealthy family, but it fell through because he is a penny-pincher. It was an interesting taste of the "life of the rich and famous" here in Moscow. For example, I stayed in what I call the "Servants' Quarters". It's a separate little 2-bdrm apartment above the garage. All of my meals were cooked by their full-time cook. I didn't really even do any nannying because they had their full-time nanny there who hovered constantly.<br /><br />My students still are amazing. We're having our Spring Concert on June 5th, and it should be pretty adorable. School ends on June 18th, and next year, I'll have a whole new group of monkeys to spend my time with. I'll really miss my first crew though :(<br /><br />My mom came to visit from San Diego. She was here for 5 days, and it was really cool to get to share my life here with someone from home. I know it was QUITE a shock for her...and her poor feet. We got to do a lot of things I probably wouldn't have done myself, and she was such a good sport. Having her here made me realize how much I have changed from when I left. I've definitely been made tougher (not necessarily in a bad way) to the misfortunes of life. It was also interesting for me to see how much I could do in Russian. I am reminded every single day how awful my Russian is because Russians are ruthless. Having to translate everything made me realize how far I've come, and how much closer I am to my goal. I think I've graduated from retarded 5 year old to a 7 year old with a speech impediment.<br /><br />At the end of July, one of my best friends will be moving here from California. I can't even express how excited I am to have her here. She has been so supportive in everything I've been doing, and has known all the right things to say because she's been where I am. We're very similar people, and it will be nice to have some support and have someone in this freaking country that understands me completely--through and through.<br /><br />Anyway, that's my update. I'm sorry it's not as interesting as they usually are, but when something interesting happens, you can be sure I'll write about it.Shwalizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01783918042202653130noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4895791303675318294.post-25509759014385626502009-03-05T03:06:00.000-08:002009-03-05T03:55:22.377-08:00Dinosaurs, Bronchitis and LentWith the start of Lent (the Great Fast) also arrived my very own, first ever, harrassing case of bronchitis--of course, it only came after a month-long bout of illnesses following close on one another's heels. With the mixture of children and cold weather every day, my immune system had no chance, and my gleaming-white health records (which I presumed to have originated from Mt. Olympus) found themselves to be rather dirty.<br /><br />Having said that, I haven't been to any of the Lenten services here yet, but (oh boy!) I have a whole month to look forward to! Actually, I like the Lenten services--they're very cleansing and appropriating. I do think of how much the chants and the hymns mean as they are being sung--how the beauty of the moment puts you in a place of awe and humility. This also makes me think of how having the services in a different language will affect me. I don't have the services memorized (HA!), so I won't know entirely what's going on unless I read the service beforehand. This makes me think that my Lenten experience is going to be more of an observation, just like much of my life here. I don't know how I feel about that, but I know that whatever happens, it's for the betterment of my soul. I love that word...betterment :) It sounds like "bitter mint". I don't really enjoy bitter mints.<br /><br />Prior to Lent and my illnesses, I taught about dinosaurs in my kindergarten class. Usually, my job is really easy. All I have to do is show up, read the lesson plan that my assistants have written, and teach. They've been doing this for years, so they're prepared almost every step of the way. Well, for teaching about kinds of dinosaurs, they told me the day before that everything was entirely up to me. First I thought "cool!", but then I realized I had a night to plan it. I came home and cut out 10 different dinosaurs, and started thinking of ideas for how to give an educational, fun lesson for them. Finally, I had an idea--a dinosaur hunt! I wrote down everything required for the dinosaur hunt and went to sleep.<br /><br />The next day's lesson went like this: At 11 am, we talked about different kinds of dinosaurs, just naming 10 of them. At 11.15 am, I took 18 kindergarteners into our huge bathroom and we imagined putting on our safari hats and vests and boots, while my assistants prepared the room. At 11.20 am, we walked out of the bathroom to see all the chairs stacked on the tables to make mountains, all the blue rugs brought together to make a river, all the brown linoleum represented the valley, and their locker room became a dark cave. The supply closet door was partially closed with a fuzzy green dinosaur tail peeking out, and two of my assistants were shaking the door and making scary noises from inside. From the CD player came jungle noises.<br /><br />Out we walked from the bathroom ever so quietly, so as not to disturb the dinosaurs. We walked through the mountains, past the scary closet door (of course, I sacrificed a few of my fellow safarians for the good of science, and let them peer inside). Then through the valley to the bank of the river, then through the river to find another valley and a dark cave at the end. "What do you think is inside the cave?" I asked. "Is it a dinosaur home?? Maybe we should investigate? Go in quietly!" As I sent them in (before me), my third assistant JUMPED out of a dark corner with a fuzzy green dinosaur hat on, roaring in a marvelous fashion. A great scuffle resulted in going back through the valley, the river, the other valley, the mountains, and returning to our bathroom safe-haven.<br /><br />Once inside, we took off our safari boots, hats, and vests. Then I drilled them about what kinds of animals live in the places we had been to. It was pretty awesome.Shwalizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01783918042202653130noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4895791303675318294.post-48349868855312856952009-02-03T11:37:00.000-08:002009-02-03T12:15:22.281-08:00The Adventure With SicknessAfter fighting off the inevitable "I'm a Westerner and I got really sick because I'm not used to freezing temperatures" cold, I am going to venture into the world (which, by the way, is still freezing) outside tomorrow. Duty calls!<br /><br />But first, let me tell you about this experience.<br /><br />It was a Friday afternoon, and I'm on the marshrut (minivan-type bus) home after work, and the ache in my throat that has been there for the previous two weeks is beginning to really catch my attention. Like...REALLY. I arrive home just in time to clean my room before my new Russian tutor arrives and set out some cookies and tea. She arrives, we go through an introductory hour and a half, I call my student who is basically at my doorstep and cancel with him, and collapse into bed. A horrific night ensues of cold air rushing into my lungs with every breath, and the true ache begins. Having had very little time to do any "sickness" shopping, the only things I had in my house were mineral gas water (bought on accident because the "gas" was hidden) and kasha (oatmealish stuff). I had no other medicines than whatever my roommate had in the kitchen already.<br /><br />I got out of bed at around 2:30 am to get a glass of water and discovered my purchasing mistake--this would surely NOT help my aching throat. I took some water from the kettle because I knew it had been boiled. I understand what St. John means in Revelation about the warm water more thoroughly now. He really should have added "kettle" to his description. It would have been more distasteful. In the fridge I find all sorts of medications. Some, obviously, were not for throats, some might have been, but one definitely was. It was for spraying the throat, and I assumed it was to make it numb. I decided it was better to experiment with the hope of feeling better than not at all, so I gave it a whirl and it tasted utterly disgusting too. All it ended up doing was making me extremely thirsty.<br /><br />Being very parched with a slightly numb throat and a disgusting taste in my mouth, I headed back to bed. Seven hours of restlessness and discomfort later, I got up again and made some tea and kasha to greet the morning. I think it was due to my intense thirst, but I ended up with a severe migraine, which ended up in the kasha staying elsewhere besides it's designated home, and went back to bed to moan and groan for six more hours.<br /><br />That Saturday afternoon, I was supposed to bring a heating pack to my Australian friend who had fallen in the snow and ice, and we were going to have lunch. After not hearing from me, she sent me a message asking if I was alright, and upon hearing that I was not, she came running with homemade soup, medicines and other special, marvelous things. "Shannon, I'm not even going to ASK how you feel," she said, "you look like death among us!" Anyone who has seen me ill knows that the first thing to go is the color in my face--immediately. Either way, she was met with tears of pain and joy. I love her. It is good to find fellow foreigners for friends immediately when you move to a different country. When things like this happen, they will ALWAYS run to help you, and you should likewise run to help them. In any situation, when all hope seems to be smoldering away, they will be there.<br /><br />The next day was Sunday, and that night, my roommate had a friend over. This friend (her name escapes me, so I'll just call her Lena) had spent a lot of time in the States, so her English was very good. She also had formed all sorts of ideas about American people and how they function when they are sick. "Americans have a funny way about them when they become ill, Katya," she said to my roommate, "when they get sick, they don't try to heal themselves, they just look for relief. When we Russians get sick, we have all sorts of remedies."<br /><br />I smiled and nodded.<br /><br />So here come her "remedies"! "You must drink vodka," Lena says, "vodka with honey and pepper and lemon. It will make you feel better instantly. Afterward, you drink a cup of tea, also with honey and lemon, and wrap yourself up in bed for a good night's rest." Hilarity ensued when they poured me a cup equal to at LEAST two-three shots of vodka and stirred honey, pepper and lemon into it. I stared with fear and disdain. Honey and pepper does NOT look appetizing. Now is the time when you imagine me staring into this large "shot" of honey-lemon-pepper vodka with big, fearful eyes with two Russian women staring at me eagerly, pressing me onward! My throat...my poor, poor throat. For an instant, it felt wonderful because I couldn't feel my entire neck any longer, but then everything came back.<br /><br />On Monday evening, I got two phone calls. One from my senior "assistant" and one from my boss. Both saying, "Shannon, I would like you to do me a favor. Do not come in to work tomorrow. Take another day off so that you really fight off the sickness." Seriously, only in Russia does your boss call you in sick for you.<br /><br />Anyway, I'm feeling better now after being quarantined to my house for five days, except for quite possibly having gone crazy.Shwalizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01783918042202653130noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4895791303675318294.post-49192611361934256442009-01-24T10:26:00.000-08:002009-01-24T10:40:30.084-08:00Some pictures of my Kindergarten<div style="text-align: center;"><br />These are some of my kids.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5EEUgXON5AO3CTnU8M7uslCLeI56edgkGjU_Q-nD4tf5Y-R3TDSyBXwMkLIIfqShTLW-1tS51PmEN_GPrxcA0KZYLiSTeZ3rJQnCRE0BBLMtau2C_vXF1saNcslGNFS0nfO71ATclBgQt/s1600-h/100_1161.JPG"><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 369px; height: 275px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5EEUgXON5AO3CTnU8M7uslCLeI56edgkGjU_Q-nD4tf5Y-R3TDSyBXwMkLIIfqShTLW-1tS51PmEN_GPrxcA0KZYLiSTeZ3rJQnCRE0BBLMtau2C_vXF1saNcslGNFS0nfO71ATclBgQt/s320/100_1161.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5294930586360281106" border="0" /></a>This is Sasha telling me to come stand next to him...just stand there...<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX26VGBBFp14-I8BPTb50k0JiZ6yN481AdtQWUphTQR9S0PwRTitpQcIjs1buRCVlVSeylBJDLydN_dWGg-R745R_-4AjPFmA3MTXBmgvlI-QqLVkqChywmTY1V7GL1-JcPoPBMTlmqCfa/s1600-h/100_1160.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX26VGBBFp14-I8BPTb50k0JiZ6yN481AdtQWUphTQR9S0PwRTitpQcIjs1buRCVlVSeylBJDLydN_dWGg-R745R_-4AjPFmA3MTXBmgvlI-QqLVkqChywmTY1V7GL1-JcPoPBMTlmqCfa/s320/100_1160.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5294930578423109650" border="0" /></a>I like her.<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEEjA94Oj4te8FJBaqgS3fE8zqatoCgu3DUECUeSof5AG1V0eOqp4d8xMUVQ25a-yCSruG0ptdcDGLsokaT5xZaqf0dQptEwPiTx30rqzcah50gWKFe-TTXnPQPkEpUYGFG0sfsDH4v3W3/s1600-h/100_1158.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEEjA94Oj4te8FJBaqgS3fE8zqatoCgu3DUECUeSof5AG1V0eOqp4d8xMUVQ25a-yCSruG0ptdcDGLsokaT5xZaqf0dQptEwPiTx30rqzcah50gWKFe-TTXnPQPkEpUYGFG0sfsDH4v3W3/s320/100_1158.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5294930568478036626" border="0" /></a><br />One of the Japanese girls.<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHZR1bP8WJlASPXF4w430IvvQafNCJ7YKKHuVTeSxSpXQMVzWoVCa4fGjDVdus-tahorcJIBs3ufpTfMgWN3Tp-fwcI_Z1lyQhyphenhyphenq2gEutJo9T81L16SNKrgqC1fotvmHN5G8yWN2Nies0M/s1600-h/100_1154.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHZR1bP8WJlASPXF4w430IvvQafNCJ7YKKHuVTeSxSpXQMVzWoVCa4fGjDVdus-tahorcJIBs3ufpTfMgWN3Tp-fwcI_Z1lyQhyphenhyphenq2gEutJo9T81L16SNKrgqC1fotvmHN5G8yWN2Nies0M/s320/100_1154.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5294929933739525266" border="0" /></a><br />The little "My Little Pony" Austrian Princess<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7c4uWZknoklCoGdCXRJr52pinXvyrkWK8ku8IH7OG0WH4_r_EqE7MfcdElI1u8kwysJwY1FE9tNPrm9Gs3C9kEhWzEI4QCSHfi89lTZKuIM19Iq0L_-MGiawuDoh1a-BqCQmvyNbptW8l/s1600-h/100_1153.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7c4uWZknoklCoGdCXRJr52pinXvyrkWK8ku8IH7OG0WH4_r_EqE7MfcdElI1u8kwysJwY1FE9tNPrm9Gs3C9kEhWzEI4QCSHfi89lTZKuIM19Iq0L_-MGiawuDoh1a-BqCQmvyNbptW8l/s320/100_1153.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5294929928042759586" border="0" /></a><br />Eren, my Turkish boy, and James.<br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyYGdU3j93_YEoj6_mRKA0iajmndk1O6YA9wLidfXk7R9TrjychEPZPejxaCmpWWzJbd-Qrq0HH7cGJ2fZD9hgDeHFAxmxf1MDUBbHPVyJ65C0yUG0wyoUYYfqVHO_MHFUKW-cV04L4ePn/s1600-h/100_1152.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyYGdU3j93_YEoj6_mRKA0iajmndk1O6YA9wLidfXk7R9TrjychEPZPejxaCmpWWzJbd-Qrq0HH7cGJ2fZD9hgDeHFAxmxf1MDUBbHPVyJ65C0yUG0wyoUYYfqVHO_MHFUKW-cV04L4ePn/s320/100_1152.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5294929924976538402" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6kGi3kDRJE-PYQ2ts5Ci-q6xfvo2E4ZGFqI_QK7ydSxiUbRUN-Os99dIn-RXPKe65GgQEWXnczAnhXhi_-rRocbADGQIW1qvQM2pT_ZONRvFgaacwCK3JoK_NzC43xsmwrsTiq3GVSG0a/s1600-h/100_1146.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6kGi3kDRJE-PYQ2ts5Ci-q6xfvo2E4ZGFqI_QK7ydSxiUbRUN-Os99dIn-RXPKe65GgQEWXnczAnhXhi_-rRocbADGQIW1qvQM2pT_ZONRvFgaacwCK3JoK_NzC43xsmwrsTiq3GVSG0a/s320/100_1146.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5294929918611049186" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgorFcRqgQdNuAxds9oyaxNOFxGGrnKp_csPKiHh78L2FZ-Q1LX52vQQBhDLVUpX0x5wUATX5fh5AwEYCpfpf4p-j_1AYDqSP60byJ1kPuhm-9oTo7TzPJzrINLUbXpxkTOQ-kG-NPExNF2/s1600-h/100_1145.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgorFcRqgQdNuAxds9oyaxNOFxGGrnKp_csPKiHh78L2FZ-Q1LX52vQQBhDLVUpX0x5wUATX5fh5AwEYCpfpf4p-j_1AYDqSP60byJ1kPuhm-9oTo7TzPJzrINLUbXpxkTOQ-kG-NPExNF2/s320/100_1145.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5294929913812640594" border="0" /></a>Shwalizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01783918042202653130noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4895791303675318294.post-60034086109016497482009-01-14T09:08:00.000-08:002009-01-24T10:13:59.883-08:00I dress like a kindergarten teacher.These last two weeks have been the firsts of many to come in English Playschool-Moscow. They've also been the first weeks of responsibility and attempting a regular sleep pattern. It has included getting punched in the face, being called "Mr. Fatbottom", being hit on by a five year old (but not really), and having the privilege of helping to shape the minds of beautiful children. Read on...<br /><br />The past month has been sad and enjoyable--for different reasons. Coming home was nice because I got to see family and friends. For a week and a half, I troubled myself with visa problems (just BARELY completing the process hours before the deadline), and spent every spare moment with people. No, I mean it. Seriously. I felt loved and stressed all at the same time. I think next time it would be wiser to come home for longer?<br /><br />Arriving back home in Russia took more acclimating than I thought it would. My whole world here had changed...again. I came home to a new flat, a new roommate, a new job....and Russian...again. I know sometimes God takes us through awkward, sad and uncomfortable times so that when the better times come, we can be truly grateful. I hope that's what I am right now.<br /><br />My new home is better than my last (pictures will come soon), and my new roommate is a lovely Orthodox girl named Katya. She speaks English fairly well and took great pains to get to know me. She also tries as often as possible to speak Russian with me and to introduce me to her friends. (Let me say this: I really believe God will honor those who endure helping someone learn a language. They are the most patient, selfless people I have ever met.)We definitely have cultural differences that will take blind respect to avoid unfairly judging one another, but overall, I think we'll do quite well.<br /><br />My new job is going well. I am the head kindergarten teacher (only because my native tongue is English and kids and I seem to get along) at a small English school owned by Russians. I have three "assistants" who have been there since the dawn of time, and about 20 little dears to goof around with all day long. There will be some stories below.<br /><br />St. Antipa's is still a good experience for me. I'm learning more about Russian Orthodoxy every day as I interact with people at work and my very small social circle. Someone here said it like this: Russian Orthodoxy is like a great, big furniture store. They have plenty of lovely pieces of art around their home that they love and cherish very, very deeply. Sometimes, however, since the pieces of art and furniture are so old, they worry more about cleaning and preserving them than actually putting them to use. These "pieces" I speak of are Russia's aged icons and spiritual writings, as well as their churches and traditions. Being an American convert to Orthodoxy from Protestantism, I have a very different approach. We Americans don't have all of the old traditions, churches and icons. Sure, we've adapted to <span style="font-style: italic;">some</span> of the traditions, but we don't have deep roots like the Russians do. I respect them in that whatever they read or see, they revere with the utmost sincerity. The difference, really, is that they believe and follow with a keen heart, while Westerners (particularly from a Protestant background) attempt to be more analytical...sometimes more than they should. I don't really mean for either to sound positive or negative--both have their benefits and hindrances. As always, there should be a good balance.<br /><br />Now some kid stories:<br /><br />It was Wednesday, and Wednesday is Science Day in our kindergarten class. My assistants had placed before me a subject and lesson plan, saying, "This is the lesson plan. Do what you want, but <span style="font-style: italic;">this</span> is what you <span style="font-style: italic;">should</span> do." The lesson plans are usually so good and thorough that I just do what they want. This week, however, I made a small change since we were learning about air. Seriously, how can you teach a bunch of 5 year olds about air and NOT teach them air guitar?? Now would be a good time for you to picture me playing the air guitar, whilst encircled by many air guitar-playing children. Hilarious, right? Directly after the lesson is lunchtime, and a small boy named Nikita was playing the air guitar at his table rather than eating his lunch. I came over to him and knelt down behind him, starting to say, "Nikita, now it's lunchtime. It's not the time to play." As I finished, his hand holding the neck of his "guitar" shot upward and jabbed me right in the eye. His response? "I'm sorry, but you shouldn't have been there."<br /><br />Another time, I was in the kitchen heating up my lunch, and one of the girls came in and said, "Shannon, I'm going to call you Mr. Fatbottom," in her little British accent. I asked why, stating that I was neither a "Mr." nor did I have a "fat bottom". "I suppose that's true," she said, "but maybe you have a fat tummy. Maybe just a little."<br />"Yeah, you might be right, but Erica, that's not very nice. People don't like it when you say those things," I said through suppressed laughter. She shrugged and ran off to play, but as she left, a little boy named Andrei came up to me, and with BIG brown eyes said, "Don't listen to her. I think you're pretty and I like you." That's a good man.<br /><br /><br />Nikita (the little boy who punched me in the face) was being rather naughty one day, so I put him in time-out. He cried and cried and cried, and when I came back to get him, he said, "I hate this school. I don't ever want to come back. I always get in trouble." You see, he and I have something very similar about us. When someone antagonizes us, we both respond strongly and openly. We are the kind of people whom other people notice doing something wrong--it is rare when the silent antagonizer is caught. Little punks. So anyway, Nikita and I were in another room talking, and it was a good conversation. Later on, he was working on a lesson, and as I walked past, I congratulated him on a job well done. He grabbed my skirt and said, "Shaman (that's what they call me), sit down next to me."<br />"Why, Nikita? You're doing wonderfully. You don't need help."<br />"Because I love you."<br />My heart melted five times.<br /><br />Last story (and the reason for my Subject Title):<br /><br />In my first week, I didn't make a great effort to dress differently. I just dressed the way I normally do and have for many years. In walks my boss and she gasps with happiness.<br />"Shannon, you LOOK like a kindergarten teacher! Your outfit today is PERFECT."<br />"Oh...thank you..."<br />So, evidently, I dress like a kindergarten teacher and always have. :-|Shwalizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01783918042202653130noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4895791303675318294.post-62214168121223965862009-01-02T07:35:00.000-08:002009-01-02T08:02:35.264-08:00Home again, Home again, Jiggity-JigSo I flew out on Tuesday, December 30th and arrived in Moscow on the next day at noon. When I got to my departure gate in Chicago, I sat down to enjoy the delicious (and expensive) airport Chinese food when I noticed a priest with a large beard and cassock wearing a gold pectoral cross a bit hidden in the material. I then remembered that an acquaintance of mine from my Russian church was in CA for a conference, and would probably be on my flight. He indeed was, so I had about 20 minutes company before we took our respective seats. After the flight, he helped me get onto the train to go into the center of the city, and then bargained a taxi for me to get home. We had a nice chat on the 45 minute train ride back. Seriously, though, before I even left the States, I was on Russian overload. A week and a half away definitely threw me through a loop.<br /><br />When I did get to my new flat, I found it dark and extremely quiet. I took a small nap, and then decided to go to the services at church that night since it was New Years Eve and all. The services were lovely, and what I could make of the priest's sermon was nice too. My British friend James is back in England now, and so I'm definitely fending for myself at St. Antipa from here on out. Glory be to God for all things. He's helped me get through everything else, he'll help me get through this too. My Russian really needs to get better though. It's difficult to be sociable when you realize that people are going to great lengths to be kind to you while you inconvenience them with your bad grammar and limited vocabulary. I think I might definitely be an instrument of patience for some people. Even if they do speak English, they eventually get tired of having to think so hard to converse with me, and with Russian, they have to grade their language so that I can understand. I'm just like this big, unnatural stump in the middle of the room that everyone has to walk around. In time, it will all get better.<br /><br />I've also been watching Russian tv since they've had all the New Years celebrations. That stuff is seriously hilarious. I think it's also been helping my Russian, which is why I keep watching it. But also, it's just a big ol' riot.<br /><br />Anyway, it's good to be back in these boots again.Shwalizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01783918042202653130noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4895791303675318294.post-11737829796855121252008-12-06T01:12:00.001-08:002008-12-06T02:22:48.748-08:00Russian OrthodoxyI am nowhere near being an authority on the state of Orthodoxy in Russia, but I thought it about time to share my thoughts--meager as they might be (in other words, be warned).<br /><br />After my visit to Russia in 2006, I came back summarizing the religious state in this country by basically saying that in it existed two worlds. There exists the Western world, by which I mean the one that loves materialism, liberality, frivolity, and considers religion a "thing of the past". I was under the impression that this world was being forced upon Russia by European and American thought and philosophy, and that "Religious Russia" didn't want it. The other world--the Religious Russia, which I called "Orthodox Russia" was decidedly against the "Western Russia". They continued much as they had before the Soviet Times in their Liturgy, their conservative ideals, and their simplicity until the Soviet interruption.<br /><br />My summary of Russia's religious state also said that "where Russia was Orthodox, it was extremely so" (i.e. churches, monasteries, etc.). Rules of conduct and belief were not very flexible, as was evident by the ever-ready babushkie waiting to correct me. However, the Western Russia was like walking into any European country.<br /><br />I don't really know how much my summary has changed, although I know it has. I still see Russia as two worlds colliding with one another, both fighting for superiority in the public eye. I still see that a great many Russians are only nominally Orthodox. Of course, this might only be what I see and not what is really happening.<br /><br />I've also been introduced to the fact that as inflexible and staunch as the Church might <span style="font-style: italic;">seem</span>, it really is being "reborn". When Russians dive into something, they dive into it wholeheartedly. Orthodoxy is obviously <span style="font-style: italic;">not</span> something that could be taken from them. Despite the Soviet interruption, their Faith has not been uprooted. Perhaps it's safe to say it's been savagely trimmed? In 1991, when Communism collapsed, churches reopened, and people lined up to be baptized. From what I am told, many of them had only a vague idea of what they were signing up for. The result has been this rebirth of an old Orthodox heart. In short, many of the current believers themselves are converts. Russia, en mass, is a country of converts. They are all relearning about their Faith, and relearning how to incorporate it into their lives. They are re-educating. But then again, aren't we all?<br /><br />I also previously thought that beliefs Communism and Orthodoxy could exist together. I had read an account of an Orthodox Christian who made a strong case for this. Let me say that the Soviets/Communists wronged the Orthodox Church and Russia in many, many, many ways--more than they realized. The foremost of these being the horrendous murder of Tsar Nicholas II and his family, and with them the murder of all that Russia had previously stood for. Do I now currently think that Communism and Orthodoxy can co-exist? I have no idea. I think someone can actively hope for the best for society and be religious. I think that's what this person I read about might have been trying to do.<br /><br />These are all of my thoughts right now. I'm sure the longer I live here the more they'll change. Or maybe not.Shwalizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01783918042202653130noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4895791303675318294.post-3395678387266850292008-12-04T12:21:00.000-08:002008-12-04T12:36:25.171-08:00The Most Difficult Things...The most difficult thing about being away from the people I love is not being able to physically be there for them when bad things happen. Anyone who knows me knows that I am the "mother hen" type that cries as at the drop of a hat. It's impossible for me to make it through movies like Homeward Bound without hiding my face in my pillow and ignoring half of the film. I just want to hug whoever is in pain with a great, big, far-too-long-lasting hug.<br /><br />When dear friends painfully part ways, when there are scary hospital visits and surgeries, when there are people who pass away--it hurts to not be there with them. It makes me question why I am here doing what I am doing in Moscow. It makes me wonder what kind of person these experiences will make me become in the future. No matter what concerns I have, I DO know that my being in Moscow is for a purpose, and that God fixed every step of the way--pretty much, I'm not allowed to question myself on this.<br /><br />If there is one thing I have definitely learned, it is that regardless of my presence, the only affect it is possible for me to have on anyone comes from God, and He really doesn't need me to be there to be of any assistance. I know, I know. This is so cliche and obvious, but it's always those things I have to relearn. They're never fun the millionth time around just like they weren't the second time around.<br /><br />Anyhow, if you're one of those people that I seemingly have shunned, please forgive me and know that you are always in my thoughts and prayers.<br /><br />I'm going to stop before this becomes anymore dramatic and mushy. Ick.Shwalizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01783918042202653130noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4895791303675318294.post-3125253957286529362008-11-17T13:05:00.000-08:002008-11-17T13:21:25.378-08:00More Funny Stories...So tonight when I came home, I had quite an interesting experience.<br /><br />I pressed the number on the keypad to enter the building. Strangely, as I walked inside, I noticed that the entrance to the basement was open and letting out a musty stench. It's usually closed and letting out that same stench. I stopped to listen for a moment, curious to find out what was going on. After realizing that faint Russian is even more difficult to understand than normal Russian, I resigned and entered the elevator, pressing the button for the seventh floor. When the elevator stopped, it shed light into an otherwise pitch black stairwell. <span style="font-style: italic;">Is this normal?</span> I thought. <span style="font-style: italic;">Is it usually so dark in here?</span> The answer was no. So, I whipped out my handy-dandy cell phone for some lighting (which, of course, was so meager that I could barely see my hand in front of my face) and held it down to the lock on the door.<br /><br />While I was fumbling with my keys, I heard some shuffling behind me.<br /><br />I froze.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">What or who could possibly be behind me? If it's an intruder, how do I get out of this situation? I could run up the stairs...but to where? I could run down the stairs, but they're blocking the way. I could jump back in the elevator, but it's already closed and gone back down to the bottom. I could run into my apartment quickly, but it stinking takes me five minutes just to unlock the door...what do I do?<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span>What else could I do? I turned around and peered into the darkness. As my eyes adjusted, I saw a hunched figure glaring back at me. "Kakoe kashmar," it said, which means "what a horror" or "how awful". New rule: Babushkie should NOT lurk around in the darkness.<br /><br />She and I chatted for a minute, and I told her that I had heard voices in the basement, so I thought they were probably just working, and everything would be back on in a moment.<br /><br />I turned back around to continue unlocking the outer door. Once opened, I stepped into the entryway for my neighbors and I share, but not before hearing something to my left.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Seriously? Again? </span>I thought as I froze in place.<br /><br />I let my eyes adjust to the darkness of the entryway and saw my neighbor standing there in her pajamas, peering back at me.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">For the love of Pete, </span>I thought, <span style="font-style: italic;">don't these people give any warning? GET A FLASHLIGHT!!!<br /><br /></span>My neighbor and I chatted for a moment, and I told her the same thing I had told the lurking babushka. She, in turn, asked me if I was a new tenant, and I reported to her my current living situation. Then she began calling to the floor above us for Vlad. I don't know who Vlad is, but I'm guessing he's a man who knows how to fix things. Because Vlad is a man's name...and the lights needed fixing?<br /><br />When I finally got inside my flat, the lights had all been turned back on.<br /><br />THE END.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><br /></span>Shwalizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01783918042202653130noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4895791303675318294.post-45262782517894643662008-11-17T12:53:00.000-08:002008-11-17T13:05:09.729-08:00SerpukhovSerpukhov is a lovely little suburb of Moscow. I went there with a few friends a couple of weeks ago and it was lovely. We just walked around and looked at stuff. Here are some pictures:<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU6AYNVMIjn9M-Lxt49dEzafpzt1ke9XMcXHfg6osB7bMmeHqCJuuA0ZzwyhmbgCS9nNZ-dCHzR5sNcQQvhPgVDVW02Cb6Ufgy8s5i-JVYITq0ZY6Ab6gSRtMDhEraCzzpRcFI4VqcIiTt/s1600-h/26.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU6AYNVMIjn9M-Lxt49dEzafpzt1ke9XMcXHfg6osB7bMmeHqCJuuA0ZzwyhmbgCS9nNZ-dCHzR5sNcQQvhPgVDVW02Cb6Ufgy8s5i-JVYITq0ZY6Ab6gSRtMDhEraCzzpRcFI4VqcIiTt/s320/26.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5269733736309454802" border="0" /></a>This is just a nice little street.<br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgghv0ZrhTbanv2ZJLzUCmsD-IqJhItiOHkp3l04qJOkLuqWAx3yhmpQaXKeHJd1sQ8CM_6dPogDqLYdMWkIayRzFWQdHBugWPcwnH3hFD-EDMtbeqxlRSkV_RgzJOmnfRkV9Op3s_eaXNp/s1600-h/32.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgghv0ZrhTbanv2ZJLzUCmsD-IqJhItiOHkp3l04qJOkLuqWAx3yhmpQaXKeHJd1sQ8CM_6dPogDqLYdMWkIayRzFWQdHBugWPcwnH3hFD-EDMtbeqxlRSkV_RgzJOmnfRkV9Op3s_eaXNp/s320/32.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5269733729601448434" border="0" /></a>This is just a nice little painting on a gate. It made us laugh.<br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7KADZhNxADbx8CdGLmHdv3-qy_2Ssv5NJHYVR57mOF13aB7GFuWFE3_59E_dO78rmzI71JBohmwtWlH55tW-Pstjx9gaQ3LQXc0yYSGih7MAMYZWy8bMKRCPhmhF89zmwNJHsJddUD3hP/s1600-h/14.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7KADZhNxADbx8CdGLmHdv3-qy_2Ssv5NJHYVR57mOF13aB7GFuWFE3_59E_dO78rmzI71JBohmwtWlH55tW-Pstjx9gaQ3LQXc0yYSGih7MAMYZWy8bMKRCPhmhF89zmwNJHsJddUD3hP/s320/14.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5269733721758532114" border="0" /></a><br />Sasha? Help me out here. This is the entrance to an old monastery, I think?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMx5MJ6Hj17TQ3mD6wQ6SHgkg5anYEBYXq1tJjB4Yz_Hi6Ot-EPYBvLs33osj-DwnsWH0eoH5nLh_E7xlm8VLLTjCCwY85GKCUemWjphCZPoWwWKTWM1FTdENX4fuSQnnfINvIV31Ri5MA/s1600-h/2.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMx5MJ6Hj17TQ3mD6wQ6SHgkg5anYEBYXq1tJjB4Yz_Hi6Ot-EPYBvLs33osj-DwnsWH0eoH5nLh_E7xlm8VLLTjCCwY85GKCUemWjphCZPoWwWKTWM1FTdENX4fuSQnnfINvIV31Ri5MA/s320/2.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5269733719718075890" border="0" /></a>I desperately wanted to explore the insides of this building. I can't remember if this was an old church or if it was an old part of the monastery wall...Sasha?<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8CUciVmBl09BmX-Z8BhFhdfyg2Q-c85VTsrG4OxxAlkszRx3il1H8zDCEKu831zpUjR2-CpWPjxBiVF552Nvt4nEt3IoNZ2JwLcuW5v4eJt1P76INkn7SGXXEqQzSm3e5eI6was65IK6-/s1600-h/1.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8CUciVmBl09BmX-Z8BhFhdfyg2Q-c85VTsrG4OxxAlkszRx3il1H8zDCEKu831zpUjR2-CpWPjxBiVF552Nvt4nEt3IoNZ2JwLcuW5v4eJt1P76INkn7SGXXEqQzSm3e5eI6was65IK6-/s320/1.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5269733720691164962" border="0" /></a><br />A nice monastery with a nice wall...<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Fact: I should really start putting pictures up sooner before I forget all the details.</div>Shwalizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01783918042202653130noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4895791303675318294.post-26977745961641736222008-11-12T23:39:00.000-08:002008-11-12T23:52:33.379-08:00Funny Stories...My priest here is a LEGEND.<br /><br />During one of my first visits to St. Antipa's, I came to confession with Father Vladimir. I handed him my list, which I had thoughtlessly written in English, he looked at it confusedly, realized what I was (an American) and absolved me. This led him to believe that I spoke absolutely no Russian whatsoever. That same day, when I began to approach him to venerate the cross at the end of service, I heard him whispering to the acolyte, "Here comes the American woman. Here she comes. Do you see her? Here she comes. Oh, here she is. Here's the American woman. She's right here. There she goes. There goes the American. Did you see her? She just passed by."<br /><br />A few weeks following that great moment, I came up to take communion. Father Vladimir knows my name. I'm the only American in our parish. So what does he decide to communion me as? "American woman". Be sure to say that with a heavy Russian accent. I almost died laughing. On that same day during coffee hour, my friends and I are seated and talking, and down comes Father Vladimir playing the blues on the harmonica. WHAT??? He was actually really good at it! I was totally surprised, however, when he walks up to me and is like, "You're an American woman, you know the blues! Sing with me!!" I, regretfully, said no. He proceeds to calm himself for about five minutes before he gets up again and starts walking behind people, blowing the harmonica in their ears to scare them.<br /><br />THAT is my new priest. Legend.Shwalizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01783918042202653130noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4895791303675318294.post-74072993307401005262008-10-23T05:38:00.001-07:002008-10-23T05:41:09.359-07:00Not What I Expected...When I thought “Hey, I’ll move to Moscow”, there were things that, despite all of my scheming, I could never have imagined would happen to me. When I think of Moscow, I think of wild fashions, grumpy babushkie (grandmothers), and enormous churches in the midst of a rapidly disintegrating (yet still very prevalent) Soviet atmosphere. I think of McDonalds on ever street corner, and the groups of young teenagers that loiter there. I also thought, “Yes! The Orthodox Motherland!”, but as it turns out, my naivety and ignorance to spiritual things inhibit my connection with this beautiful piece of Russia.<br /><br />Many of these things are unexpected but entirely joyful situations I have been placed in as of late:<br /><br />The gay community in Russia is, I have been told, a rising phenomenon. While many of my students cringe at the mention of gay men, it nevertheless seems to be a force to be reckoned with here. My assumptions as to why this might be are not the point. The point IS to say that, ironically, I have become acquainted with about ten gay men that have treated me better than most men I know ever have. Plus, they’re really fun ☺ They love helping me with my Russian, respect that I am a “religious” Christian (although I’m sure many of them have had negative encounters with religion), produce deep conversation, and are very protective of my eyes and ears. I am very, very appreciative.<br /><br />I also never thoroughly thought through the process of becoming involved in a church parish. It’s not been a negative experience, merely prolonged. After about 6 weeks, I have finally settled on St. Antipa near the center of the city. Through Matushka Nektaria, I have met friends James and Alevtina, as well as a few others who, in turn, have made kind efforts to include me and encourage me. I wondered if the feeling of awkward solitude would pass because it seemed to last forever, but I think I’m finally starting to see the light at the end of the tunnel. I guess I just assumed that since Russia has a rich Orthodox heritage, that I would be swept away in its wake. I will just say that solitude makes you realize more about yourself than you are probably willing to admit. Alas, things are improving, and I continue to hope that they will keep on doing so!<br /><br />From St. Antipa, I have also been given a few job offers that seem rather promising. One of them I started today—tutoring two young girls (ages 5 & 6) English. They’re seriously SO adorable. Also, my friend James is leaving in December to go back to England, and we’ve been discussing the possibility of me taking over his job. It’s a rather “advantageous” kindergarten teacher position. I was thoughtlessly resigned to my career at Language Link for the next two years, but it’s funny how God is stealthy like that. The only thing is that it would most likely change my plans of moving to a smaller city, and possibly change my summer plans. I’m not worried. Whatever happens is for the best.Shwalizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01783918042202653130noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4895791303675318294.post-88095576179332152972008-09-24T00:49:00.001-07:002008-09-24T01:11:02.133-07:00Playtime is OverFor the last two weeks, I'd just been meandering around Moscow seeing the sights and doing what tourists are supposed to do. Unfortunately (or fortunately?), playtime in Moscow is over, and I have been given work.<br /><br />My group Russian lessons have been replaced by individual lessons which began on Monday. My tutor is so helpful and kind. I think she'll help my Russian improve a ton. I'll be meeting with her twice a week for two hours (four hours total).<br /><br />I also started working yesterday (Tuesday). I'll be teaching on Tuesdays and Thursdays for a school here (as opposed to a building in which Language Link just HAPPENS to have a location). Each time, I have three classes of children ranging from 6-7 year olds, one class of 9 year olds, and one class of 10 year olds. I then have 2 hours for a break that I spend travelling to my next location for a class of beginning adult learners. With lesson planning, preparation, travel time and the classes themselves, I am running to and fro for no less than 12 hours on those days. My young students are absolutely adorable and so well-behaved! It's so nice to have the innocent faces of children looking to you for help rather than the typical Russian skeptic that one usually encounters. But even my adult learners had fun in their class--and after all, that's what makes learning worthwhile, right? I hope to be a teacher who makes learning enjoyable.<br /><br />I really think I'm going to enjoy this :)Shwalizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01783918042202653130noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4895791303675318294.post-11045540189407491772008-09-15T02:53:00.000-07:002008-09-15T03:37:13.377-07:00My New Home<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">St. Basil's...with Freckles?</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6CnQRheBqRg01Bvr2EwIgB7v9EkDHjtvjX8TYcs_idahY3NWpuXmybl3c8K2bShXTaoKX0RbyRF3awrFmbqC9FdYVSraztbp8qRNNYs5eOlgiWwaz8fy8AMIq-ci8ul6_Sfoi1DrpOgms/s1600-h/St.+Basil%27s+with+Sprinkles.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6CnQRheBqRg01Bvr2EwIgB7v9EkDHjtvjX8TYcs_idahY3NWpuXmybl3c8K2bShXTaoKX0RbyRF3awrFmbqC9FdYVSraztbp8qRNNYs5eOlgiWwaz8fy8AMIq-ci8ul6_Sfoi1DrpOgms/s320/St.+Basil%27s+with+Sprinkles.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5246187487405068114" border="0" /></a>Some friends and I were out walking around Moscow, and I just thought this was a really neat picture of St. Basil's in Red Square...my camera, on the other hand, thought it was lame and sabotaged it.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The Metro</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsbjrdXUkPDlA2mkN7Jqr7oVdD0ZmjONY-DFWkwnJ6vv4ovd4JQClxURvDNdDnOn5OvATftNgHylafuL-zH7ra_IzkzOWoGI17DwDbYYulDyXWAQzXvCfEc_Dxo9-AA_4-LOpfftblY4n3/s1600-h/The+Metro.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsbjrdXUkPDlA2mkN7Jqr7oVdD0ZmjONY-DFWkwnJ6vv4ovd4JQClxURvDNdDnOn5OvATftNgHylafuL-zH7ra_IzkzOWoGI17DwDbYYulDyXWAQzXvCfEc_Dxo9-AA_4-LOpfftblY4n3/s320/The+Metro.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5246187490001079218" border="0" /></a><br />This is just one of the beautiful metro stations I go in every week. They're typically crowded with people though. Metro stations are perfect places to people-watch. Hilarity ensues.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">My Room</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi038oFi9-BwYmJW-d-CWzyWQ9BjK6wi6WhmJlyVgsyJVTYAV5pOTpE5iKk0QSRTeDpE5dJ6OwlO6MwQrGxNNI-vAiWplfLQlac7ROu22lxs7V-EPBTjteMStc_ENwq_I4DHiIVthl_BK3d/s1600-h/My+Room.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi038oFi9-BwYmJW-d-CWzyWQ9BjK6wi6WhmJlyVgsyJVTYAV5pOTpE5iKk0QSRTeDpE5dJ6OwlO6MwQrGxNNI-vAiWplfLQlac7ROu22lxs7V-EPBTjteMStc_ENwq_I4DHiIVthl_BK3d/s320/My+Room.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5246187490602317586" border="0" /></a><br />This is my room from the doorway. My window faces out onto the street, and evidently everyone who has lived in it hates all the noise and consequently moves to a different room/flat. I, however, fell in love with the noise of the city, so this room and I are a perfect fit. You can't really tell, but the room is very, very long, but not very wide. About 20 ft. x 7ft.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">My Bed</span>.<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg14R1m3mB1vz0l0CDr-orrymbBUpDaBP96Lh-yS6QD-CCueOLvEw6CRdAVijqJqYR-zAR79Z2hHjoi3sGgu1V8SCi7tHgQVW162lUen8rlg5DxaapRC2EgQT54O2qoHpWg0HNH68eZRKvr/s1600-h/The+Bed.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg14R1m3mB1vz0l0CDr-orrymbBUpDaBP96Lh-yS6QD-CCueOLvEw6CRdAVijqJqYR-zAR79Z2hHjoi3sGgu1V8SCi7tHgQVW162lUen8rlg5DxaapRC2EgQT54O2qoHpWg0HNH68eZRKvr/s320/The+Bed.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5246187496805689778" border="0" /></a><br />This, quite obviously, is my bed. It has a race car comforter (either that, or it's some awful 1980's mess). It was free, it was clean, so I took it. I don't think you can really tell, but above my bed are some pictures I sporadically collected before I left. Send me pictures, and they will go up there too.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">THE WALLPAPER!!!</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq7qqnYnZ9rL8gzyeh4yEG_elE_AHuJkez-O6_QWn9jEu62lfiFs0mjztMSQK-17HezPrXeEW3s9-4xOGLHDIv-e6XylQP15uxwQxnZaHR-CJQ_OoWOTpo0QNDdFaa8SS6kpOhxjsVeLOz/s1600-h/The+Wallpaper.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq7qqnYnZ9rL8gzyeh4yEG_elE_AHuJkez-O6_QWn9jEu62lfiFs0mjztMSQK-17HezPrXeEW3s9-4xOGLHDIv-e6XylQP15uxwQxnZaHR-CJQ_OoWOTpo0QNDdFaa8SS6kpOhxjsVeLOz/s320/The+Wallpaper.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5246187499581079346" border="0" /></a><br />This is the wallpaper I told you about. Note the lovely garden-like ivy AND the brick--the raised brick. Ridiculous. I love it.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The Kitchen Table</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-TAEiRaTdm1gXRBQCm398dNpzdQVsHRtRpnlqWmekqEalEtKE8JEDXCSKBQhMciLrxBBnPIh71FtPPkEPidEwAbS7iiZGE0lwYq75-tuY03NYbuLJwwxti8iRA9MZSAEUiaHqS27K91dc/s1600-h/The+Kitchen.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-TAEiRaTdm1gXRBQCm398dNpzdQVsHRtRpnlqWmekqEalEtKE8JEDXCSKBQhMciLrxBBnPIh71FtPPkEPidEwAbS7iiZGE0lwYq75-tuY03NYbuLJwwxti8iRA9MZSAEUiaHqS27K91dc/s320/The+Kitchen.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5246188069073050034" border="0" /></a><br />This, ladies and gentlemen, is where it all happens. Actually, you can tell that we don't often use it for the dining table it was meant to be. Anyway, this is how most flats are. There is room for 2, sometimes 3 people to sit comfortably in the kitchen. 4 or 5 people if you cram.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The Other Half of the Kitchen</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitdbDm9Ow55C9Y9jKhUcAP0IPO4oez7bPUobEdJIfPe3C6yg_2iq81061qdsSBgD3-s2SLDe9iVIUGkJt1Kou893Uh4oCAgcUWpKEs-MqzJFXDW9jd5nxbydAoao6JaudSFJ-fl6UXm5vp/s1600-h/The+Stove,+etc..JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitdbDm9Ow55C9Y9jKhUcAP0IPO4oez7bPUobEdJIfPe3C6yg_2iq81061qdsSBgD3-s2SLDe9iVIUGkJt1Kou893Uh4oCAgcUWpKEs-MqzJFXDW9jd5nxbydAoao6JaudSFJ-fl6UXm5vp/s320/The+Stove,+etc..JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5246188070122709042" border="0" /></a>I think this is self-explanatory.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">You've just had the mini-grand tour of my flat here. It's special.<br /><br />This is a typical Soviet-style apartment here. Everything is old, and I love it.<br /></div></div>Shwalizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01783918042202653130noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4895791303675318294.post-62798302762575520792008-09-12T08:26:00.000-07:002008-09-12T08:28:51.297-07:00New DevelopmentsAs of today, I have internet and a telephone in my flat. You can either call me or contact me on Skype (providing I'm there...).<br /><br />Flat Number: 8-495-369-7127<br />Skype: Shwalizabeth.<br /><br />This also means that I don't have to travel 40 minutes to get to free internet anymore!!! I AM SO EXCITED!!!<br /><br />I'll post another blog tonight with more developments.Shwalizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01783918042202653130noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4895791303675318294.post-41250302431989000342008-09-02T05:30:00.000-07:002008-09-02T05:50:00.931-07:00Blog By Popular Demand..heh hehSo there are a few things about Moscow that you should know (if you do not already):<br /><br />1. The smells of the city (exhaust, gasoline, paint, cigarettes, etc.) eventually start to smell fragrant to you. For example, as I was walking home the other day, I began blissfully inhaling what I thought might be flowers. I was so convinced! As I got closer, I realized a block of flats was being painted. I immediately questioned why God allowed me to continue life on Earth, as I obviously did not know how to enjoy it.<br /><br />2. British people exist here in abundance. Sometimes I have a harder time understanding them than I do the Russians. No. Really.<br /><br />3. Grammar, contrary to popular belief, is NOT fun. <br /><br />4. Bruce would have a heart-attack with the disorderly communion line at church. Pushing and shoving included here.<br /><br />5. Only in Russia does ONE switch control the electricity in a building, looking exactly like any other light switch that you can thoughtlessly switch on and off. "Blackouts" (aka someone pressing the "electricity off" switch) that include NO internet are NOT okay. THEN! It would take all day for the ONE guy who knows how to turn it back on arrive to actually turn it back on. Why in the world is their only one guy with the knowledge to do this, and why does it take him an entire day to get here?<br /><br />I've now been here for two weeks. It feels like I've been here for a month. Classes are over on Friday, and I finally become a real teacher. Unfortunately, they're not really certain of where they will place me yet. According to my contract, however, they are forced to pay me whether I teach or not. YES. Why can't all jobs be like that? Although it's only been two weeks, I've already been considering different places to move after my four months here are over. Volgograd? Ekaterinburg? Those are the two I'm really considering. Whatever God places before me, I know it will be for the best. I'm just really hoping it's not the ginormous city of Moscow. Actually, I'm not really certain of that...I HAVE only been here two weeks. I might end up really, really loving it! <br /><br />Also, I'm teaching a lesson tomorrow about Amish people using the words "can" and "can't". Only in Russia...<br /><br />There's not really a whole lot else to write--BUT NOW YOU CAN WRITE ME!!!<br /><br />Russia<br />Moscow 127-55<br />Ulitsa Novoslobodskaya 5/2<br />Language Link<br />Shannon Berry<br /><br />Pictures will come soon enough. I have to have things to take pictures of in order for there to be any of those...Shwalizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01783918042202653130noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4895791303675318294.post-28328902652463942862008-08-22T01:34:00.000-07:002008-08-22T01:44:55.277-07:00I'm here.I've finally arrived. Months of waiting, and I'm here. It's still hard to believe.<br /><br />I got off the plane, struggled for about 20 minutes through passport control, then for about another 20 through baggage claim. Finally, I meet Alexei. He is standing there with a sign that says "Language Link", and he smiles sheepishly at me. He asks me if I speak Russian, and I stupidly respond with, "No. I'm an American". He manhandles my baggage all the way to the car, and doesn't let me touch it. When we get to the car, I go to roll down my window because it's hot, but alas, the handle is missing. He rolls down his own window, and then hands me the handle as though the situation was totally normal. Only in Russia. Our drive was about 40 minutes in traffic, and it wasn't until "Dancing Queen" came on the radio that I realized he had put it on an English station for me. "Dancing Queen"...seriously??? We talked about traffic and how old we were, and then he had me listen to some random stuff on his phone to make me laugh. That's as far as my Russian could take me in that situation, and the silence was awkward. OH! And he took me to an ostrich farm. That's right. Ostriches.<br /><br />My flat.<br /><br />So I get to my flat, and no one is home. Alexei drops me off and I start to unpack. My roommates are missing, but I've since learned that one is French and the other is Italian. This is going to be hilariously fun. My room is about 7 ft. by 20 ft., and has ivory wallpaper with fake, raised bricks and ivy on it.<br /><br />Thus far, I have been totally humored. I wish I could write more, but my time on the internet is running out, and I'm starting to get "the eye" from the directors (who've got tempers like lions..eek!). Love you all! I must go!Shwalizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01783918042202653130noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4895791303675318294.post-31054422984465885152008-07-30T13:25:00.000-07:002008-07-30T14:01:51.202-07:00Preparations for Departure"Are you scared? Are you nervous?" everyone keeps asking me.<br /><br />My answer? No, not really. I suppose you could call me pensive or thoughtful, but I am not scared. I've had a lot to do to get ready for this--visa processing, financial planning, tedious ticket searching, and AIDs testing (Yep. Seriously.). Packing and moving out of the apartment I shared with my best friend was quite possibly the saddest moment I've had in a long, long time, but then it leads me to think, "Be strong, Shannon. You have so many more goodbyes to say. Don't be sad yet."<br /><br />The realization that all of my planning and hoping is coming to fruition with the blessings of those I love and admire most in the world has been...shocking. I feel like thus far, I've been planning someone else's life and thinking, "I hope this works out someday for me." Now that THAT day is three weeks away, I...well...I am starting to get really excited.<br /><br />Two years seems such a long time to commit to something. What will happen to those I love at home? Will my godsons get more siblings, and will I not be here for the most important moments of their spiritual lives? Will my best friends move on and not remember me when I go? Will my family have times of rejoicing and grieving without me?<br /><br />I remember the hardest thing about being away for a semester was not being here to hold someone when they hurt or have the ability to talk something through with someone. So much changed last time--what will two years do??<br /><br />I have high hopes for these situations. I know that God will lead those things in whatever paths He chooses, and that my presence here or there makes no difference.<br /><br />Another question I keep getting (or rather, not a question, but an assumption) is if I am going to "find myself a sexy Russian man". No. No no no. I know all of you are laughing to yourselves thinking, "She has no idea what she's saying. Just wait till she falls in love with one and has to eat her words." Russian men are a different breed. Almost every marriage between an American woman and a Russian man ends in great unhappiness or divorce due to the different trains of thought and culture--so, unless you are wishing all kinds of unhappiness and evil upon me, please don't hope this for me. *runs speedily in the opposite direction*<br /><br />The countdown has begun for August 20th!!! WISH ME LUCK!Shwalizabethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01783918042202653130noreply@blogger.com1