Teaing like Russians

Many Americans comment on how much in-your-face PDA (public display of affection) there is in Russia. My cousin said that Russia is “just the worst country to be single in,” because every day you ride the train and watch couples hug and kiss, kiss a LOT. But the confusion doesn't end there. After spending time in Russia, I get awkward even when somebody goes for the simple greeting kiss. Inside, I’m wondering just how many times I’m supposed to kiss their cheeks. In America, one peck is more than enough. But then French people kiss your cheek twice; would they think that I’m insinuating something if I go for the third one by habit? Because the standard Russian greeting kiss is the triple kiss, in which you kiss the other person three times, alternating cheeks. Traditionally, this symbolizes the Trinity, so many Russians unknowingly, greet each other in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit daily. But what is Russia’s kiss culture history? Here’s a little bit of i

Are you a budding writer? Tortured with a lack of organization? Do you struggle with creating a clear, coherent outline?Never fear, you may share something with one of the greatest Russian writers ever, Feodor Dostoevsky. The beloved author of psychological thrillers like Crime and Punishment and Brothers Karamazov also wrote manuscripts for his novels that look like mazes or treasure hunt maps, filled with pictures and cyphers. They are beautiful and bizarre. I was introduced to the phenomenon when I visited the museum of Dostoevsky in Moscow. The tiny, empty apartment is guarded by a bitter young woman, an aspiring writer who barely survives on her pitiful salary--but refuses to leave her Dostoevsky haunt. After I listened to her story, she showed me Dostoevsky’s draft of the “Grand Inquisitor”, the world famous mini-story in Brothers Karamazov. Here it is: How did he ever make any sense of that chaos? Moreover, how did he use it to create one of the d

PC: Masha Healy Our trip to Valaam was our first shared I-wish-I-could-go dream and the last far-off destination on our ambitious itinerary. Initially, we had wanted to go on our own, but we soon found out that it really wasn’t that simple. In order to get to the island, you had to know the personal phone numbers of the boat captains…which you couldn’t get unless you were already on the boat. So, you really couldn’t. Otherwise, you could go with a pilgrimage group. So we did. Sveta, our Moscow friend, booked tickets for us. She was stressed when we asked her about it. Finally, she admitted that everything had been going smoothly until she sent in the passport information. Within minutes, they called her: “This is a trip special for Russians. We have tourist (as opposed to pilgrimage) groups. Different content, a price and a different level of comfort, since what’s ok for us is not at all ok for foreigners. So please tell them that they can’t make us uncomfortable or comp

In my mind’s eye, St Petersburg has always been shaded with fog: both an imminent doom- Raskolnikov fog and the lighter fog that masks something passionately desirable, something mysteriously inaccessible.  Desire tinged with prejudice: what if St. Petersburg competes for my heart; what if it inches Moscow, my Moscow, to second place?       I’ve been in Russia, to so many of its cities and villages, bathed in Baikal, yet never made it to the capital built on swamps. Monday evening, (June 12 th ) we stayed up all night long, packing our hiking bags(again) and scrubbing the kitchens. Our train for St. Petersburg left at 3:33 am. Passing sleeping guards and multiple metal detectors, we walked out onto the mile-long train platform. Through the glazed windows, we pointed out the rows of bunk beds to Nikhon and Johnny, trying to prepare them for the Russian train experience… we knew, though, that they would only understand when they settled in, saw rows of sweating bodies, felt the

Ah, the Moscow police… Sometimes they strike fear in my heart, and I think they’re going to stop me and ask me for my passport, then just manipulate the situation in such a way that I will be happy to give them all my money, just as long as they let me walk my way. Sometimes, especially when I notice how smooth their cheeks are and how slender their waists, I just want to put them to say something sweet and put them to sleep. Sometimes it’s convenient that they’re around, even though they’re absolutely useless with directions (which is the executive function of the law force that I most often utilize). Half way through our stay, we’ve already had some interactions. Anecdote 1: Policeman hits on Masha as she races for the relics . It was the June 6 th and were just starting on our 6-hour, 2.5 km pilgrimage to the relics of St. Nicholas in the Church of Christ the Savior. We woke up at 5:30 am, but by the time we got to the Bridge, where the line began, there were probably alrea

On Wednesday, we set off for Optina from Tepliy Stan, one of the last stops on the orange line. As always reluctant, we gave the cashier our blue passports and bought tickets for Moskva – Kozelsk (the nearest town to Optina). With our crazy schedule, Nikhon, Johnny (our two friends from the US that joined our adventures a few days ago) Katya, and Masha hadn’t yet registered, so the presence of the whiskerless 17 year old policemen swarming around made everyone a bit antsy. As the ticket monitor checked my passport and ticket, our to-be driver, a buzz cut in a turquoise shirt, loomed over us. He was actively muttering something in our direction. He looked at me, expecting a reaction, so I asked him to repeat what he had said. With an almost tangible desire to slap me, he said “for some reason, you’ll understand just about   everything   they’ll tell you   in Optina Pustin.” Katya joined me in the bus also shocked; he had told her that “they’re all like that in Optina.” I guess