June 22/23, 2007 || Georgian Cafe/Russian Play/Kunstkammer/Banya/Russian Movie

June 22/23, 2007

I LOVE talking to Liza. She’s so smart, and a perfect balance of opinion and open-mindedness. I feel like she could offer an educated appraisal of anything (and if she couldn’t she’d let you know) but still fairly listen to your ideas, too. Today we spent a lot of time talking Russian identity, and identity in general (typically defining oneself in relation to an “other”), which is such a complex and interesting subject with multitudes of examples that I could talk about it for days. We also talked about how life sometimes moves both too fast and too slow… for example, living in Saint Petersburg, there’s so many once-in-a-lifetime experiences to be had—but which am I doing for the actual experience, and which am I doing just to say I did it? Or more basically, is it worth doing something that’s a “once-in-a-lifetime” experience if you wouldn’t want to do it otherwise? I’ve never gone quite to that extreme, but sometimes I find myself blowing through events without really savoring them—and I don’t think I should do that. I’m not sure, either, if it’s a personal character flaw or a result of our society.

We went and saw Master & Margarita today, which was fabulous. We walked up to this massive theater, crossed a nice plush waiting area, climbed a flight of marble stairs (ohmigosh ohmigosh this is going to be GREAT it’s like a theater back home!) turned the corner and BAM! … bleachers. Bleachers, and folding chairs set up for us to sit on. We’d bought seats that didn’t even exist (the rows were numbered until about 23, and I had seat 27), so KK and Joe and I crammed into the front row, while Diane and Liz climbed up into the bleachers. The front row was great—we came eye to eye with the devil and had pillows thrown over our heads. The makeup was fantastic—I actually jumped when Azazello (kind of like an "angel of death" demon) first appeared, and because of his face powder, for the whole first scene, Woland/Satan literally smoked under the lights. I also really liked how most of the characters were dressed in black AND white—although Woland wore all white—attesting to their dual roles of agents of both good and evil. Begemot (Behemoth) was of course my favorite—his mannerisms drew my attention even when the stage action was far from him. It was strange, because it was a budget theater, and some of the special effects included looped clips of eerie Indian chants and Halloween USA-esque voice modifiers. The also added a character whom I could not place (a woman in black who shadowed almost every scene, and was only noticed by the characters onstage from time to time; she seemed linked especially to Margarita and dueted with her). The kicker was the huge projection screen that served as a backdrop; it made the whole project seem very art-house and intellectual, but it actually worked and served the play well. Sometimes it showed the owner of the voice coming through the other end of the telephone, sometimes eerie close-ups of Woland, seeming to imply that he saw all, sometimes it integrated itself into a scene, displaying rushing water during the scene with the river, and more than once it showed video of Stalin and his soldiers (the play is set during Stalinist times), and fighting. The whole thing was a wild and new theater experience.

New also: Georgian cuisine. Pretty sure I could live on this food. Tending to be meaty while heavy on vegetables and ALWAYS fresh, it was a bit spicy but just delicious. Georgia is, in classical history, the land where the Golden Fleece hung, and there is a legend that describes Caucasian food as “The Scraps from God’s Table.” I had Tamol, which felt Greek—pork, chicken, and rice wrapped in grape leaves with a tasty sauce, and also tried some sausages, chicken shashlyk (like a kabob), veal, and all were phenomenal—I really want to go there again with Curtis next week when he comes to visit.

Speaking of cultural experiences, Jessica and Trisha and I went to the Kunstkammer for the first time. My basic response to it was really conflicted—morbid fascination, a sense of how bizarre it all was, pity, and even understanding, too. As I told Marina Nikolaevna, it was interesting, but I could only look at so many dead babies who have been bottled, and then that’s enough. It was also an ethnographical museum, the first museum in St. Petersburg (Peter the Great was fascinated with early cultures) and had artifacts from Eskimos, early Chinese culture, a section on Africa, and one on India. It was bizarre to see figures in glass cases wearing animal skins and seeing them labeled “Iroquois” or “American Indian.” And when you think that this might be someone’s only exposure to these other cultures… well, it was interesting to think about what sort of inferences a tour group of school children might draw from them—and it made me think about what I had taken away from my first exposures to other cultures (what did my teachers focus on? What were the legends I heard? What were my impressions of these early people? Were they fair?) The Kunstkammer itself was only one room, and technically, photographs weren’t allowed—but I managed to grab a quick shot before a babyshka told me to knock it off (she didn’t make me erase the picture, thinking I was Russian—score!) It houses all Peter the Great’s bizarre findings; he trained himself as a doctor and surgeon and wanted to pioneer science relating to the human body. As such, he offered to pay subjects in his kingdom for anomalies in nature that they stumbled across; a woman who gave birth to a baby with no legs, or one with a conjoined twin; a two-headed calf; an armadillo, a pangolin; he bought dwarves and human giants to keep in his retinue. So, basically, this room is what’s left of it—there are babies’ heads floating in jars, dismembered hands, the skeleton of the calf, colored brains sitting next to a collection of beetles and diagrams of a person’s insides. It was disturbing, especially to think that these kids, in particular, never had a chance at life—a harelip, a missing arm—we can cope with these problems now and give people who have them relatively normal lives. But we can only do that, I guess, because back then “scientists” cut these people up and found out what was wrong with them; the whole museum is both relic and monument to the early days of trial-and-error, experimental science.

And, for the ULTIMATE cross-cultural experience, we went to the banya on Wednesday. A banya is basically a public bathhouse. I know my first conceptions of banyas were grand and wild and rather Eastern (or at least something like a swimming pool I saw in the Hearst mansion)—tiled pools, waterfalls from the ceilings, decorated columns and big jars of hot water. Then I kind of scaled things back and imagined great big saunas with pools of water in the floor, ready for you to jump in. Then I decided that that must be wrong too, so I tried to clear myself of expectations and just take it for what it was worth—prepared to either like it or dislike it. I wasn’t sure what to expect, either, from my classmates, since Americans are so hung up on body image and NO WAY being naked.

So anyway, we walk into this old apartment and climb 4 flights of stairs, and step into what looks like a swimming locker room (once more I was sooo glad that I chose to swim in high school). And, like a swimming locker room, there were a few naked older women just hanging around getting dressed, no problem. There were giggles, but then WE were supposed to get undressed, and there was a sort of nervous tension as we all modestly changed under our towels, keeping the important parts covered (except for Liz, because there is nothing on earth that could shame that girl--and I mean that in a good way). We next walked down a hallway, through a door into a big open room. The two long walls of this rectangle were lined with either low benches (to the left) or water taps (to the right) and all in the middle of the room were more benches strewn with big buckets. The other two walls were lined with open shower stalls (in one the faucet had been replaced with a bucket and chain—this would end up becoming one of my favorite “stations”) and in one corner there was what appeared to be a dunking tank with a ladder climbing its front. And, of course, there were more naked old women—walking around, scrubbing themselves with soap, rinsing under a shower, or filling up buckets with hot water at the taps. So, we followed suit (Cardinal Rule #1 in ACTR: If you don’t know what to do, just watch a Russian and do what they’re doing). I filled up a big bucket and set it on a bench, letting my veniki (a bunch of supple birch branches—still with leaves) soak while I rinsed off—the air was already 10 degrees warmer in here, hot and humid. It took awhile, but we all got decently acclimated with all the nudity, and finally a bunch of us walked through a door at the end of the room to the sauna room. It was SO hot, and it just kept getting hotter. This is where I first saw women whacking each other with veniki. I thought it looked ridiculous, but after a few minutes, those of us with branches gave it a shot—and it made the experience ten times better. It was like a little massage anywhere, and you could control the intensity.

When it got too hot I went back to the water room and rinsed off before taking my first dunk in the tank—the water was ice cold but felt SO good. You’re to climb to the top of the ladder and just drop in, so it hits you all at once—the hardcore banya-goers go outside and roll in the snow between hot room trips in the winter. After that, I alternated between the tank and pulling the bucket down on my head (which was full of cold water and always came as a bigger shock).

By the time we finished, I think we were all more comfortable with each other—it wasn’t a problem at all after we saw how nakedness wasn’t a big deal, and I felt really good—warm, relaxed, really clean, and my skin seemed so soft. Everyone probably felt the same way, and I don’t think there’s many bonding experiences better than getting naked with a group of people, and then taking turns hitting each other with branches (I know this probably sounds bizarre, but don’t knock it ‘til you try it—I’m definitely going back to the banya when our hot water gets turned off).

It was so funny to try and explain all this to Masha when we met later to go see a movie. We talked (or TRIED talking—the limited vocabulary forces you to really focus on the important aspects of your subject and think really creatively about how to say what) about the banya and Americans’ awkwardness with nudity, and somehow we progressed to President Bush and religion, and I tried to explain the No Child Left Behind Act (Read: BIG mistake; did nothing but confuse the hell out of both of us), and from there we got to the public school systems in both countries and respect for elders and parental responsibility and the Russian and American conceptions of one another (apparently, the majority of them DON’T hate us; in fact, they maybe kinda like us), and Cold War mentalities…and it was fascinating. Masha is so wonderful—patient and nice and I feel like although we’re from such different worlds, we’re on the same wavelength. At one point, I was starting on a touchy subject (probably the war in Iraq) and I wanted to make it clear that I didn’t want her taking all my words as the rule for Americans and America—and she cut me off. Don’t worry, I understand—these are your opinions, and things aren’t like this everywhere, or all the time. And she mirrored my concerns on the Cold War fixation, and we both wanted to see a cartoon (me because I’m lame and love cartoons and because I think they’d be easier to understand than a real movie—could you imagine Oceans 13 {called “The 13 Friends of Ocean” in Russian} in Russian??—and Masha just because she enjoyed animated films like Shrek and Pixar movies) and she’s really laid-back (likes to listen to music and read)—and we were listening to some great international music on her phone and I was trying to scribble down all their names and she asked, Why don’t I just make you a CD? (Answer: Um, that would be awesome!) and she’s also really really determined to make me speak only Russian… which is a good thing, I guess, but sometimes it’s very frustrating to know that I have so much to say, but I don’t have the words to say it. In return, I tease her every time she says “super” even though it’s a common word in Russian. I don’t know when we’re next doing something, but I can’t wait.

I also can’t wait to have my Bely Nochi experience tonight—this free concert, gylyating (a play on the Russian word “gool-yacht” = to frolic/have fun) around the city, and taking (hopefully) wonderful pictures of the city at night, and the ship with red sails, and the bridges broken and upright over the sparkling Neva, and the Fontaka.

====You Might Find This Interesting====

>The Master and Margarita Actually, you probably won’t find what I have to say interesting, but you have just got to read this book. It’s fascinating, written in Soviet times by a wonderful but censored author whom Stalin toyed with like a mouse (refusing to let him leave the country, et cetera), and it speaks volumes about the Stalinist regime—it wasn’t published until the 60s abroad, and even later in Russia; but now most Russians know and love the book, and there was a 10-part TV series of it done about 5 years ago (which I hope to buy) that EVERYONE watched. Basically, if you come to Russian and drop its name (pronounced Master ee Margarita in Russian) you’ll have some instant friends. So, for the bare-bones plot, it follows three narratives: The first is a retelling of the Christ story; we meet Pilate, who views Jesus as an enigmatic philosopher (Jesus, for his part, claims that most of his deeds have been simple and grossly magnified by Matthu Levi); the second narrative follows Satan, who (with a few of his buddies) has come to Moscow to see if the people have changed (Stalin’s whole plan was to make a new kind of human, “The New Soviet Man” who would be completely superior—morally, physically, intellectually—from any who had come before). He tests the people of Moscow and causes all kinds of havoc. The third narrative is a love story, of that between the Master, the writer of a controversial novel who goes mad when the censors destroy his life before the work is even published, and his extremely complex lover and heroine, Margarita (this part draws much from Bulgakov’s own life, and last wife). All three intersect; but I don’t want to give too much away. If I had to list major themes, I’d say (obviously) Stalinist Moscow; the ability of people to rationalize anything (ie things like meeting someone who is clearly the devil in Moscow or the obviously unnatural disappearance of one’s neighbors); the importance of writing; and the idea that those things we take to be purely evil rarely ever are. The devil and his fellows are entertaining characters, although clear workers of black magic; the novel opens with a quote from Faust or Mephistopheles, I believe (which is heavily referenced in the book), that reads something like “I am the force which eternally wills evil but eternally does good.”

>Really, seriously, READ Master and Margarita.

>Banya Know-How:

1) If you go to the banya, buy veniki. Hitting yourself with them improves your circulation and blood flow, allowing for a better experience.

2) “If you don’t bring something to cover your head with, it will either a) get cold or b) explode (depending on who you ask).” The truth of this is that as all the heat escapes through your head, leaving it uncovered will dry your hair out really, really badly; so do bring a small towel to wear on your head, or buy one of the nice sets with a little hat and matching gloves.

3) That other towel—make sure you also bring a towel to lay or sit on in the sauna room—the benches are really, REALLY hot; this is also different from the towel you’ll dry off with.

4) Common sense: the higher you climb, the hotter it gets; steam rises, so if someone throws water on the rocks, it’s going to rise up AT you; shower AFTER you’re done sweating

5) Bring sandals—it is a public place, after all

6) Not sure I have to repeat this, but: buckets are not for bathing in.