20.11.11
Within the past two weeks I read an article about excalating aggression between Israel and Iran. The Israeli minister of war was calling for military action against Iran, who was allegedly still working on getting an atomic bomb. Of course, Israel couldn't commit such a harsh move without the support of the U.S., and so the minister indicated that the time may have come for their allies to keep past promises.
If Iraq hadn't have happened, maybe Iran would be in trouble. As it is, Bush is the boy who called wolf in regards to the prevention of nuclear and chemical weapon proliferation, and one would think the world would not quickly forget his empty reasons for going to Iraq, nor the results that have come of it. On the other hand, the IAEA (international atomic energy agency) has since released information regarding Iran's atomic energy program. Evidently Iran's nuclear scientists might be up to no good.
I asked some of my students what should be done. What should the U.S. do in this tricky situation? One of them said that we should put the Iranians out of their misery and just give them a few nuclear bombs, that is, as a present, so that they don't have to figure out how to make them anymore. I laughed at this. The student has a point. An outsider who is not tied up in the religious conflict of the middle east almost can't help but sympathise a little with the Iranian government. They are understandably indignant that so many other countries in the world have nuclear capabilities, but they don't. Why shouldn't they? What makes the U.S. or Israel so much better than Iran that those countries should have such a weapon's arsenal but they not? One almost doesn't need weapons inspectors from the U.N. or whatever organization to figure out that Iran is in fact working on nuclear weapons - it all follows from simple psychological principles, applicable to any two year-old boy or girl who sees their peer with a new toy.
Now if Iran does manage to build a nuclear weapon, would they be crazy enough to use it, as some members of the Israeli administration would like us to think? Part of me really doubts it, another part isn't sure. I want to refer to another psychological principle, one that kept humanity safe throughout the cold war - that people don't do things that lead to their own destruction. However, this might not apply to Mr. A (my nickname for the President of Iran), like it didn't apply to the people who crashed planes into the World Trade Center. They were a sort of religious exception to the rule. The thing is, those people believed that there were flying to a better place, a paradise where they would be praised as heroes for killing thousands of whom they perceived as their enemy. Mr. A has gone so far as to deny established historical events, but is he crazy enough to destroy himself by attacking Israel?
Suddham Hussein was a supposedly secular guy. Maybe he was the one we really didn't have to worry about. Just like we haven't thought twice about North Korea, who tested their first nuclear weapons a few years after the start of the Iraq war (the justification of which had already been conveniently forgotten). North Korea must have been very proud of themselves, but when the rest of the world simply shrugged their shoulders, their accomplishment lost its glamour. North Korea, depsite how strange they may seem, are nevertheless smart enough to realize that they can never use their newly acquired toy against anybody. Psychology comes through again. Why can't Israel take a lesson from South Korea? Rather than show fear, maybe they should yawn and sigh when Iran gloriously declares that they have tested their first nuclear weapon. To be fair, I imagine South Korea doesn't really take North Korean capabilities so lightly, but at least you don't hear about their security woes as much as you do of Israel's.
Anyway, shouldn't Israel be more concerned with the governments that arise in the area after the Arab Spring?
27.11.11
I thought a bit more about Iraq and Iran today. Suddham Hussein, as terrible a man as people say he was, comes across like a pussy cat in comparison to Mr. A from Iran. When the west accused Hussein of hiding or building weapons of mass destruction, he held up his hands and declared that he was innocent, and I understand that he was telling the truth. Now as the west starts the same smear campaign against Iran, Mr. A replies a little more agressively. I heard that he is quoted as saying that if anyone attacks Iran, then the enemies of Islam will become history. Those are real fighting words, not something you want to hear if you don't want to be in another war.
Relations between the U.S. and Russia deteriorated a little this week as well. Over here the media is saying NATO has begun placing missile defense systems throughout Europe, in places where that they were supposed to leave alone. Russia doesn't understand how a missile defense base in Poland can serve do defend against a potential attack from Iran, as has recently been claimed by NATO. Russia is so upset over the matter, that President Medvedev has ordered some special missiles, known as Iskander, to be placed in Kaliningrad, a territorial island of Russia in Europe, on the border north of Poland. Evidently, these missiles aren't as susceptible to missle defense as ones that come from far away, so now Russia can feel as ease again, just in case they need to launch missiles at their neighbors to the immediate west.
It's not that anyone thinks such a horrible thing will happen, but you never know when you'll need to throw missiles at people, be they who they may. This is all the more the case when everyone is upset about the economy. With emotions charged all over the world, conditions are ripe for war. The formula is simple. More emotion means less logic, and in the absense of logic nations try to solve their problems militarily.
I've landed on another psychological principle. Humans are animals, particularly when they listen to their emotions. When you're emotional, it's so easy to forget that your friendly neighbor, who speaks some strange foreign language, is actually human, and has a right to live. Then all of a sudden you make up concepts like 'savage,' 'communist,' 'enemy of the state,' 'untermenschen,' and now 'terrorist' and even 'serpents of evil' (Bush was so creative), and all of a sudden war and even genecide seems like a logical step. It's a strange logic, however, that leads to the conclusion that a people doesn't have the right to live, because whomever your fighting is likely to come to the same conclusion about you. The one who is right is the one who survives. That's an animal's logic.
I'm torn about the Russian response to NATO's missile defense deployment. If things are as the media over here says they are, which is questionable (as is the news of any one media source), then I can understand the Russian reaction. If an acquaintance of yours, someone who was your sworn enemy a few weeks ago (decades on the global scale), starts to tie your hands behind your back and tells you not to worry because they would never think of striking their friends, how do you think you would react? You would not want you hands to be tied! Imagine if Russia had a developed missile defense system that they started to deploy in Cuba and Canada, justifying the move with the claim that Guatamala had been secretly developing weapons of mass destruction and the means to launch them, how would the U.S. react in such a situation?
On the other hand, the whole exchange strikes me as two sides flexing their military muscles at one another. It's a strange world where people compete with one another by means of the capability to destroy things. Why can't people show off their might by building a really efficient windmill or solar cell? Israel and Palestine should have a poetry constest. The best poem wins disputed territory. Or how about a soccer game to decide who gets what land?
Sunday, November 27, 2011
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
13.11.11
I made a few connections today. The first came after I spotted another castle not far from Prospect Mira. By the way, I just call them castles, I'm not sure if that's a standard title among Russians. But these buildings all look like each other. They are large, ornate, and I think were built under Stalin. For Stalin.
I was walking towards downtown from the ring metro station on Prospect Mira. I had just visited a small bookstore at the olympic complex, and wanted to make my way towards the Lubyanka station, which I knew was somewhere in the direction of the Kremlin, when, as I was crossing a street, I caught a glimpse of the top of a tall building not far to my left. I recognized the castle concrete, but what gave it away was the soviet star on the building's pinnacle. I was torn, since castles often stand near large squares which have metro stations, and the location of metro stations is always good to know. There might also be some bookstores, or a place that sells almonds for cheap.
I wanted to visit Lubyanka because a map on the fridge in my apartment indicated that there was a big bookstore there. Yet I had wanted to explore another area, which, after thinking a bit, I estimated to be in the direction of this castle I found. The map said that there was another Ashan in that area, a French chain store, sort of like Costco, where they sell some audiobooks, roasted almonds, and other things at a good price. What if that castle, not far away at all, ended up being what I meant to be the day's final destination, wouldn't it be better to go that direction first, and worry about Lubyanka later?
I turned towards the castle, and after a few minutes of wandering through some side-streets, where large buildings on either side blocked my view in almost every direction, I suddenly found myself next to the soviet relic. They had turned it into a Hilton Hotel. I crossed the street to look for a metro station and gather my bearings, went under a bridge, and I was suddenly struck with dejavu. I had been there before. Not since my most recent arrival, but within the past few years. I then realized that I had reached the Kasanski train station, where I'd arrived on a bus from Rostov a year ago last August. At that time I had two giant suitcases with me, and probably was carrying my big blue backpack filled with books; all I wanted to know after getting off the bus was where the nearest metro station was, so that I could get to my hostel and not have to carry my luggage around with me. Yesterday, however, I had time to look around. The Kasanski train station is located on Komsomolski square, which is the home of not only one, but three train stations, including Lenegradski (for trains to St. Petersburg) and Yaroslavski (for trains heading towards Yaroslavl).
Komsomolski is an interesting word. It's an abbreviation of Kommunisticheski Cayuz Molodyezji - The Communist Youth Union, I guess sort of like the Hitler Jugend, but on the other side of the front. Honestly, I have no right to compare the two, since I don't know anything about either one. It's only my first impression that they might be similar to one another, basically propoganda machines aimed towards the most susceptible members of society. Either one sort of reminds me of a party organization out of 1984.
I continued in the same direction to see if I would come across the Ashan that I suspected lie in my path. I saw a sign for it, but decided not to continue walking that way. I might have walked a long way along a highway before reaching anywhere, so I gave up on Ashan for that day and turned in a direction I thought might lead me back to Lubyanka. It didn't. Instead I found myself approaching a corner I had crossed two weeks prior (this was the second 'connection' of the day, the first being the Kasanski train station at Komsomolski Square). I was dismayed to find myself there, still rather far from downtown, but the sun hadn't set yet, so I bought a few bananas at a cushy grocery store, devowered them and continued walking. I passed the street that I had taken last time to get to a castle at the "Red Gates" metro station, and this time continued straight ahead, convinced that I wouldn't go too far without landing somewhere in the center of town. Soon I saw a sign for the China Town station, only three kilometers ahead. The streets became livelier the further I went, and eventually I reached the entrance to the metro station, only I didn't recognize where I was, maybe because the sun had already set. I was at a large intersection. There was some sort of monument at the end of a park to my left, a large building across the street in front of me and extending to my right. There was no way to cross the street but by the underpass which led to the metro entrance.
I wasn't discouraged about not making a final connection that day. I could've explored a little and found a spot I recognized, but I was tired. Honestly, I think the China Town metro station is one of the most expansive in that it has many different exits rather far from one another. I entered the underpass and noticed some relatively ornate tiling on the walls and pillars - oriental I guess. I chose not to explore the underground passageways to find a tunnel I recognized, but I entered the metro and headed home.
14.11.11
I wonder if there's anything analogous to the Komsomol or Hitlerjugend in America. Some church organizations come to mind, but that's not as connected to the government as the Soviet and Nazi organizations were. Maybe that's the only difference. In America, there is still a separation of church and state, where as in the Soviet Union and Nazi Germany there was no church, there was only the state, or maybe it's more accurate to say that the two were combined into one.
Speaking of 1984, I up and bought a book of the same genre yesterday, called "We" by Evgeni Zamyatin. It supposedly was one of the first antiutopian novels around and inspired Orwell's later novel. I started it last night and read a little more this morning before preparing for work. It's very interesting. So far the protagonist is explaining his society to a member of our normal world, a world that hasn't yet been cleansed of the virulent concept of freedom. He's not belligerent though, rather sympathetic. I expect his views might change. He might become a rebel and realize that freedom isn't such a bad thing. Or maybe only the reader will come to that understanding.
I also bought a collection of Hemingway novels in Russian. Usually, I like to read things in their original language if I can, but this book only cost a dollar, so I figured why not. I probably wouldn't be able to find any one of his novels in America, outside of the ones I might find at home, for such a good price, let alone a whole collection. I had seen a Woody Allen movie, called "Midnight in Paris" that same afternoon. Hemingway plays a supporting role among other famous artists from the past. He came across like an American Remarque, the author of "All Clear on the Western Front" - a war-torn romantic who's convinced that civilian life has no meaning outside of booze and women. I like Remarque, so maybe I'll like Hemingway too.
15.11.11
I felt like crap this morning as one of the school administrators took me to my first lesson at a local business. I don't like teaching at businesses. Two years ago, when I was working in Rostov, I taught someone on the top end of the business hierachy at the central Sberbank of the Rostov region. The student was nice, but I didn't like having to commute out there every week to give her a lesson at her time and location of choice. How demeaning!. My current arrangement is not much better in that it's not at a time or place I would really prefer, but then nobody asks me what I would prefer.
Nor should they. I honestly shouldn't complain, since I'm still working under-hours, and everything is being done according to the contract. Furthermore, the student I had today was a nice guy, and he told me he wasn't as interested in business English as he was in general English, which I find often much more interesting than business English. Also, if the weather isn't too bad, I won't have to take public transportation there, the office is a nice long walk from my home, and I enjoy long walks! So I can try to make the best out of a new situation, even if deep down I still wish for one work location without to much commuting.
I bought that collection of Hemingway novels at the end of a nice Sunday. No, the weather wasn't too nice. It was cloudy and cold, but any weather you can walk in is good enough. And walk I did! I started at an unknown station outside the metro ring that encloses downtown Moscow. I've only started a few of my trips outside this ring, but as I become more and more familiar with the city, I'll probably start further and further away from the center. I was looking for another Ashan market in the south-eastern part of the city, on the yellow metro line. Upon exiting the station, I couldn't find any directions to Ashan, which is surprising since it is a pretty big attraction for anyone living in the area. I did, however, see a sign that said "To the House of Books," - a local bookstore chain with many branches in the Moscow area. So even if I didn't find Ashan, I figured, I might get lost in a house of books, and that will certainly make the trip worthwhile. Unfortunately I couldn't find either store after reaching the street. I walked down one way, hoping to find the bookstore, passed a movie theater I had heard of before, stopped inside to look at the schedule and prices, left, and eventually came to the mall that contained Ashan. The bookstore was nowhere to be seen.
Ashan is so big though, that they also sell many books, both printed and audio. I browsed through the audio section, found some collections of radio dramas, which I often listen to on the way to work and back, as well as some stories by Hemingway. This was the first time of three that day that I would encounter this man. I didn't buy any literature, only roasted almonds, raw peanuts from China, and some roasted pumpkin seeds, which I thought might go nicely in my breakfast. (They don't - they need to be shelled first!)
I left Ashan and set off in the direction that I thought the Kremlin lie, and wasn't mistaken. Moscow highways are constructed in an interesting fashion, with three rings of highway going around the city, one circling downtown and two more each further outside the city, and several highways going to and from the center of Moscow in different directions, each situated about thirty or forty degrees from one another in a complete circle. The ring highways have a few names, some as simple as the first, second or third ring (also known as the MKAD), while some of the radial highways are named after the cities they are directed towards, similar to the trainstations: There's the Kiev highway, the Yaroslav and Leningrad highways. There are other highways too, with names from historical figures or events, but I don't know all of them yet.
After leaving Ashan, I walked towards what I concluded was the second ring highway. I went under it along one of the radial highways and continued in the direction of downtown Moscow. The walk wasn't very pretty. I was happy that there was space for me to walk a bit away from the highway, where the air was a little fresher. Soon I came to a metro station which confirmed I was headed in the right direction. It was the Ploschtad' Il'icha - the Square of the Son of Ilya. I don't know who Ilya was, but this was his son's square. There wasn't much to see, as far as I could tell. Or maybe I was walking too quickly. I was encouraged by the sight of a castle in the distance, so there was no holding me back. I wasn't too far now!
You have to be careful with those castles, because there are quite a few of them, I'd say ten throughout the whole city. If you're far away, or among tall buildings, you're liable to lose sight of the one you want, and you might get disoriented if you unexpectedly spot another one. Was that the one you had wanted to reach? From the Square of the Son of Ilya there was a rival castle visible far down one avenue, and I wasn't sure if that was the one I had seen when approaching the square. I turned a corner in the opposite direction, just to be sure, and found my original target, closer than before.
As I continued towards this castle, I recognized some of the ornaments near the top. Of course there was the Soviet star on top of a long spire, but also four ovular shaped bulbs, like eggs, with ribboned stone wrapped around them. Furthermore, I could also see one of the four sub-structures standing at one of the central structure's corners. Neither the eggs, nor the substructures are universal among the Moscow castles. What I had before me was the castle just south of China Town. It was a chinese weekend, I guess.
After reaching the castle, whereby I made another connection as I crossed a road I had gone along two weeks before to reach the Kurski train station from the south, I had twenty minutes left to make a three o'clock movie at a theater on the other side of the Kremlin. I figured it would take me ten minutes to get to the red square, and then ten minutes to reach the theater from there. It ended up being about twenty minutes for each of those two legs. But it turned out that the movie I had planned on seeing started not at three but at two, so I wouldn't have made it anyway, but, as luck would have it, I was just in time for Woody Allen's "Midnight in Paris."
I had first heard of this movie when I was in San Francisco on the day I picked up my visa. I could have seen it then, but for some reason chose another movie instead. That was a good choice, I guess, because I got to see Allen's film on the flight to Moscow. Was it worth seeing again in Russian? Sure, why not. I figured that I had walked a lot and could use a breather, as well as a little food: I had just bought some popcorn at Alexander's garden, next to the Red Square, with the intent of watching one movie or another.
It's a good movie. There is a thought-provoking story with interesting characters, including artists from the past (the main character travels through time), among whom are none other than Ernest Hemingway, who plays such an interesting role that the viewer almost can't help but want to read one of his books.
I left the movie theater satisfied with what I had seen, with fresh legs, ready to walk some more. I mosied along Tverskaya boulevard towards Pushkin square, where I turned toward the Kremlin to reach a bookstore that I frequent every once in awhile. I often go there to check out audiobooks, but on my lastest visit I had found a rather large used-book section. This is where I had first noticed Zamyatin's "We," and as the thought of reading the novel still interested me a week later, I thought I might finally buy the book if it was still there. I often give myself a week's security before buying things I don't really need, so that I don't get carried away with whatever might catch my eye. The book was still there, I noticed that it also contained another story I had heard of many times, called God's Whip, or maybe the Whip of God, so when I glanced through a few random pages and confirmed that I understood enough to spark my interest, I bought it for two hundred rubles (almost seven dollars).
I left the shop and walked towards the Kremlin. I didn't pass it, but turned down a very European looking street which starts with two theaters, one of them for students of drama, as well as several restaurants featuring all sorts of international cuisine. This street goes in a quarter circle around the center of Moscow, that is, the Kremlin, which is aprroximately five hundred meters away, for about a kilometer before running into the former KGB building at an intersection with Prospect Mira. Along this cobble-stone street, after the restuarants, theaters, some expensive clothing stores you'll reach stores of more useful things, among them two small branches of the House of Books, one of them for pedagogs, the other, further down the street, featuring foreign literature. I suppose both should be right down my alley, and although I glanced in each one, I found the foreign one much more interesting.
I started studying Spanish (again; for the first time since high school) last summer. My study isn't very well rounded, in that I haven't spoken nor written much of anything in Spanish, I have only been reading and listening to whatever comes my way. The only Spanish audio I have which is simple enough that I might understand a few words is the first Harry Potter novel. Written literature, on the other hand, is much more plentiful, even in such a far-off place as Russia. You wouldn't think that Spanish is very popular here, and you would be correct, it's not! The nevertheless somewhat broad selection of Spanish material available in Moscow is testament to the breadth of what you might find at the House of Books. They had a Spanish edition of some of the most famous Russian authors, like Dostoevski, Tolstoi, and Pushkin, as well as Spanish classics by Servantes and others. I had already been struggling through a collection of short stories by Chexov in Spanish, and at this branch I found another small collection of his stories that I might retrieve if it passes a few weeks' security test, and if I finish the first collection I have. I left without buying anything, but I will certainly return, if not for my own sake, then for family members who might also be interested in certain languages and/or looking for original works of foreign authors.
I followed the European street to the KGB building, which is coincidentally located right next to the Lubyanka metro station. I had been trying to get there all weekend! I found two bookstores nearby, and quickly explored both of them. The first one didn't have much to explore. It was a small room with used books stacked all over the place. I walked around, not sure if I would spot anything interesting, when I ran into Hemingway yet again. There were two collections there, both in Russian, one of his short stories, but also including a novel or two, another primarily of novels, but including also a few of his short stories. After reading a few paragraphs and finding the writing understandable, I took the novel one. At 35 rubles (about a buck), it was just meant to be. I continued into a much larger bookstore nearby, perused the audiobook section, but didn't get anything. I got on the metro at Lubyanka, and went home.
16.11.11
I had another lesson at the same business today. Turns out, I'll be working there four days a week, twice a week individually with two different students. Today's student doesn't speak as well as the one I had yesterday, whom I won't be teaching at all, unfortunately. But whatever she lacked in proficiency she made up for in enthusiasm. It was refreshing to see how much she wants to learn. We got to know each other a little bit before talking about a few verb tenses. I didn't ask her about literature, she asked me. I was delighted with her question, told her about my favorite genres and authors, and she then told me about her favorite author: Ernest Hemingway. Incidentally, she is also a fan of Remarque, as well as European art of the early twentieth century. I told her she should go see "Midnight in Paris."
I made a few connections today. The first came after I spotted another castle not far from Prospect Mira. By the way, I just call them castles, I'm not sure if that's a standard title among Russians. But these buildings all look like each other. They are large, ornate, and I think were built under Stalin. For Stalin.
I was walking towards downtown from the ring metro station on Prospect Mira. I had just visited a small bookstore at the olympic complex, and wanted to make my way towards the Lubyanka station, which I knew was somewhere in the direction of the Kremlin, when, as I was crossing a street, I caught a glimpse of the top of a tall building not far to my left. I recognized the castle concrete, but what gave it away was the soviet star on the building's pinnacle. I was torn, since castles often stand near large squares which have metro stations, and the location of metro stations is always good to know. There might also be some bookstores, or a place that sells almonds for cheap.
I wanted to visit Lubyanka because a map on the fridge in my apartment indicated that there was a big bookstore there. Yet I had wanted to explore another area, which, after thinking a bit, I estimated to be in the direction of this castle I found. The map said that there was another Ashan in that area, a French chain store, sort of like Costco, where they sell some audiobooks, roasted almonds, and other things at a good price. What if that castle, not far away at all, ended up being what I meant to be the day's final destination, wouldn't it be better to go that direction first, and worry about Lubyanka later?
I turned towards the castle, and after a few minutes of wandering through some side-streets, where large buildings on either side blocked my view in almost every direction, I suddenly found myself next to the soviet relic. They had turned it into a Hilton Hotel. I crossed the street to look for a metro station and gather my bearings, went under a bridge, and I was suddenly struck with dejavu. I had been there before. Not since my most recent arrival, but within the past few years. I then realized that I had reached the Kasanski train station, where I'd arrived on a bus from Rostov a year ago last August. At that time I had two giant suitcases with me, and probably was carrying my big blue backpack filled with books; all I wanted to know after getting off the bus was where the nearest metro station was, so that I could get to my hostel and not have to carry my luggage around with me. Yesterday, however, I had time to look around. The Kasanski train station is located on Komsomolski square, which is the home of not only one, but three train stations, including Lenegradski (for trains to St. Petersburg) and Yaroslavski (for trains heading towards Yaroslavl).
Komsomolski is an interesting word. It's an abbreviation of Kommunisticheski Cayuz Molodyezji - The Communist Youth Union, I guess sort of like the Hitler Jugend, but on the other side of the front. Honestly, I have no right to compare the two, since I don't know anything about either one. It's only my first impression that they might be similar to one another, basically propoganda machines aimed towards the most susceptible members of society. Either one sort of reminds me of a party organization out of 1984.
I continued in the same direction to see if I would come across the Ashan that I suspected lie in my path. I saw a sign for it, but decided not to continue walking that way. I might have walked a long way along a highway before reaching anywhere, so I gave up on Ashan for that day and turned in a direction I thought might lead me back to Lubyanka. It didn't. Instead I found myself approaching a corner I had crossed two weeks prior (this was the second 'connection' of the day, the first being the Kasanski train station at Komsomolski Square). I was dismayed to find myself there, still rather far from downtown, but the sun hadn't set yet, so I bought a few bananas at a cushy grocery store, devowered them and continued walking. I passed the street that I had taken last time to get to a castle at the "Red Gates" metro station, and this time continued straight ahead, convinced that I wouldn't go too far without landing somewhere in the center of town. Soon I saw a sign for the China Town station, only three kilometers ahead. The streets became livelier the further I went, and eventually I reached the entrance to the metro station, only I didn't recognize where I was, maybe because the sun had already set. I was at a large intersection. There was some sort of monument at the end of a park to my left, a large building across the street in front of me and extending to my right. There was no way to cross the street but by the underpass which led to the metro entrance.
I wasn't discouraged about not making a final connection that day. I could've explored a little and found a spot I recognized, but I was tired. Honestly, I think the China Town metro station is one of the most expansive in that it has many different exits rather far from one another. I entered the underpass and noticed some relatively ornate tiling on the walls and pillars - oriental I guess. I chose not to explore the underground passageways to find a tunnel I recognized, but I entered the metro and headed home.
14.11.11
I wonder if there's anything analogous to the Komsomol or Hitlerjugend in America. Some church organizations come to mind, but that's not as connected to the government as the Soviet and Nazi organizations were. Maybe that's the only difference. In America, there is still a separation of church and state, where as in the Soviet Union and Nazi Germany there was no church, there was only the state, or maybe it's more accurate to say that the two were combined into one.
Speaking of 1984, I up and bought a book of the same genre yesterday, called "We" by Evgeni Zamyatin. It supposedly was one of the first antiutopian novels around and inspired Orwell's later novel. I started it last night and read a little more this morning before preparing for work. It's very interesting. So far the protagonist is explaining his society to a member of our normal world, a world that hasn't yet been cleansed of the virulent concept of freedom. He's not belligerent though, rather sympathetic. I expect his views might change. He might become a rebel and realize that freedom isn't such a bad thing. Or maybe only the reader will come to that understanding.
I also bought a collection of Hemingway novels in Russian. Usually, I like to read things in their original language if I can, but this book only cost a dollar, so I figured why not. I probably wouldn't be able to find any one of his novels in America, outside of the ones I might find at home, for such a good price, let alone a whole collection. I had seen a Woody Allen movie, called "Midnight in Paris" that same afternoon. Hemingway plays a supporting role among other famous artists from the past. He came across like an American Remarque, the author of "All Clear on the Western Front" - a war-torn romantic who's convinced that civilian life has no meaning outside of booze and women. I like Remarque, so maybe I'll like Hemingway too.
15.11.11
I felt like crap this morning as one of the school administrators took me to my first lesson at a local business. I don't like teaching at businesses. Two years ago, when I was working in Rostov, I taught someone on the top end of the business hierachy at the central Sberbank of the Rostov region. The student was nice, but I didn't like having to commute out there every week to give her a lesson at her time and location of choice. How demeaning!. My current arrangement is not much better in that it's not at a time or place I would really prefer, but then nobody asks me what I would prefer.
Nor should they. I honestly shouldn't complain, since I'm still working under-hours, and everything is being done according to the contract. Furthermore, the student I had today was a nice guy, and he told me he wasn't as interested in business English as he was in general English, which I find often much more interesting than business English. Also, if the weather isn't too bad, I won't have to take public transportation there, the office is a nice long walk from my home, and I enjoy long walks! So I can try to make the best out of a new situation, even if deep down I still wish for one work location without to much commuting.
I bought that collection of Hemingway novels at the end of a nice Sunday. No, the weather wasn't too nice. It was cloudy and cold, but any weather you can walk in is good enough. And walk I did! I started at an unknown station outside the metro ring that encloses downtown Moscow. I've only started a few of my trips outside this ring, but as I become more and more familiar with the city, I'll probably start further and further away from the center. I was looking for another Ashan market in the south-eastern part of the city, on the yellow metro line. Upon exiting the station, I couldn't find any directions to Ashan, which is surprising since it is a pretty big attraction for anyone living in the area. I did, however, see a sign that said "To the House of Books," - a local bookstore chain with many branches in the Moscow area. So even if I didn't find Ashan, I figured, I might get lost in a house of books, and that will certainly make the trip worthwhile. Unfortunately I couldn't find either store after reaching the street. I walked down one way, hoping to find the bookstore, passed a movie theater I had heard of before, stopped inside to look at the schedule and prices, left, and eventually came to the mall that contained Ashan. The bookstore was nowhere to be seen.
Ashan is so big though, that they also sell many books, both printed and audio. I browsed through the audio section, found some collections of radio dramas, which I often listen to on the way to work and back, as well as some stories by Hemingway. This was the first time of three that day that I would encounter this man. I didn't buy any literature, only roasted almonds, raw peanuts from China, and some roasted pumpkin seeds, which I thought might go nicely in my breakfast. (They don't - they need to be shelled first!)
I left Ashan and set off in the direction that I thought the Kremlin lie, and wasn't mistaken. Moscow highways are constructed in an interesting fashion, with three rings of highway going around the city, one circling downtown and two more each further outside the city, and several highways going to and from the center of Moscow in different directions, each situated about thirty or forty degrees from one another in a complete circle. The ring highways have a few names, some as simple as the first, second or third ring (also known as the MKAD), while some of the radial highways are named after the cities they are directed towards, similar to the trainstations: There's the Kiev highway, the Yaroslav and Leningrad highways. There are other highways too, with names from historical figures or events, but I don't know all of them yet.
After leaving Ashan, I walked towards what I concluded was the second ring highway. I went under it along one of the radial highways and continued in the direction of downtown Moscow. The walk wasn't very pretty. I was happy that there was space for me to walk a bit away from the highway, where the air was a little fresher. Soon I came to a metro station which confirmed I was headed in the right direction. It was the Ploschtad' Il'icha - the Square of the Son of Ilya. I don't know who Ilya was, but this was his son's square. There wasn't much to see, as far as I could tell. Or maybe I was walking too quickly. I was encouraged by the sight of a castle in the distance, so there was no holding me back. I wasn't too far now!
You have to be careful with those castles, because there are quite a few of them, I'd say ten throughout the whole city. If you're far away, or among tall buildings, you're liable to lose sight of the one you want, and you might get disoriented if you unexpectedly spot another one. Was that the one you had wanted to reach? From the Square of the Son of Ilya there was a rival castle visible far down one avenue, and I wasn't sure if that was the one I had seen when approaching the square. I turned a corner in the opposite direction, just to be sure, and found my original target, closer than before.
As I continued towards this castle, I recognized some of the ornaments near the top. Of course there was the Soviet star on top of a long spire, but also four ovular shaped bulbs, like eggs, with ribboned stone wrapped around them. Furthermore, I could also see one of the four sub-structures standing at one of the central structure's corners. Neither the eggs, nor the substructures are universal among the Moscow castles. What I had before me was the castle just south of China Town. It was a chinese weekend, I guess.
After reaching the castle, whereby I made another connection as I crossed a road I had gone along two weeks before to reach the Kurski train station from the south, I had twenty minutes left to make a three o'clock movie at a theater on the other side of the Kremlin. I figured it would take me ten minutes to get to the red square, and then ten minutes to reach the theater from there. It ended up being about twenty minutes for each of those two legs. But it turned out that the movie I had planned on seeing started not at three but at two, so I wouldn't have made it anyway, but, as luck would have it, I was just in time for Woody Allen's "Midnight in Paris."
I had first heard of this movie when I was in San Francisco on the day I picked up my visa. I could have seen it then, but for some reason chose another movie instead. That was a good choice, I guess, because I got to see Allen's film on the flight to Moscow. Was it worth seeing again in Russian? Sure, why not. I figured that I had walked a lot and could use a breather, as well as a little food: I had just bought some popcorn at Alexander's garden, next to the Red Square, with the intent of watching one movie or another.
It's a good movie. There is a thought-provoking story with interesting characters, including artists from the past (the main character travels through time), among whom are none other than Ernest Hemingway, who plays such an interesting role that the viewer almost can't help but want to read one of his books.
I left the movie theater satisfied with what I had seen, with fresh legs, ready to walk some more. I mosied along Tverskaya boulevard towards Pushkin square, where I turned toward the Kremlin to reach a bookstore that I frequent every once in awhile. I often go there to check out audiobooks, but on my lastest visit I had found a rather large used-book section. This is where I had first noticed Zamyatin's "We," and as the thought of reading the novel still interested me a week later, I thought I might finally buy the book if it was still there. I often give myself a week's security before buying things I don't really need, so that I don't get carried away with whatever might catch my eye. The book was still there, I noticed that it also contained another story I had heard of many times, called God's Whip, or maybe the Whip of God, so when I glanced through a few random pages and confirmed that I understood enough to spark my interest, I bought it for two hundred rubles (almost seven dollars).
I left the shop and walked towards the Kremlin. I didn't pass it, but turned down a very European looking street which starts with two theaters, one of them for students of drama, as well as several restaurants featuring all sorts of international cuisine. This street goes in a quarter circle around the center of Moscow, that is, the Kremlin, which is aprroximately five hundred meters away, for about a kilometer before running into the former KGB building at an intersection with Prospect Mira. Along this cobble-stone street, after the restuarants, theaters, some expensive clothing stores you'll reach stores of more useful things, among them two small branches of the House of Books, one of them for pedagogs, the other, further down the street, featuring foreign literature. I suppose both should be right down my alley, and although I glanced in each one, I found the foreign one much more interesting.
I started studying Spanish (again; for the first time since high school) last summer. My study isn't very well rounded, in that I haven't spoken nor written much of anything in Spanish, I have only been reading and listening to whatever comes my way. The only Spanish audio I have which is simple enough that I might understand a few words is the first Harry Potter novel. Written literature, on the other hand, is much more plentiful, even in such a far-off place as Russia. You wouldn't think that Spanish is very popular here, and you would be correct, it's not! The nevertheless somewhat broad selection of Spanish material available in Moscow is testament to the breadth of what you might find at the House of Books. They had a Spanish edition of some of the most famous Russian authors, like Dostoevski, Tolstoi, and Pushkin, as well as Spanish classics by Servantes and others. I had already been struggling through a collection of short stories by Chexov in Spanish, and at this branch I found another small collection of his stories that I might retrieve if it passes a few weeks' security test, and if I finish the first collection I have. I left without buying anything, but I will certainly return, if not for my own sake, then for family members who might also be interested in certain languages and/or looking for original works of foreign authors.
I followed the European street to the KGB building, which is coincidentally located right next to the Lubyanka metro station. I had been trying to get there all weekend! I found two bookstores nearby, and quickly explored both of them. The first one didn't have much to explore. It was a small room with used books stacked all over the place. I walked around, not sure if I would spot anything interesting, when I ran into Hemingway yet again. There were two collections there, both in Russian, one of his short stories, but also including a novel or two, another primarily of novels, but including also a few of his short stories. After reading a few paragraphs and finding the writing understandable, I took the novel one. At 35 rubles (about a buck), it was just meant to be. I continued into a much larger bookstore nearby, perused the audiobook section, but didn't get anything. I got on the metro at Lubyanka, and went home.
16.11.11
I had another lesson at the same business today. Turns out, I'll be working there four days a week, twice a week individually with two different students. Today's student doesn't speak as well as the one I had yesterday, whom I won't be teaching at all, unfortunately. But whatever she lacked in proficiency she made up for in enthusiasm. It was refreshing to see how much she wants to learn. We got to know each other a little bit before talking about a few verb tenses. I didn't ask her about literature, she asked me. I was delighted with her question, told her about my favorite genres and authors, and she then told me about her favorite author: Ernest Hemingway. Incidentally, she is also a fan of Remarque, as well as European art of the early twentieth century. I told her she should go see "Midnight in Paris."
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
8.11.11
It's snowing rather heavily. Snow is gathering on the earth and on top of cars. It probably won't melt soon unless the weather warms up again, which it might. The seasons' temperatures rise and fall like a pendulum oscillates. It was the coldest day of the season yesterday or the day before, it may warm up again before the snow stays for good. I don't really want that. Seasonal extremes are better than the changes. If it's going to rain, then let it be a warm summer shower, with a thunder storm if you like, otherwise for precipitation I'll take some cold winter snow that you can brush off your coat without getting the least bit wet.
Snow is beautiful too. If the wind isn't blowing too strongly, then it falls so slowly, that sometimes it even hovers outside your window, as though it's stopping to say hello. Or sometimes if a flake comes close to a large building, such as the one I live in, a draft of relatively warm air will make it float back up without destroying it, and it will apologize for initially hurrying by without wishing a pleasant evening before taking a vortex back into the colder, more inhabitable air.
I've worked too inefficiently these past two days. Yesterday was a Monday after a three day weekend - in Dolgoprudny I normally work on Fridays, but the fourth was a national holiday - and I foolishly put off grading a few exams until Monday morning. If there's one thing I've learned from previous experience, it's that I have to not think about work as long as I can, in other words, that I should enjoy my free time when I have it, which is what I did. But had I simply spent the hour or two I needed to grade those tests on Sunday instead of Monday, which would have been a mortal sin in my book, I admittedly might have been better off. I ended up committing another big sin by working around twelve hours yesterday. I guess the Book of Peter is as filled with contradictions as any other Good Book. I'll have to make some revisions. And today I spent a good four hours preparing for one measly lesson which I'll give this evening. Four hours of preparation for one lesson is too much! The problem might be that today I only have one lesson to give, and as some people say: your work will take as much time as you have.
One reason why it took so much time to prepare is because the grammar topic is rather difficult: placement of adverbs. The book always gives rules in the back section, called the grammar bank, which I usually find quite useful, but on this topic I found myself disagreeing with the book on a point or two. It's not a crime to disagree with the book, but if I claim the book is wrong, I should then explain my point of view, and most importantly, give examples. With such a difficult topic, good examples are hard to come by, examples which demonstrate when certain adverbs can go in certain parts of the sentence, and when not. I spent some time on the internet, and have found that there seems to be a lack of agreement on certain rules. For some reason this makes me happy. Call it Schadenfreude or what you will, it's good to know I'm not the only one confused. Now the trick is to get by my students without confusing them too much.
I probably won't spend too much time going into detail. There are other pertinent and more interesting things to do. Today we might talk about the best works of literature (within a certain genre), and then go into a colloquial listening section with an interview of a flight attendant and another of airline passengers. Then I might try to segue into a discussion about equality. How is that going to work? I was thinking of pointing out how flight crew are often dissatisfied with their work, sometimes they go on strike (do Russians ever go on strike? Why not?). I'll claim that their employers treat them unfairly (which Russians are treated unfairly?), and claim that everyone and everything should be made equal! I can ask them if this claim reminds them of any communist ideals, to what extent such an ideal was imposed back in the day, if it's good or bad etc. Then we can finish class by reading the beginning of a short story by Kurt Vonnegut, "Harrison Bergeron," which has everything to do about taking equality to an extreme. Hopefully my students will have a lot to say, and whatever we talk about will be thought-provoking for them. It already has been for me.
1.11.11
On the following day I walked in the same area, but mostly on the other side of the river. My route passes that of the previous day only once, and I saw a lot of things that I couldn't have seen the day before. I got off the metro at the Park of Culture station, and expected to find my whereabouts pretty quickly. I found the river without any trouble, but couldn't match my location with one I had crossed the day before. There was a large old-looking boat, that could pass as a pirate's ship, in one direction, and a glass bridge in the other. I had crossed that bridge yesterday, hadn't I? I set off for the bridge and quickly understood that it was not the same one.
The thing is, the river loops back and forth through Moscow. I think that if I had set off in the opposite direction from the metro exit, I would have come to the same river at the other side of one of its loops, and I might have seen the sights of the previous day. As it was, however, I found myself crossing an unknown glass bridge, approaching what looked the by one end of a large park. I suspected that this was the other end of the Sparrow's Hills park though I still wasn't sure, for if it was as I suspected, I couldn't understand how I had reached that point so quickly from the metro. I checked my premises, rearranged the metro line in a different orientation, and made sense of the situation. The park was indeed as I thought it was, I had only put myself on another side of the river resulting in a switch of south and north.
There had been a race in the park that morning. I saw signs directing competitors in the 5k and half-marathon. I had heard absolutely no news of any such event, otherwise I might have liked to take part. Some lagging runners were still coming in. The prizes were already being awarded. I walked on.
The road I was walking on had no automobile traffic, only pedestrians, bicyclists, and people running or skating on roller blades. I saw one athlete wearing, for lack of another name, roller-skis, which are to a skis as roller-blades are to ice skates. She had a long plank strapped to each of her feet, both ends of each plank had wheels, and she carried two polls with which she propelled herself as a cross-country skier would do. She must be dying for some snow. As it is she'll just have to wait.
I left the road and the river to climb up a small hill and get into a small yellow forest. The paths in the forest had been torn up a little. It seemed that the city was doind some renovation in the park. That didn't stop people from coming through, as the scenery was quite beautiful. The forest ended abruptly as I came through a low fence and found before me a broad highway, with a bridge over the river on my right, and the view to my left obscured by the final ascent of a shallow hill, and, across the highway in front of me, a large building which I recognized immediately. Its three or four towers are built out of about four giant blocks, one on top of the other, each the size of a small house, where the top block looks like a giant clock whose gears were constructed on the outside. One of the towers is in fact a clock tower, so maybe the architects were intending what I've described. Seeing this building before me, I knew that just over the hill on my left was Gagarin square, where I had started the previous day's journey. As I climbed a stairway which brought me to an overpass over the highway, I evetually could see the top part of the Gagarin monument, the bicentenial man.
I continued in the direction I had been walking and quickly came to the Sparrow Hills park entrance. One thing I'll not forget for a long time is a garbage can I saw right there. It had three opennings, one for paper, another for plastic, and a third for metall. There are such garbage cans in most European cities, and in many American airports, but in Russia they are very new and come across as something from another world. While in other countries people might name these containers something like 'recycle bin,' the one I saw yesterday in Moscow was titled "эксперимент" - "An Experiment."
Recycling is indeed a new idea for the Russians. I don't think people know what happens to their garbage in this country. We throw it down the garbage tube in the stairways of our flats and somehow it disappears. Maybe the tubes go to the center of the earth, or maybe there are garbage gnomes down there who process everything and make room for an unendless amount to come. To be fair, I, a haughty American who has heard and lived the word 'recycle,' don't really know what happens to my garbage, even if I do separate it into paper and plastic. Presumably it doesn't get thrown into a big hole in the desert, but I really don't know for sure. Anyway, one has to commend the Russians for taking an example from their wordly neighbors. That demonstrates a level of humility that I think America hasn't quite reached. Americans don't learn from their neighbors, beacuse America is the best and therefore has nothing to learn. Everybody knows that!
I kept walking and eventually came to the ski jump. I climbed the steep hill to the base of the column about three stories high where jumpers presumable take an elevator to the top. My path took me to a cobble-stone square where there were venders selling all sorts of street food, from popcorn to Shaurma, a greasy fast food featuring some veggies and fried recycled chicken breasts (ones which nobody bought at the stores; at least meat gets reused in this country), much like the Turkish hit 'Doener' that you can get all over Germany. I didn't get any of that trash, of course, but stopped to enjoy the view. On one side, in the direction the skiers jumped, I could see much of Moscow, with the giant olympic stadium on the opposite bank of the river, the cathedral of Christ the Savior not too far away, and Stalin's castles visible here and there. Then I turned around and gasped at the majesty of the Moscow State University of Lomonosov, which stood across a large avenue, the one I had taken from Gagarin square on the previous afternoon. I couldn't take its picture, since the sun was setting just behind it. You'll have to take my word for it, that it was quite a sight.
I set off for the Kiev train station to use a civilized bathroom, then took off in a similar direction as the day before. After buying some nuts and apples at the small market (which turned out just as filling and expensive as any fast food would have been) I crossed the glass bridge (the second of the day) and made my way towards the old Arbat street, which I hadn't walked along the previous day. There were crowds of people walking, some of the younger ones in costume to celebrate the upcoming foreign holiday. There magicians and artists, musicians, and book venders. I bought a collection of Nabokov novels, his lesser known ones, such as "The Luzhen Defense," for a little over three dollars, and went my way.
It was dark by the time I reached the Red Square. Part of me wanted to walk a little further, but I decided to enter the metro at the nearby station, and go home. Next week, I might explore the southeast portion of the metro's ring. I still have to connect Kursky train station with other portions of the city. That's the station you use to get to Vladimir. I've been there many so times before, but after arriving, I always took the metro to where I needed to go. On foot, that station has unknown fronts on all sides. The Red Square probably isn't too far away.
It's snowing rather heavily. Snow is gathering on the earth and on top of cars. It probably won't melt soon unless the weather warms up again, which it might. The seasons' temperatures rise and fall like a pendulum oscillates. It was the coldest day of the season yesterday or the day before, it may warm up again before the snow stays for good. I don't really want that. Seasonal extremes are better than the changes. If it's going to rain, then let it be a warm summer shower, with a thunder storm if you like, otherwise for precipitation I'll take some cold winter snow that you can brush off your coat without getting the least bit wet.
Snow is beautiful too. If the wind isn't blowing too strongly, then it falls so slowly, that sometimes it even hovers outside your window, as though it's stopping to say hello. Or sometimes if a flake comes close to a large building, such as the one I live in, a draft of relatively warm air will make it float back up without destroying it, and it will apologize for initially hurrying by without wishing a pleasant evening before taking a vortex back into the colder, more inhabitable air.
I've worked too inefficiently these past two days. Yesterday was a Monday after a three day weekend - in Dolgoprudny I normally work on Fridays, but the fourth was a national holiday - and I foolishly put off grading a few exams until Monday morning. If there's one thing I've learned from previous experience, it's that I have to not think about work as long as I can, in other words, that I should enjoy my free time when I have it, which is what I did. But had I simply spent the hour or two I needed to grade those tests on Sunday instead of Monday, which would have been a mortal sin in my book, I admittedly might have been better off. I ended up committing another big sin by working around twelve hours yesterday. I guess the Book of Peter is as filled with contradictions as any other Good Book. I'll have to make some revisions. And today I spent a good four hours preparing for one measly lesson which I'll give this evening. Four hours of preparation for one lesson is too much! The problem might be that today I only have one lesson to give, and as some people say: your work will take as much time as you have.
One reason why it took so much time to prepare is because the grammar topic is rather difficult: placement of adverbs. The book always gives rules in the back section, called the grammar bank, which I usually find quite useful, but on this topic I found myself disagreeing with the book on a point or two. It's not a crime to disagree with the book, but if I claim the book is wrong, I should then explain my point of view, and most importantly, give examples. With such a difficult topic, good examples are hard to come by, examples which demonstrate when certain adverbs can go in certain parts of the sentence, and when not. I spent some time on the internet, and have found that there seems to be a lack of agreement on certain rules. For some reason this makes me happy. Call it Schadenfreude or what you will, it's good to know I'm not the only one confused. Now the trick is to get by my students without confusing them too much.
I probably won't spend too much time going into detail. There are other pertinent and more interesting things to do. Today we might talk about the best works of literature (within a certain genre), and then go into a colloquial listening section with an interview of a flight attendant and another of airline passengers. Then I might try to segue into a discussion about equality. How is that going to work? I was thinking of pointing out how flight crew are often dissatisfied with their work, sometimes they go on strike (do Russians ever go on strike? Why not?). I'll claim that their employers treat them unfairly (which Russians are treated unfairly?), and claim that everyone and everything should be made equal! I can ask them if this claim reminds them of any communist ideals, to what extent such an ideal was imposed back in the day, if it's good or bad etc. Then we can finish class by reading the beginning of a short story by Kurt Vonnegut, "Harrison Bergeron," which has everything to do about taking equality to an extreme. Hopefully my students will have a lot to say, and whatever we talk about will be thought-provoking for them. It already has been for me.
1.11.11
On the following day I walked in the same area, but mostly on the other side of the river. My route passes that of the previous day only once, and I saw a lot of things that I couldn't have seen the day before. I got off the metro at the Park of Culture station, and expected to find my whereabouts pretty quickly. I found the river without any trouble, but couldn't match my location with one I had crossed the day before. There was a large old-looking boat, that could pass as a pirate's ship, in one direction, and a glass bridge in the other. I had crossed that bridge yesterday, hadn't I? I set off for the bridge and quickly understood that it was not the same one.
The thing is, the river loops back and forth through Moscow. I think that if I had set off in the opposite direction from the metro exit, I would have come to the same river at the other side of one of its loops, and I might have seen the sights of the previous day. As it was, however, I found myself crossing an unknown glass bridge, approaching what looked the by one end of a large park. I suspected that this was the other end of the Sparrow's Hills park though I still wasn't sure, for if it was as I suspected, I couldn't understand how I had reached that point so quickly from the metro. I checked my premises, rearranged the metro line in a different orientation, and made sense of the situation. The park was indeed as I thought it was, I had only put myself on another side of the river resulting in a switch of south and north.
There had been a race in the park that morning. I saw signs directing competitors in the 5k and half-marathon. I had heard absolutely no news of any such event, otherwise I might have liked to take part. Some lagging runners were still coming in. The prizes were already being awarded. I walked on.
The road I was walking on had no automobile traffic, only pedestrians, bicyclists, and people running or skating on roller blades. I saw one athlete wearing, for lack of another name, roller-skis, which are to a skis as roller-blades are to ice skates. She had a long plank strapped to each of her feet, both ends of each plank had wheels, and she carried two polls with which she propelled herself as a cross-country skier would do. She must be dying for some snow. As it is she'll just have to wait.
I left the road and the river to climb up a small hill and get into a small yellow forest. The paths in the forest had been torn up a little. It seemed that the city was doind some renovation in the park. That didn't stop people from coming through, as the scenery was quite beautiful. The forest ended abruptly as I came through a low fence and found before me a broad highway, with a bridge over the river on my right, and the view to my left obscured by the final ascent of a shallow hill, and, across the highway in front of me, a large building which I recognized immediately. Its three or four towers are built out of about four giant blocks, one on top of the other, each the size of a small house, where the top block looks like a giant clock whose gears were constructed on the outside. One of the towers is in fact a clock tower, so maybe the architects were intending what I've described. Seeing this building before me, I knew that just over the hill on my left was Gagarin square, where I had started the previous day's journey. As I climbed a stairway which brought me to an overpass over the highway, I evetually could see the top part of the Gagarin monument, the bicentenial man.
I continued in the direction I had been walking and quickly came to the Sparrow Hills park entrance. One thing I'll not forget for a long time is a garbage can I saw right there. It had three opennings, one for paper, another for plastic, and a third for metall. There are such garbage cans in most European cities, and in many American airports, but in Russia they are very new and come across as something from another world. While in other countries people might name these containers something like 'recycle bin,' the one I saw yesterday in Moscow was titled "эксперимент" - "An Experiment."
Recycling is indeed a new idea for the Russians. I don't think people know what happens to their garbage in this country. We throw it down the garbage tube in the stairways of our flats and somehow it disappears. Maybe the tubes go to the center of the earth, or maybe there are garbage gnomes down there who process everything and make room for an unendless amount to come. To be fair, I, a haughty American who has heard and lived the word 'recycle,' don't really know what happens to my garbage, even if I do separate it into paper and plastic. Presumably it doesn't get thrown into a big hole in the desert, but I really don't know for sure. Anyway, one has to commend the Russians for taking an example from their wordly neighbors. That demonstrates a level of humility that I think America hasn't quite reached. Americans don't learn from their neighbors, beacuse America is the best and therefore has nothing to learn. Everybody knows that!
I kept walking and eventually came to the ski jump. I climbed the steep hill to the base of the column about three stories high where jumpers presumable take an elevator to the top. My path took me to a cobble-stone square where there were venders selling all sorts of street food, from popcorn to Shaurma, a greasy fast food featuring some veggies and fried recycled chicken breasts (ones which nobody bought at the stores; at least meat gets reused in this country), much like the Turkish hit 'Doener' that you can get all over Germany. I didn't get any of that trash, of course, but stopped to enjoy the view. On one side, in the direction the skiers jumped, I could see much of Moscow, with the giant olympic stadium on the opposite bank of the river, the cathedral of Christ the Savior not too far away, and Stalin's castles visible here and there. Then I turned around and gasped at the majesty of the Moscow State University of Lomonosov, which stood across a large avenue, the one I had taken from Gagarin square on the previous afternoon. I couldn't take its picture, since the sun was setting just behind it. You'll have to take my word for it, that it was quite a sight.
I set off for the Kiev train station to use a civilized bathroom, then took off in a similar direction as the day before. After buying some nuts and apples at the small market (which turned out just as filling and expensive as any fast food would have been) I crossed the glass bridge (the second of the day) and made my way towards the old Arbat street, which I hadn't walked along the previous day. There were crowds of people walking, some of the younger ones in costume to celebrate the upcoming foreign holiday. There magicians and artists, musicians, and book venders. I bought a collection of Nabokov novels, his lesser known ones, such as "The Luzhen Defense," for a little over three dollars, and went my way.
It was dark by the time I reached the Red Square. Part of me wanted to walk a little further, but I decided to enter the metro at the nearby station, and go home. Next week, I might explore the southeast portion of the metro's ring. I still have to connect Kursky train station with other portions of the city. That's the station you use to get to Vladimir. I've been there many so times before, but after arriving, I always took the metro to where I needed to go. On foot, that station has unknown fronts on all sides. The Red Square probably isn't too far away.
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