giving thanks, in russia

My mum said I should write something about Thanksgiving. Seems a bit of a strange idea, to write about a holiday while living in a country where almost nobody has even heard of it.

Maybe we don't have Thanksgiving in Russia, but the Russian language does have two beautiful ways of saying 'thank you'.

The most common way of saying 'thank you' in Russian, which is used in all situations, is спасибо (spasiba). If you wish to be more emphatic, you can say большое спасибо (balsho-ye spasiba), which is 'thank you very much'. 

What a lot of people don't know, including a lot of the Russians I've asked about it, is that спасибо is actually two words, and means so much more than just 'thanks'. It is the two words спаси (spasi) and Бог (bokh; sounds like Bach, but with an 'o' instead of an 'a'). It means, literally, 'G-d save you'. Whenever you thank someone here, you are expressing your wish that G-d saves them. No wonder the бабушки (grandmothers) here say "Always say спасибо! It's not important why! Just say it as much as you can, to everyone!". 

The second, more formal and less common, way of saying thank you is благодарю (blagodaryu). It, again, is actually two words: благо (blessing), and дарю (I give). I give you blessings.

In a little under two weeks I'll be back home for almost two months before returning to Russia. When I come back here, I may not be taking classes in the same historic building - there is a remodeling planned for when the conservatory is closed in January, and while it is in effect we will be moved to a different, more modern building. I've been told we may never come back to this old conservatory, or not for a very, very long time anyway. It's hard for me to think I might not come back to that building. I've fallen so deeply in love with it; all it's nooks and crannies, the mould, the dust; the piles of cigarette butts smugly spilling out of paper cups around the 'no smoking' signs. There is such history here. There is an atmosphere, a spirit that lives in these old walls, that I fear will be frightened off by the builders drills. I know it can't stay this way forever, but maybe just a little longer, until I graduate...Well, come what may, I am grateful to have been able to study here for at least these three months. .

For a culture which has the stereotype of being very cold and brutish, Russian culture values being respectful very highly. They have formal and informal modes of address, and strict unspoken rules about how and when to greet people. For example, you will cause a horrible affront if you look at someone and don't acknowledge them, if you have met before. You must either nod/put up a hand briefly/say hi (informal, pick one, don't smile unless you really love the person - if they smile back, you have been accepted into the fold), or very clearly and politely say hello to them whilst maintaining eye contact (formal). The schoolboys all shake hands when they meet in the street, even if they're just passing - as do all male colleagues and friends, and police officers. In addition to that, there are a hundred other small polite habits which one only picks up on after living amongst them for a while.

Since arriving here, I've had so much help in small ways from people, even total strangers. Don't get me wrong, I've had my share of obnoxious clerks in the grocery stores, an infuriating estate agent, and I've encountered an obstinate, narrow attitude from all forms of administration. But I've also been so lucky. Little angels, as I like to think of them, pop out of nowhere just in time to show me to my next class, to discretely point out a tear in my tights, to flash their membership card for me at the grocery checkout to save me money, to help me get my bank card out of the ATM that ate it.

In particular, I've had the great fortune of having the best Russian language professor I could ever wish for, and of being mentored by a wonderful, generous, brilliant young ex-soloist of the Eifman Ballet. They have truly been my two guardian angels this semester, watching over me and guiding me. To the beautiful old conservatory, to Marina Victorovna, and to dear Katya, I say: больше спасибо, я очень благодарю вам.

Russians will do a lot for you, going out of their way to help you without being asked, and without any expectation of being rewarded. But don't forget to thank them - as they say, saying спасибо costs you nothing, and it's the least you can do.

If that isn't the essence of Thanksgiving, I don't know what is. Always give your blessings freely to others, and always pray that "G-d saves" those that help us.

Also, nobody knows to whom the green slippers belong. As far as I can tell, they've been here forever, they've been thrown away several times, and yet they always turn up on our bench time and again. 

silence

There's something so genuine about silence. It pretends to be nothing. One could read that sentence in two quite different ways. I believe both inferences are accurate. It is itself, it has no pretense. It says nothing, but communicates volumes. I've spent a lot of time by myself, speaking very little, for the past two months.

What's surprised me more than anything (for someone who defines herself so much through her words and humor) was how little I minded it. It's not expected that I reply, so I am free to watch, to listen, and to feel. I don't immediately begin devising a witty remark, or an intelligent opinion, whenever the other students are talking around me or when I'm in a lecture. I don't explain myself when I make a mistake, consequently I focus all my efforts on correcting it for the next time. I don't look for a way into a conversation. I no longer half-ignore what's being said because I'm trying to figure out where, how, and what I can contribute to the dialogue.

Haystack Rock - Cannon Beach, Oregon

When we're children, too young to be a part of the grown-up's conversation, we notice things that the adults are too busy to see. They're talking too loudly to hear what's being whispered, underneath all those words. A small crease between the brows, a nervous twitch of the fingers, the smell of cigarette smoke intensifying on clothing as exams approach. 

We forget a part of ourselves when we become Talkers. We associate so strongly with what we say, with who we claim to be every time we open our mouths - even if we don't mean it, or don't know what it is we really want to say.

Silence offers us peace, and a return to what we are when we're pretending to be nothing.

Cannon Beach, Oregon

Being with a quiet person is catching. Soon, you too fall under the silent spell. You are reduced to sitting with them, awkwardly, as one does when handed a stranger's baby or when bid to wait at the bedside of a very ill person.

At first, I thought the other dancers would eschew my company because of my lack of interesting conversation or humor. I consoled myself with thoughts like, "When I can talk to them, then they'll really know who I am, what I think, and what I love. Then we'll be friends." .

I've discovered that they know me better for our having met in silence. Instead of speaking to each other, we listened, and found that we understood each other all the more for it.

fall, falling, fallen

“And every year there is a brief, startling moment
When we pause in the middle of a long walk home and
Suddenly feel something invisible and weightless
Touching our shoulders, sweeping down from the air:
It is the autumn wind pressing against our bodies;
It is the changing light of fall falling on us.”

- Edward Hirsch

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changes

Can you ever really return to a place that you've left?

When I go home for my winter holidays, I'll be flying to Seattle. But I won't be flying "back" to Seattle. Time moves ever onward, doesn't it? The person I was when I left Seattle for St Petersburg in September will never return to that city. Things are different now. I'm still me, but "me" is different.

I remember the last time I was at Pike Place Market I had a delicious croissant from Le Panier bakery. Oh how different things are now.

This past summer I spent time traversing the city, jumping on and off buses but mostly walking for hours at a time after a morning ballet class. I wanted to spend some time alone with my city before leaving it for a year, but I was still a little nervous of being alone downtown, hesitant to ask for directions if I couldn't find a certain cafe I was after.

I'd smile shyly at strangers when we made eye-contact - a very American habit, which I've learned says more about the smiler's insecurity and desire to be liked than of any measure of good will they bear the other person.

Back then, the person I used to be liked to sleep in on rehearsal-free Sundays, didn't take sugar with her coffee, and didn't believe she'd ever make it in this hyper selective, ruthless world of performing art.

Things are different now. I don't eat bread. I cobble together my broken Russian to ask how to get to class 68 on the fifth floor, five minutes before my class is starting. I walk stoically, and when I'm shoved on the metro I don't budge, or flinch. I wake up at the same time on Sunday as I do on any other day of the week. I rarely allow myself sweets anymore, but put honey on everything.

Those are all trivial details, small things that nobody notices but me. The greatest change that has been effected in me is one which is altogether more difficult to perceive than the teaspoon of sugar in my vending-machine coffee in between classes. Living in this city has shown me that I have the right to be in this world of dance because, more than anything else, I want to be here.

There's something about the ballet "culture" in the States that made me feel that first I had to work hard, then I had to ask nicely, and then maybe I would be given the things I wanted for myself.

Here, you work hard. Then, you work harder. Finally, when you can't work any more, you go home and take notes on why things didn't work, and what you'll do better tomorrow when you're busy working hard again. As I began adapting to this new way of being in my classes, I realised that I didn't have to ask for anything, because I got it for myself - because I made it happen. Not because anybody made me do it, not because anybody told me I should, but because I wanted to do it, and so I did. If that's not love, I don't know what is. 

Honestly, I never thought I'd learn about love in Russia. However, if you'd asked me five years ago what I'd be doing with my life in 2014, I would never have thought it would be this. If I hadn't fallen in love with ballet all at once, like I did, and almost immediately decided it was what I wanted to be a part of for the rest of my life, I wouldn't be in Peter today. But I did, and I am. So in a way, I shouldn't be so surprised that of all the lessons I've learned here in Russia the most important one thus far has been how to love my art even more.

It's been said before, but I'll risk sounding cliche by saying it again for myself. Ballet is all about love. There is no rhyme or reason to it, there is no reward to be had. There is only you, the shoes, the sweat, the stage, and however much passion you bring to it.

home

It hit me the other day. Homesickness. 

I had expected homesickness to feel like I'd been stranded, but it was different. I wasn't a poor soul marooned on a lone island. I was a soul, a heart, a mind, without a body. Seeing. Listening. Feeling. "And voices are / In the wind's singing / More distant and more solemn / Than a fading star."

More distant and more solemn than a fading star.

I felt disembodied. I walked the streets in a daze, nothing felt real anymore. I looked around me and my eyes passed unseeingly over the canals, streets, shop fronts, disregarding the fruit vendors and the old ladies offered up copies of a free local newspaper. I felt that if I reached my hand out I would be able to pick a hole in the fabric of the world around me, tear it open, and somewhere underneath that fabric was reality. Somewhere in there, underneath that fabric, was home. But not here, not in the rusty dollhouse homes all around me.

We had a four day weekend, but given this odd daze that came over me, I was determined not to let myself go. I knew I didn't want to stay home, but where else was there for me to go? Where are the beautiful, quiet bookshops? Where are the busy coffeeshops that serve rocket fuel and a smile, for only $2.75? Where is my favourite Puerto Rican restaurant, my Sunday morning stroll through the farmer's market with my mother and brother?

Where is home?

It was here the whole time. I just had to stare into the dark studio, breathe in the smell of the linoleum, the sweat; feel the tingle of excitement and nerves; hear the radiator crackle, and the soft sounds of a piano student practicing Debussy in the distance.

I walked into the studio and sat with the darkness and my silence for a few days; practicing my variations, agonising over my technique, fighting my body and losing as many times as I won. Then I found that I didn't feel so alone anymore.

a light in the dark

It's interesting to think about why exactly in Russia, Peter in particular, the arts are assigned so much importance when they aren't in many other cultures. Now, that's a rather philosophical subject to breach, but I think it's more something to ponder than to answer directly.

One notion I have is that is has something to do with the incredible darkness here. It's not yet November and already the sun has begun to set before 5pm. I think that plays a large part in why Russians deem art as important to the human soul as they do. In the dead of winter, when the most daylight one gets is limited to a cold, grey glow around noon, there is little to warm the cockles of your heart except for coffee, chocolate, and the warmth of the stage.

I have been here nearly a month, and have been to the theatre seven times - one opera, one contemporary ballet performance, I've gone twice to the Mariinsky II, once to the Mikhailovsky Theatre, and twice to the conservatory's ballet productions (surprisingly well done for a small troupe). There is something about both the excitement with which people approach an evening at the theatre, and also the absolute casual nature that one mentions going to a ballet or opera, that I find refreshing and unusual. In the States, one might ask, "Oh, you're going to the ballet? The opera? The symphony? Why, what's the occasion?" and there will always be one, either a birthday or an anniversary or something of that nature.

Here in Peter, one simple goes to the theatre because one fancies an evening out. Because it's beautiful, it's enjoyable, and it's just what people do. Everyone, of all ages, enjoys the ballet. For me, an American, to be currently residing in a culture where that is the way things are, is indescribably joyful. Coming from Seattle where, unfortunately, more often than not the theatre is half empty for a ballet, I can't help but smile triumphantly to myself when the lady at the ticket booth brusquely tells me that there are no longer any tickets left for sale for the performance in question.

I've recently been the the new stage of the Mariinsky Theatre twice - once to see Alexei Ratmansky's ballet Anna Karenina, and most recently to see George Balanchine's neoclassical masterpiece of a ballet, Jewels. My professor of Russian Language at the conservatory commented that she's been several times to the Mariinsky II and that she feels the auditorium is much too large, too expansive, and that she can't "feel herself" in the space; my new friend and unofficial mentor at the conservatory commented dryly that the locals in Peter call the Mariinsky II the "city hall". After having been to the new stage, I can say I agree with both opinions. While there were things I did not like about it, I did love the light.

The entire interior of the building seems to have been inspired by the famous Amber Room in Catherine Palace in nearby town Tsarskoe Selo/Pushkin. Its warm, golden light can be felt all around as one strolls through the knots of people clustered about the halls during intermission. There are long ropes of crystal tears, or raindrops maybe, that refract the radiance cast by the walls and by the lights shining from above each section of crystals. They seem to harken to the rain which most likely awaits us outside when we will inevitably have to leave the golden theatre, the tears we may have shed during a particularly emotional aria, and also the joy that will (like bubbles) fizz out of us for days after our theatre outing.

I have always loved the arts. I have always treasured my memories of the theatre, carefully planned and anxiously anticipated my next visit. But since coming here, I now begin to understand why the theatre and the arts are so important.

The theatre is not only a joy, but an absolute necessity, because it provides us with those three things which hardest to come by in Russian winter, and which are so essential to human happiness - light, warmth, and community. 

a galaxy far, far away

When I was younger, my favourite movies were the Star Wars films. We never had cable, but on weekends I used to love watching one of the three original films, over and over again, and I'd never tire of them. I remember, I had stacks of notebooks I would doodle in only when watching those films, drawing the space crafts and the aliens - and myself as a jedi, of course. I would draw an imaginary life for myself in the future, living in a different galaxy, maybe as an ambassador or liaison for my distant blue-green planet.

I never wanted to be an astronaut. That always seemed to complicated, and dangerous, and not very much fun to me. Too much time spent eating freeze-dried ice cream, not enough aliens to talk to and fight battles with. But I did always want to go into space.

I think what appealed to me was the idea of being able to hop onboard the Millennium Falcon and go anywhere I wanted. I wanted to leave everything that was known to me, discover strange and wonderful places, have wild adventures, and travel to exotic planets with two moons. The more I think about it, in a way, I grew up and did just that. 

I hopped on an aircraft, and flew off into the horizon. When I disembarked, I stepped out onto a new planet. Beautiful, old, and painted in shades of green, gold, and grey. My first impression was that it felt stern, but kind. Though it is crumbling slightly, it still emanates a sense of majesty; an old king whose stubborn jaw is yet visible through a white beard. Strong bones protruding from under wrinkled skin.

The old is juxtaposed with the new on every street. Walls chip away to reveal the layers of old colors, what is now white or cream was once painted a sea foam blue or Mariinsky green, the traditional shades peeking through the secular, modern exterior. So too is the modern crudely pasted over the classic. It's as though the youth of the city slashed at the concrete, splattering the walls with garish shades of crimson, a desperate search for colour in the long, grey winters. They've tattooed the old city with their words and symbols, but I think Peter wears it with dignity. Like an aged sailor, perhaps, or a marine.

I never went to space, though perhaps the essence of the dream came true. I think my eight year old self would be satisfied, even without the Millennium Falcon currently at her disposal, and that's a cheering thought.

first snow and instant coffee

The days grow shorter already. The day before yesterday was первый снег, "the first snow", and there is an aura of grim expectation in the air - thinner coats have been exchanged for down parkas, headscarves for woolen caps. All the children seem to have magically become little multicolored starfish overnight, now they all toddle about alongside their parents in puffy one-piece snowsuits and boots.

I think I understand now why, although чай (tea) is practically the national drink (here come all the vodka jokes), in the winter it's coffee, coffee, coffee...

I myself prefer tea, black with lemon or green just as it is, but since coming here I find myself drinking coffee mostly for its comforting, filling warmth. In Seattle, there are at least three incredible, independent coffee shops on any given street, and innumerable local coffee roasters that are invariably excellent. The birthplace of Starbucks, the capital of depression and grunge and rain, Seattle is the place to go for the best coffee. Adapting to the coffee here in Peter was something of an unpleasant shock. In general here it's weak and tastes stale. The best coffee I've had thus far comes out of the vending machine at the conservatory which is very cheap and surprisingly good.

Instant coffee was the treat of my childhood, mixed with milk and honey. It's not the same as a strong cold-brew from Caffe Vita on Phinney Ridge back home, but I have rediscovered my old love for it. Perhaps because it stirs up memories of my mother's family, especially my grandmother, who would have a cup of instant coffee with "una tostadita con mantequilla o queso" (a little toast with butter or cheese) every morning for breakfast. I can still smell the toasted bread, taste the melted butter in the sweet coffee I would dunk my bread in, hear my Abuelita flicking invisible crumbs fastidiously off her fingers - a habit I copied and still have to this day.

Though I have recently moved into a new flat which is closer to the conservatory than my last one, I still get up between 6.30 and 7.00 for my 10.00 class. I need time in the morning to reflect, gaze out the window at nothing, sip my coffee, digest the events of the day before.

In a dancer's life, lack of reflection can be as inhibiting as a sore muscle. So many things happen in a rehearsal. There are many corrections and valuable comments given which have the potential to be forgotten, unless taken careful note of and thought about before the next lesson. There are a lot of toes that can be stepped on in the morning warmup class, small moments of drama that arise on a daily basis that need to be processed, forgiven, and resolved within oneself.

So I sip my coffee, and watch the sunrise, and breathe.

Anywhere else, "rising before the sun" would imply getting out of bed at an obscenely early hour. Here, I rise before the sun on a Saturday, make a late breakfast, and am walking on the street to my ballet critic/performance analysis class before the sun rises properly at around 8.30am.

Though the первый снег (first snowfall) didn't stick around long enough to produce good photos, perhaps the next snow we have I will be able to get up "at the crack of dawn" (around 9am on a Sunday...) and nip out for some photos of the Starfish Children heading to church - truly one of the most heartwarming sights I've seen since being here.

autumn

Fall is here. After a couple uncharacteristically warm weeks in September which had all the locals muttering superstitiously about climate change and disaster, we've started to have a bit of rain. Now everyone seems grimly content - wet, grey, cold, this is what Peter is supposed to be like in autumn. Anything else is suspicious to them.

Although I know I should be bracing myself for a hard winter, and soaking up the last rays of the afternoon sun when I'm not running to my next class, I can't help but enjoy this sudden plunge into crisp, rainy weather. Maybe it's because this sudden dreariness reminds me of Seattle, or maybe it's because I've always loved the fall. There's something about the transition from summer to winter which has a magic I don't think I'll ever tire of or cease to be amazed by as I see it occur in the leaves, the sky, and the air around me. Every day is a little darker, a little wetter, and yet there's something inexplicably invigorating that begins to crackle in the air as I crunch through the leaves under foot. It energizes me, and fuels my creativity.

The moody streets give way to the water in the canal dappled with golden leaves, their formations disrupted by  the ducks nibbling hopefully away at them as they drift downstream together. On my walk every day to the conservatory, it cheers me to see the neighborhood dogs snuffle delighted away at the piles leaf mold as their owners stick cigarettes in their puffy faces and sip paper cups of coffee (the preferred breakfast combination for many Russian city-dwellers, apparently). 

As an aside for the dog loving readers - the canines here are polite, but utterly disinterested in  people. Whereas in the States, all friendly dogs wag their tails and happily approach a stranger with a sweet voice, and a proffered hand, here they merely pause, look at you rather stoically, then trot on. I suppose the only ones more confused than the canines at my persistence in greeting them when we meet in the street, are their owners. They look at me with polite incredulity, as though I were mad when I beam at a particularly beautiful spaniel or retriever they're walking, and offer a compliment about their animal. Ah well. This is an American habit I don't think I'll be able to break as easily as the others.

I await the coming winter with some trepidation, due to all I've heard from people about how hard it was especially last year, but in the meantime I'm enjoying this late autumn and all the majesty it has to offer. The lighting here is wonderful, more so now than ever, so hopefully soon I'll have more time to take more photos of Peter's changing seasons.

simple pleasures

It's hard when living on your own for the first time to enjoy the simple pleasures that were once so common place at home. 

Fresh milk always in the fridge.

Long talks with my dad at cafes.

Amazing coffee.

Peanut butter.

It's especially hard when you're immersed in an art that values self-sacrifice as much as ballet does, and which encourages working tirelessly, without rest or distraction from our dancing. The Russian ballet community speaks with an odd kind of pride about the fact that dancers here have "no life outside of the theatre", that they don't read books until they are injured, that they have two weeks of holidays in the summer and work from 11am until midnight every day.

I greatly admire that kind of work ethic, the love that drives these artists to live an almost ascetic life so much in contrast to the flamboyance of the extravagant productions they perform in. Ballerinas live rather like nuns in their cloisters, serving their community silently with their beautiful acts of charity, and with only their fellow sisters for company.

But at the same time, and while it is a worthy thing to pursue such a passion with such single-minded intensity, I think it's important to find small moments of respite. It's hard enough for me having to do all these adult things for the first time, like buying fresh fruit every day or combing the city for new toenail clippers (essential to all dancers, especially women en pointe), without denying myself small, simple pleasures. A chocolate and an afternoon coffee, or an evening off from studying tonight, are not over-the-top allowances. Yet, now I'm on my own, I find I have to remind myself every day to make time for them.

One of the things I began to crave almost as soon as I arrived here in Russia was peanut butter. And let me tell you, there are few things that are more difficult to find here.

After a couple weeks of searching in every grocery store I came across, I finally decided to try the Finnish department store "Stockmann" on Nevsky Prospekt. They have a grocery store on the underground level, and I was hopeful.

I found it.

At almost $10 a jar, I paid a dear price for it, but even just the very first spoonful (which I ate plain, right out of the jar, and in ecstasy) was worth it. After a day of being spoken at in a language I don't yet understand, being lost in an old building I don't know my way around, and buffeted about in the cramped metro, I realised how soothing it was to taste a little bit of home. It was then that I resolved to find even more simple ways to let myself enjoy my peaceful moments in my flat, away from the conservatory.

Juicy raspberries and ripe bananas from Stockmann, with cornflakes (gasp, carbs! I know.) for dinner is nothing short of heavenly. 

Green tea with a late lunch, the afternoon sun streaming in the window as I sit quietly and collect myself after a busy day, or take notes on that morning's classical training class and ballet mastering lessons. A soothing end to the day.

All work and no peanut butter makes Jack a dull boy - one of the life lessons I'm learning from living here in Russia, "with Peter".

sunday

The Russian word for Sunday is "Воскресенье", or "Resurrection". Rather than being dubbed a day of rest, as in other Slavic languages, here this is called a day of rebirth - a time to renew oneself in preparation for the days ahead.

The weather is moody, blue skies turning grey, a light rain threatening at any moment, with sudden rays of sun breaking through now and then. I worried that my outing would be cut short by a few droplets that landed around me as I walked through Palace Square, but it stayed relatively clear as I wove my way through tourists and locals, all visiting this majestic place on a slightly wet Sunday.

A woman came up to me and said, "Девушка, пожалуйста." ("Girl, please.") and a few other words in Russian, holding out her camera to me, showing me where to press the shutter on the cracked screen. There are no words for Miss, Ms, Mrs, Mr, Ma'am, or Sir, in Russian, and so women under the age of 45 are "girl" and men under the age of 30 are "boy", otherwise they are "woman" and "man". As rude as this sounds to English speakers, culturally in Russia it is considered perfectly acceptable and not at all untoward. I was quite taken aback when she spoke to me, my automatic response of "Я не говоpю по-pусски." ("I don't speak Russian.") at the ready, muscles tensed to flee the scene. But then I changed my mind. I nodded curtly, and accepted the phone from her. She walked about twenty paces in front of me, I took the photo, and she retrieved her phone with a quick, "Спасибо!" ("Thanks!") to which I answered a half-whispered, "Пожалуйста." ("You're welcome."). 

This exchange was oddly thrilling. No matter how brief it was, it was one of my first Russian conversations in the 'real world'. It made me smile to myself as I continued walking and taking more photos. One thing I've noticed about the locals here in St Petersburg, I don't know if it's the same all over Russia or not, is that while they are often animated when speaking with friends or close colleagues, when they speak to strangers they seem almost shy. They speak in near whispers, muttering under their breath more often than not. On the one hand this makes it difficult for me to catch the few Russian words I know, but on the other hand I have discovered that I can easily pass for being a local Russian-speaker if I merely mimic their hushed tones. "Spaciba" becomes a very quiet "p'ay'siba" and nobody looks up or notices anything out of the ordinary. It reminds me of one of James Herriot's stories, the was one where he says one may easily disguise a slurring tongue by whispering, while drunk.

There are always men and women dressed in costumes strolling through Palace Square, posing for photos with tourists for a fee. Despite the fact that it's all fake, or perhaps because of the artificiality of the costumes, it seems to fit here. I find it almost charming. 

The juxtaposition of the old and the new, the gritty and the flamboyant, the permanent and the plastic, are themes I encounter here again and again, and am beginning to associate with Petersburg.

outsider

When I take the metro in the morning to get to Theatre Square for classes, sometimes the carriages are only moderately full, but then sometimes without warning I'm suffocated by a crush of people flooding onto my car. These subways are not like American subways - people shove, jostle, and cram themselves in tightly. However, none of this is done with a hint of aggression, which is what surprised me most. The metro culture here is brusque, but not the slightest bit rude. In fact, many a man has given up his seat for a child, a woman in heels, or an elderly person. All done without ceremony or looking to be thanked. It's not chivalry, it's just what everyone does.

My large backpack makes me something of a nuisance, and also an obvious outsider. I have not yet "earned" my locker privileges in the conservatory dressing room (which I have nickname Skid Row because of the rather seedy atmosphere), so I have to haul my dance clothes and shoes back and forth with me every day. Given the state of them, I think I'll pass on said privileges.

I'm not sure which locker belongs to whom. They are all full, but I rarely see them opened. On the rare occasion someone does open one, it is to retrieve a CD, a book, or packet of tea from a crushed box trapped underneath a pile of ragged clothing and stray leg warmers. Perhaps the lockers belong to the eldest students, most of whom who infamously do not arrive at the conservatory until well into October. This is apparently allowed for the upperclassmen, because many of the professors don't seem to be back from holiday until at least then, anyway. 

The culture here is all very new to me. There are no syllabi, no booklists for the Russian language lessons, no timetables for the dance classes except for the one which is (sometimes, not always) posted on the bulletin board closest to your department's section of the building. Needless to say, there was no orientation, nobody to show me around on the first day. When I arrived on the Monday a week after I was accepted to the programme, the teacher asked me where I'd been all last week. The foreign department told me to start on the 15th, but apparently classes had already begun and I was a week late. It also took me five days to find the bathroom.

Inquiries as to where so-and-so teacher is, twenty minutes after a class he was due to teach was supposed to start, are met with the same answer: "I don't know." and a disinterested shrug of the shoulders. Stumbling into the wrong class earns one very little sympathy, and elicits no offers of assistance in finding the correct classroom, but lateness is tolerated with surprising leniency. I have seen several students arrive consistently ten minutes after the morning classical training lesson has begun, and there are two students in the choreography programme here who are in the habit of rushing to and from the studio retrieving things from the dressing room during the lesson. None of this seems to be out of the ordinary.

Despite the rather chaotic lack of organisation which is so much a part of the conservatory, and the extreme shabbiness of these old walls, there is such a personal, warm atmosphere between the teachers and the students here that I feel my initial indignation being replaced by a cautious sense of appreciation.

Here they are relaxed in the administration, but within each lesson there is no one stricter, more exacting, or more specific as to the precise placement of each muscle, the timing of every breath, the angle of the eyes in every moment. This duality was something of a shock for me to experience, but I am coming to realise that perhaps the way we do things in the States puts too much emphasis on the rules, and not enough on the discipline.

One would never leave one's phone on full volume in an American classroom, and they frequently go off during morning lesson here. Yet, I have never seen such an intimate connection between teachers and students, nor such insistence that things be done in the right way, with the utmost care and presence of mind, as I have here at the St Petersburg Conservatory.

I feel more inspired here, more invigorated, and more motivated to spend time practicing and reviewing the lessons and choreography than I ever have before. Maybe it's the teachers, maybe it's the atmosphere, maybe it's this new city - or maybe a combination. Though I still feel like an outsider here, not only because of the language barrier, but because of the difference in culture as well, after my second week I feel that I am beginning to open up to this new Russian way.

first days on my own

I wasn't sure what to expect of my first week living alone.

After nineteen years at home, I was nervous about a separation of four months. My family makes the phrase 'close-knit' seem unfriendly and distant, and I won't even be home for the holidays.

But where I expected oceans of tears, instead I found a forest of quiet. My nights hold such loud silences that not even the television can drown them out, and my days are filled with the unfamiliar clamour of this city that speaks its own language.

Loneliness, apparently, is not the stuff of tragedy as I expected, but rather a silence that I carry within me.

And yet, all around me in this strange, foreign place, I find small wonders. A barking dog halts in its noisemaking and wags its tail hopefully as I walk past. An old man doodles in a notebook with palsied fingers while riding the metro. A child practices her ballet positions in the street as her mother has a heated discussion on the phone. I greet the same girl in my class every day, and today she finally smiles first and says "Privyet!" ("Hi!"). 

Through my silence, I have begun to make friends with this new, beautiful place. It's as though Peter hears my hesitant footstep, and quickly sends me something from around the corner to make me smile. "It will be okay," Peter tells me, "Don't be afraid."