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I’ll post the remainder of Kazan in a couple days, when I find the time and energy to put it all down. The trip was meaningful for a number of textural reasons that I’m having difficulty transcribing and so I I’m putting off the disappointment of seeing a lovely three days sucked into a dry husk of a blog column. Da art of storytellin’ and whatnot. Also I’ve been too busy mulling about Getting My Life In Order and the remainder of my waking hours I’m trying to devote to my studies (language is, you know, hard, man). That and quite a bit of time discussing said problems of life, order with Eric. Over beer, of course. Today it’s raining and somewhere in the neighborhood of +6 Celsius. This is pretty much freakish weather and everybody’s mood, behavior seems to have adjusted accordingly. In addition, it means a whole bunch of melted, muddy snow which amounts to a whole bunch of spoiled filthy footwear, which pretty much makes life intolerable all around. Shoes are important here, my friend. At any rate, the weather’s taken a toll on me as well and the last 24 hours have been rife with all sorts of anxiety most definitely related to weird fluctuations in atmospheric pressure. Or not. So walking home, hair wet, shoes soiled, and head all cloudy I made a couple unplanned turned and wound up at a place called noodles, where I am now enjoying free wifi and a bowl of Tomato soup. This latter has been conspicuously, tragically absent from my life and I am hereby recommending all ye fellow travelers of winter depressions to treat yourself to a bowl. Even if it’s the Warhol Campbel’s condensed variety, it’ll do you some magic.That’s all, except to say that searching my apartment last night I found a whole new stockpile of Russian dvds and music, among which was a Mitki album from the 300th anniversary of Petersburg in 2003. I am very happy. The Mitki want to conquer nobody! Давай, братишка, давай. Mine is the apartment that just doesn’t stop giving.
Also, isn’t the one-eyed jack a heart?
Probably droning, blow-by-blow travel documentation follows, proceed with caution:
I’m still a bit foreign to Russian railroad courtesies and customs, so when Eric and I sat down in our Platzkart compartment at around seven in the evening and met silence we, in shyness, didn’t say anything in Return. In Russia this is the equivalent of third class, which on a sleeping train means no doors and bunks all over the place, everyone deals with each other’s snoring and the powers that be turn off the lights at a general time. Also, most people share their food and a swell communal style develops out of the fact that everything you do affects the 3-5 people sitting or sleeping sleeping in your vicinity. Our companions for the following 25 hours were a grumbly twenty something guy taking swigs out of a hidden bottle and a younger female student who spent the five minutes before departure laughing and cooing through the window in farewell to some young fellow on the platform. After about thirty minutes and several silent rejections to our offers of crackers (we had some of the delicious “tender” variety) the silence was unbearable and I started asking the usual давай познакомимся questions. The girl, Sosha, was receptive enough, and was kind of amused by our bumbling Russian. She studies linguistics and was happy to try out some of her English. The guy, Slava, was quiet for almost all of this time until Sosha went to the bathroom. Then, taking advantage of her absence, asked if we’d like to drink some of the cranberry liquor in his bottle. Drink we did (he later refused to drink from our bottle of vodka, insisting that we partake of his higher quality sauce), and from then on he was our friend for the evening. This of course ensured that we slept nearly all day up until we made our approach to Kazan, which was something of a damper on any further conversation with those two. All the same, they seemed happy to sleep as well and Eric wanted to chug a little further into his tome of Hannah Arendt (he made several diligent attempts but the lull of the tracks and the swelter in the cabin made sleep the inevitable victor). I faded in and out to a mixture of Dolphin, Vysotsky, and a strange collection of Soviet songs cobbled together by the Mitki to the tune of sixties and seventies rock anthems.
Arriving in Kazan at around 9 in the evening felt like morning and we bounded off for hotel fatima, located just underneath the Kremlin walls which was easy enough to found on its high ground and with its mosque towering over the cathedral and tower. Kazan’s immediate impression, however, came from the city’s silence. From the station to the hotel we walked across the city and while some people and automobiles were about, the streets were incredibly quiet. On top of this the snow was white, dry, and crunchy and muffled the few noises that ventured out into the open. In addition
After showers at the hotel, a Canadian fellow named Sean knocked on our door hearing English. He didn’t speak Russian and he came to Kazan on account of a Canadian acquaintance of his who has a contract playing for the Kazanskii team. The three of us then went looking for food on the quiet streets (more difficult than you’d think) and wound up in a basement cafe with disconcertingly polite service and a 60 year old dj/guitar player providing the entertainment. We had swell food and several beers and left around 2 am only a little discontent that the sweet waitress overcharged us (the first of many slight deceptions, it turned out).
The next day we explored the center, starting obviously with the Kremlin where we watched both an Orthodox (it turned out to be Kreshenie, the Orthodox holiday recognizing the baptism of Christ) and Muslim services. Following Ivan the Terrible’s capture of the city the present-day mosque’s predecessor was razed; it was only recently rebuilt. It’s full of pristine marble, crystal, and gold-quite impressive although I couldn’t shake the feeling of an American mega church on account of the newness and some microphone problems. The rest of the day we wandered around the center and then the nearby market territory, making strategic detours through the indoor stretches and finally to a hookah bar to warm up(this latter would be the second example of getting taken for a handful of extra rubles, but no need to dwell on trifles). Also Kazan has a 4-stop metro, which we rode out of obligation; it’s pretty but also quite empty. Later, at the train station, we made the first of several attempts to figure out how to get out of town to see the Raivskii monastary and the ruins of the Bolgar civilization at a small town called Bolgar. More on this later.
Feeling obligated to explore the Kazan nightlife and meet some locals, we had originally planned to spend saturday night at the pyramid, which is an entertainment complex set inside a five story glass pyramid across from the Kremlin walls. Something about this seemed rather ominous for our already drained wallets and swiftly declining energy (did I mention we were both sick for the several days before our journey) and so we set out for the city’s main stretch of cafes and bars. Thankfully we narrowly avoided deception number three (a sneaky attempt to get us to pay an exorbitant and unannounced cover after entering and ordering two expensive beers) at a gaudy place called The Three Musketeers. Gaudy specifically referring to the faux 18th century France luxury complete with goblets and frilly table decorations and made more than just a little bit eerie by some crypt-like lighting. Also, if memory serves, silhouettes of the four swordsman stenciled on the walls. Also this place had a bar/strip club featuring in the words of lonely planet “for better or worse” male and female stripping. Chugging our Paulaners and getting the hell out of there we went to a swell pub with free pretzles, Budvar on tap, and the Serbia-Poland women’s volleyball match.
Still unsatisfied, and again eying our sliming wallets, we decided to leave and make a last ditch effort to Have Some Fun and stopped by Volga, Volga! which, unfortunately, had nothing apparently to do with the Soviet musical of the same name. In the rather small, kitsch-decorated basement that is the club we found a half-way decent band, some generic djing, and cheap beer. One of the waitresses was named Lolita and she stole Eric’s lighter; there were burly guys in suits standing at the door, disproportionately threatening considering the ambiance and clientèle. We fell in with a bunch of former soldiers who happily bought us vodka which was fine with us until everything started getting creepy. One surly fellow with a cobra tattoo (Sergei? Sasha?) complained that none of the female bar staff was “coming to him” and then after my suave consolations insisted that I drink juice with him (пей сок!) and that Vodka was bad. This in spite of his less than sober state. He later, absently, smacked Eric in the back of the head for no apparent reason. Nothing violent, just weird. When the band started playing Hava Nagila, the rest of the club went nuts dancing, while one of the soldiers in contrast turned around explaining to me, “it’s a Jewish song, not interesting” sentiment which is unfortunately not so uncommon in this country. Finally, we looked around and realized that the place was filled with intimidating, angry, and uniformly say muscle-bound men who were quite territorially eying and/or groping the few women on the dance floor. Realizing that this situation could probably only end badly for us, handsome fellows that we are, Eric wisely advised that we leave. We stumbled out into the cold night, only a little bit poorer (thanks for the vodka Sergei, слава тебе!) on a search for food which ended, rather fortunately, at a Pizza place called stingray. We ordered two pizzas and beer (at Eric’s, this time unwise but all the same heroic, suggestion) in addition to a carton of juice and some mineral waters for the next day. Absolutely delicious. In fact Stingray left such an impression that we spent the next two nights there unwinding and debriefing after our adventures with the taxi mafia. But, again, more on that in the next post.
1.14.2008
Happy old new year, y’all . The fireworks are still pounding over the city.
I just spent the last 20 minutes in an abortive attempt to use the supposedly free wifi at Carl’s Jr. It’s kind of nice when you only visit us corporate fast food to make use of free amenities like internet (the other day I dropped by McCafe based on the slightest hint of free access, also to no avail), although in the interest of full disclosure I bought a burger from the same Carl’s last week in a fit of American-nostalgia-fueled depression. It was on that visit I spotted the coveted free wifi sticker, although out of loyalty (more American sentiments) I made the 15 minute trek to city bar for my usual bi-weekly epic internet session. At any rate, after smugly buying my fountain drink (with free refills, truly a rarity in Russia) and unfurling my laptop I discovered some kind of cryptic password splash page and my hopes flashed away. Obviously there’s some kind of purchase tie-in to the connection but out of shame and perhaps a tiny bit of sleep deprivation I felt hardly the inclination to inquire with the bored , bemused, and, of course, off-puttingly stunning cashiers. I gathered my things and dropped by the corner store for depressingly domestic set of purchases: toilet paper, shampoo, detergent, and deodorant. I drank my Pepsi Light on the way home.
But speaking of American products, I found some halfway decent peanut butter a little while back and my body’s been rejoicing the return of its old staple. All the better as of late as in the apartment I found some white bread claiming to be “American sandwich” bread, and I must say it does have a nice packed in your lunch, cut diagonally quality to it. While I’m usually pretty much opposed to white bread, both in form and function (ahem), I must say it does make for a delicious pb and j.
Michael-my German ex-football player business student 16-years-older-than me roommate (it’s necessary to get that all out at once)-left today for a several month stint in Berlin. Although we’re pretty much world’s apart in terms of interests, lifestyle (well, not always, there have been some rather notable late nights together at Dacha), and general living habits (kid washes his clothes more frequently than I wash my hair, sometimes, I’m just saying..), I’ve gotten quite used to his intermittent presence in my life and I’ll certainly miss him. Last Saturday lacking the keys to the apartment, I had to wait for him in a corner cafe at three in the morning for at least 45 minutes after freezing in the -17 C post-New Year weather (I mean, finally it’s cold enough that one’s knowledge of Russian expletives improves exponentially in relation to time spent outside). I was rather unhappy about this, but the sight of Michael drunkenly bounding down Nevsky smiling and concerned about my melancholy demeanor can’t help but melt a guy’s heart. We stayed up till 6 rambling, ranting, and doing a bit of that good old guy time. My New York mate Eric is moving in tomorrow for a bout a month, so I shouldn’t be too lonely, although It will be more than a little sad to see something other than jars of barillo tomato sauce, pesto, and Norwegian cream cheese in his part of the fridge. There are rumors that Illyas, my German predecessor, is returning in February but Michael seems to think this unlikely. Anyways, here’s to a swell fellow and cross-cultural-camaraderie, of sorts.
I had a somewhat disturbing conversation today about the Orthodox church’s need to unite with the Catholic church in a holy alliance against the stirring threat of Islam. “World War III” was referenced. Disturbing not so much because of the topic, how often have I personally heard phrases like “Islamo-fascism” in my own country, as because of the genuinely sweet character of my interlocutor.
After reading Erin’s top ten list, I realized, yet again, just how barren my the last year of my life has been in terms of music, both the popular and the hipster varieties. Saturday accordingly found me roaming the cd stores of our fair city, but to no avail as both Burial and The Field were pretty much nowhere to be found. Even Foneteka, pretty much the closest thing to a hipster disc store, left me dry (always hesitant to leave a music/movie/book store empty handed, I picked up a 6 dollar copy of Jarmusch’s film Night on Earth). Maybe it’s time to start cruising the torrent sites again (the death of OiNK a couple months ago and my lacking loads of idle internet time sort of put a damper on this)?
At any rate, I did make some “Fatherland” purchases. The first is by Billy’s band, which is very much a Russian production in spite of the Chicago bar scene quality to the name (Foreign words make popular band names here, see Tequila Jazz which is very much Russian Rock and not a bit associated with either jazz or cactus-boozey music or anything else drifting out of the title). I picked this up mostly because they were screening a video of their performance at Fonoteka and the singer is pretty much a dead ringer for Tom Waits. Apparently I’m not the only one who thinks so, it turns out they have a whole disc of Waits covers (I’m only hoping that Chocolate Jesus is translated into Russian) although I’ll probably wait a bit to make that venture, I opted instead for the album titled something like “Spring aggravation.”
But actually I’ve hardly listened to Billy disc owing to my current obsession with another purchase, the latest album by Dolphin, Юность (youth). It’s the music of my life, right now, which probably doesn’t bode so well: sort of a big messy wash of drum machines, guitar noise, and muttered, screamed or (quite rarely, actually) sung vocals. It’s all the best moments in New Wave, drone rock, and whatever you want to call the last thirty years in Russian rock. They compare him here to Elliott Smith, although this probably relates more to his famous depression than his music.
As you can see, I’m in a rather parenthetical mood. Again the sleep deprivation? This later being on account of last night’s decision to help Svetlana help Lisa (“help” … you might say that academic integrity in Russia is something of a looser concept than in the states) translate several pages of an Academic Article about William S. Bouroughs. The epigraph from Lacan spelled trouble from the start and accordingly we were up until 6 trying to wrangle overly subordinated American academese into equally subordinated but inverted Russian academese. It gets even worse when you consider my still limited vocabulary, and downright silly when you consider quotes from Bouroughs himself. All the same it was a pretty fun, coffee-fueled evening and made me more than a bit nostalgic for the biweekly all nighters in the Reg I had to pull to keep up with Lauren Berlant’s Theories of Gender and Sexuality course, way back when (she is one smart person, by the way).
I’m totally getting the alone in my apartment feeling. Like noises from the kitchen and the like. It’s not that I haven’t been here alone before, more often than not Michael and I find our schedules criss-crossing, but the idea that nobody’s coming here for the next 24 hours has me all in creeps. This is why I’m sort of vomiting into my word processor. Too afraid to make a sandwich and some tea in the kitchen.
So I’ll kill the fear and move onward to the land of Internet New Yorker articles (I low tech copy-paste from their website, ftw), Jim Jarmusch, and at some point sleep. But first: my old-new-year’s resolution: Start taking notes on these totally cinematic dreams that I’ve been having. All for now.
1.3.2008
I’m rereading Seymour: An Introduction, a bottle of wine and a Chinese film into the evening, and the intermittent post New Years fireworks that are still exploding all over Petersburg are something like the remnants of sixty year old sieging shells. All the same hour to hour they remind me that someone somewhere is happy, exultant on this third morning of this new year in this country on the cusp of some unclear global status and in a world that judging from a couple of fleeting net-glances is brimming with sadness, unrest, and a vaguely absent sense of honest-to-god sanctity. And so at this moment Wong Kar Wai and Salinger (who is, I fear, by now too often in this space canonized) coincide in their expression of the feeble, febrile, and sometimes moving attempts to communicate these anxieties, this loneliness, and the noble stretch to say something to someone who will not, perhaps cannot, comprehend our love for them. And in no small way I’m also thinking of that footnote in Infinite Jest about everyone being lonely for something, someone that they neither know nor understand. Hence the wine, perhaps. At any rate, for this sometimes disheartened reader, observer, and impotent communicator the frail attempts, the muffled explosions in the night, are nevertheless meaningful, resonant.Happy new years. За новое счастье.
