Opal Archered

Classes have once again come to a close. Spring’s in fighting form, and the world’s feeling light and manageable as it sometimes does. This being the first day of our two-week vacation, I spent the morning in bed watching Trailer Park Boys and listening to children play on the playground. While I could go outside and explore the world, I figure I’ll save that for the weekdays. For now, all I want to do is rest and relax in my blank itinerary.

I had such a perfect blog post formulated, but good fortune stole it away. It would have been a sob story for the ages, I tell you. Alas, its time has ended. Let me try to explain.

I was going to start with a description of the scene: Sitting in bed with my glasses on, a tumbler of Jameson on the rocks to my right, and a terrible desire to take a hot bath. You see, it all started a few days ago…

Open on the American Home. The Wednesday morning has turned from warm to hot. The sun glares down on the newly uncovered lawn. The scent of freshly melted snow can almost be gleaned from the air.

[Enter Al, Boss]

Al: What a wonderful day it is today. I don’t even mind that I had to take a sponge bath this morning because our hot water is gone. Maybe I’ll take a hot bath tonight when the water returns.

Boss: I need someone to give a tour of the American Home to some visitors. I also need someone to work outside for our субботник [http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Subbotnik].

Al: I’ll work outside. It’s a nice day.

——

So, John, Trevor, Darcy, Pippa, Carrie Ann and I joined the Russian staff for a little Soviet tradition of cleaning up the place. John and I spent the better part of the two hours shoveling compost and spreading fresh dirt on flowerbeds. It was hot, dirty and foul-smelling work all compounded by the fact that a barrel of burning trash and sticks pinned us between the compost and the yard.

At the end of the day, all I wanted, more than anything in the world, was a hot bath to clean off the grime and soothe my back. But when I got home, the hot water was still off. Andrea was laid up with a migraine and all I had to occupy me was a stack of final exams to grade. I decided to head back out un-bathed.

I lucked out, because John’s host had invited me to drink with them. I was embarrassed to meet them in my current condition (the smell of compost has a funny way of sticking to you). They’re wonderful people, though, and they fed me a fish dinner and gave me beers and appetizers to my heart’s content. An old college trick I learned: a beer and good company is often ≥ taking a bath.

I didn’t really have to choose between those, though. John’s host had recently built a sauna in his apartment. He heard about my hot water situation and offered to let me use the sauna and shower. Something I didn’t learn in college but is general knowledge: a beer, good company, and a sauna > most things.

So I returned home happy and full and bathed. The next morning the hot water was still AWOL, and I was starting to worry.

For my American readers, you might not have the skinny on this, but Russians tend to lose their hot water for a spell every summer. As far as I know it’s a way to repair pipes or test the water or just keep the citizens aware of the power of the government. Whatever the reasons, the hot water disappears, and everyone expects it.

The thing is, I always thought that it happened in July and lasted a week or two. My students quickly disabused me of that fantasy and laughed at my shock. They told me I would be lucky if I had hot water again during my time left here. They assured me that the hot water could go at any time and stay gone for months. I was given recommendations to find a friend with a shower or join a gym.

So there I was, without hot water, using an electric kettle and a bucket to give myself sponge baths. I thought it would be a perfect starting point for a “Hey, America, isn’t Russia strange?”  blog. I thought it would also be a perfect chance to break into the bottle of Jameson my students got me as a gift for being such an adequate teacher all semester. But, to my infinite delight and disappointment, the hot water returned this morning, as far as I know, to stay. Now I can wash my clothes and my body until the cows come home. Of course it takes a little of the drama out of the story.

I realize that this is a middle class, first-world problem, and I hope it hasn’t come off as whiny. Really, not having hot water for a few months would have saved us money, it would have given us a new experience, and it would have made for plenty of interesting stories. Despite a few small annoyances, life would continue as usual. Besides, sponge baths can be fun.

So I didn’t get to write my blog exactly as I planned it, but I did write it, and that has made all the difference, or something. More and more, the simple act of doing something, anything is becoming important to me. I’ve spent tons of time doing ‘nothing,’ and I’ve worked my ass off for other things that turned sour and fizzled out faster than a match in fog. Both can be defeating feelings, and enough of those feelings can lead a man into the land of Apathy.

Working in Russia has helped me understand just how important it is to try. To work toward something. A lot of what I have is from just waiting around for a meal ticket. I consider myself extremely lucky, but I don’t want to depend on that luck forever.

Writing has always been important to me. It always will be. I might never sell a single sentence in my life, but I’ll be damned if I let myself throw away the words I have traipsing about all day in my nut. Some of them are pretty nice words, and they deserve a chance. These words might not secure me a future or even pay for tomorrow’s lunch, but they’re something, and that’s a hellofa lot better than just waiting for something to happen.

I’ve mentioned my writer’s block before, and if you’ve ever experienced a similar feeling, you know how debilitating it can be. The thing is, though, sometimes they take away your hot water when all you want is a hot bath. Well, fuck it. You’re not getting it. That bath is gone, and it might be months before you get it again. Does that mean you’re going to go around smelling like sin for that time, or are you going to bust out a bucket and take a sponge bath with some tepid water? I, sir, am for the latter.

Godspeed,

Al

Meanwhile in Russia, someone is laying bricks on some of the balconies of the adjoining apartments. The bricks reach up to the ceilings at different heights. Some balconies are swallowed whole. I can’t imagine what the purpose of this could be, but it sure is Russian.

Andy and I helped ourselves to a little pre-dinner exploration this evening. We started off in the playground outside our apartment. It’s a tiny, wooden place with only a few objects of entertainment. We occupied the seesaw for a spell. There’s nothing like a seesaw to make you feel like a child again. We also tried the swings, but they’re the metal pole type, and we both prefer chain swings.

After the playground, we wandered out into the adjacent woods. Once again I was reminded of childhood and all those days I would spend in the woods by my house. Here the trees are thick in some places and scarce in others. Everywhere is littered with random garbage (much of it bearing English words) and traces of old campfires. As we walked, we heard lonely reports from a firearm cracking dryly in the distance.

This is one of those times when the difference of Russia is more apparent. In America, that woodland would be snatched up and utilized by the apartments, razed and paved into parking lots, or decked with “No Trespassing” signs. Here the land belongs to everyone. Yes, many people use it is a trashcan, yes, I feared stepping on used sharps, and yes, someone was apparently shooting a rifle nearby. But there is an overwhelming sense of freedom and calm there, one that I do not often find in Russia.

Regardless, we discovered that the woods are actually a great shortcut to work, so I have that now. And maybe we’ll build our own campfire out there some night and watch the Russian stars light up the Russian sky.

I haven’t written in a month. I’m sure there’s a sack-full of reasons for that, but I’ve been mulling one over in particular. My living here has ceased to be novel. I’ve reached the halfway point and waved goodbye to it. I’ve learned the ins and outs of teaching and existing in this house, however incongruous it is in the Russian landscape. At this point, writing about my days feels less and less like reporting the excitement and news of my life to those back in the States; it’s more like chronicling idle moments for a largely uninterested audience. I certainly would never have done something like this in Athens, and I feel as normal here as I did back there. Writing now feels perfunctory and flat. When I feel that way, I tend not to write.

The funny thing is I wrote that almost a month ago. You know what? It’s still true. There are plenty of stories to tell. Like the time I jumped out of a window to escape a student, or the trip to the Russian bathhouse where I jumped into hole in a frozen river. But why bother.

Time, like most things, if ignored will seem to fade away. I don’t pay attention to days, and maybe that’s for the best. It means I’ll be back in America sooner, a land I realize more and more each day is my one and only true home.

It’s been another month of sitting on this unfinished blog. I figure that makes me pretty goldang lazy by blogging standards. The funniest part is, my life here has been just crawling with intrigue and excitement. I think I’ll shoot this little guy out into the abyss of the internet and follow it up in a few days with some of my newer stories. You know, that old chestnut.

If you’re wondering, things are going well. The world is finally thawing (if you like, you can blame my absence on being frozen by the ever-present ice of the Russian winter). We haven’t had a day above 32˚ F in a long time. Today is around 65˚. For to make the cats and the world a happier place.

The world feels about three sizes larger now that the snow has melted. I’ve gone into a time machine and come out when I could still see the back yard’s grass. People are back on the streets. Birds sing. The cats are pregnant.

Another semester has slithered away into the dark corner of my memories marked “Russia.” A two-week vacation will be here soon. The teachers are venturing out of groups of three. John, Trevor and Christina are heading to Kiev. Carrie-Ann, Darcy and Andrea are going to… somewhere. Pippa is probably doing something. But your good ol’ Al is settling down in Vladimir with a stack of books, a ream of digital pages and a dusty apartment he has carefully filled with quiet and fast internet.

We’ve reached the point of the semester when I can really see the progress my students have made. We had oral exams today, and I am stupidly proud of them. Sometimes I feel like I haven’t given my all this time around. That I could have put in more effort. But that’s only sometimes. We will have a final written exam next Monday and Tuesday, and I will see what knowledge I have helped them obtain.

Some of you might be wondering why the hell I would jump out of a window to escape a student. I suppose I phrased that incorrectly at the last telling. It’s a good story, though, and I’d like to tell it to you all proper like. So here it goes:

Once upon a time, I had a student in my intermediate level. She was quiet and odd and not the best at English. She festooned herself with expensive furs and unfailingly wore a healthy coat of bright red lipstick on her lips and teeth. She wrote about Merlin in her journals and sometimes wrote odd side notes, mentioning her husband and two daughters. She would enter every class as though a pack of rabid dingoes were chasing her, throw down her things and leave just as quickly to make a phone call or remove her fur coat. The other students and I thought her peculiar.

She requested private lessons with me. Needing money, I agreed. I learned quickly that she was a few things: rich, just as crazy as she appeared, and ruder than pitch is dark. On our first lesson, she stared at the wall or table and refused to speak much, hiding her face behind her long, dark hair.  After saying many rude things concerning my station in life and native country, she further insulted me by saying to herself in Russian, “his accent is a nightmare.” She was referring the Russian I had tried to use to explain something to her. I ended the lesson promptly and wondered how I would make it through many more classes with her.

I debated dropping her as a student there, but I held on and toughed out a few more lessons. She apologized with expensive tea, expensive chocolate and a rather odd (read: suggestive) card that said (in Russian) “I love you, I want you, but the most important thing is that the feeling is mutual. “

She acted weird. I told her not to. She apologized. She began to treat me like a servant/object and disrespect me again. I told her to stop. She didn’t.

One day she came to our lesson. I was waiting for her in the living room. We got to our classroom two minutes after our lesson was supposed to begin, because I thought she was talking to the secretary. She asked me what time it was. I told her. She claimed I was stealing her time. I tried to apologize and explain and start the lesson. She ignored me, still looking down at her phone (always the phone, never my face). She called me a thief. (She had called me a liar before.) I told her I would pay for her lesson, but I wasn’t going to teach her again. As I went to leave, she stood in front of the door.

We had out classes in the basement. It’s a long, pink room with a door at one end and a window at the other. The window is sunk into a well about two or three feet deep. It was winter and the snow was high. You could see the sky over the mounds of snow if you got close to the pane and looked up.

I asked her to move and she refused. I asked her again. She tried to grab my arms to speak to me. I told her not to touch me. She grabbed one arm, and I ripped it away from her grasp. I told her to move this time. She didn’t, so I raised my voice. No one heard, and she pressed her weight against the door when I tried to pull it open. I made a quick decision and told her I wasn’t about to stay in that room with her.

I opened the window and pulled myself up into the snow of the side yard before she could realize what I was doing. I told the staff about what had happened and that I wouldn’t teach her anymore. She sat in that room until our hour was up. She tried to pay me double, but I turned down the money.

She still attends the American Home, and I still see her at Saturday activities. I do my best to ignore her. She is too rich and too obviously unbalanced to try to reason with. Just today she sent me a message on Facebook asking me to return to her. To sing her a song in which we are still together. It’s some Russian song she translated. Whatever the source, it is unsettling at best. She seems to be obsessed with me, and I will most likely have to teach her in a class this summer.

So that’s how it goes, folks. Sometimes your students give you gnomes as a parting gift. Sometimes they try to trap you in a room with their vast wealth or their vast carelessness. These things happened.

But the moustache is back.

I’m back in the Motherland, and for those of you who don’t know, I have a broken foot. Existing without the use of 50% of my locomotive abilities has led me to some interesting insights.

1. I am terribly weak. That is to say humans in general are incredibly delicate. I’ve never before had the misfortune of breaking a bone. This first occurrence was the result of stepping off the stairs improperly. I didn’t fall or trip or get hurled to the floor while a friend attempted to demonstrate a “tomahawk headlock” on me. I simply stepped wrong. And that was enough to render me practically immobile for weeks.

2. Pain medication will always make me lazy, stupid, resentful and mean. Once again having to use opiates to quell my aches makes me wonder if it wouldn’t just be easier to go without. The mental castration I experience from those drugs is enough to make me prefer physical anguish. Here’s hoping I don’t cross paths with them again any time soon.

3. Kindness is an awkward pill. The assistance I’ve received since this little mishap has shown me just what strangers can do for those they see as less fortunate. I’ve been forced to take their help, and I cannot wait until I am able to move again unassisted. I find the compassion of strangers cumbersome and unnerving. I’m not saying that I don’t appreciate every scrap of help I’ve been offered, but I would much prefer the modicum of independence I am usually afforded in Russia. I spend my days now caged in either my apartment or the American Home. A taxi takes me directly from one to the other. Most of my days are spent sitting on couches. I’m sure the other teachers resent the ostensible laziness, but that leads to my next point of insight.

4. Using crutches is good exercise. And incredibly tiring. The simple act of keeping one leg bent at all times was enough to make me wonder if I could make it through this ordeal. Besides pantomiming a flamingo in perpetuity, every time I want to go up the stairs (an unfortunate necessity in my apartment building and in the AH) I have to lift my entire body weight with my arms. That’s fine and all for short bursts, but when I have to climb the three flights to my apartment, it can be daunting. My left leg has become noticeably larger than my right now, and I’m not looking forward to getting them back in synch.

5. Being a burden sucks. I appreciate everyone’s jokes about quickening my pace and helping them move things, but this is all far from funny most of the time. Being unable to carry a glass of water by myself is a pretty defeating feeling. I don’t blame my friends for making those jokes or forgetting my predicament when they invite me to go sledding or skiing, but my temporary plight leaves me feeling down more often than not. I try to keep a cheery disposition, but it can be hard at times. Words can’t express (at least mine can’t) how happy I’ll be to finally have this boot off my foot and be able to walk unhindered again.

So, if I can give only one piece of advice for the new year, it is this: Don’t break your foot when you work in Russia. Or ever. Just don’t.

My host cat is pawing at my door right now, whimpering and crying. She’s in heat once again. This is the fourth time since I arrived. I don’t know what it is about me that allures her so, but for the past few days, she hasn’t left my side while I’m in the apartment.  She sits under me at dinner and rubs her face against my feet, or she sits on the adjacent stool and stares at me pleadingly. It will pass soon. Once again, she will hide from me in the shadows and corners of rooms. We will act like strangers. That is, until something in her little cat being tells her it’s time to try to seduce an American again. Host cats. They’re weird.

Believe it or not, there isn’t much going on in this Russian life of mine beyond my feline suitor. We’re sitting on a healthy fourteen days until my return to America, and with that kind of thought fodder in my silos, there’s little room for other considerations. Time here has vanished in a line of clumsy and languid days. I’m really not sure how four months have passed already. That’s a third of a year. If I wanted to make a math problem out of it, I could tell you that that’s almost 7.5% of my life. Regardless, I’m spreading my wings and heading back to my homeland for a brief stint in a few days. I’ve thought about it so much now, I don’t think the reality of it has even crossed my mind. Just like moving to Russia, I’ll have to be sideswiped by the realization long after I’ve landed.

Some days later…

So, I sat on this blog for a few days. Now it’s the weekend, and I feel more at ease with the writing process. I’m glad I did. Since I started this post, I’ve come up with a few more speaking points. I suppose I could have skipped this paragraph entirely, though, and just written the thing. You would have never known the difference. Oh well. What’s done is done.

A few weeks ago I was riding the bus. It was around 10:00 p.m. on a Friday, and I was on my way home from work. I’ve mentioned my feelings about being a foreigner, and I’m sure I’ve told you how safe I feel here. That being said, there are some times in this city that can make me feel uneasy. This particular night was one of them.

Friday nights usually mean the city swells with alcohol and drunken youths. Just like any city, there are undesirable characters roaming about like wolves in the night. Looking Russian myself, I usually don’t worry about them. However, being flagged as an American can be less than pleasant if you’re in the company of young, drunk Russian men.

A young man was getting ready to exit at the next stop that night. My seat was immediately next to the door, and he stood right in front of me. I noticed he was staring at me, and I did my best to ignore him. He continued to stare at me as the bus jounced down the street. I told myself that he was looking behind me or just staring off drunkenly. I dared an upward glance to confirm my suspicions. He was my age or younger and had ‘hooligan’ written all over him. His eyes were locked on mine. I surreptitiously returned my gaze to my hands and began to think of what I would do if he started to speak.

As the bus slowed to the stop, he whistled and motioned toward me with his hand. I looked up at him again and he stared me straight in the eyes. Then he gave me a thumbs up and an encouraging smile.

I tend to wear an ambiguous expression on my face when I travel on the bus. No one speaks anyway, and I don’t feel like being the weird foreigner who smiles by himself. That night I had been upset about an earlier conversation, so my blank expression had probably grown into more of a grimace. For some reason, that young, drunk Russian thought I could use a smile. Here I thought he was going to try to say something awful to me, and all he wanted was to cheer me up. I nodded at him as he left, and I smiled for the rest of the bus ride, onlookers be damned.

This is the type of interaction I live for. Probably I should have kept this little vignette in my mind pocket. Sharing private moments of any importance seems to diminish that importance. This is the case for me anyway. But, I felt like this story was a necessary supplement for the Adventures of Al in Russia-land.

Every day in Russia I am met with misconceptions and stereotypes. Do you really think bears walk the streets in Russia?! No, I’ve never heard that. Do you really think all Americans are ignorant and obese? Every day someone asks about America. Every day the Americans here make jokes about these stereotypes. It’s tiring at times, especially when the stereotypes play out. I hate that I have mistrust of young people here so deeply ingrained, but the fact is there are a lot of hooligans. Whoever that guy was, he helped break those misconceptions if only for that night. It’s nice to be reminded that people are individuals no matter where you live. Holding on to blanket statements and stereotypes does nothing but make you seem more ignorant. If anything, my going to Russia is a little war on ignorance I’m waging in my brain-space.

Having said that, earlier this week a group of hooligans came up behind me as I waited for a crosswalk light to change. They started calling me American and saying ‘How arr yoo?’ and ‘chelloo’ and other English phrases. I have no idea how they knew I was American, but I walked away from them quickly, knowing I would have to walk through a dark alley to get to class soon. I met a student of mine on the street and walked with him. The hooligans didn’t follow me, but I don’t really know what I would have done if they had.

Hooligans. What can you do with them?

Based on the fact that I have a list of topics to write still and we’re already on 1,000 words, I’m going to go ahead and say this might be a long post. Feel free to grab a snack. Or stop reading. I don’t care.

While we’re on the subject of bus rides, I saw something interesting the other day. It was on my way to work. We passed Victory Square, a WWII monument with an eternal flame. Gathered around the flame were young soldiers with rifles. Four stood around the flames while others waited behind. An older soldier goose-stepped around them, apparently demonstrating how to execute a changing of the guard. The younger soldiers mimicked his ostentatious steps and looked uncomfortable with the rifles and the task. There were many stuttered steps and bursts of laughter. Seeing their smiles confused and delighted me. There was something about seeing that practice’s being interrupted by laughs. Something about such a profound and sacred duty’s being marred by frivolity. It really made my day. Whoever says Russians don’t smile hasn’t seen a changing of a guard here.

Random thought: there are no tornadoes in Russia. At least not to my knowledge. Tornadoes were always the most horrendous, murderous beasts in my youth. I can’t imagine a land without them. I haven’t even experienced a thunderstorm since I’ve been here. I’m interested to see what winter storms will be like.

I mentioned the No Shave NovemBEARD contest. Obviously that is finished now. I still have my… stuff on my face, though. Andrea decided she had to see it in person, so being the nice guy I am, I told her I would wait until I got to America to shave. Having not cut my hair in months or shaved in more than a month, I am looking more and more like some crazy expatriate every day. I’ve also had to start wearing my reading glasses more often. (Believe it or not, sitting in front of a computer all day for four months in a row is badfor your eyes. Who knew?) I had a moment a few days ago when I looked in the mirror and didn’t even recognize myself. True story.

Yes, I have been teaching in a hat that makes me look like an elf.

Anyway, the other night one of my students gave me a present. She’s worth a blog post herself, but I’ll hold off on that for now. What you need to know is she has written about me on our website, saying I am the best English teacher she’s ever had and such. So, she got me a present. It didn’t really surprise me based on what she has said about me in the past. I have never received a present from a student, so it was really touching. I put it on the ground when I started class and didn’t think much about it.

As we were reviewing active and passive reporting clauses, my eyes wandered down to the pink and purple gift bag and landed on the Gillette packaging. She had bought me a razor and shaving cream. I had noticed that before, but I hadn’t really thought about it. I just thought getting a gift was really nice. Then it hit me, and I almost interrupted class with laughter. I still think it’s pretty hilarious, and I wonder what she will think when she sees me next class with my stupid scruff still firmly attached.

The thing is, these patches of facial hair are really starting to grow on me (har har har) and I will be sad to see them go if only because not shaving is one less thing to do in the morning.

Classes will be finished in a week and a half. I don’t know how I feel about that. I’ve never worked in semesters before, so I’m utterly exhausted. I mentioned all of this last time, and I know I said I will be truly sad to see my students go. Really, I’ve formed some of my closest bonds with them. I see them regularly every week, and we genuinely have fun together (all right, I genuinely have fun. I don’t know about them.).

Last week I received a spot of wonderfully bad news. Galina Petrovna, our director, told me that I probably wouldn’t be able to teach my C-1 classes anymore. That’s a real bummer for me because my C-1 classes are the ones where I have done the most work to make lesson plans and worksheets. Sucks, right? But! I won’t be teaching my C-1 class because I’ll probably be teaching C-2, and that means I’ll get my same students again.

I told them about that possibility and in every class there were little cries of joy. In my youngest section (c-section, haha), the section I consider my most apathetic, I told them I’d probably be their teacher again, and they actually all said ‘Yes, awesome!’ It’s the little things that make teaching worth it. I love that I have some teachers who read this blog, and I love that they know exactly what I’m talking about. I remember my mother once told me that she taught for the intangible benefits, for the moments of actually reaching someone with knowledge. I know what she meant. It’s a helluva feeling.

Just last night I was walking to my bus with a student, and he asked me how the class did on their oral exam. I told him that there was noticeable improvement from the first oral midterm. He seemed surprised, and I made a joke about how it was because I’m such a wonderful teacher. He then told me that I do an excellent job of making grammar rules easily understood. He said my classes have really helped him. I honestly consider my classes to be little more than stand-up comedy acts sometimes, so I’m beyond happy that he thought that. It’s easy to get lost in the flow of things, and sometimes I need to remember what it is I’m doing here. It’s nice to think I’m actually helping.

I’ve entered another lull in my Russian studies. It’s just so difficult to stay on top of everything here. I have so many spheres of my life that I want to develop or maintain, and they all seem to be spread so far apart. I have my language skills, my classes, my friendships here, my friendships at home, my relationship with Andy, my relationship with my family, my fitness, my relaxation, my art, my writing, my guitar, the list goes on. I have to take little steps back often to remind myself just how much I do. There are many times I let apathetic lethargy take over, and then I just sit around the office, waiting for class, doing nothing.

Finding a comfortable balance in life is all it will ever be about, and I wonder how it is that the idea of some sustained happiness can still trip up so many people. Don’t get me wrong. I’m happy, and I believe in happiness just as much as I believe in love. I just think that having some perfection conception of either isn’t worth it. I’ve heard it from the other teachers here. They want to be somewhere else or do something else. I won’t lie, I also plan for the future, but I try not to have any delusions that any change in the future will all of a sudden make life perfect. Yes, undeniably, better living situations will make life better, but that doesn’t translate to happiness. Now I’m just getting needlessly philosophical, so I’ll cut it out. In short, I try to be comfortable with myself. I try to make the best of any situation. I try to remember to laugh hard and often at the world. It’s all a wonderful joke anyway.

Speaking of jokes, how about that Russian democracy? I don’t know if any of you are aware of what has been going on here lately, but the parliamentary elections were last Sunday. As expected, United Russia won, and as expected, they cheated to do it. Protests have been springing up since, and there is a huge gathering scheduled for today in Moscow. [Side note: two horses and two ponies just went by my window. I love this country.] Putin is blaming the protests on Hillary Clinton and the US in general. Apparently we need to mind our own business and stop starting political protests across the world.

I don’t know anything about politics. I don’t like talking about them. I won’t try to spill any political commentary here, but I will say that I think this might be a mighty important time for ol’ Russia. Thousands of people are outraged at the blatant corruption exhibited by their government, and they are actually taking a stand. I recommend reading about this if you haven’t been following it. It’s ridiculous. There is absolutely no talk about it on Russian television. We’ll see how it plays out, but the word revolution has been uttered a few times in the blogosphere. Is that a word?

Well, that about sums up everything. I hope you enjoyed today’s edition. If you would like to feel just a little closer to your old friend Al, try listening to Jason Isbell. He’s been keeping me company on the bus and in the work place for the past week with no signs of leaving any time soon. I recommend his work with the Drive-by Truckers and his solo work.

Stay clean, stay safe and stay active. I’ll be in touch soon, and we’ll have some big-time laughs together.

I’ll see you all in a couple of weeks.

Love,

Al

P.S. Manya is still whimpering outside my door. Cats in heat. Ridiculous.

A picture from our early days together.

Here’s a tale for you.

The gang and I went out to have ourselves a little end-of-the-week beer this Friday. Two of my students tagged along upon my invitation. The bar we frequent, Трактиръ, was unusually busy that evening. As a quick reminder, we finish with classes every day at 9:00 p.m., so everyone in the bar was well on the way to sloshed city. One of my students suggested going to a different bar to avoid the noise and the crowd, but we decided to stay.

As the waitress dropped off our menus, we laughed as the large crowd at the other end of the bar began to shout and grunt. We figured it was some kind of celebration. The tables were all pushed together, and most of the people were gathered together into a tight knot. Before the waitress returned for our orders, one of the Russian men from the other party approached us. And then things began.

His name was Roma, and he sat down at the end of our table, bringing his own bench with him. He slammed a bottle of vodka down on the table and shouted a jovial ‘Hello.’ He asked where we were from, and as soon as he learned we were Americans, he ordered the waitress to bring shot glasses and tumblers. She brought them quickly and went back for some juice for the tumblers. Before she could get it to us, the future groom (it was a bachelor’s party, we learned) brought over a huge jug of whisky on a swivel stand. He poured out whisky into all of our juice glasses, so the waitress had to go back once again for fresh ones.

Kolya (left) was very pleased to have American friends

After a long time of shuffling glasses and rushed introductions, we toasted and drank. And drank. And drank. After the third shot I swore that I would just get that beer and go home. I was tired and in no mood to join the revelries of 20+ drunken Russian men. However, things are not so easy in Russia, and not five minutes after I put down my shot glass and declared my plans to switch from liquor to beer, I found myself at the other end of the table, chatting with the Russians, downing more vodka and sharing stories.

Happy people at happy places

We stayed for a few hours. Roma ordered us some food. We didn’t pay for a thing, but we did leave the waitress 600 rubles at the end as a tip. There was much dancing and toasting and friendship that night.

I didn’t get home early that night. In fact, I didn’t get home at all. Five of the teachers stayed over at John’s house. Once again I slept on the floor. I clocked in about three hours of sleep and promptly returned to the American Home to help Trevor prepare for his presentation. It was an exhausting but fun day that ended with a viewing of a horror flick. John made dinner at the AH, and it was nice to have the teachers there as a family.

All said, this has been an interesting weekend.

Ever unfazed, we prepared for the evening

Friends,

Tomorrow is Thursday. Tomorrow is the first day of December. Tomorrow is the 25^th day of classes at the American Home. Tomorrow is exactly three weeks before my homeward journey. Writing that makes me wish I were traveling with Shadow, Chance and Sassy, but I suppose they would have to be carried in the cargo hold anyway.

Almost nothing has changed since our last talk. I’m honestly surprised at how quickly this past week has disappeared, and that’s saying something. Once again I’m in Coffee Bean. I’m trying to fit in as much Wednesday relaxation as possible. Today we discussed procedures for the final leg of classes, which we will enter tomorrow. Thinking about the passing of an entire semester is strange. I’ve made a lot of friends with my students, and I will be sorry to have to hand them off to someone else or say goodbye entirely. Soon we’ll be taking finals and saying farewells. Ain’t that a kick in the teeth? As much as I want to take the ‘I should have done more with the time’ and ‘oh, how I’ll miss everything’ routes, I’m also quite glad to be finished. Besides, a good beer and a chat with some friends are long overdue.

Not having much to actually say, I wonder where this edition of the Opal Archer chronicles will actually lead.

We celebrated Thanksgiving as I promised we would. I helped with various dishes, but I didn’t really make anything myself unless you count steaming the Brussels sprouts.  Here’s a rundown of the food:

Pippa made some amazing (and I mean out-of-this-world) cranberry sauce that disappeared in mere seconds. She also made some vegan gravy and mashed potatoes. She might be a vegetarian, but we’ll forgive her that because she has proved herself to be a wonderful cook.

John made bruschetta, and I ate it. He diced his tomatoes. I’d never seen bruschetta like it, but it was delicious all the same.

Trevor made bread. He had some difficulties with it, but it was bread.

Jared made some tasty stuffing. I’m a big fan of stuffing, and I think he did a fine job. Respect must be given, as he is a novice in the kitchen.

Christina made some green beans, some veggies in cream and prepared two of the turkeys. She also made two apple pies. They were better than spring.

Carrie Ann prepared two turkeys and made stuffed peppers. She came early just so her lazy coworkers wouldn’t have to, and I am eternally grateful for that.

Darcy made pumpkin pie, bless her heart. She also made some corn pudding.

I think that was everything.

After the dinner, some of the teachers and I went outside to play in the snow. We made one hell of a snowman, and I carved him one hell of a face. The snow was perfect for forming, and it took me only a few seconds to get the base of the snowman a few feet in diameter. We rolled it out to the front of the house and had the rest of his assembled in minutes. It was by far the fastest construction of a snowman I’ve ever witnessed. For John, it was the first construction of a snowman he had ever witnessed in general.

Well, that’s all for now, friends. I’m off to enjoy a Wednesday evening at home.

Be safe, be warm.

-Al

I tried to make him ugly, but he came out more demonic.