Well Into Week 3
It is my third week in this perpetually dark land, and I have to say that I have settled in quite nicely. I have made friends at work, and have become very close friends with Tamara. I like my work (except on days like today when I had to edit an 11-page translation of a Russian bill) and the weather isn't phasing me much. I have fallen into a serious photo withdrawal and hope to bring you new material after this weekend. But enough about boring stuff!
After much discussion (with my parents and Tamara) and much deliberation (with myself) I have been forced to reconsider my all-to-harsh judgment of the people in the metro in my "drunk man and dog" story from last week. If you don't recall (or didn't bother to read : o) I was perturbed by the reactions of my fellow public-transit riders to the drunken man who stumbled by. On counts of naïveté, I must rebuke my statements. The fact is, drunkenness has choked Russian society and suffocated thousands upon thousands of families. According to the abovementioned sources, people are intolerant because all of them have, on some level, been affected by this terrible disease. Everyone knows someone who is beaten by her drunken husband or whose belongings he sold to fulfill his insatiable cravings.
The subway is a place that amazes me on a daily basis. I guess there is nothing, really, to do except stare at people and judge them mercilessly. It's not so much judging as it is drawing deep-seated conclusions about their character based on momentary glimpses into their lives. For instance, the other day there was a girl sitting directly across from me on the train and next to her sat a young man, whose relation to her was entirely unclear. Her head was disproportionately small for her already small body, and it was held upright by a thin neck. I assume her neck was thin, but I don't really know as it was barricaded on all sides by a thick turtle-neck sweater. Looking at her, I realized why it's called a turtle-neck. The mouth was so wide compared to the size of her head that it looked as though she could, if in danger, easily slip away into it. She had long brown hair and an unpleasant, although not particularly unattractive, face. When she sat quietly, she looked like she could be 13, but when she started talking to her 'friend' (and I use the term liberally) the level of I'm-fed-up-with-the-world in her face was enough to fill 30 years of life. Her 'friend' was even more peculiar than she--picture if you will: Russian gangster meets fraternity boy: baggy pants, loosely laced sneakers, an ostentatious, specious gold chain, and blonde hair with dark highlights. The outer edges of his two front teeth slanted inward, so that, naturally, the inner edges protruded forward, and his squinty eyes hid insecurity behind macho-tinted contact lenses. The roar of the metro prevented me from eavesdropping on their conversation as much as I would have liked, but I got the main gist of it: he, who didn't appear to be very bright, annoyed her to the depths of her soul with the mere utterance of a sound. Picking up on her not so subtle, hostile facial expressions, he defended his offended manliness by putting his foot down--on what I am not entirely sure, but his expressions and gesticulations implied that he let her her have it. They were clearly consumed by their unravelling situation, because not once did they notice that I was staring directly at them for a good 10 minutes. I didn't even have to do the awkward darting glance that is required when you are caught staring. No point and no conclusion...just kind of a funny scene.
Yesterday, after work, I was in a particularly dreadful mood. To remedy the situation, I shoved headphones into my ears, turned up my music (Cake to be exact) and roamed the streets of Moscow for a few hours. It was cold and wet. On a small street near my work, where in the dark everything seems to be in black and white, the changing traffic lights reflected in the wetness all around seemed to give the entire scene a red, green or yellow hue, as if someone where experimenting with this picture in Photoshop. Further out, the streets were filled with people rushing home after work. Bright lights flashed everywhere and in combination with my loud music caused a complete sensory overload. The buildings on this street (Tverskaya) are gargantuan, modern and yet exquisitely elegant. I deem Moscow the New York City of Eastern Europe. As I walked along, I was suddenly pleased to be the utter romantic that people always accuse me of being. I turned up my music just loud enough to completely muffle the outside world (which was pretty damn loud), and in doing so felt as though it was the soundtrack of my life...the movie: A girl, heartbroken, walking along the cold yet comforting Moscow streets; passing stores, bars, restaurants and cozy cafes with holiday decorations in the window. Everything around her is a mime, and all she hears is the disconnected from reality music in her head(phones). Somehow, seeing myself in this non-existent chick-flick lifted my spirits. If my life is in fact like a movie, then, like in a movie, there must be a resolution. And I don't mean to my entire life, but to this chapter of it. One day, I will look back upon the pains of today and think on them fondly, remembering how melancholy they seemed at the time. And I'll think back on it and wish that I could relive that moment knowing then what I know now...knowing how the chapter ends.
After much discussion (with my parents and Tamara) and much deliberation (with myself) I have been forced to reconsider my all-to-harsh judgment of the people in the metro in my "drunk man and dog" story from last week. If you don't recall (or didn't bother to read : o) I was perturbed by the reactions of my fellow public-transit riders to the drunken man who stumbled by. On counts of naïveté, I must rebuke my statements. The fact is, drunkenness has choked Russian society and suffocated thousands upon thousands of families. According to the abovementioned sources, people are intolerant because all of them have, on some level, been affected by this terrible disease. Everyone knows someone who is beaten by her drunken husband or whose belongings he sold to fulfill his insatiable cravings.
The subway is a place that amazes me on a daily basis. I guess there is nothing, really, to do except stare at people and judge them mercilessly. It's not so much judging as it is drawing deep-seated conclusions about their character based on momentary glimpses into their lives. For instance, the other day there was a girl sitting directly across from me on the train and next to her sat a young man, whose relation to her was entirely unclear. Her head was disproportionately small for her already small body, and it was held upright by a thin neck. I assume her neck was thin, but I don't really know as it was barricaded on all sides by a thick turtle-neck sweater. Looking at her, I realized why it's called a turtle-neck. The mouth was so wide compared to the size of her head that it looked as though she could, if in danger, easily slip away into it. She had long brown hair and an unpleasant, although not particularly unattractive, face. When she sat quietly, she looked like she could be 13, but when she started talking to her 'friend' (and I use the term liberally) the level of I'm-fed-up-with-the-world in her face was enough to fill 30 years of life. Her 'friend' was even more peculiar than she--picture if you will: Russian gangster meets fraternity boy: baggy pants, loosely laced sneakers, an ostentatious, specious gold chain, and blonde hair with dark highlights. The outer edges of his two front teeth slanted inward, so that, naturally, the inner edges protruded forward, and his squinty eyes hid insecurity behind macho-tinted contact lenses. The roar of the metro prevented me from eavesdropping on their conversation as much as I would have liked, but I got the main gist of it: he, who didn't appear to be very bright, annoyed her to the depths of her soul with the mere utterance of a sound. Picking up on her not so subtle, hostile facial expressions, he defended his offended manliness by putting his foot down--on what I am not entirely sure, but his expressions and gesticulations implied that he let her her have it. They were clearly consumed by their unravelling situation, because not once did they notice that I was staring directly at them for a good 10 minutes. I didn't even have to do the awkward darting glance that is required when you are caught staring. No point and no conclusion...just kind of a funny scene.
Yesterday, after work, I was in a particularly dreadful mood. To remedy the situation, I shoved headphones into my ears, turned up my music (Cake to be exact) and roamed the streets of Moscow for a few hours. It was cold and wet. On a small street near my work, where in the dark everything seems to be in black and white, the changing traffic lights reflected in the wetness all around seemed to give the entire scene a red, green or yellow hue, as if someone where experimenting with this picture in Photoshop. Further out, the streets were filled with people rushing home after work. Bright lights flashed everywhere and in combination with my loud music caused a complete sensory overload. The buildings on this street (Tverskaya) are gargantuan, modern and yet exquisitely elegant. I deem Moscow the New York City of Eastern Europe. As I walked along, I was suddenly pleased to be the utter romantic that people always accuse me of being. I turned up my music just loud enough to completely muffle the outside world (which was pretty damn loud), and in doing so felt as though it was the soundtrack of my life...the movie: A girl, heartbroken, walking along the cold yet comforting Moscow streets; passing stores, bars, restaurants and cozy cafes with holiday decorations in the window. Everything around her is a mime, and all she hears is the disconnected from reality music in her head(phones). Somehow, seeing myself in this non-existent chick-flick lifted my spirits. If my life is in fact like a movie, then, like in a movie, there must be a resolution. And I don't mean to my entire life, but to this chapter of it. One day, I will look back upon the pains of today and think on them fondly, remembering how melancholy they seemed at the time. And I'll think back on it and wish that I could relive that moment knowing then what I know now...knowing how the chapter ends.
posted by Liza | 7:00 AM
1 Comments:
hEppy ending
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