After a week of "goodbyes and good lucks," I have not too many tears left. Walking my friends to the bus station was hell. Through the days, feasts, talks, laughs, coffee, classes, trips, pictures, kisses, and parties, we have undertaken a journey together this semester. I have Italian, Polish, Georgian, Lithuanian, Georgian, Russian, Ukrainian, English, and Estonian colors stained on me now, and I don't really want to wash it all off.

It seems silly to say this now, but all good things must come to an end sometime--otherwise they would not be good. This semester there was a lot of good. From the beginning, our "box", or "cage" as we call it, had something that other cages didn't have. I can't put my finger on it, but we just got along better than most. No complaining, no anger, no frustration, or reservations--that was us.

Cleanliness was not a common theme in our cage, usually it was a complete mess. Studying was also not a common theme. Neither was sobriety--we threw elaborate and frequent parties. But one common thread that seemed to hold the fabric of Cage 457 together was our Love. We shared a friendship and mutual respect for each other. This Love translated into every language, every mood, everyday.

I don't understand why good things must come to an end; I hardly understand life. But should I be able to? Can one understand this craziness?

No. (read quote above) After one long year abroad, I am not concerned with "understanding" life, but instead am content to "love" it. I think that this is the most important revelation to me during this time and I am happy to share it with you.

A fellow Willamette student is staying with me and Sergio for this weekend. Brett is studying in Riga and was taking some lectures up in Tartu this weekend. I told him that we can fix a bed for him here free of charge.

Today was cleaning day in our flat. We've organized it as follows: each weekend the two roommates have to clean the entire flat. Sergio and I cleaned last weekend, and this weekend it is Slava and George's turn. It is a good system I think. While I don't think Martha Stewart would like to touch our dorm with a 29ft pole, the level of cleanliness is livable.

I get along with everybody in our flat and we're quite good friends. On nights when nobody is busy and the general mood is good then we cook dinner together. When it comes to pasta and any Italian food, Sergio is the uncrowned king and foreman. Kazik and I do the bruschetta and vegetables while Sergio is the pasta master. Last night at around 2230 we sat down to a massive pasta. Earlier in the week I had bought a big "grave" candle so we had that literally fired up as well. This is a candle that you would see in a cemetery but I assure you that I did not steal it.

Upcoming travel plans:
I am pondering doing a two week Scandinavian trip towards the end of April. Denmark, Sweden, Norway , maybe even Ireland too. Though the weather will most likely be miserable, I feel the need to stretch my legs a bit. Tartu is a little bit like Salem, OR in that sense. It is fantastic for students, but after months of the same routine you crave something different. The relative ease of travel is what I miss about living in Ukraine. There you could catch a night train to a number of different cities and make it back home on the night train again.

We had a birthday party for my roommate Sergio last night. It was quite a shin-dig. I think as the evening progressed, party goers took out pots and pans and started playing some muzak. It was quite fun, though Kazik and I had to clean up today (today was our cleaning day anyway).

I noticed that there was fuzz growing from the grease filter in the hood above the stove. I got out my pocket knife and went at it. Finally I got it down and out and tried to no avail to get that darn "gunk" out. After ten minutes Kazik and I decided that it wasn't quite necessary for the structural integrity of the building, and put it under the sink. Whenever I go and try to do a routine task, I always go overboard and go crazy on that particular task.

Recently I've been listening to a Wilco album called Mermaid Avenue. Fantastic stuff that has turned back on my appreciation for Wilco. I even went so far as to see if they were coming to Europe or Seattle any time soon.

Oh another thing I can talk about. I actually enjoy cooking for myself. I make a delicious pasta and usually use some simple ingredients, but with great results. I know that I am no French chef, but I enjoy using vegetables, olive oil, meat, pasta, wine, and sauce. I also enjoy hosting people over. I can remember when I was in Ukraine that hosting people is a big deal. Growing up in a big family with an even bigger extended family, if we were hosting family over the house would be spotless, the wine out and ready, the meat cooking, and the chips and dip sitting at attention. Without sounding like a complete prig, I'd say that hosting people is quite fun and I can't wait to do more of it.

I also am applying to be an international student advisor at WU next year. I can't really think of anything better than that and am looking forward to havin' fun.

Because I cannot put the link in all fancy like, I will hope that the good chaps at the LLC will do this for me. Here is the video of California Stars by Wilco.

Let's start with classes. Compared to the university in Simferopol, this university is much more like an American university. The classes that I am taking are masters level classes which is fantastic, but quite demanding.

The back of the bus was full, so I sat on the bench seat that faces inward. Directly across from me sat the deaf girl and directly across from her, sitting with her back to the front of the bus, was the woman. The girl seemed very happy about something and this joy caused her to whip up the air as she signed furiously to the woman across from her. I could tell that the woman also got a chuckle out of what the little girl said, but apparently it was not appropriate "talk" for a bus crammed full of people because the older woman did the universal sign for stop--slash across the neck.

At the next stop a boy roughly the age of the deaf girl boarded the bus. I was sitting right next to the exit and I noticed him standing very close to the driver. I thought his movements odd as whenever I stood that close to the micro bus drivers, they pitched a Ukrainian bus driver fit and told me to back the hell off.

In the meantime the girl had started signing again. I noticed that most of the front of the bus was watching her closely, including myself. This wasn't too hard to understand; she was wearing a bright yellow coat and a white knit hat. The coat was quilted, long, and the color of one thousand suns blazing. I swear that this little girl's coat, combined with her contagious happiness, lit up the dark bus--this coat was Yellow with a capital Y.

Finally the boy glanced over his shoulder and noticed the girl waving at him. He didn't wave back but instead began signing to her, obviously saying something nice like, "Goodmorning, how are you? How was your breakfast? Did you get the homework done that that witch Mrs.Kolokov assigned?" Or at least that's what I thought they said.

After a bit the girl excitedly began to unwrap the plastic bag that was sitting on her lap, in order to show the boy whatever was inside of it. The boy's face lit up; I got excited too. But alas, the old woman nixed it with a stern hand gesture. At the next stop all three got off, probably at the local school for deaf kids.

Fast forward to eight at night. It is raining and gloomy and I am in need of some gum from the local gastronom. Guess who was in the store?? The deaf girl in the Yellow coat! After I bought my gum, we smiled and waved at each other.

It was Life with a capital L.

My Friday schedule is a little bit different now that I am in Ukraine and on Friday afternoons I think about hanging out with Walter and shooting the breeze. Just lately, the other students and I have been volunteering some time on Wednesdays to work with kids who have physical and mental disabilities. They range in age from five to ten and know how to play. Usually when we walk in the playroom it is a HUGE deal; their favorite cars and toys are brought out and the kids shift into high gear.

I've practiced a bit out in the park and now I can just about jam some blues. Not like the guy from Blues Traveler or anything, but I can do a couple of riffs.

Today my friends and I met a woman who had one metal tooth. She warned that today was the devil's day and that we shouldn't go anywhere, buy anything, talk to anybody, or eat anything new. Strange. I made sure to do the same thing I do everyday.

Oh funny thing happened when we went to the Simferopol ballet--yes this town has a ballet. At the end of the show the audience claps in unison, not the big free for all that my American ears are used to. Johanna my friend from Sweden once commented on the fact that American audiences DO NOT clap in unison. I remember laughing at her because she said that an American audience clapping is like fingers on a chalk board for her ears. And here I am commenting on the absolute absurdity of clapping in unison. (BTW I have encountered this the uni-clap syndrome in Norway too).

The site has a huge online sailing game where you set up your boat and then try to race it. The wind charts are all real time, though simplified, and you can select a number of different sail combinations and headings. My boat is called "three sheets to the wind." I messed up on the color scheme, so it looks a bit dorky and not as cool as other boats. There are people all over the world who are playing, and it is neat to check out other people's profiles and boats.

I suffered on the first leg because I started out a couple of days late. Then to make it worse, I didn't really check my status and heading all too much while in Russia. Due to this I managed to crash into the Canary Islands AND the African coast. But all fingers are crossed for a successful second leg.

She dictated to me in Russian what she wanted to say, and I wrote the response in English. She asked me how I knew to write this or that, and I replied that I was actually from America and was studying Russian here in the Crimea. Well that just about made her night! She was so excited that she introduced herself and asked me a multitude of questions regarding the languge and my family heritage. It was great to hear her tell me that she would have never thought I was a Russian/Ukranian because I didn't look like an American.

Damnit! I had a couple of paragraphs down, but the computer didn't feel right and the rest is history. So, I'll start over and hopefully this time it will match the computer's standards.

So. I helped this woman write an email back to a man in the United States. They had found each other through some sort of Ukranian woman/American man dating service. He was 47 and a real estate lawyer living in LA. I had a difficult time translating his adjective laden information that he posted about himself. After trying to explain what sophisticated meant in Russian, without actually knowing what the damn word was, I just told her that I approve of him.

She liked what I had read about him, but wasn't sure about his picture. Ovbiously this thing had been taken on a Monday morning in his office. He wore a grey buisness suit and he was balding with a few whisps of hair left. He looked worn, like somebody spending too much of their waking hours in a brown Lexus during LA's rush hour. Natasha didn't seem to notice those details about his photo, but she did notice his skin color.

Is he Arabic?!" she asked frantically.
"No, well maybe. I don't know."
"Well, is he American?"
I took my head off of the computer mouse and turned to her. I explained to her that one can still be an American even if his or her skin color is not white. I assured her that in fact there were many different colored people in America, and yet they are all American. She seemed skeptical.

After this we talked some more. I felt akward and made up an excuse to leave for home.

I have another story to tell about a woman who I met here in the internet center, but it requires a new blog entry.

Photos:
Album 1
Album 2
Album 3
Album 4

While in Saint Petersburg, we took a boat ride through the city. Because of the fridgid weather, only Jasmine and I were on the top open air deck. As I snapped picture after picture of the beautiful cityscape, she struck up a conversation with a guy and his family. They were from England and were taking some time off from work/school to travel. Cool. Two minutes later, Jasmine decides that the warm belowdecks viewing room sounds good and leaves. As soon as she descended the stair to below, we passed under one of St. Petersburg's many bridges. I heard someone yell "JOHN!" and turned to see the Englishman's head only about two feet from the iron bridge. He tried to duck, but it was too late and as his head hit the support for the bridge he was thrown backwards, breaking through pastic chairs.

I saw him dazedly put a hand up to his head, feel around and look at his hand; it was covered in blood. As the blood started running down his face, I jumped up and looked around for something sanitary I could cover the gash with. As there was nothing except for my filthy mittens, I bounded down the stairs and demanded in Russian that the bar lady give me the medical kit. By this time a worker on the boat figured out what had happened. So. By the time that I finally got the kit from the woman behind the bar, the guy was already coming into the warm cabin. After handing a woman the kit, I resumed my seat on the upper part of the boat.

I was sort of caught up in a flood of thoughts, but I remember thinking very clearly that this guy could have died. Hell, his whole head could have come off if he had been standing up, or if the bridge had been inches lower. I was joyus that it wasn't.

Strange how twists of fate seem to lurk in the shadows of life. Thinking back about this, I am thankful that he didn't die and that his gash was going to be just fine. In fact, I consider that the best part of our trip to Russia.

Now, after a 23 hour train ride, we are in Moscow. We stepped off the train into chilly weather, a perfect wake up call after the mind numbing train ride. In these train compartments the temperature is non-negotiable, which means that you roast alive, or as Nelya said, "It feels like my insides are in a pot of boiling water." Though we had all the goodies neccesary for a 23 hour train ride (lots of greasy food, cheese, chips, vodka, beer, wine, and candy), I didn't feel up to snuff. In fact I just wanted sleep. But this warrants some explanation.

So after more eating and two more rounds of liquer, I was seeing double. After Luda toasted to the loved ones who are no longer with us, we began to talk about family. Soon I produced a picture of my own family and showed it with great pride to Luda's cousin. After some more talk she began to sing. Before I came to Ukraine I was quite taken aback by the sadness level of many of the Russian and Ukranian songs. All seem to have certain threads of melancholy. I couldn't have been more wrong! I absolutely love to listen to these songs now, even more so when the people across the gable are singing them. So she sang a couple of songs and then we had one more shot of that stuff. Honestly speaking, I could barely hold my food down at this point.

Luda had made scalding hot tea, and they brought out piles and piles of cookies, candy, sweets, and more candy. (I love sweet things.) Though at this point in the midnight dinner, they began speaking Russian to each other and of course then I couldn't quite keep up. So I gave them both a kiss on the cheek and retired to my bed.

Of course the next morning my head felt like somebody was hitting it in the crotch with a frozen sledgehammer (The Office quip). I was distressed to learn that there was no more water in our apartment, and went back to bed.

My Internet time is up now, and besides, these Russians really love shoot em up games, so I'll give mine computer up.

Bought some good local wine and enjoyed it as we gazed out at the ocean. Finally we polished off our time in Yalta by gorging on America's own McDonalds. Daniel met some German girls in the line behind him and so he was pleased to surprise them mid-way through their conversation. After the big macs, frys, and mcflurrys were gone we walked through the pouring rain to the bus station. The marshutkas were all taken, so we resorted to the world's longest (and slowest) trollybus. (no kidding it is really the world's longest trollybus route).

These babies are the aged workhorses of the Soviet Ukraine. The inside has been repainted countless times and the seats are nothing to write home about. Daniel quickly fell asleep, Thomas did whatever, and I cranked up some tunes on my headphones. The rain was POUNDING on the metal roof of the trollybus and soon every loose rivet and crack (there were alot) were leaking like mad. So, here we are chugging up this mountainside in this massive storm. Just then thunder and lightning not far away. At the top of the small mountain pass, it was blowing and storming like crazy. Wind was roaring and the sky was churning. Every time we caught a glimpse of the road, all we could see was a good, steady stream of water. All of a sudden we stopped and, caught in a big traffic jam, waited for close to 40 minutes for something to happen. As soon as we went forward, we learned that it was not a traffic jam, but a washed out part of the road that had snared the traffic. (I have a picture, I'll upload it later) By the time we got back to Simferopol it was almost midnight and I was wishing it was Saturday.

After this experience I have a profound respect for the trollybuses that work that route every day. Though the interior is painted all over, the windows must be original because they say "Made In Czechoslovakia" on on them--pretty cool.

So I came home and gathered up my dirty clothes (which was almost everything) and took them to the bathroom. I took out the big wash bins and put my soap in and put the clothes in and la da da. So feeling quite good about it all, I hung it up to dry outside on the line. I couldn't have realized that the worst was yet to come...

Now fast forward with me to after dinner. I put my dishes in the sink and retire to my room to do homework. (I would have done the dishes, if it hadn't had been for my experience last week when I did them and she started yelling at me in Russian and I decided that I would leave it to her from now on). She comes in to do the dishes and turns on the tap. Only no hot water.

Now I have been yelled at for things and have been in some tight situations before, but never like this. She went off on me in Russian and it was not pretty. Then I figured it out. She had told me previously when I first arrived that you can NEVER EVER EVER turn on both hot and cold taps at the same time to make warm water. One or the other. Aparently this does something to the water heater that warrents Luda's wrath on the perp.

After about 20-25 minutes of an evil tension between us, the damn thing started working again! By this time she had phoned probably half of her address book and two different repairmen. Needless to say my nerves were completely rattled. Even later when a concerned neighbor came over, I got another spiel on how hot water heaters are expensive here in Ukraine and how in America everything is ok because we have money to throw at things. Well, if my Russian had been a bit better I would have challenged her on the last part, but alas. I nodded and went back to my room.

So my Monday didn't start out very well...and my clothes are still wet.

After the palace and lunch we hiked up to a monestary (I will bring material tomorrow so that I can remember the specifics) that was hewn into the rock face of a cliff. I'll write more about this tomorrow.