Errata, Sundry, and Voronezh Take 2

I would like to start with some errata from the blog. Clearly this is not an exhaustive list, but it contains some large corrections.

Vova and Kirill study Lithuanian, and not Estonian as published (ask Peter about the Dutch/Danish fiasco of 2005), and Kirill most definately has not graduated.

Speaking of publication, I feel like I have adequately forewarned and otherwise explained my parents my actions in Russia (this preface inspired by feedback from my post : "Nothing to see here"), such that I am free to post any and all my adventures here with the understanding that I am indeed being more safe than you think, but maybe not as safe as you'd like, and that some cultural differences make things not as dangerous as you'd believe. I wish I were talking about love, but that's always more dangerous than you can imagine. But then again it's Love. Love is everything : dangerous, scary, fun, an education,an addiction, thrilling,and beautiful.

Anywho, I'm actually talking mostly about hitchiking. Once a state sponsored institution (you give the driver a receipt, the driver gets money from the govn't), and now still an undying facet of Russian culture, hitchiking is a godsend for people who want to spend as little money as possible (like me!). Within the city, every car that passes by you is potentially a cab to those hard to reach pockets of moscow not near bus, trolley, tram, or metro. Drop a couple hundred rubles and you're there presto! Outside the city, it's a great way to make a long trip a little less boring with someone to talk to.

Sure enough it's just as easy as it looks. You stick your arm out, wave it about, (do the hokey pokey?) and sure as flies on shit, there's a car at the other end of your arm.

Thus starts my second journey to Voronezh. I spent 60 cents to get just outside of Moscow, a couple steps outside the MKAD, on the highway joining Moscow to Voronezh, M4. I get picked up just at the start of twilight by a delivery truck heading just a little ways south, but I'm excited, anxious even, to hop into my first catch of my life, and with a spring in my boot clad step, I swing my backpack and myself into the cab. We quickly cover the easy vocabulary : where he's from, why in the world would I want to come to Russia, what I think of Russia, what he thinks of the States. It's amazing what you can force yourself to come up with in a foreign language when you're deathly afraid of silence. Why so fearful of silence? Just the principle, I'm getting a free ride from someone, I feel like I should repay them with entertainment. I didn't let the conversation lapse once. Go me and my improving(?) Russian! Though perhaps I was being selfish, and was using this as an opportunity to practice my Russian at his expense of having to listen to my horrible accent. Oops it's 71km and this is his exit! Time for me to hop out. Nice to meet you, good luck! I walk down the road a bit, my lonley thumb getting chilly through my gloves, then turn around so potential drivers can see my irresistable smile. I turn around, and there's a semi-truck headed straight for me. I jump on the other side of the rail and the truck stops. I open the door and the driver is red in the face from laughing.

This guy is a riot. I have never seen such lewd window stickers, nor have I ever heard more foul language in any language in my whole life. It was always male-member this, female-parts that, and I've-had-intimate-knowledge-of-your-mother-go-buy-some-eyes-and-get-your-heap-of-iron-off-the-road that. He started his journey in Berlin carrying BMW's somewhere far south to the Black sea. You're going to Voronezh? I can take you all the way there! And so he did, my remaining 400km. I now know all the good and crappy cafes along M4. I also know about his pug (the one he picked up in Poland), the 20 years he spent as an officer in the army, his two degrees (law and economics), and his miserable pension (did I mention he's a semi driver?). Never has 400km passed that quickly in my life (250 miles have, however). This guy was all over the map with questions and stories. Moskovskaya oblast turns into Tulskaya into Lipetskaya into Voronezhskaya oblast. We're not far from Voronezh and we stop at a cafe to grab a bite to eat. 50 rubles for all you can eat borsch, pelmeni, and xleb. We strategize where best to drop me off, neither of us know the city, so we call it a "we'll know it when we see it" thing. On the bypass I spot a marshrutka and this would be a perfect spot to debark. We make our farewells, and I make my first step on the last part of my journey to Voronezh.

And I count my lucky blessings, route 90 is frequent service downtown! I hop on the swedish bus (you signal and the Stoppen light lights up), and we're blazing down Leninskiy prospekt, across the river and here I am! I've made it! I'm in Voronezh! At last, I've vindicated my last failed attempt to make it to this fair, 2 million city nestled in the hills divided by a river (Remind anyone of someplace? Portland maybe?).

Anyways, I think the hitchiking part is already enough for my parents to handle. I'll cut the rest of the story short (including serendipitous irony), and give general comments about the hospitability of Russians, the beauty of Voronezh, and how it awaits me for yet another visit. I'll leave you with one more story.

I got a haircut in Voronezh for 200 roubles. That was easily the most terrifying experience I've had in Russia. I walk into the salon and five women immediately stop what they're doing and all turn to look at me.

"What do you want?" One of them asks

I try to explain that I want a haircut, without knowing what the word for haircut is... They look horribly confused, "So... What color do you want?" "Color?" "Yes, Color. Blue, red, pink, silver..." "no no no, I don't want any color, I want" And I procede to pantomime a pair of scissors with my hands accompanied by snipping sounds. "Ah, all you need is just a haircut? Have a seat!"

Now, before I walked into the salon, I spotted the immenent problem of describing exactly how I wanted my hair cut. So I spent some time constructing a beautiful phrase from basic vocabulary and grammar. I had it perfect. These were all words I knew how to pronounce, I even know which sentence intonation patterns to use. And there's no way that the meanings could be mistaken for something else. So I sat down in the chair and let it rip, "Not as short as policemen. Longer on top than the sides." She looks at me and says flatly, "I didn't understand anything you said." I was flabbergasted. Doesn't she speak Russian? What a poor woman, going through life not speaking the language of her peers and friends. How can someone live thus? As soon as the surge of righteous pity left my system, I felt devastated that my Russian skills after working so well the day before would fail me now in my moment of greatest need. I shrugged it off. I said, "Do as you like". No sooner had those words escaped my lips than did I realize that I might be walk away from a haircut with a mullett for the first time in my life since 1st grade. She recognized the futility of further discussion, took her scissors and went to work. I wasn't joking when I took one look in the mirror and said to her it's never been better (Oh, *now* she can understand Russian... Sheesh).