Bear with me folks, this is a lengthy one. But, you know, there are lots of good people out there.

Today I am grateful for:

Babushka

After saying goodbye to Stanislav and Angelina on the platform, I climbed up onto the wagon to find my place on the train. For my 20-hour ride from Krasnoyarsk to Irkutsk, I splurged and bought a kupe ticket, so instead of sleeping in an all-open wagon I would only share a room with, at most, three other women. One room, with doors that close! What luxury! When I slid open the doors to my room there was only a woman in her early 60’s there, sitting at the little table and eating sunflower seeds while she read a newspaper.

“Hello, I think this is my place.”

“What is your place number?”

“26.”

“Yes, your place is that top bunk.”

And she went back to reading her paper.

Based on this interaction I figured that the next 20 hours would pass fairly quietly. I (rather ungracefully, legs swinging) heaved myself and my backpack up onto my bunk. I was trying to decide the best approach to making my bed without toppling off the bunk when the train conductor came into ask which meal we would like for dinner (pasta with chicken or rice with sausage — tough luck for vegetarians.).

“She’s not from Russia,” my bunkmate said of me when the conductor turned to ask me which starch-meat combo I’d prefer. The conductor explained that I’m an American but can speak some Russian. The whole thing made me feel very young — sitting cross-legged on a bunk bed in a too-big turtleneck sweater while these two women talked about me. After the conductor left, the woman poked her head out from underneath my bed, asked a few of the usual questions (What am I doing in Russia? How long have I been here? Aren’t I cold?) and invited me to sit at the table with her.

Her name was Lydia. She lives in Krasnoyarsk and was heading to Irkutsk to visit her brother. Lydia had actually spent a year in West Virginia studying the American tax system (“You have a very strict system and that is a good thing,” she explained while I desperately tried to hide the fact that I absolutely do not understand our taxes) in order to implement some of our methods in Russia. She even wrote four books about the topic. She told me that I should write a book about my time in Russia, and when I showed her my journal and explained that I write about Russia every day, she beamed (“Молодец! Умница!”).

Lydia seemed proud of me for lots of little things in a way that deepened my sense of being extra young, but not in a condescending way. She kept telling me how smart I am — for studying Russian, for reading such a big book (The Goldfinch by Donna Tart), for reserving an all-women room on the train (“A young beautiful girl like you, you don’t need to be around those grandpas.”) I’m not sure what it is about receiving compliments from older Russian women, but it’s just the best. Like, I don’t care what anyone else thinks about me as long as Lydia thinks I’m smart and pretty.

Before getting on the train I panicked because I thought I didn’t bring enough food for the 20 hours. I didn’t end up eating a single bit of food that I brought myself thanks to my pal Lydia here.

At one point Lydia asked me if I was hungry, and I said not really, but still she decided that we should just have a snack while we waited for dinner. And this woman pulls an absolutely ridiculous amount of meat out of her bag (“You need to eat a lot of meat so you can be a stronger rock climber!”), a fully Russian meal complete with pickles and bread. I still wonder if she brought all that food with the plan to eat it all herself or if she knew she would share with whoever she bunked with.

We arrived in Irkutsk at 8 AM the next day. As we were leaving, the train conductor was visibly distressed when she found out I didn’t have anyone meeting me at the station and repeatedly asked Lydia to make sure I made it to my hostel in one piece. I think normally I would have been a little annoyed by this, someone thinking I can’t even order a taxi for myself, but more than anything I was moved by the fact that a total stranger seemed to genuinely care about my welfare.

When we stepped off the platform, Lydia’s brother and his wife were right there waiting for her. I liked her brother — he spoke in a way that made everything seem like an inside joke. They called a taxi service for me (I didn’t have the heart to point out that it would be much faster and easier to use my ride-sharing app), and they waited with me in the train station until the driver arrived.

I was sad to say goodbye to Lydia. She gave me a big hug and wished me luck, and stood waving from the sidewalk until my taxi had carried me all the way down the street.

Simply put, a very good friend.

Like I said, Olesya connected me with some of her political colleagues before I left on my trip, which is how I came to know Grisha. I have a hard time sleeping on trains, so I was still pretty tired when Grisha came to pick me up at my hostel.

I had decided to visit Irkutsk because I wanted to see Lake Baikal, but hadn’t thought much about what I’d like to do in the actual city. I thought visiting the local art museum would be a good place to start (also at this point Grisha was basically a stranger to me, so I figured if Grisha turned out to be some weirdo we could quickly through the museum and call it a day, not much commitment (and Grisha if you’re reading this, I don’t think you’re some weirdo.).). The art museum is where I realized what a good egg Grisha is. In each room, there was an attendant (invariably an old woman) who would answer questions and scold you for standing too close to a painting. Whenever I see these attendants I can’t help but think they much have the most boring job. In most museums I’ve visited the attendants are often either on their phones or asleep. But Grisha liked talking to these women, asking about different pieces and who were the portraits of and from which collector did they come from. And after these women answered he would turn to me to ask if I had understood, and re-explain in simpler terms if I needed it.

That was the best thing about Grisha — he was one of the most patient people I’ve ever met and friendly with everyone. And by friendly, I don’t mean American-Friendly, where we smile at strangers and laugh at jokes that aren’t funny. In fact, Grisha really didn’t smile much, as is characteristic to most Russians, and he always spoke quietly and slowly. But you could tell that when he was having a conversation with someone, he was really listening.

One of my last days in Irkutsk, Grisha offered to take me out to a little village on the shore of Baikal so I could see the bubbles frozen in the ice. We drove for two hours to get there, driving through the Siberian landscape that looks just like New Hampshire. There were a couple of times when we drove by fields with horses, and each time Grisha would look at them and then just say, “Лошади.” It made me think of this meme and it’s good to know it’s a universal phenomenon.

If you know me well, then you know I need to pee approximately every 20 minutes. So you can imagine my panic when we made it to the village and there were no public restrooms or even restaurants. I kept it together for about an hour while we walked around the lake, but by the time we got back to the car and were just sitting and waiting while it warmed up, I was sweating. I turned to Grisha.

“I STRONGLY need a toilet.” Sounds gross translated to English.

We drove up and down the only two roads, and nothing. There was a man smoking a cigarette on the street, and Grisha pulled up next to him to ask if there were any open restaurants open. The man asked for ten rubles ($0.16), and when I passed him the money, he said no, nothing is open this time of year. But, to my great relief, he said we could just use his toilet.

This was not my first experience using an outdoor squatty-potty in -10*F weather, but it was the first time I did so while absolutely brimming with gratitude. I stepped out of the little outhouse (which was too small for me to stand up in), feeling rejuvenated and smiling my crazy American smile. Side note: whenever I use a squatty-potty I have these intrusive visions of myself misplacing a step and one leg going right through the hole and plunging in the mess below. Using a squatty-potty covered in ice makes these visions feel all the more closer to reality.

I stood in the yard with the man while Grisha used the toilet. The man was saying something to me, but I had a really hard time understanding him. I eventually realized he was inviting us in for tea, and, not wanting to be rude, I said yes. That’s when Grisha came back, and the man told him we were going in for tea. Grisha seemed unsure, and when he looked at me, the man said that I had already agreed.

“She always agrees with everything,” Grisha laughed, and I thought he was going to add “because she usually doesn’t understand what’s going on,” but he didn’t. A good egg.

Grisha ran out to his car to get some chocolate one of his friends had recently gifted him. The man introduced me to his three cats and put some water on to boil. There were three rooms in the house — dining room, living room, bed room — with two wood stoves to heat the place (and I think could also be used for cooking?). It was an old house — he had lived there with his mother until she passed. It was pretty clear that the man was not well off; the rugs and furniture were faded and worn and I could feel the draft coming through an ill-fitted wooden door. Grisha had to carry the conversation since I couldn’t contribute much. He and the man talked about village life and how there was no work to be found. I think they talked about how people would go ice-fishing on Baikal not for fun or to sell, but just to feed themselves (as a disclaimer I’m not entirely certain I fully understood the conversation.).

I’ve had many conversations with people about poverty in Siberia. Moscow is so wealthy and developed, it almost feels like another country. Out here in central Russia, I’ve met people who only make a couple of hundred dollars a month. And this is one of the most uncomfortable parts of Fulbright — the amount of money we’re given is absolutely enormous when you consider most of us work less than 20 hours a week. Here I am, just some 22-year old kid with no relevant work experience, making two or three times as much money as the educated adults around me. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, it’s just a part of Fulbright I’m not sure many people see. This year is supposed to be an immersive experience, which it definitely is, but we also have this incredible privilege of wealth that allows us the option to expose ourselves only to the niceties of our host countries while avoiding the very real and pervasive problems our friends and colleagues face.

Maybe this isn’t the most eloquent or clearly purposed bit of this blog and I’m probably not the right person to speak on this issue. But I think about that man all the time and wonder if any of my students grew up or are now living in a similar situation.

Anyways, I’m grateful for the Man on Baikal for letting us use his toilet and sharing some tea with us, and I’m grateful for Grisha being so kind to me and to literally everyone else we came across.

The Artist and the Florist

I was in a cafe on the phone with Gabriel (the last time we talked before his deployment!) when my waitress came up to me.

“A strange question, but can I have your Instagram?”

Dasha messaged me me not long after, I think from the kitchen of the cafe. She saw the sort of photos I post on Instagram and said she also really loves photography, that she actually studied to be an art teacher. A few days later we met for coffee, joined by her husband (“Can I invite my love? He’s very funny,” she had texted me.). Dasha was only 21, but seemed older, and her husband Misha really was pretty funny.

When I mentioned that I was leaving Irkutsk the next day, Dasha told me that I have to write her when I return in June (it took maybe 48 hours in Irkutsk for me to decide that I definitely want to go back when it’s warm.). Then she reconsidered —

“Come to our house for dinner! Misha will cook something. And you can spend the night!” I didn’t love any of the hostels I stayed in Irkutsk. The day before getting coffee with Misha and Dasha, my hostel ran out of cold water (I’m not really sure how that happens when it’s -10*F outside?) and there was only scalding water that was too hot to shower or wash your hands with. So I figured staying in a real home would be a good change of pace and a nice way to end my trip.

That evening, after she had gotten our of work, Dasha met me at my hostel and we took a taxi to their home, which they had just bought not too long ago. It was basically one giant room, with the dining table in the middle, a bed in one corner and a sofa in another. Dasha’s different artworks were hung up on the walls— my favorite was a nearly-finished piece still on the easel of an old woman on a yellow background.

Dinner took a while to make because there was a lot of dancing going on. Misha pointed out that the best part of living in a house instead of an apartment is that there’s no one to yell at you for playing music too loudly. We stood in a circle while the pasta was boiling, and Misha would dance while Dasha and I copied him. And then he pointed to Dasha and we copied her, and then it was my turn to lead. We went around like this until we were sweaty and out of breath and all collapsed on the bed. We looked at the ceiling and Dasha pointed out how one of the knots in the wood looks like a cockroach. I asked them how they had met (on the internet! Take that, boomers — say what you will about millennials and technology addictions but here is the cutest couple I’ve ever met and they found each other on that wonderful world wide web.) and I told them how Gabriel and I met. They told me about their trip to Thailand and showed me their tattoos, a couple of which Dasha had done herself. I told them how I like to rock climb and they showed me a song by Russia’s most famous singer called Skalolazka (which is what you call a woman rock climber). It turned out they usually invite foreigners over for dinner when they come across them, just because it’s interesting and there aren’t too many Russian-speaking foreigners who spend much time in Irkutsk (I think the last guy they had for dinner before me was an Israeli guy named Nathan.). And, of course, they were endlessly patient every time I asked them to repeat something or as I tried to string sentences together myself.

A rushed selfie approximately one minute before the taxi arrived.

For dinner Misha made fish and pasta with a creamy sauce — it was amazing. We also had home-pickled vegetables, which is a pervasive part of Russian dining culture. Misha explained that since there were devastating famines in the Soviet Union, members of the older generation have made it a habit to preserve fruits and vegetables each year, just in case. I had brought a big purple cake for dessert, which Misha and Dasha were pretty excited about. They started chanting “Cake! Cake! Cake!” as we were slicing it.

We went to bed pretty early since Dasha had to work the next morning and I had an early flight.

“Molly, did you have any dreams last night?” That was the first thing Dasha said to me in the morning (after fifteen minutes of alarms going off and getting snoozed, not a single one of us actually getting up) and I think that gives you a pretty good idea of the kind of person she is.

When the taxi came to bring me to the airport, Dasha and Misha both walked out into the street with me to see me off. That was probably the best way I could’ve ended my trip — a belly full of kasha, hugs and cheek smooches from two new friends in a still-starry-skied Siberian suburb.