Head Games

About time you broke your rules and poured us both a glass of your favorite Irish whiskey. Lots to talk about. It’s like this, reader. Take note of the picture above. The tea is from Malawi, Africa (Cheers, Josh). The mug is from Ohio. The handsome photographer is yours truly. And reader, the backdrop is Russia. Quick note: winter is quickly approaching, which means Cold War puns are inbound as well. So try not to go MAD while I KaGe a Bee or Aldrich Ames some of these jokes back at you. Apologies in advance.

I’ve moved in with Ludmila, and she has been nothing but kind, hospitable, and oddly, educational. She often asks me if I want tea. I often say yes. Exciting stuff, I know, but those reading this who know me well know that I’m out of my element when someone asks me if I want tea more than I ask them. Stepping out of a comfort zone, eh Pat? Regardless, Ludmila’s lovely, and the Behemoth and I have developed an interesting relationship. It more or less consists of me executing a task, and him getting in the way of whatever that task may be. Below, there are pictures of me attempting to read a book, write a paper, sleep,  and watch Netflix, —all of which were obstructed by, well… you get the picture(s).

I had the pleasure of attending a hockey game the other day. Saint Petersburg’s team is referred to as SKA, and their stadium is massive. It houses fans who treat hockey much like we treat…well Blackhawks hockey I guess—better to say that they love hockey like America loves football. The sport is cold, fast paced and unforgiving—like Russia. It’s a fun time; the final score was 9-4 SKA victorious. Two weeks before they just barely beat the same team. Bottom line, if you’re in Russia, it’s worth your time to check out a hockey game.

It’s October now, which means two things. One—it’s getting spooky. Two—it’s getting cold. So I did the only rational thing. I saw a ballet. “Yeah, Pat, that’s SO rationa—”glad we agree, reader. So before your pretend interruption happened, I was going to say I went to see Black Swan, or Swan Lake. Two to one odds it’s the second one but I mean watch the damn thing and you can call it Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds for all I care. No no you’re careless! Not because they both have birds but because they’re both reliant on strong female leads and phenomenal and incidentally well-timed musical scores and soundtracks respectively. Yeezy may have jumped over jumpman, but reader, no one jumps over Russian Swan Lake. All in all, the performance was quite enchanting. I’ve always had respect for ballet dancers, but I’ve never witnessed the elegance, energy and poise firsthand. It’s something to behold.

“Ballets, Pat? You went soft, we all knew this day was comi—” Yeah and the Pope’s not Catholic, the Sun revolves around the Earth, and Bruce Willis isn’t dead the whole time too I bet? You see, reader, three times a week, Brad Pitt and I invite a lot of people to shadowy basements and we all beat each other up in the name of a vague anarchist agenda. Not really— that’s a gross and unjust summary of Fight Club with Ed Norton… But I do box here. The team consists of Russians who don’t speak English save for one gentleman whom I have come to befriend out of both necessity and common interests. Practice is a bit like the game charades, but when I guess wrong I usually get punched in the face. On my first day, I was put in a group with three other Russians. They asked where I was from. I put on my Rocky Balboa pants and said “America” with my chest. Two of them were excited, laughed, and praised the States for music and movies. The one remaining gentleman, Artyom, squeezed out a smile and said “We should fight very soon.” I told him “I must break you” like Ivan Drago in Rocky IV and he laughed. Sylvester Stallone to the rescue again. They’re good people and it’s helping my Russian. Boxing style is different too but that’s another story for another time or at the very least another glass.

Also, while I’m here I’m checking out a lot of things, but if you, dear reader, have any questions or want me to look into anything for you, drop me an email or a message on the book and I’ll do my best to oblige. Another bit, looking back—my cousins always included a quote or a dialogue to kick off their posts. Well, I’ll punctuate mine with a little dialogue because I’m a fan of people more eloquent than your humble interlocutor too. It’s a long distance and a hard time difference to manage, but a toast to you all the same, dear reader! Clean your porch, buy your windows, and until next time, I hope your kettle doesn’t break.

Ken: [looking at a Bosch painting] It's Judgment Day, you know?

Ray: No. What's that then?

Ken: Well, it's, you know, the final day on Earth, when mankind will be judged for the crimes they've committed and that.

Ray: Oh. And see who gets into heaven and who gets into hell and all that.

Ken: Yeah. And what's the other place?

Ray: Purgatory.

Ken: Purgatory... what's that?

Ray: Purgatory's kind of like the in-betweeny one. You weren't really shit, but you weren't all that great either. Like Tottenham.

Ray: Do you believe in all that stuff, Ken?

Ken: About Tottenham?

In Bruges

Behemoths

Blow out the candles and grab a bottle of champagne, dear reader. It’s not every day you get to break your cousin’s record for number of blog posts from a foreign country. Take that, NASA.

Business aside, it’s been an eventful week in the Russian Federation. Oh, and a brief explanation for my fine feline friend pictured above. In the previous post, I mentioned that I would be meeting my host family this week. As it turns out, I’m an honest man and one who did, in fact, meet his host family which consists of 1.) Lovely Russian Grandmother and 2.) Behemoth, her cat (pictured above). It’s important to mention that the cat’s real name is not Behemoth but Basinka, and according to Article 250 of the U.N. Convention on the Law of the Sea and other matters no one cares about, I call the cat Behemoth in reference to Mikhail Bulgakov’s famed novel The Master & Margarita; in which one of the devil’s henchmen, a large cat, is consistently meddling in other people’s lives in dubious and often insidious ways. I’ll tell you about it in a second.

I met Ludmila at six oclock this past Wednesday in the lobby of my dormitory. After introductions, we set out for her apartment. The apartment is a fair twenty-five minute walk from the dormitory—well within the famed Lenz “walking distance” as coined by one of my uncles. In any case, Ludmila walked quickly while I professed my love for the city her family has stayed in for 100 years. When we were just outside the apartment tower, she pointed up and muttered something about a better view. Fateful words. When we entered the apartment, I took my shoes off and prayed she had slippers my size. To provide a touch of context, Russians don’t stroll about in their homes in socks like barbarians! No! “Wear comfortable flip flops, Petrik!” No complaints from me, Russia. Luckily, Ludmila’s grandchildren are taller than me and she had slippers my size. Clown feet, I know. She showed me to the room pictured below and directed me to help myself to the books while she prepared dinner.

Enter Behemoth, the devil’s henchman. At the table on the left side of the room, I helped myself to an old book outlining the history of the city. Behemoth must run this part of town, because he leapt onto the table and plopped his furry romp right onto the book I was reading. Message received, cat. I moved him on the floor. He came back up and started shedding all over the table while maintaining eye contact. I’ve never been taunted by a cat before. It’s more frustrating than I expected. Anyway, Ludmila announced from the other room that dinner was ready so I chased Behemoth off the table and tried to clean off his shedding before Ludmila entered the room. She asked what I was doing rubbing my hands on a wooden table. I reflexively said “I like table.” Might as well have said “I love lamp.” First impressions anyway… Fifteen minutes in and I already know this cat and I are going to have more beef than a Japanese steak house.

Ludmila made a lovely dinner with marinated tomatoes, a heavy salad, heavy Russian pancakes stuffed with rice, meat, and mushrooms; watermelon, chocolates and pastries for dessert. But she knows the way to my heart and gave me a hot mug of tea. She also told me that the room I was in earlier would be mine for the duration of my stay. I wasn’t sure I heard her right because, dear reader, the view is too much for one human to handle. I’ll include a picture when I move in, so for now it’s my word and your internet connection that we have to trust.

The following are pictures from Novgorod, Russia-- get your own map I don't have one.

Conversation club: No—fair guess, but not the new late night spot for your Irish-American interlocutor. Conversation club, aka Ambassadors club aka Language Deficit Commission aka Matchmaking Ceremony St. Petersburg 2016 is a small room comprised of Russian students looking to learn English, and you guessed it, dear reader, American students who would like to learn Russian. Once a week, we all speak in English to help them, and another day in the same week everyone speaks Russian so they can help us. It’s comprised mostly of Russian girls who are very interested in learning nuances in English. As a connoisseur of colloquialisms, a vice chairman of vernacular, and a sultan of slang, I feel qualified to lend my two cents (see what I mean). They are curious about what American girls are like. I have sidestepped the question, but have noticed some differences that I might touch on in a later post. I can already hear the cogs turning in my uncles’ heads with regards to the best way to tease me about some Russian bride to be. No plans for rings today, dearest uncles. 

And that’s what the Risk board looks like right now. We’re holding down Australia and making plans to crawl to Alaska for expansion into North America. In other words, things are going well, and we have plans to do even more with our time here. So finish that champagne, tell your cousins you love them, and until next time, dear reader, may your tea stay warm and your Natural Ice stay cold. 

Doom, Gloom and Booze

“Well that’s an awfully dark title, Patr-” Well maybe you should grab that bottle you didn’t finish from the last post and gather around dear reader. We’re going to make good on the promise to talk about some of the issues in this country, and it can get a little dark. We’re going to hit the dark stuff hard and fast, and get to the funny bits after so you leave with a smile hopefully. So, on the off chance that you want to kick your week off with sunshine, rainbows and vegan hot dogs, I’ll bring you to the void some other time. You have been warned.

Alcoholism: strongly associated with Russians. I’ve known a couple people who drink like fish, but dear reader, I’ve met Russians who drink like whales. It’s a problem in this country, and one that’s never good to see firsthand. Most Russian leaders have tried to stem the problem, a few preferred to profit from it. Medvedev doubled prices of vodka; Gorbachev implemented some rougher policies for people drunk in public, and Joseph Stalin monopolized the industry to give the state some extra rubles. But that’s on the periphery. Better to say it like this. Today, one U.S. dollar will fetch you around 65 rubles. At the grocery store down the street from me, the cheapest half liter of vodka goes for 190 rubles. I’ll leave the math to Davis Lenz, but you get the idea—easy access.

Crime and punishment: Not only a famous Dostoevsky tale, but also a subject worth mentioning while we’re strolling about in the bleak midwinter. I don’t like cops here. Professors don’t like cops here. No one, and I mean it when I say it, no one that I’ve met likes cops here. State monopoly on violence doesn’t mean much in your poli-sci textbook, but hearing a couple stories from Russians about the cops will show you more than Merriam Webster could. Corruption, extortion, theft—it’s all there. It’s not overt or anything, just something spoken about behind closed doors, and now blog posts. And more importantly, it offers me a great segue.

This, reader in whom I confide, is trouble. The other side of the law. St. Petersburg is home to many a neighborhood, and one of them, as shown above, is Doomskaya. Yeah—seriously. Nothing like a little doom to cap off your Saturday with the boys. Expensive drinks, people trying to hustle you, the odd, heavily-tattooed, conglomerate of gangsters—all good things. Clubs, pubs, and NC-17 backrubs are all over the place. I have yet to plunge into the depths of this area, but as sure as there’s a hole in the ghost I’ll tell you more about it when I can.

But apart from the doom and gloom and booze there is the metro. And reader, between you and me, she is a beautiful thing. Every station is well maintained and usually has a specific historical theme. Decorations, sculptures, art, and of course delightful, old, Russian women who won’t look at you or acknowledge you when you give up your seat for them. “Well Pat where are the pictu—“ No no—illegal here. For some reason you can’t legally photograph metro stations here. And in accordance with our earlier discussion about the Russian police, I have not taken any photographs. But reader, bolder men than me have taken pictures, and Google will undoubtedly have some if I’ve piqued your curiosity. The picture below is from an art museum in St. Petersburg. 

Later this week I’ll be meeting the family that I’m to stay with for the rest of my time here. Very excited to get an inside perspective on life here, as kind as the international dorm has been to me. Also, amidst the politics in the U.S., taking a peek at a funny Russian Pizza Hut commercial featuring former President Gorbachev might be worth a minute or two of your time. The link is below. Until next time, keep your porches pristine and your refrigerators well stocked!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fgm14D1jHUw

Russian Phrase of the Post: Не ходите на Думской улице (Nee Ha-deet-ye Na Doom-skoy Ulitsey) 

"Don't go on Doomskaya Street"         

Revenge and Russian Songs

Revenge and Russian Songs

Well, dear reader, we’re back for round two and we’re swinging for the fences because I have a lot of ground to cover. So grab some rye bread, a couple pickles, a bottle of vodka and we’ll get to it.

St. Petersburg was founded in 1703 by Tsar Peter the Great and people have never really been happy with the name, believe me. In 1914, at the outbreak of the First World War, the Imperial government called the place Petrograd to knock out the German words “sankt” (saint) and “burg.” Ten years later, in 1924, some guy named Vladimir Lenin died and the authorities changed the name of the place to Leningrad. We’ll skip a little history for the sake of the narrative and jump to 1991, with the collapse of the Soviet Union the name was changed back to St. Petersburg. Even today, marking the 25^th anniversary of the name change is a little contentious.

“But Pat, names are everywhere, tell us abo”—Yeah, I got it. The older history here is where the fun is. There are a number of crazy Russian characters. In the West, some buzzwords might be Yuri Gagarin (first man in space) or Grigory Rasputin (Yeah, like Anastasia). But, dear reader, allow me to introduce you to lesser known Slavs. For the gentlemen, a name worth googling is Svyatoslav – more or less the byproduct of hearty Slavic warriors and Vikings. And for the ladies, there are a number of great options, but the story I have for you today is that of Princess Olga of Kiev.

The role of a prince in medieval Russia is essentially to go ask tribes to pay tribute or make a hit list of the guys who forgot their wallets at the bar and don’t have the money. One day, Prince Igor, husband to Princess Olga, is strolling about collecting money from a tribe called the Drevlians when they decide they’d rather have Spotify Premium than keep paying poor Prince Igor. So they kill him.

Now put your Game of Thrones cap on because Olga doesn’t take this lightly. Newly widowed, Olga receives a delegation from the Drevlians asking her to marry a guy named Prince Mol. She buries them alive and sends word back to the Drevlians that they should send their noblest men and that she will accept the marriage. The Drevlians oblige, and upon arrival, Olga requests they take a load off and have a sauna in the bathhouse. She locks the bathhouse behind them and burns the place to the ground, then gathers her husband’s old army and burns the Drevlian capital to the ground. Add a little Peter Dinklage and you’ve got HBO’s new hit fantasy drama!

Today, I have not heard of any terrible acts of revenge. These are pictures from the Hermitage Museum and the Winter Palace.

Segway picture of Irish Pub in the middle of downtown Petersburg.

“An Irish pub in St. Petersburg?” Absolutely correct, dearest reader. Irish people are very much appreciated here. In Ireland, singing in a pub is a big deal. Party pieces are not uncommon. While I dabble in the realm of pub singing, there are a few Russian songs that I can belt with confidence. All thanks to Vigo Mortensen in Eastern Promises – great film. In what I thought was an empty hallway the other day, I let slip a great little song “Dark Eyes” or Очи чёрные (Oh-chee chorniye). A professor approached me and complimented my rendition of the old gypsy song. Pat the Russian singer.

Academically, the culture is rather interesting here. Professors are very knowledgeable and passionate about explaining subject matter, and are also curious to understand the perspective of young Americans (which is also a great David Bowie song). But it has only been a week. I live in an international dormitory at the moment. I’ve met folks from all sorts of places. Ghana, Turkey, Kazakhstan, Japan, China, Nigeria, Chad, England to name a few. The lingua franca here is Russian. It’s an odd dynamic to come from America, famed country of immigrants, and jump into another melting pot with the same ingredients, immigrants, but a different foundation, the Russian language. Everyone is very kind, my Mandarin is terrible, and the Africans like my two phrases in Swahili.

So that’s the current situation, dear reader. Next time I’ll talk a bit about infrastructure and some contemporary issues. In the meantime, the links below will give you some Russian enthusiasm. The first two are funny commercials; the last is the song I was caught singing.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q1zHjGO0LAk

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n_fBvJ_943w

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XMw_AmkJZVc

Russian Phrase of the Post: Простите меня (Prostitye mehnya) “Forgive me/Excuse me”

The First 48

Salutations from Russia! Yeah yeah I know-- there are three Lenz brothers and you aint one of em so who are you? Well, dear reader, my name is Patrick, infamous cousin of the Lenz family. Introductions aside, it’s probably worth providing a little context as to why a young Irish American is studying in Russia. I attend university in the United States, and study political science and economics; with the intention of working in international business in the future. Russia is a great language to learn not only because of the country’s relevance to the global economy, but also because the language itself is quite beautiful. Any questions? Great. We’ll jump in then.

On August 27^th, I landed in St. Petersburg’s airport Polkovo on a plane from Heathrow with thirty other odd individuals studying abroad. My Russian is by no means brilliant, but it’s passable and I’m good at charades. Anyway, getting off the plane, everyone hops into passport control lines, where a stoic blond officer looks at your visa, says you’re here legally, and gives it back to you with a gesture to the gate. Luckily, I was one of the first people through to baggage claim, and all of our bags have these handy green tags to help us identify them. I grabbed every bag with the green tag and as people from the program came through they could take their bag and be on their way instead of waiting by the conveyer belt. But dear reader, no good deed goes unpunished. After everyone got their bag and went through, I was still missing a bag.

So begins the saga of dealing with Russian authorities…

The bag wasn’t on the conveyer belt, so I’m assuming it’s at another belt or it’s my unlucky day and my bag is in Germany or Estonia. A Russian TSA type man was standing by the exit of the international section of the baggage claim. An older gentleman, I approached him and asked what I should do if I didn’t receive my bag. He directed me to another woman. Go straight and take a left and there’s a desk, he said. Fateful words. I followed his directions and noticed his impatience. At the next desk sat a petite blonde woman with nothing on her desk, no computer or notepad or pen. I asked if she spoke English, a question I’ve come to consider useless in the past 48 hours, and prompted her for directions on what to do about my bag. She directed me to another woman at another desk. Continue down this hallway and go left, she said. After bouncing around to 3 other attendants, I accepted the possibility that Polkovo Airport may double as purgatory in the summertime. I also realized that the entire group had left the baggage claim through the security line, and so I went past security and met with the program directors and the 29 other baggage wielding students. One of the program directors showed me to another attendant, who, after speaking to both of us in Russian, told me in fluent English to go down a hallway and take a left and tell the clerk what happened.  After this, I received my bag from the clerk she directed me to.

(This is the Winter Palace in downtown St. Petersburg in the background)

The dorm building is a large nondescript apartment complex type structure. The rooms are comprised of a common area fitted with a hot plate, a fridge and sink, as well as two separate bedrooms fitted with two small beds each, and a bathtub/shower. There is a woman who manages the hall not unlike an RA, only she’s 54, smokes more than a chimney, and likes Russian soap operas A LOT.

Before you say “Oh that’s textbook Russia, Pat!” it’s not. I’m going to stop that blitzkrieg train of thought like a Russian winter. People here are quite warm despite their cold outward appearance. Smiling is a lot less popular here, as in if you ever come to Russia don’t smile at strangers or clerks unless you make them laugh or know them. Next time, I’ll talk a little bit about history and my first week of formal education among Russians!

Russian Phrase of the Post: иди налево (ee--dee Na Leyvah) Go left