From Phil Kiffer's regular updates from Moscow

PART III

I wandered around the train station in Irkutsk for about ten minutes and ultimately decided against sleeping there. It was about 3:30 in the morning and I made up my mind to just try and find a hotel. Ultimately, it proved to be a good decision. I later found out that the militsiya usually charge bomzh (a Russian acronym for homeless people – “people without a regular place of residence”) about 100-200 rubles a night to sleep in the train station, so I figured I could spend a little more and get more bang for my buck. I walked outside and asked the nearest cab-driver to take to me to a cheap hotel, and after some deliberation with his colleagues he said he knew one not far from the train station. It was called Vostok-Zapad (East-West, a very typical name for a Russian hotel). It was really more of a hostel, but because no one comes to Irkutsk in January I had a four-bed dorm to myself for 500 rubles a night (roughly fifteen dollars). Ordering the room was no problem, and it was clear that the first four nights on the train had been an enormous help in improving my Russian skills. I was also able to save some money by not registering – as registration is only required if one is spending more than three days in one place.
 
A quick note on registration: All foreigners are required to re-register their visas in each city they spend more then three days in, so the Russian government always has a rough idea of where they are. Similarly, all Russian citizens have an internal passport where their place of permanent residence is stamped. If they spend more than a month in a different residence – they too must re-register. The phenomena of the internal passport has been one of the few constants between the Tsarist, Soviet, and contemporary periods of Russian history.
 
After a very welcome shower (there are no showers on the train) and a cup of tea, I went to bed feeling very refreshed. The next morning I woke up in a pool of sweat barely able to breath. The room was absolutely sweltering. What seemed like a cozy room last night turned into a sauna the following morning. There was no point in complaining about the heat. As a rule Russians rarely (if ever) adjust the heat indoors during winter. It’s not uncommon to see apartment windows open in -20 degree weather if the inside temperature has risen to high. I quickly set off for the relief of the outdoors and the -30 degree temperature. I was headed for the avto-vokzal (bus station) where I could catch a marshrutka to Lake Baikal. Marshrutka are a staple form of transportation in Eastern Europe. The literal translation of the full name means – “fixed-route taxi.” They are essentially very-sketchy (sometimes windowless) vans that run between different points around a city. However, after waiting for fifteen minutes, I soon realized that my hotel was located on the outskirts of the city and no buses or marshrutki to avto-vokzal would be coming anytime soon. So I hailed a cab there which offered to take me straight to Baikal for fifteen times the price of the marshrutka, I politely declined.
 
I got into a van, and after a twenty minute wait set off for Baikal. After an uneventful forty minute trip we arrived at the small lakeside town of Listvyanka. I had heard many amazing things about Baikal – its indescribable beauty, the amazing fact that it holds 30% of the world’s fresh water (more than all the Great lakes combined). Thus, I was a little disappointed when I walked out to its shores for the first time. There it was infinite blue. Admittedly a shade of such perfect blue I’d never seen before in my life. And complimented by the light blue sky and the grey-blue fog that drifted across the lake it struck me as some sort of new outer space – a type of black hole on the planet, fenced in by the jagged blocks of ice which lined the beaches – the violent position of those jagged ice blocks (the first parts of Baikal to freeze) contrasted remarkably with the serenity of the lake. However, turning my back from the shore’s after ten minutes I admittedly wondered why I had bothered to come here?
 
In search of something to do, I wandered into the nearby lighthouse shaped hotel appropriately named mayak (lighthouse). I found a café there and ordered Baikal’s world famous delicacy – Omul’. Omul’ is a fish only found in Baikal distantly related to salmon. It’s the most delicious smoked fish in the world, without a doubt. Omul’ quickly became a staple of my time in Irkutsk. Unsure what to do with the rest of my time I decided to order an excursion at the hotel. When I handed over my passport to the desk clerk, she practically screamed – “Oh New York! You’re from New York! I dream of going there!” I had endured this conversation countless times before: “Why?” “I’ve always wanted to see a Broadway show!” “But you have great theater here! For example, the Bolshoi, Chekhov, etc. Russia has one of the greatest theatrical traditions in the world.” “But our theater is so antiquated. Broadway is a contemporary heater. Chekhov is practically unwatchable.” “Broadway often produces plays by Chekhov and other Russian playwrights!” I countered. “Maybe so, but they’re presented differently. It’s different,” she seemed to be convincing herself as she went along. “The difference is what I want to see.” There’s this New York dream in Russia that’s hard to dispel. Most Russians don’t really have a solid or concrete reason for wanting to go to NY. But maybe the desk clerk hit the nail on the head – they just want to see the difference.
 
I set off on my excursion with my guide Andrei – a local in his mid-20s. I repeatedly annoyed him by failing to adjust to one of the facts of life in Russia east of Moscow – all cars are Japanese models. Thus, out of force of habit I continued to try to step into the driver’s side after each stop. This excursion proved to be the most touristy (for the record Microsoft word just suggested I use the word “touristiest”) part of my adventure, but I wouldn’t be doing Baikal like a Russian if I did it any other way. Our first stop was the overpriced Baikal Museum – one of the few left in Russia that still uses special prices for foreigners. The second floor was relatively uninteresting – a collection of grossly discolored local fish and wildlife stuffed in jars stacked alongside the walls. This unfortunately, remains typical of Russian museums. I remember last February during a trip to NYC, I met my parents and we stopped in the Museum of Natural History, and my mother remarked on how archaic those types of displays seemed in the present day. Russia still has some catching up to do in some areas, and this is very apparent in museums. This is unfortunate because they are a magnet for tourists and thus, harmful to the nation’s image. The first floor was more fun – it was an aquarium with live exhibits. Admittedly, it’s impossible not to become smitten with the Nerpa seals there. Nerpa are one of only two species of fresh water seals in the world and only found in Lake Baikal. They are relatively hard to spot in the wild but make frequent appearances on the tourist apparel hawked around the Baikal region.
 
Our next stop was interestingly enough a ski-lift. I had never been on a ski-lift before but it was kind of cool and not at all difficult to swing on and off of, as I previously imagined. We then hiked to the top of one of the mountains that surround Baikal (not visible to me earlier because of the massive fog). Despite, the fog I gazed down at an amazing view of Baikal. It really was an amazing panorama of nature – rivers, an enormous lake, mountains (where only a few miles from us wolves and bears still roam wild). “On a clear day,” Andrei told me, “You can see clear to Irkutsk.” Nonetheless, it was quite a view.
 
Our last stop was a café for a traditional local lunch – of course I ate Omul’. Then, at my request a market where I bough several smoked Omul’ for the train ride to Ulan-Ude. I thanked Andrei and jumped on a marshrutka back to Irkutsk. In Irkutsk, I once again had no idea how to figure out the bizarre system of public transportation in the city so I hailed another cab. My driver, Vasilii, noticing I spoke with an accent, asked where I was from. I told him New York. It turns out Vasilii possessed some confused ideas about America: “I don’t want to be controversial,” he spoke passionately at about 100mph, “but tell me what you think. I think the American government and George Bush blew up the twin towers so they could get oil from Iraq. Just tell me what you think.” I simply replied that it was a complicated question and that Russia has problems with government corruption too. “Absolutely true!” he replied. “Take me. I used to be a militsiya captain, but they paid me shit. A detective! How am I supposed to do my job when they don’t pay me anything! No wonder this country has so many problems.”
 
Indeed many higher ups in the Ministry of the Interior (MVD – they run the militsiya) frequently complain that because of lack of funds, they cannot offer competitive salaries, and therefore can only recruit the dumbest and most incompetent sections of Russia’s workforce (and apparently promote them to Captain). He then changed the subject to Barrack Obama: “I am not a racist. But how! Just how! In a country with so many white people, can a black man become president? I don’t understand. Is your country in Africa?  After getting lost several times, he eventually managed to find my hotel. He gave me his number and told me to call if I needed to go anywhere tomorrow, and I was tempted to just to see if I could manage to draft a quote book before my train to Ulan-Ude.
 
So at the end of the day, I retired to my room. My train for Ulan-Ude didn’t leave until 9:30 the next night so I still had roughly a full day to spend in Irkutsk before I moved forward to the capital of the Autonomous Republic of Buryatiya. I was beginning to notice some of the backwards elements of Russia that I had heard so much about.

PART IV
 
My last day in Irkutsk was relatively uneventful. I decided to try to explore the city of Irkutsk, but by this point it was New Years Eve and everything was closed. New Years or Novyi God in Russian is the nation’s main holiday and one of the few holidays that are truly heartfelt and widely celebrated (the others being Victory Day and Orthodox Easter). The reason for this is that the Soviet Union was a secular nation and celebrations of religious holidays were frowned
upon. And besides Easter as opposed to Christmas has always been the principle holiday in all versions of Orthodox Christianity.

I eventually ended up in the one place sure never to close in Russia – a bar. I sipped on a local beer as bums shuffled into the bar, downed a shot of vodka without bothering to sit down, and left just as quickly returning when they had begged enough loose change to purchase another shot of the precious spirit.

It did give a chance to reflect on the year passed and I decided 2009 was a pretty good year despite general consensus in the opposite direction. After all, I had been living in Moscow for the past few months, was grateful for the bonds with friends and family I forged over that time, and now I was burning 9,289 kilometers (577 miles) of railway through Europe all the way to the coast of Asia.

I got a cab back to the hostel which proved an experience. First, I was shocked to have a women driver (which is basically unheard of in Russia), second she asked me to buckle my seatbelt (ditto), and third she ripped me off to the tune of 1000 rubles (not that surprising). I napped away the last five hours in Irkutsk in my uncomfortably hot room and grabbed another cab to the train station. Fortunately, the drive was uneventful.

Seeing as it was New Years Eve my wagon on the train was practically empty. I think about five out of the fifty-two beds were occupied. My one neighbor was a lawyer in her early twenties who went on at length about wanting to move into journalism in St. Petersburg. We shared my omul’ and her champagne and had an enjoyable night talking about music, travel, and journalism. To be honest, she mostly complained but they were interesting complaints – about the law, about not being able to publish the book she had already written, etc. I trusted her enough to shed my Latvian alias and was simply traveling as an American at
this point. She said the main reason she was going to Ulan-Ude was just because she wanted to spend New Years on a train for the experience. I hope I met her expectations.

We arrived at Ulan-Ude at about 6:30 in the morning. I waited in the train station for a couple of hours because it was as of yet too early to do anything. I was only in Ulan-Ude until 2:00pm. The only incident of note in those two hours was a little prank I pulled. The vast majority of people in the train station were ethnic Buryats (a Mongolian people) with a sprinkling of dark haired ethnic Russians. At one point an old Buryat sat down next to me. I waited until he was looking in my direction then I took of my hat. The poor man almost fell out of his chair. I decided not to pull that again, in fear of
giving someone a heart-attack. Also, probably only my Dad will appreciate this but they played (in English) “For 24 years I’ve been living next door to Alice,” in the train station lobby which struck me as nothing short of bizarre.

I hailed a cab outside and asked to be taken to Polshad’ Sovetov (square of the Soviets) which is the center of Ulan-Ude. The name does not disappoint. uarding the residence of the Republic’s government (as previously mentioned Ulan-Ude is the capital of the autonomous government of Buryatia) was a monument to Lenin. Now, this by itself isn’t exactly a revelation in the remnants of the former Soviet Union. However, this monument was unique. It was juts a head – an enormous head. “The biggest in the world,” my driver said proudly, “It’s in the
book of Guinness World Records.”

I decided I still had time before the next train to see more of the town. I asked my driver what else he could take me to see. “You must see our Buddhist Datsan! It’s the central Datsan in all of Russia.”

“Poekhali (let’s go)!” I replied.

We passed a few of the cities architectural monuments such as the reconstructed triumphal arch (not uncommon in Russia, built in many main cities to celebrated Napoleon’s downfall in 1812, and again after Hitler’s defeat in 1945) and the beautiful Burytian National Theater. We crossed the Selenga River (the main river in Buryatia it supplies Lake Baikal with nearly half of its water, Selenga Ulan-Ude is also the name of the cities 4th division amateur football club) and entered the road towards Mongolia. The nature was truly amazing. The road was flanked by fields of snow, pimpled with remains of Mongol fortresses
so old that their foundations are invisible under the high grass of summer and the snow of winter, and mountains stood tall in the distance in all four compass directions. After about twenty minutes my driver slammed on the breaks. Hastily rolled down the window and tossed a coin on the side of the road. He pointed up towards a mountain separated from the others with a particularly interesting shape, like a wave getting ready to crash down on the shore. “That
mountain is sacred. All Buddhists must pay tribute to it every time we pass.”

Orthodoxy never really caught in Buryatia. No doubt this is a problem of its location. In fact, Patriarch Krill recently revived the idea of a “Prayer Train” taking the faith to communities without churches. The original “Prayer Train” was commissioned by Tsar Nicholas II in the early twentieth century. Instead the main religions here are Tibetan Buddhism and Shamanism. My driver told he father was Buddhist and his mother Shaman. He described himself as Buddhist, then after thing for a second added, “also a little Shaman.” Such a mix is not uncommon. We eventually arrived at the Datsan which never closes even on New Years. He explained to me that the proper way to see the Datsan is to walk around in a circle. I was fine with this but it was very cold out that day (about -35). He was very adamant that I participate in the rituals around the Datsan – explaining that I would need the good luck for my trip and that it would help make everything right with the world. I found this a refreshing contrast to other institutions I visited which have been very guarded about people of a different faith. Throughout the monastery were wheels on polls. Usually these sets of polls were in sets of three through ten. He instructed me to put a coin down at the first set (I would only be asked to add a coin once), and spin the wheels in order, walking around them in a circle. We did this throughout our circular walk stopping at several temples on the ground. The first temple contained monks that were chanting nonstop in Tibetan while beating drums. He explained to me that they did this everyday for eight hours in order to keep all right with the world. At the front of every temple we stopped in there usually was a pitcher of sacred water which he instructed me to poor into my hands, wash my hands and face, and then drink. There were also increasingly elaborated statues of Gods (some beautiful, others monster like),
Buddha, and various llamas of Tibetan Buddhism. My driver (his name was Nikolai) prayed in front of these by pressing his palms together and then touching the top of his forehead, his nose, and his chin, before bowing. Outside on the grounds was a tree encased in glass, supposedly descended from the Bodhi under which Buddha obtained enlightenment. The last temple was amazingly beautiful, its beauty scathed only by the cash registers on the right side of the temple. At the front ride corner of the temple, Nikolai encouraged me to make a ten ruble donation and light a candle, once again so all would be
right with the world. He also decided to light one, but struggled. He had a weathered face and as the flame burned down the shaft of the match it seemed he was haunted by some misdeeds of his past or a time when all had not been right with the world. However, he eventually succeeded which struck me as a good omen. I lit my candle without struggle and we departed.

I was once again struck by the beauty of Ulan-Ude and decided if I was ever to return to Baikal I’d much rather stay at Ulan-Ude then Irkutsk. It’s an incredible place. We made our way north away from Mongolia, eventually crossed the Selenga, and reached the train station. I thanked Nikolai and we set off our separate ways. Although before he left, he recommended that my next journey should be to Tibet.

It really was enlightening (no pun intended) to see the multi-religious status of modern Russia. In Moscow, I was taught about it. However, Moscow is ominated by the domes and spires of Orthodox Churches – and the strong presence of other religions in Russia really hadn’t been demonstrated to me until this point. Officially – Orthodoxy, Islam, Judaism, and Buddhism are Russia’s only recognized religions.

After a fifteen minute wait at the train station, I was on the train to Vladivostok. The last leg of my journey had begun but I was glad that I took the time to stop at Ulan-Ude. Now I could be sure that all was right with the world.

PART V
 
Hope everything is well with all of you,

I'm sorry it took so long to get this last part out. There will be one final part after this describing my tour of Vladivostok and perhaps some reflections on the journey as a whole. Maybe some FAQs that I've received from some of you will be answered as well. Anyway, keep in touch it's been a great while since I've heard from many of you.

I walked out of the station on to the platform in Ulan-Ude. It was freezing outside as previously stated – about -35 degrees. I entered onto the train after the conductor scrutinized my ticket and passport, “Hmmm not Russian, interesting,” she muttered. I passed an old man on the way to my bunk. “You are Nemets (German), yes?” He asked in English.
“No,” I replied in Russian.
“No,” he switched to Russian, “You are freezing like a dog. That means you are German. Freezing just like the Germans did in the war.”
It would not be the last I heard from him.
The first day was a little slow. I was on one of the side bunks. The set up is one bunk is situated over the other one and the lower bunk folds into a table during the day. My neighbor didn’t speak any Russian. Like many of the people in our wagon he was a migrant worker from China headed to Chita, I eventually figured out. His friend spoke horrible Russian saying only, “У вас есть ваш, и у нас есть наш” (You have yours, and we have ours). He spoke in such a heavy accent, that I felt a sense of pride having deciphered his words.
 
I had a few conversations that day with an ethnic Avar (one of many people native to the Russian republic of Dagestan) from Azerbaijan. He told me that he spoke four languages (Azeri, Russian, Avar, and Kumyk (another Dagestani language). Americans seem to think that in the Soviet Union and Russia, people only spoke Russian. However, local languages have survived remarkably well within both the borders of the Soviet Union and modern day Russia. This was due in large part to Lenin’s somewhat detrimental national policy where he encouraged local schools to teach in indigenous languages. Case in point is that while Russian is still very widely spoken throughout the former Soviet Union nearly all the newly independent republics have reverted to their national language (Georgian, Ukrainian, Azeri, Latvian, Kazakh, etc.).
 
I also managed to meet to other people that day – neither of particular interest. One was a Tadjik also traveling to Chita for work who was trying to practice his Russian. To extend on the previous note on languages, many people in Central Asian nations today do not speak Russian at all. In fact, it is not common to run into migrant workers from those nations in Moscow who possess a very elementary command of the Russian language. The other man I met was a Russian headed to Birobidzhan – the capital of the Jewish Autonomous Oblast (more on that later). He was an aggressive character who liked to laugh loudly at his own jokes and I wasn’t overly interested in pursuing a conversation with him.
 
Tired, I retired to my sleep. I conveyed my desire to fold down the top bunk to my Chinese neighbor through a series of ultimately successful sign gestures. I managed to get to sleep and woke up relatively early as we were pulling into the city of Chita. I stepped out of the station and after a minute of aimless wandering quickly re-boarded the train. The weather was unbelievable! -42 degrees Celsius (about -43 degrees Fahrenheit)! Such cold I had never before in my life encountered, and hope that I will never experience it again. Simply unbelievable!
 
The next day was relatively uneventful. I mostly slept – I was exhausted at this point – talked a little with my neighbor who had replaced my Chinese companion. The only thing I really remember about him was that his last name was Chekhov. I did bump into an engineer (in Russian machinist) – and we ended up talking about this and that – alternating buying each other beers until we were both more or less completely drunk. Thanks, I muttered after he purchased the last round from the women who pushed a cart full of beer, vodka, and candy up and down the aisles of the train.
 
“No my friend,” he shook off my thanks, “You don’t need to say thanks – we are already acquainted. You know my name and I know yours. He then taught me some sort of Siberian handshake known between acquaintances and friends.” I collapsed in my bunk and didn’t wake up until the next morning – my last on the train.
After getting up, I soon bumped into the old man from the first day on the train. “Good morning,” I tiredly muttered.
“What’s so good about it German? You need to be careful. You could’ve been robbed blind last night.”
“Sorry,” I replied. “Things got a little out of hand.”
“Such things happen in Russia. Come to our kupe. Sit down, talk a little.”
I agreed and he introduced me to his neighbors. Two translators (husband and wife) who asked me to proofread their article on Buddhism and science. They were headed to Vladivostok for some kind of conference on Buddhism. They were both Russians, but the old men dubbed the husband – Englishman.
 
The old man himself was taking his daughter to university in Vladivostok. He told me a little about his life. He moved with his mother and other members of his family to Minnesota after receiving some sort of political protection from the US government during the turbulent Yeltsin era. However, after a year he decided he couldn’t stand Minnesota and went back to Russia for good.

His granddaughter spent most of her time quarrelling with him about something or other but always in a half-serious manner.
 
In contrast to his earlier warning, the old man insisted I drink vodka. I was hesitant but he explained that when eating pig fat (which he promptly produced a huge lump of), it was impossible to get drunk. Amazingly enough this proved correct. However, the “Englishman” translator didn’t care much for the vodka and explained to me: “Philip, I will say this in English because it is very important. The secret to buying good vodka is to read the fine print on the back of the label. Here, on this bottle it says extra (экстра, for those of you interested in implementing this advice). Always buy luks (люкс). It’s cleaner. More tasty, and there is very little difference in price.
 
I actually enjoyed the pig fat – which had a chewy and salty taste. We continued to talk until we reached Khabarovsk on the Amur river. We all dived out for something more to bring to the table. We came back with tea, bread, red caviar, sugar, and the Englishman brought back a bottle of “luks” vodka to prove his point (it is indeed tastier). The girls all commented on how pretty the table was and everyone was content with the trip. We all felt like the envy of the rest of the train. We talked the night away until the next morning when we arrived in Vladivostok – the end of the Trans-Siberian railway. I had managed to travel 9289 kilometers in one piece to arrive in the San Francisco of Russia.

--
-Phil Kiffer

December 

Hope everyone is well,

This week got off on a bad note as Russia lost to Slovenia 1-0 last Wednesday and got knocked out of the World Cup. I watched the game with my friend Sasha at the Russian dormitories. We had bought a bunch of beverages to celebrate Russia’s victory so rather than let them go to waste we had a party for Slovenia. By the way, for those of you at Dickinson complaining about DPS all the time, I’m betting you have never seen an angry security dedushka (Grandpa) wake up from a nap and run up ten flights of stairs at four in the morning.

One cool thing, Sasha’s girlfriend gave me a CD of songs celebrating Moscow’s best football club, FK Lokomotiv. It’s interesting that sports culture is so much bigger here than in the US, most of the big name bands write songs for their favorite teams. The genres were certainly a mix from folksy blues (Ty hashyol cvou komandu – “You found your team”), to national anthem style ballads (yes, sports teams here have official hymns), original rocks songs (My Chempiony – “We are champions”), and finally a remix of “Who let the Dogs Out?”


The following day, the majority of the group went to a debate on Stalin’s Legacy hosted by The Moscow News, an expat newspaper here. It was interesting to attend and listen to because it’s a debate we could never have in the United States because opinion is completely one-sided. However, it’s important to remember that Stalin was the head of government when the Soviet Union underwent industrialization, won WWII, and became a global superpower. Thus, a significant number of Russians will always view him a symbol of national pride. On the other hand, he undoubtedly purged a significant numbers from the Russian population and for that reason he will always be detested by a great number of Russians. Those two points are the basic foundation for a conflict that has been tormenting Russian society since the Khrushchev era and continues to be an agent of difference even in the highest echelons of government. Medvedev and Putin seem to have polar opposite views on the matter of Stalin and potential rehabilitation. There were a diverse number of participants including an Arch Priest of the Russian Orthodox Church, a conservative political commentator, the historian of Memorial (a human rights organization in Moscow), and oddly the head of the Socialist party of England and Wales. I agreed and disagreed with all speakers on certain levels. Although, the socialist party representative was the most bizarre as he struggled to condemn Stalin through a Marxist perspective of history (all history is the history of class conflict). This basically led to a claim that Stalin was an agent working against communism and revolution in Russia and he strived to destroy any gains of the revolution during his rule. Now, Stalin was not a good guy, but the last thing our already skewed perspective of the history of the Stalin era needs is baseless politically biased conspiracy theories.

On Saturday we took a day trip outside of Moscow to Boris Pasternak’s Dacha. Pasternak was a dissident writer, best known in the U.S. for his novel Doctor Zhivago which was later made into a blockbuster film in Hollywood. The work won the Nobel Prize for Literature (probably for anti-Soviet political reasons to be honest) but Pasternak was forced by the government to decline the award. Ironically, the novel was first published in Italian and actually not released to the Russian public until during Perestroika in 1988, more than thirty years after it was written, and long after Pasternak was dead. The dacha itself is fairly amazing. The guide was very friendly, helpful, and certainly passionate about Pasternak. The entire building is perfectly preserved with all the original furniture and wall ornaments from Pasternak’s time. Pasternak’s father did most of the drawings on the wall. I think everyone enjoyed the trip, and Kara even got to play Pasternak’s piano! I don’t think you could manage that in your typical museum. Pasternak was pretty fond of the dacha too. He died on the bottom floor after a battle with lung cancer with a smile on his face – as evidenced by his death mask.

After returning, we stopped at a bookstore near Kievskii Vokzal (the train station) and I bought a couple volumes by two of my favorite Russian poets – Lermontov and Okudzhava.

On Monday we saw a very unique presentation of poetry by Lev Rubenstein who was recently at Dickinson. I wasn’t very fond of the first part which was basically an unorthodox combinational of various musical and pseudo-musical instruments which bore a large resemblance to a couple of little kids beating various kitchenware with a wooden spoon. However, the second half was sublime despite the surprisingly few lines of spoken poetry. The instruments that increased in number and sound as the poem progressed really complimented the lyrics and even added a second level of meaning. It’s hard to explain, it’s something you have to experience. I might be able to find a video somewhere is anybody’s interested. Afterwards Mr. Rubenstein was kind enough to talk with us for a couple of minutes and pose for a few photos. Hopefully they’ll find their way to the Dickinson website.

Yesterday, interestingly enough, we went to see a musical version of Beauty and the Beast in Russian. Not exactly the most uniquely Russian thing in the world, but I enjoyed it. The translations from the original English versions of the songs were actually very clever.

As for classes, unfortunately I’ve been battling gripp (flu) recently with a temperature of about 99.3. But don’t worry I’m fine and recovering. The problem is I’ve missed three days of classes now. However, I’ve got my first major presentation tomorrow, a ten-minute speech in Russian on the history of Russian film. Wish me luck! So apart from illness, I’m still enjoying my time here. Better sick in Moscow then healthy in Carlisle, I keep telling myself.

Finally, we went to Pskov. I didn’t really know much about the city to be honest aside from its geographical location in the north-west of the country... It really is an amazing place. It’s trying to attract tourists but really hasn’t succeeded yet for reasons unbeknownst to me. Like Moscow it’s a medieval city. However, unlike Moscow one can easily reach such a conclusion at first glance. The city is surrounded by rings of walls that marked its expansion dating between the 12th and 17th centuries broken only by the roads leading to the center of the city. It used to be an important fortress for the protection of Russia against the enemy Lithuanians and Swedes, as well as an important trading center, before the construction of St. Petersburg made Pskov obsolete as both an economic and military center.

The first day we travelled around the city. Like Moscow Pskov also has a Kremlin. It’s well preserved foundations of ancient churches litter the courtyard while the main Church in the center of the Kremlin is remarkably well preserved and boasts a treasure of amazing icons, many of which have their own important history (or legend, depending on who you ask), and several are considered by the Russian Orthodox Church to be miracle working. It was an incredibly scenic place flanked by a forking river delta. Additionally, there is active archaeological work taking place, so it’s certainly worth another visit to see if they find anything interesting.

The second day turned out to be one of the most amazing days of my life, I will never forget it. I hope anyone who has the chance to follow in my footsteps will not turn down the opportunity. It began with a trip about an hour outside of Pskov to Pskovskovo-Pecherskii Monastery very close to the border with Estonia. It was the only monastery never to close during the Soviet era, and was voted one of the 7 wonders of Russia in a national poll. Its beauty is indescribable, not only the churches but also the landscape. The main road through the center of the Monastery is called the “Road of Blood.” Legend has it that Ivan the Terrible visited the monastery and after an argument with the Father Superior, decapitated the unfortunate priest with his sword. The body then extended its hands towards the Tsar and took several steps forward. Ivan, terrified, immediately repented and carried the body down the road to the main cathedral. In spring and summer only red flowers grow on the side of the road.

Afterwards we set off for the small town of Isborsk. With only a population of 700, the town is actually smaller then it was in the 14th century. We first enjoyed a 5-course traditional peasant meal at a little hole in the wall. It was an amazing combination of traditional salads, soups, pelemeny (dumplings), blinny (thin pancakes filled with honey, apples, local berries, or other sweet things, and of course tea. Following, an extremely satisfying lunch we went to Isborsk fortress. It’s an incredible 14th century fortress surrounded by steep walls and guard towers that you can climb for the meager fee of ten rubles (thirty cents) for an amazing view of the surrounding area which includes the foundation of a scenic river (once an important trading post) as well as the surrounding country and forests (the sights of many ancient battles, most notably in the Livonian War. We then exited the fortress down a narrow and winding path along between the outside walls and the edge of a steep hillside and went down to see the river. The foundation of the river is a series of streams gushing out of a natural stone wall. There are seven main streams (known as the Slavonic keys). Each one is said to bestow a specific fortune (love, health, money, etc.) on whoever drinks for it. However, one (no one is sure exactly which) is said to be the stream of death – so don’t drink from all of them!

Are last stop of the day was at a rural beekeeper. He was an outrageous, somewhat risqué, but ultimately attractive character. He enthusiastically told us about the history of agriculture and hunting in Russia before letting us sample some incredible home grown honey as well as a sampling of delicious homemade fruit wines, honey spirits, and even samogon (homemade vodka). I have no regrets about dropping a thousand rubles on his products.

This quick summary doesn’t do justice to Pskov and the Pskov Oblast, but needless to say it’s a fantastic place. It’s been relaxing and peaceful and really was a nice stress free break just at the time when work was begging to pile up due to a nasty battle with flu.

The train ride back to Moscow was a long twelve hours. I got home at about 7am and left from the university two hours later. However, I still feel great. I’m really excited to see what other amazing places this country has to offer. Of course, Moscow’s still the best. I don’t think I could live in Pskov, but it’s a great place to spend 2 or 3 days.

Anyway, I hope all of you are fine and hope to hear back from you. I sometimes wonder how the campus is handling all the changes that have been on the agenda recently.

I hope to right more in the near future. Keep me updated on your comings and goings, life back at Dickinson, and any other news of interest.

Well,

Vsevo Dobrovo,

-Phil Kiffer

November

Hey guys,

I'm sorry I've been so bad with correspondance. I've decided to send out regular "mass e-mails" to friends and family in order to try to simplify my correspondance and be in touch with all of you on a regular basis.

I've been very busy the past three months but things are going great. Russia really is a wonderful country. The only problem is its been eternally overcast recently. I haven't seen the sun in almost a month. and we only get about 6 hours of daylight a day. It's already dark by 4:00.

Classes are going well. 4 are in Russian and are based on improving and perfecting language skills. I have one class in English which is an analysis of all aspects of contemporary Russia. My professor is quite an interesting character. He's a Marxist but is very critical of the Soviet Union and spent about a year in prison in the Brezhnev era for dissidence and later did a second spell under Yeltsin when he was a member of the Russian parliament for protesting his coup.

I've done too much over the last three months to recount but I'll provide you with a rundown of my weekend. On Friday after class we went to a piano concert featuring too of the most famous pianists in contemporary Russia. The next Saturday I went to an open air market in Ismailovskaya whioch featured pretty much anything Russian you could possibly imagine (samovars, chess sets, relics of the Red Army) at low prices.Then we set off for the Puskin Museum of Fine Art. The museum is an interesting place but much more European then other museums in Moscow. They had a fantastic collection of Greek and Roman sculptures (but most were replicas).
Finally, we went to the Luzhniki Stadium and bought some tickets to the World Cup Qualifier with Slovenia from scalpers. The game was great. Russia won 2-1. The atmosphere was incredible. Maybe even better than at Beaver Stadium?

Today after work (I teach two Russian grade school students English) I went to Gorkii's house with one of my professors and a couple other students from Dickinson. I'm not a big fan of Gorkii but the house is worth a visit just to admire the art-noveau architecture. Many people call it the most beautiful building in Moscow.

Well, once again I apologise for the brevity of this letter and my poor correspondance. I hope this finds all of you well and in good spirits.