Hey, I've been there ! (and I don't remember a thing) (2/19/14)

The Olympics has come up a lot in conversation lately:

-What’s the  current medal count? (which really shouldn’t matter to me…but kind of does matter to me…come on USA, beat Norway!)

-Which athletes have been locked in a bathroom, or stuck in an elevator, or accosted by stray dogs?

-Who won ice skating, slope style, curling or any of the other events I only seem to care  about every 4 years?

And when conversation turns to this year's host city , I cannot help but add, 
“You know, I’ve actually been to Sochi.”

 

And this is precisely the point in conversation where it would be nice if I had  some sort of knowing-sounding follow-up comment, such as,

“It’s such a beautiful city.”
“The beach is so nice.”
“Yes, I do remember there being a lot of stray dogs.”
but I’ve got nothing.
Nada.
Neechevo. 

Instead, I have crystal clear memory of a very long, painful, overnight bus ride en route to Sochi….and it’s not exactly the type of memory that would inspire Olympic glory.

As a college student, I accidentally earned a concentration (minor) in Russian language.

Foreign language was a requirement in college and, having not done particularly well in French in high school, I elected to use the requirement as an opportunity to start fresh in the world of foreign language.
(because clearly my issues learning French had everything to do with French and nothing at all to do with my language learning abilities....right?....right?)
Russian was definitely new, fit perfectly into my schedule first semester freshman year, and sounded exotic and cool.
Plus, when I told people that I was taking Russian, their response generally went something like:
"Russian!…really?...Russian?...Wow, that’s awesome!"
(what can I say,  I’m a sucker for a reaction)

I could have completed my language requirement in just a few semesters, but I kept signing up for classes. The Russian Department was small, so I was in class with pretty much the same  super fun group of 8-10 students every semester and there were only 2 professors, both of whom were fantastic.  Going to Russian was fun, so I kept going.

Before I knew it, I was well on my way to a concentration (minor) – all I had to do was study abroad for a semester.

Easy enough, right?

Just one problem:
Despite 3 years of study with  those fantastic (and incredibly patient) professors, my speaking ability was….lacking.
It was passable for a classroom in Minnesota, but in a real, actual Russian city, living with a real, actual Russian family? nyet.

Full disclosure - I probably didn't study enough. 

I would also, however, like to place some of the blame for my speaking ability on an intense, all-encompassing fear of embarrassment.  Part of learning to speak a language is a general willingness to flounder a little bit.  You have to be willing to try to say things, knowing that you might not always get it right and knowing that you might sound silly.

My vicious circle of language learning went something like this:
I knew I would sound silly if I tried to speak Russian.
I didn't want to sound silly.
To avoid sounding silly, I tried to get by with speaking as little Russian as possible.
Because I spoke as little Russian as possibly, my Russian speaking skills didn't improve.
Because my Russian speaking skills didn't improve, I did, indeed, sound silly when I tried to speak Russian.

Still, being so unexpectedly close to a concentration (minor), I had to go for it and applied to a study abroad program in Krasnodar – a Russian city on the Kuban River.

The program involved studying at a Russian University, but in classes with a small group of American students from other smallish liberal arts schools, and staying with a host family.

My mental state leading up to this “adventure” went something like this:

April/May of 2000 – Yay, I’m excited to be going to Russia for a semester.
June of 2000 – So, I’m actually kinda nervous  about going to Russia for a semester.
July of 2000 – I have serious concerns about going  to Russia for a semester.
August of 2000 – I 100% do NOT want to go to Russia for a semester. 
(around this time I *may* have sent an email to the study abroad office asking if there was ANY possible way I could switch programs and go to Great Britain - or any other English speaking country -  instead)
September of 2000 – I am on a plane and on my way to Russia for a  semester.

Upon landing in Krasnodar, I was immediately collected by my new host family and the whirlwind of a  transition into my Krasnodar life  began.

I was lucky to be placed with a wonderful (and patient…yes, patience is a theme with me) family – host mother, host father and host sister.

My host father worked in another city and was gone the majority of the time.

My host mother smiled a lot (not common in Russia) and cooked REALLY yummy food (very common in Russia).

My host sister spoke unbelievably perfect English - a huge boost to my comfort level…and a huge hindrance to the likelihood of my Russian speaking skills improving even a little.

With my host sister as the ideal translator, I filtered all dialogue through her and interacted as little as possible with my host parents. While not ideal for learning the language, it didn't seem to be a problem.   My host father was gone most of the time and my host mother and I both just smiled a lot...and I ate whatever delicious Russian food she put in front of me.

FYI: What Russian cooking does with sour cream is nothing short of amazing.

A few weeks into the experience, our student group was scheduled for a  day-trip to a resort town, called Sochi, on the Black Sea (approximately 200  miles away).

The plan was to meet a bus in Krasnodar around midnight, which would get us to Sochi early the next  morning. 

That particular weekend, my host sister was out of town, so, on the night that we were scheduled to leave, my host mom and I were on our own …no translator… only my limited Russian, her non-existent English, and food (a language we both spoke fluently).  She wanted to make sure that I was well prepared for the bus trip, so she made a big meal - stuffed peppers - and I, full of appreciation and unable to politely decline in Russian (like I even wanted to decline), ate everything she put in front of me.

A few hours later, she walked me to the bus to meet the group and sent me on my way with a smile.

I noticed that my stomach was a tad off as we loaded the bus,

A full bus…
and warm…
and smelly.
About an hour into the bus ride, my stomach had moved confidently from “a tad off”  to  “in serious distress”. 
and the bus rumbled on…
I was sitting next to one of my classmates, who suggested I try to sleep it off.
the heat…
the rumble…
She noted that the bus would probably have to stop at some point for gas, and maybe I could get out and walk around? 
the smell…
the lack of space…
never ending visions of those damn stuffed peppers…
That’s when I looked at my poor, trying-to-stay-positive, classmate (who was definitely sitting within the "danger zone"), with such dread that we both understood completely that there was no avoiding what was about to happen.
Self-preservation must have kicked in because she immediately stood up and yelled,
“Bag!  We need a bag!”
Somebody (Russian, American, who knows)  nearby emptied a plastic bag and threw it our direction  just in time.
(luckily, there were no holes in the bag…see the blog from June 2013 for an extraordinarily similar story where there was a hole in the bag)
Having saved an entire bus of happily sleeping Russians (and a few Americans) from a very smelly 4 hours,  my seat-mate and I relaxed for a moment.
Of course, there was still the bag.
I was feeling better, but still not exactly lucid, so, to me, the logical thing to do was to just hand the bag to my seatmate and let her take care of it. 

She made it completely clear that she did not, in any way, shape or form, under any circumstance, in any century, want it.
Not even a little.
Not even a smidge.

We thought about asking the bus driver if he could pull over, but neither of us knew how to say “Could you please pull over so we can dispose of this plastic bag of thrown up stuffed peppers?”. 
Plus, he was a pretty intimidating looking Russian guy, so there was that too.
We only had one option – the window. 
My seatmate  pulled it open and I threw the bag into the early morning darkness.
Just like that,  the evidence was gone..out of sight and out of mind along a lonely Russian highway somewhere between Krasnodar and Sochi.

From there on out, the day trip to Sochi is a blur of general unpleasantness, with a few specific moments of extreme unpleasantness:

I remember stopping at a couple of  “rest stops”, one of which was basically a long line of people waiting to squat over a pit in the ground (no walls, no doors, no privacy).  Maybe I was delirious and perhaps this is completely made up, but in my memory, by the time I got my chance to squat, I looked up to see a line of old, Russian women staring at me critically. 

I remember spending much of our day at Sochi curled up on a beach chair…still thinking about stuffed peppers.

I remember leaving my beach chair from time to time to spend a small fortune using one of the Sochi pay-per-use restrooms.

I remember getting on the bus at the end of the day, hoping there would not be a repeat of the morning.

I do not have any memory of getting back to Krasnodar or back to my host families apartment, but…

I remember waking up around noon the next day, safe and sound (and feeling MUCH better) in my own, Russian bed.

I remember walking into the kitchen where my host mother was preparing food.

I remember that she asked me how the trip went and I actually attempted to tell her - in Russian!

I remember she laughed...a lot...and hard.  I'll never know whether she was laughing at the story itself  or at the way I told it, which probably translated into something along the lines of:
“Journey bad. I gotten have bad on bus and sleep on sand all of day.”

I can't claim that I ever became a great Russian speaker, but that day in the kitchen definitely broke the ice with my host mother and, for the rest of the semester I at least gave it a try.  I guess it was all about perspective -   throwing up on a bus, squatting in front of a line of old, Russian women, and spending a small fortune at a Sochi public restroom, made speaking Russian badly seem much less embarrassing than it had previously felt.

So, yes, I actually have been to Sochi, and, from what I've seen from the Olympics footage over the past week, it looks like a beautiful place.