The bureaucracy of a purchase

I wanted to extend my time at the university by an extra week because I have an excellent teacher, I enjoy my classmates, and I wanted to get as much as possible out of my remaining time in Belarus. With some effort over a few days, I got agreement from the university to extend my contract on a pro-rata basis. A few days later I finally received my invoice in triplicate, just hours before I had to leave for Gomel to renew my residency permit. They wanted US$47.

I took the invoices and a hundred-dollar bill down to the university’s cashier and waited in line. When I finally reached the window, they pointed out to me that my invoice instructed me to go to a certain bank across town. I went to Gomel instead.

Saturday morning I got up early after returning from Gomel with my snazzy new forty-year residency permit. I went straight to the bank to pay for my extra week of studies, and then I came straight back home. Nothing happened at the bank because that branch doesn’t offer weekend service.

Undaunted, I returned to the bank after class on Monday, yesterday. Once again I presented my triplicate invoice, residency permit and hundred-dollar bill. The cashier scrutinized the money and decided it looked real. Then she scrutinized my invoices and my residency permit. Repeatedly. Then she told me that my passport number didn’t match. I didn’t figure out the problem right away and I offered her my American passport. This did not impress her either. I finally realized that she wanted to confirm the number on my residency permit, which I’d just finished replacing. I explained the reason for her confusion and she explained that I’d have to go get new invoices and bring them back to her.

Wait a minute, I objected. I’m standing here with an invoice and money to pay it. Surely my registration number cannot enhance this purchase in any way. The same bank would convert my US dollars to Belarus rubles with no documentation whatsoever. I have no idea why documentation is so important when instead they get to keep the money and don’t have to give me anything in return. My arguments notwithstanding, they have their rules and they’re sticking to them. Go home!

I decided to drop out of the university and stop wasting time trying to spend money. Friends offered to try to keep me up to speed on a week’s worth of studies anyway. But the long arm of the university administration reached me in spite of my intentions. There’s a presidential mandate for all state businesses to increase revenue, and by golly these guys want to get those forty-seven dollars from me. I insisted that I won’t pay. They responded by offering that I could pay in Belarus rubles at the university cashier. Mollified by this compromise, I have paid. I have done my part in supporting the presidential revenue-enhancement mandate, and everybody else has done their own parts in reminding the foreigner that Belarus has some of the finest bureaucrats in the world. Caveat emptor!

Old debt

In the autumn of 2008 I took a room in the foreign student dormitory for my first month of studies at the Minsk State Linguistic University. It didn't cost much and I paid all fees immediately when asked. If I had any receipts from this adventure, I threw them out long ago. Since the authorities chose to let me out of the country, I felt confident that everybody agreed that I had no outstanding debts.

Imagine my surprise then, when the administrator of the foreign-student language program called me out of class today and explained that I have an unpaid balance of over 42,000 rubles for the time I lived in the dormitory. I wondered momentarily if I should be shocked by this news, but then I realized that we were talking about something in the neighborhood of five dollars. OK. I can spare five dollars but I wanted to know what it was about. The administrator showed me the book she received from the accounting office, which had recently completed an audit. The auditors examined all records for the past five years and sent her a listing of all students who ever passed through her department with unspecified outstanding debts. It's now her job to contact each of these students, wherever in the world they may live, and extract money from them. Naturally she came to me first because she knows how to find me.

"OK," I said. "I see the book and I'm sympathetic to your problem. I don't mind spending five bucks to make your life and my life a little bit easier, but I want to know why you think I owe you this money."

"Oh yes," she replied, "this is your right. You should ask the Deacon to tell you the details. I'll let her know you're coming."

After class I went to see the Deacon. Back in the day when I apparently incurred the debt, I would not have wanted to knock on that door because the old Deacon never smiled unless he wanted something and he had a knack for making simple tasks difficult for me and perhaps even for all students. Even more than I disliked seeing the former Deacon, I enjoy my interactions with the new one. She is more than fair and reasonable. She is, rather, a friend and advocate to the student body. So, even though I arrived during her lunch break and she had left her door closed and locked, she opened the door when I knocked so she could speak to me. The Deacon explained that this new invoice reflected services they had failed to add to my account long ago but she didn't know exactly which services they found on my behalf. Maybe it related to electricity or heating or something like that.

"Fine," I said. "Please find out what they are and I'll pay."

She implored me, particularly by the expression on her face, that this exercise would not change the ultimate result and since I have five dollars she really hoped I'd just pay up and let it go. So I paid. The cashier printed my receipt twice, stamped each copy twice and signed each once. Then she tore the top half away from the bottom half and gave my the bottom to present to the administrator in my department.

It's not over yet. Alla suggested that I withhold evidence of payment until they give me a statement that I have paid and settled all debts up to the present time. I think this is excellent advice, though I don't imagine they're really going to want to give me such a document. I'll press the point, but cannot guarantee results. As we say in English, "You can't fight City Hall."

Trying to give away a flag

I made my flag out of paper

Last year the folks at the university asked me to impersonate an Englishman. They asked for this because they wanted to assemble a diverse selection of students from various lands to represent Minsk State Linguistic University at some sort of an educational fair. As I've already written, they had a British flag but not American, and somebody thought that people at the show wouldn't notice that I have an American accent. They also had a string of flags decorating the top of their booth, once again without an American flag.

I tried at the time to buy an American flag around here, but failed. So over the summer I ordered some small flags on sticks and a bigger one to hang from the string at the top of the next booth. That part was easy, since I found a fine choice of flags on the internet. But I had a devil of a time giving them away.

First I took them to the Belarusian Student Union, looking for the people who originally recruited me. Unfortunately, the head woman had been promoted to a new position and nobody in the office had any idea where to put my flags. I gave them two small flags on sticks because I had extras anyway and if these got lost I could offer more when needed. I asked next about the bunting, which was tricky because I still don't know how to say "bunting" in Russian. (OK, it's флажки.) The new people in the office had no idea that they'd ever had such bunting so I decided to take my special flag to the top, the pro-rector. I got as far as her secretary, who recognized me, and I offered her my flag.

I could see the skepticism on her face as she asked me, "So, you want us to fly an American flag?" I explained again about the bunting and she consented to take the flag. Possibly by now they have figured out who controls the flag bunting and whether my flag fits on the rope. Or perhaps they are now using it as a covering for their tea service. I don't really know.

(Smart) women and marriage

I’ve enjoyed a very small group in my Russian class this year, and one result of having a very small group is that we’ve gotten quite comfortable with each other and we have some interesting discussions. There’s one topic on which I’m always the odd man out: women and marriage. My most outspoken classmates are Turkish, and they tend to think alike on this topic. The Korean guy sees things a little differently, but he also favors women who stay at home and don’t assert themselves much. Understandably, perhaps, none of them has ever been married.

This has been going on for five months now. Every time we talk about women and marriage, my classmates indicate a strong preference for women who will be dependent on their men, both financially and intellectually. They can’t imagine a happy relationship with a smart woman, and especially not a woman with leadership responsibilities anywhere in her life. Today I realized that it’s even hard for at least some of these guys to imagine even being friends with such a woman.

I keep trying to tell them about my experience. I have always been surrounded by smart women, beginning at birth. I don’t just like them, I love them. Women often have a different perspective from men, and I couldn’t imagine isolating myself from it. My guys are pretty OK with that part of my argument, but fully convinced that smart and successful women would fail them in other important ways. So I tried to tell them that the smart women I know best even know how to cook well. That concept appeared to get right past my audience, as does the idea that they might be tender, caring and thoughtful at the same time.

It makes me really value the successful women in my life. I feel invigorated whenever I am in the same room with them, and their strength and character inform my every interaction with another human being.

I also respect the young Muslim woman who was careful not to be alone with me when we helped each other with our homework. I understand her caution because I know who she expects to marry. Her strength is very different from the type I know best, but she inspires me too. I hope her target audience is similarly inspired, and I hope we can all learn to value good ideas and good people.

Issues of control

My classmate Ramazan and I like to talk. In fact, we used to annoy each other sometimes because I felt like he was monopolizing or controlling the classroom and he felt the same way about me. Fortunately, we both figured this out about each other and tempered our styles for the benefit of our class group. Our regular teacher does not have a controlling style, so we students had to work together and learn how to control ourselves. Life was good.

More recently, we added a new classmate who did not benefit from the experiences Ramazan and I shared together. As a result, it turned out that he dominated the class experience. When he wasn’t pressing his own agenda on the teacher, he was updating his Facebook page or engaging in conversation with other members of the class. In other words, his influence broke the sense of group effort that we had built and enjoyed up until that moment.

Ramazan got frustrated and announced that he wanted to move to another group. I agreed with him, and began trying to imagine how that might work and what I should ask for.

At this time, our much-beloved teacher got sent away on a business trip. The replacement teacher arrived with a much different educational style. She is fiercely protective of her lesson plan and determinedly egalitarian in how long each student is allowed to talk. We are flying through the material and learning effectively. More impressively, the new guy appears to be adapting really well. Yesterday he arrived on time, with books, and beginning Monday he promises to do his homework.

I don’t know how long this can keep up, and whether the momentum will continue after our regular teacher comes back from her business trip, but so far I am really impressed.

Performing for the minister of education

Now I know what yesterday’s rehearsals were all about. A college expo opened today, with much fanfare. All or most of the Belarusian institutions of higher education set up booths
and exhibits at BelExpo, and I was part of the team representing the Minsk State Linguistic University.

The expo center boiled with activity as teams from various universities poured in. Cadets from a military college marched down the main aisle with their swords unsheathed, kids from the railroad school milled about in their super-cute uniforms, a dance crew strutted in wearing sequin-lame jumpsuits, and lots of people swarmed about wearing traditional Belarusian outfits. I was a member of this latter group, since traditional American clothes aren’t terribly interesting.

Presently, the minister of education came in like a kindly general inspecting his troops. He took his time with us, taking special note of the fact that even Americans come to MSLU. He also kidded me at the end of the presentation, for the fact that I had crib notes in my hand because I hadn’t memorized the song we sang to him. Finally, we presented him still-warm piroshky made in the University’s kitchen. He broke one open with great ceremony, showed everybody the abundant filling, and ate it with obvious pleasure.

We also ate piroshky with pleasure, as soon as he left. Our team had ordered a hundred of these little darlings, in three flavors. I was happy to try all three flavors, and agree with the general consensus that the mushroom variety was the best. Alla was disappointed that I didn’t have a bag with me so I could sneak one home to her, but with any luck I will figure out how to order a batch of these things from the stolovaya. They’d make great party food if I can get them.

Mission creep

I got a call yesterday from “Katya.” She didn’t say which Katya, but it turns out that I guessed correctly. She wanted me to show up this morning to help out with a little project at the university, calling for an international cluster of students who worked on a project together last year to make a short presentation at 11 a.m. tomorrow.

At this morning’s meeting we got our assignments. I was to play the part of a student from England. I was not allowed to play the part of an American because they couldn’t find any American flags anywhere in Minsk. We would have a rehearsal after our morning classes.


At the rehearsal I learned that the new gathering time would be 9:45 tomorrow morning, which meant that I wouldn’t get to any part of my classes. Fine. I came home and memorized my line, with pronunciation help and guidance from Alla. I also downloaded a picture of an American flag and got it printed two-sided on photo paper so I could regain my nationality.

Next thing I knew, the gathering time would be 8:30 a.m. and we will take a bus to I-don’t-know-where, and the line I learned has been completely revised. The new line included a word in Belarusian which even Alla didn’t know how to pronounce. I’ll at least take sufficient control to substitute the Russian version of the word. Now not only will I miss my entire class, I’ll miss my early-morning workout at the gym.

What do you think will be next? Will they let me go home for lunch? Dinner?


Note from the next day
I am unwilling to change the above text, but I'm sorry I let my petty frustration show through. The event turned out to be a whole lot of fun, and I am really glad I was invited to participate.

The return of the students

Most of the students in regular programs at my university had an exam period in early January, followed by a winter break. As a result, Tuesday was the first day of regular classes for any of the students in degree programs. For some reason the Belarusian students have another week off, but the foreign students are generally back and I’m happy to see them. Tuesday felt like a big reunion, as I ran into people I’d gotten to know and enjoy previously.

On Wednesday a couple of my Italian friends had an English conversation class in the auditorium adjacent to mine. Upon learning that this class was small enough to interrupt without looking like a jerk, I knocked on the door and indicated Nicola and Luciano while advised the teacher in very sober English, “If these guys give you any trouble at all, just knock on the wall and I’ll be right over.” Fortunately, she didn’t have to knock. My own class has been interesting and productive, and I really enjoy being there.

When my class closed, I walked through the university toward the coat room and ran into another old friend and a new friend, both just returned to programs they are excited about. While the program at MSLU isn’t accredited in a lot of countries outside of Belarus, it’s certainly a step up for many students and they’re happy to be here. I find the excitement infectious.

I’m looking forward to the return of the Belarusian students too. They’re also a lot of fun, and the only major downside of their return is that the line will get long (and sometimes wide) in the cafeteria. I can deal with that. Generally.

International Women's Day

March 8 is International Women's Day. Conceived in the USA, this is a huge holiday in Russia and Belarus. Businesses will close, and even the never-stopping Russian-Language program at the Minsk State Linguistic University will take the day off.

Since March 8 falls on Monday, folks started celebrating the holiday early. We went to see the Military Band lead a program of traditional music and dance at the Minsk Tractor Factory on Thursday, and then we went to a classical extravaganza at the Opera House last night. Here are a couple of pictures I took with my phone at the Tractor Factory.

I was interested to discover that the show at the Opera House included only male performers. They put the orchestra up on the stage and soloists came out in front of the orchestra and sang arias about love to the women in the audience. The female opera stars got the night off, and maybe they hauled their husbands and boyfriends to the hall because the audience was a lot more gender-balanced than usual for shows here.

The performers pretty well brought down the house at the end of the show when first three, and then four tenors came out to sing together. The audience nearly went berserk with pleasure, and we managed to get them to sing more than they were prepared for. Even the unrehearsed stuff came off really well.

I am posting this entry on March 7. Readers outside the Russian-speaking world take note: If you are friendly with any Russian women, call them and wish them well in the spirit of Eighth of March. You'll be glad you did.(Cakes, flowers, cards, candies and all manner of attention are appropriate.)

Title Nine, Belarusian style

There is a famous law in the United States, commonly known as Title Nine, which promotes equal opportunity in sports between men and women, boys and girls. I thought about that law today because I ran into a little surprise at the Hall of Sport.

A couple of weeks ago I discovered an aerobics class that I liked on Friday afternoons. While most aerobics classes are scheduled and administered as academic subjects, the Friday afternoon class is just a bunch of teachers who gather to work out together. Since the exercise bikes at my university are all too small for me and the treadmills and elliptical trainers bore me, I got pretty excited about aerobics.

The first time I joined the group, I got off the treadmill and gestured to the teacher to see if she'd mind if I joined her students. She assented and I had a great workout. Today I asked the teacher before the class if it was OK for me to work out without socks on. (Nobody wears shoes, and I'd rather be barefoot than sock-foot.) She said OK, but directed me to the back corner. I figured that she sent me far away because I would have bare feet.

As I turned away, however, she pointed out that this was a women's group. I assured her that I really didn't mind and that their workout was certainly difficult enough to satisfy me. She added that there were also classes for men and that I would be welcome in them. I thought about taking her brush-off and looking for one of these manly classes, but since I had no idea where to find them I stayed for the class that was about to begin.

Twenty minutes later, back in my far corner, I saw the teacher look pointedly at me and then up at the balcony over my head. I looked over my shoulder and saw the head of the athletic department looking at me with a puzzled expression on his face. Later, the teacher left the front of the room while we all worked out to the video she had running. I saw that she was talking to that head guy, but nobody said anything to me so I didn't do anything right away.

After class, I thanked the teacher and asked her if it was any kind of a problem to have me in the class. She said that some of the women were (or, I presume, might be) uncomfortable about having a man in the room. I asked her, then, where I could find any of those classes for men. Well, she admitted, there really aren't any.

In the end, I was de-invited from that particular aerobics group and even from using the treadmills in the room while that group is in session. She originally began to discourage me from using the aerobic equipment while there was any group in session, but since there is almost always a group in session she was kind enough to allow me in the room when students are present.

I think the guys busy themselves with soccer and other games, but mostly they seem to like bench presses. I'll write about that at another time.

Student life

I've been making good use of the university's physical training facilities. Today I got there a little later than usual and it brought a cascade of pleasant surprises. After my workout on the elliptical trainer and in the weight room, I realized that I was pretty late to get home before Alla went to her Spanish class. Since we had leftovers for one person at home, I volunteered to go have dinner at the cafeteria.

The food at the cafeteria is never surprising, and it's a little boring if I eat there too often, but today's dinner was definitely OK. In addition, I had the pleasure of a steady stream of visitors since my classmates from last year are in an afternoon program that got out about the time I headed off for dinner. In addition to those cheerful fellows, I enjoyed the company of a few people I didn't know since all the tables were occupied and if people wanted to sit down they had to sit with strangers.

From 2010-02 Life in Minsk

This is the last group to sit down at my table, students of English and German. One of them knows French, too, and of course they all know Russian. I didn't ask if they also know Belarusian. I just know they speak a lot more languages than I do. I'm really enjoying having this second opportunity for student life.

Harassment by the coat-check lady

Sometimes I enter the university by the main door, but I stopped after the coat-check lady complained that my shearling coat was too heavy. The other day I came back, however, and she was quite pleasant with me. It turns out that she was once an English teacher, though it was forty years ago and she’s pretty out of practice with the language. In spite of her skills in my language, I generally make her talk to me in Russian.

Today I came back twice, once for class and once in the afternoon with my sport gear so I could lift weights. When I came back the second time, I chose the other window so she wouldn’t have to lift my coat. She chided me and I went over to her window after all. At her stand, there aren’t special hooks for hats so she puts my hat on a shelf under her counter and just remembers that it’s mine.

My hat, the one on the right, is easy to remember, because it’s different. Folks at home always ask me if I got my hat in Russia because it’s fur and it’s similar in style to traditional Russian hats. To folks here, the differences are pronounced. My hat has a rounded top, whereas a real Russian hat would be more cylindrical, perhaps even wider at the top than at the base. It’s obvious that my hat wasn’t made here, nor was it made for this market.

Back to the coat-check lady: When I came back the second time to retrieve my stuff, she asked me where I found my hat. She went on to say something about a dog, but I didn’t fully understand. I supposed she asked me if it were dog fur, but maybe she thought a dog brought it to me. Sorry: it clean got by me. Anyway, I assumed she was teasing me about dog fur and I assured her it was definitely rabbit.

Maybe one of my readers can clarify this for me. This symbol: @ is commonly called “dog,” so maybe it’s also slang for that kind of hat. On the other hand, one of my co-workers years ago told me repeatedly that my hat looked to her like I had a cat on top of my head. I dunno. Maybe it's time for an upgrade.

--- Late-breaking news ---
My friend and neighbor Elena Napier reports, "Some years ago Russian market was flooded with hats and coats made in China of fur unknown origin and there were rumors that it is a dog fur. Since than people call some unknown furs 'собака'."

Volleyball

The other day I received my “sportivnaya spravka.” This is a document from the health clinic stating that I am allowed to participate in physical education. The document even has a nice official-looking rubber stamp. This isn’t exactly what the guy at the “sportivny zall” (hall of sport) told me to get, but that’s what I’ve got.

Before attempting anything at the sportivny zall, I went to the administrative office of my language program to ask for a letter from them inviting me to use the facilities. The administrative assistant, who didn’t even work there when I played volleyball some eighteen months ago, asked me if I wanted to play volleyball. Yes, that’s among the things I’d like to do. But how did she know? This level of attention is a little bit eerie for me.

The Student Polyclinic

Because I’m here for more than three months, I was required to get a physical examination at the infamous student polyclinic. It’s an old building, and most students don’t think things there are up to local standards. Such was the case at the infirmary in my undergraduate days too, but I’m pretty sure that clinical standards here start out at a more basic level than those in California.

My own trip was pretty uneventful. I’d heard stories about long lines, but the day I arrived everything was quite calm. They took my blood pressure and listened to my heart, and then they gave me a list of places I was to go. It was kind of a treasure hunt, except that I was supposed to present my own treasures in various places. They took three different blood samples. Then there was a chest x-ray, a knee-whacking specialist and a few others. I couldn’t believe it when Alla told me to bring a bottle of urine to the clinic the next morning. “Don’t you think they want me to urinate in their presence so they know it’s really my urine?” Nope. Just present a bottle of yellow liquid and you’re good to go. I don’t know what they’re checking for. I think narcotics may be one of the factors, but the dopers probably know enough to have a friend fill the bottle.

On two occasions I was whisked ahead of other people in lines. It appeared to me that I received this courtesy as a result of my citizenship, but I am not sure. I’ll comment on this in my next entry. Anyway, the whole thing was very quick, the only hiccup being my timing at the oculist. She went off for a break just as I arrived at her office, but once she returned we sailed right through the exam. (I read the last line on her eye chart with each eye and we were done.)

Last year one of my fellow-students told about his long and thorough exam, including being told that his glasses prescription should be different. In my case, it appears simply that they are assuring themselves that I won’t be a threat to myself or to my classmates and nothing more. It’s fine with me; that’s really all I wanted too.

Eating at the Library

Arif and I talked last week about eating lunch at the National Library, but we were afraid all we could buy might be cakes and sweets. Then last weekend I took a tour with our house guest and learned that they have a restaurant. I had to try it, so Arif and I rounded up three classmates and took our library cards for an adventure.

From 2009-07 PhonePix

First we stopped at the foot of the statue in honor of Francisco Scorina, the first person to print a book in the Belarusian language. Then we found our way to the cafeteria.

My goodness, this is a wonderful cafeteria. In the first place, we get to eat with beautiful metal knives and forks; not the flimsy plastic stuff we get at the university. Next, we realized that the food is presented beautifully in substantial portions on full-sized china. Finally, we discovered that not only is this food priced similarly to the food in the University cafeteria, it's also delicious.

I made one mistake. I didn't realize that the plate of fish in the warming oven comprised three servings. I opened the door on my side of the warming oven and put this huge plate of fish onto my tray. I shared it, and I made a heroic effort to eat the rest. Oops. But it sure did taste good.

Luis helped us figure out how to check out a couple of copies of the textbook we use in our classes, and we took them into the reading area near the language dictionaries and we worked on our homework together. What fun!

History lesson

My homework assignment included a little story about the 9 May holiday from our basic textbook. As you remember, this was the end of World War II, and it’s a huge holiday in Belarus. Our little story ended by stating that the holiday isn’t just celebrated in Belarus “because in May of 1945 the Soviet Army freed Europe from fascism.”

As soon as I read this I called Alla, who was in Gomel at the time. I read it to her, confirmed my translation, and expressed my surprise. She was not surprised. She matter-of-factly told me that’s indeed the way it was. I reminded her of the efforts of the Allies, and after a little thought Alla allowed as how it would have been better to mention them.

Still a little worked up, I went to class. On the way I thought “well, maybe they simplified the story for this language textbook because we don’t know the Russian word for ‘ally.’” Since I was the first to arrive, I was able to ask my teacher about it. I read her the offending sentence, and she calmly explained to me that the textbook was right. I tried to ask her for the word “ally,” but it was so far from her thought that she had no idea what I wanted when I asked her for the word for “friends in war.” So I got out my dictionary.

“Oh,” she said. “Well how many Americans were killed during the war?” I waxed eloquent, even with my still-limited vocabulary. I reminded her of all the war materials we sent over, asked her if she were familiar with Normandy, and then went on to tell about how my first father-in-law struggled to the end of his days over the devastation he caused as a bomber pilot who flew a lot of successful missions over Germany. (He never told exactly what he destroyed, but he sure never wanted to go back to Germany to see it.) To her credit, she got my point and added “and its allies” whenever we talked about that last sentence in the story.

Later in the lesson, one of my Spanish classmates commented that he thought the fascists would have won the war without Allied support. Svetlana disagreed, and the rest of us hauled out a few more facts. Seeing that she was heavily outnumbered, she let it drop. But I think I just learned something about the way history was taught in Soviet schools.

Why go home?

My classmates asked me a provocative question today. The teacher was trying to find out how many people would continue to study in our group during the summer months because the university is considering combining two groups. (That would be a bad idea, considering the different abilities of the two groups.) When it came out that I’m planning to go home at the end of June, everybody asked me why.

That’s actually a good question. So I can pay my real estate tax? So I can throw away all that junk mail that our son keeps piling up behind our front door? So far I haven’t thought of any good reasons to be home any sooner than August first, except for our plane reservation. And we could probably even get away with staying until late in August. The longer I stay here, the more I will learn. If I go home, well, I won’t learn so much.

Besides, I have a new business idea to mull over, and this is a good place to do it.

Excursion to Polotsk

The University offered two free excursions yesterday, one busload going to Grodna and the other going to Polotsk. Knowing nothing, I chose Polotsk because one of my classmates had chosen it. We traveled yesterday and I had a great time.

I wouldn’t generally recommend traveling more than three hours to get to Polotsk. It’s a nice town with some excellent churches and an important monastery, but there’s just not enough in the town to justify that much travel time. I enjoyed tremendously an organ concert in a big old church built in the shape of a cube. While the organ wasn’t as big as the one at Philharmony hall in Minsk, it suited the space perfectly and I preferred this concert over the one I’d heard at Philharmony.

Our tour included a bunch of other good stuff, including a tree-by-tree narration during almost the entire trip from Minsk to Polotsk. I didn’t understand most of this narration, but was able to take note of a few specific sights such as the ski area they made by piling up a lot of dirt and the ski jump that reminds me of a high dive because the top two-thirds of it or more is just a ramp in the air.

What I really enjoyed about the trip, however, was touring with students from around the world. We had people from China, Finland, Holland, Iraq, Norway and who-knows-where. I really liked the Iraqis, and found them very warm and outgoing. I was a little apprehensive about them because America has managed to make such a mess of their country, but here we were all just students on a trip together. The guy from Holland challenged me a bit about his impression of Americans and then apologized for challenging me even though I thought he was right in his criticism. In this little microcosm, we were simply colleagues and nothing more nor less.

I wish it were so simple on a global scale.

Pilotka (Пилотка)

In class today I was learning how to use the fifth padej. This is known in English as the “Instrumental case,” and it’s used, among other things, in describing that at which somebody works. There we were with a grade-school teaching aid, a chart with pictures of a bunch of kids playing at various professions. My job was to say what they wanted to do when they grew up, applying the rules of the Tvoritelney padej (Творительный падеж) to the names of the professions.

I did OK until we got to the picture of a little girl sitting inside a toy airplane. I didn’t know if the word “pilot” would be the same for both genders or if a female pilot would be called something like “pilotka.” Elena started to think about it and then announced that the whole thing was pointless because there’s no such thing as a female pilot. Obviously this little girl wanted to work as a stewardess. I told her that we have female pilots in the USA, that I know one and that I want this little girl to be a pilot.

Elena was very amused by the idea and commented that this must be an outcome of living in a free society.

Rō’ger

We had a little row in class today. The teacher was correcting almost everybody about our mispronunciations of the letter “O.” The letter is pronounced long in a stressed syllable but it’s generally pronounced as in the word “pot.” I was reading aloud a story about a bunch of foreign students, including a Spanish student named Lolita. I pronounced her name the way that was natural for me, as we hear it both in Spanish and in English. That was wrong, of course, because since the “o” is in an unstressed syllable Russians want to pronounce it more like “ah.”

Wanting to be a little ironic, I said “OK, this is a Spanish girl named Lahlita.” Tatiana insisted that that was the only way to pronounce that name. Frustrated, I reminded everybody that my brother’s name is Roger. I’d already been schooled on that one in another recitation, when I gave a report on my family to the class. It turns out that in spite of what I’ve been calling my brother his entire life, his name is actually Rō’ger. The O is long and first R is rolled though the second is not.

Sympathetic to my frustration, my friend and classmate Çağatay took the opportunity to tell Tatiana that his name is not “Chagatai,” as pronounced in class (sounding a lot like Chug-a-lug), but something like “Chaatai.” I haven’t mastered it myself, but I always try to get as close as I can. Tatiana told him that given the Russian alphabet he had to be “Chagatai.” “That’s not my name,” he objected, now in English and with supporting complaints about an identity crisis.

I thought the English-speaking world was uniquely offensive in mis-pronouncing the names of foreign cities, but now I see that this may be a wider problem. Perhaps folks in Western Europe do fairly well at respecting local pronunciation, but it appears that Russian-speakers, like English-speakers, may tend to convert pronunciations of foreign names. I wonder if Tatiana is right about this. I wonder if I’m even right about my idealized view of those Western Europeans.

Sorry Rog. I tried. I think we should all try to pronounce peoples’ names in the way the owner of the name will find familiar, and I feel the same way about foreign cities. Apparently this is a little odd.