So now it has been a little more than a year since I left Ukraine. I miss it at the strangest moments- when buying fruit, or when preparing to wash. It is nice to be home, but in some ways, it is harder. Everything I do here has immediate consequences. When I was overseas, I had a buffer zone.

While speaking with a friend this evening, I recalled that I had made a score to my time there. I have a lot of things I could say, but this is really the only one that is succinct. Thus- my playlist.

Back In The USSR - The Beatles

Start Wearing Purple - Gogol Bordello

Alabama Song (Whiskey Bar) - The Doors

Amsterdam - David Bowie

Manic Depression - Jimi Hendrix

Baby, It's Cold Outside - Ray Charles

Girls - The Beastie Boys

Shores of California - The Dresden Dolls

Don't Stand So Close To Me - The Police

Baba O'Reilly - The Who

Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk - Rufus Wainwright

Teach Your Children - Crosby Stills and Nash

Under My Thumb - The Rolling Stones

Lady Madonna - The Beatles

In These Shoes? -Kirsty MacColl

Dancing With Myself - Billy Idol

Where Is My Mind? - The Pixies

P.S. Russia was indeed amazing. Unfortunately, while I was awestruck, someone copied my ATM card and stole four figures worth of money! Thankfully, Wachovia is an excellent bank and reimbursed me in full. :)

Russia was astonishing. I was so nervous about potential problems with the police, but my time there passed without a hint of an incident. It seems my accent has gotten pretty good; I hear no difference between how it was and how it is, but lately I have been told often that I speak without one. Or at least, I sound like a Ukrainian. I am willing to accept that, but there are still people who can tell straightaway that I am a non-native speaker.

At any rate, I recommend Russia highly. I enjoyed my time there, and to my surprise, Moscow and St. Petersburg were cheaper than the other cities I passed through. I speak here of Riga and Dublin. Dublin is not so surprising, perhaps, but I was shocked by the prices in Latvia. Congratulations to the Baltics, but I was irritated by how far my money did not go.

I am home now and mostly happy. America has not been quite as awesome as I expected, but it has been nice. I am home and housebound (and mostly isolated), but I have four fat books to see me through (The Merlin Conspiracy, Dragonfly In Amber, A Rabbit Angstrom Compendium and Kristin Lavransdatter). I've been meaning to read the latter books for sometime, so I will be more than occupied in my cold, silent home. [NB: New York is FAR colder than either of the cities in Russia. The coldest temperature I experienced was -10 C/~15F in Moscow, and New York greeted me with flurries and 7C. So much for the Russian bear.]

I have to say it. Russia is awesome. I readily admit that I have only seen the two biggest cities, which surely have the best condition of the whole enormous country, but they are in top form. The streets are clear of ice, they are lit up for the holidays, and everything feels free. I know that Russia is less democratic in law, but in thought, it seems that they are doing well. People read on the metro.

Of course, I have only been here for 6 days, but my impressions are good. I am no Russia hand, not by a long shot. And my goodness, the Hermitage is breathtaking. It wore me out, and I have not seen it all.

The events leading up to leaving my site were kind of crazy. People constantly invited me to spend time with them, and each time, I said yes. I think this was the right decision, since I won't see them again for some time, but it took away from my time spend packing/pitching. This meant that I slept for about 3 hours last night, and my morning was hectic, to say the least. But I managed to say goodbye to almost everyone properly (as opposed to 'the English way'- what they call leaving without saying goodbye). I failed to say goodbye to my ground floor neighbor, Baba Galya, and also the salesgirls at my favorite store. Otherwise, I think I got the job done.

I also made out like a bandit. I told people that I didn't want anything big or heavy, for travel reasons, and they listened. I got:

-a large book about Strana, with pictures from the English department

-a beautiful hand-embroidered pillowcase from my co-ordinator

-a small icon from my neighbor's mother

-a sweet wallet/keyholder with a Versace logo (and a fabulous aroma) from my neighbor

-a collection of the writings of Babel from my Russian tutor

-a small traditional ceramic pot for cooking meat and potatoes in from one of my friends

-earrings made of seashells from the Black Sea, from a co-worker friend

Then, this morning, I thought I would not be able to properly part with my Russian tutor, because she had been ill all last week. And at 8:30, she called, not bothering to identify herself, and said "Girl, when are you leaving? What time will you be at the train station?" And she came. I was so very happy.

And then, after I had gotten all of my baggage onto the train, and it was starting to pull away, my landlord and neighbor realized I still had their keys. My landlord ran alongside the train, and I, panicking, threw my whole keyring to them. Clever fellow that he is, he got the keys off and tossed my rape-whistle/flashlight/bottle opener back into the train. No departure is complete without a train chase, is it?

I closed my service on Thursday, after closing my bank account, my apartment and almost every other sign of my existence in Ukraine. I took a train to Moscow, which went off without a hitch. The customs officers didn't even discover my dual passport situation. I have seen the Novodevichy Convent, the Tretyakovsky Gallery, St. Basil's Cathedral, the Kremlin and New Arbat. My feet are exhausted, but my fake fur coat is amazingly warm. I have already passed myself off as a Ukrainian so as not to pay full price (somewhat dishonest, but hey, I have no salary). So far, I like Moscow.

I am finally feeling better about leaving Strana. This may be due to the large idiot tourists who get drunk in Moscow, apparently without being sent to Siberian labor camps, or it may be due to my best friends telling me how excited they are to see me again. Hard to say. But no sooner had that worry faded then it was replaced by...

The Global Financial Crisis!

Naturally, I am aware of what's going on. Things were bad enough in Strana before America's economy melted and took Europe's with it. Inflation is reported at 30%. The price of eggs was 2-3 local currency for 10 when I arrived in 2006, and now it's 7-8 to the десятка. It cost 5 to get to the county seat by bus then, and now it costs 10. Pork is 40 a kilo, the teachers at my school haven't received their salary for November (or rather, have received only 8% of their salaries), and the exchange rates of the dollar and the euro are increasing all the time. I know all of this. However, since I am an economical girl, it hasn't really weighed heavily on me. On the contrary, I was delighted to see the climbing dollar, because I'm going to Russia for 10 days after I close my service, and Moscow and St. Petersburg are two of the most expensive cities in the world. A strong dollar will make my travels easier.

BUT when I was in the capital two weeks ago, other volunteers who had already closed their service were bemoaning the impossibility of exchanging the local currency. Exchange desks in America do not accept Stranian money, and throughout the city, no one had dollars or euros to sell. One girl came up with the clever idea of buying rubles, since she was going to Israel, which will obviously take them (and no one buys rubles in times of economic turmoil). That was my plan, but I decided to buy good old greenbacks, since the ruble is less wieldy (at 29 rubles to the dollar, my wallet would look rather husky). And boy was I in for a shock.

In October 2006, when I arrived here, the rate of exchange was 5.05 Stranian currency to 1 dollar. It had stayed there, pegged, for almost all of my service. Six weeks or a month ago, the numbers at the cash desks started growing, and today, the lowest rate I could find was 7.65. But no one with that rate actually had money, so I had to exchange for 7.90. With 1190 local currency, I could buy no more than $150. That would have cost only 750 a month or so ago. Idiot girl. And oh, these poor host country nationals. But they have more immediate concerns, like unpaid salaries, feeding their children, and looking presentable in public (this is of real concern, and it's not so shallow as I used to think). So I suppose they will not worry unduly about something relatively minor in comparison to Depression-style challenges.

It's spread to the USA?

And here I thought I was leaving that kind of footwear behind...

My host family had me over for a small farewell feast today. I'm feeling a little better about leaving. The Internet has made the distances of the world less threatening, and my host family has insisted that I will be invited to their older daughter's wedding (whenever that might happen), and that I should invite them to mine (likewise). And it's not out of the realm of possibility, global financial crisis and all. All things, good and bad, come to an end.

Here is another photo. The sign reads: "Club for the Affirmation and Preservation of Sobriety, Sober XAPbKOB"

I made one of my co-workers cry today by telling her that I was leaving. To be fair, she was already in a delicate state of mind- her brother-in-law, whom neither she nor her husband have seen in 20 years (!), is leaving today after a visit of two days. Can you imagine not seeing your own brother for twenty years? I expressed my shock and she said, "In Strana, anything can happen."

It wasn't a surprise. I haven't kept it a secret, but some people have forgotten that I will leave after 2 years. I told my Russian tutor that I was leaving in the middle of December, and she asked, "For how long?" I blinked, unsure if 'forever' was the right word, stalled, and then she said it for me. Her voice broke between the first and the second syllables. I nodded. It's not the right answer– I promised my neighbor that I would return– but it's the most concrete reply I can give for now. After all, barring some startling change in my future, I will never live here again– oh, hell. I've retrod these thoughts so many times, why do it anew?

I am preparing to go home. I sent one package back to America on Monday, and I'm preparing a second one now (yes, on the eve of Thanksgiving). I am relatively healthy- the fever is gone and so is the pain. The symptoms of a light cold have taken their place, but they are familiar and unthreatening. What is foreign is this melancholy. Perhaps I felt this way before I left Brighton, but that is unlikely. It was only England, which still isn't fully foreign, no matter how weirdly the natives curse and dance. As Amy wisely pointed out, part of my life is ending. My Russian will never be this good again, and learning Stranian probably won't be an option. Two years of a quiet schoolmarm's life will be over (and I'm mourning this? but it's true). Finding good organic produce will be hard. No one will worry when I sneeze or cough, nor will anyone object to opening the window of a moving vehicle for fear of the draft. It may seem that I'm only listing the benefits, but this is hard. [Ed: Do you think I will not bat an eye after landing in JFK and eating my way through Chinatown? This also seems plausible.]

I will not be downhearted. Here is a video that 100% looks like my life here in Strana.

It turns out that 'upper respiratory infection' does indeed mean 'something that can be treated with drugs.' I have not been so relieved in ages. I will now relate the history of some doctors in the Peace Corps in Strana.

As this country supports the largest number of PC volunteers in the world, there are four doctors or medical officers, leading to the acronym PCMO. (The Peace Corps is as dependent on acronyms as a government, if you can imagine.) Three of them have been here since I have arrived. They are men. The fourth position, reserved for a woman, has had something of a Defense Against the Dark Arts, revolving-door feel to it, but finally, someone seems to have filled it, and she is very nice.

Although one might expect the doctors in a Peace Corps country to be questionable, I can firmly attest to their excellence. They know what they are doing. They pay attention. (Okay, yes, I've heard from irritated people that they do NOT pay attention, and I'm sure that's true, too. But they paid attention to me.) And when you feel poorly, they give you drugs to make you feel better. Most mysteriously, they actually remember you from the first months of your training all the way to the close of your service. Impressive, no?

Also, I feel a wayward impulse to speak of one particular doctor. We shall call him Doctor Why, in the style of the British TV programme. Unbeknownst to him (I believe), he has gathered a dedicated faction of followers. They are of both genders, but the flame burns brighter amongst the female ones. My first impression of him is from training, when he came to vaccinate us against various ailments- I thought he was enjoying his work a little too well. However, he clearly had a wonderful sense of humor, teasing us all the while. Not until this bout of illness did I understand why it is that people like him so much: he is knowledgeable, he is attentive and unlike my initial impression, he is genuinely sorry to witness our pain. Add only that Doctor Why is a single man in possession of a decent fortune and countenance, and the reasons for his popularity are more than clear.

If I am truly a villainness who has met a doctor, then perhaps my name should be Ludovine of the Low Countries .

Although I've been lucky enough to last all the way through the first possible date for closing service without any health issues, I have now Fallen Ill. It's like some sort of bad joke- Healthy through service? Staying to the end? Trying to do some last minute projects and be a good volunteer? End up diddled by the dastardly digit of destiny!

That might be an overstatement for the sake of alliteration. What happened is that I am really sick, with a few weird, painful symptoms. To wit:

-sore throat

-sore neck (swollen lymph nodes- 2 on each side at present count!)

-raging, erratic temperature (between 99.8 and 103) and concomitant chills

-mysterious head pain, affecting the top of my head, and only occurring when I move quickly

The doctors at the city clinic logically decided it was a kidney infection. The doctors from the PC medical office decided not to mess around with local diagnoses, and told me to come into town. So I'm here now, hoping that 'upper respiratory infection' means 'something that can be quickly fixed with drugs.' Ugh.

About two weeks ago, I noticed a curious pain in my tooth when drinking either hot or cold liquids. After some research, I came to the conclusion that I have a cavity. I informed the medical officers in advance and on Wednesday, arrived for my Close of Service medical review. Yesterday, I had the physical exam and the dental appointment.

By the time I reached the dentist, I was looking forward to my filling. Tooth pain is no fun, and it took me a long time to come to terms with my cavity. At first, I viewed it as a moral failure. How could a good girl like me, who brushes her teeth twice a day, come to this? My own mother even jokingly referred to me as a fallen woman. However, I came to the dentist, ready to face the music-- only to discover that I have no cavity! In point of fact, my rear teeth are misaligned! What a shock, and to discover this at the age of 24, rather than 12. Surprise, surprise.

This is nothing, however, compared to what the doctor had to tell me. I told him I'd sadly lost the cartilege in my right ankle over a year ago, and now my right ankle clicks constantly. It's an annoyance, but one I can live with. He rotated my foot to check it, then all of a sudden, informed me that I am practically flatfooted. Not only that, but my shoulders are of differing heights. In short, I am a reincarnation of Hawthorne's Roger Chillingworth, of Scarlet Letter fame. I am no heroine, but a villainness. Sarah is far too tame a name for me. I shall have to find myself a new name, the better to reflect the wickedness of my character. After all, it is already apparent in my appearance.

It's really frustrating, serving in a country 7 hours ahead of the East Coast. I wish I were in South America or the South Pacific, or somewhere where I could follow what was happening more easily. I want to be excited. This is the most exciting race I have ever witnessed, and may be one of the most exciting ones in my life. And we won't know anything until 1 am, at which time I should be sleeping, rather than playing on the Internet (I have a train at 3 am). I want to be home, eating popcorn and hugging my friends.

Also- I really wish I'd been able to vote. New York, being the least corrupt state in the nation (except for Jersey, naturally), failed to send me an absentee ballot. They responded to my ballot application with another application, giving a whole new meaning to tit for tat.

[EDIT, 11/5: It's exciting. It's excessively exciting. We tumbled into the office at 7:30 and every computer in the volunteer's lounge was watching speeches or reading the news. I originally wanted to become a PC volunteer because I was miserable after the 2004 election, and hoped to stay away from home until that decision could be undone. What a wonderful way to come home.]

Can you think of a better title for making myself seem air-headed? Do let me know.

I shocked my mother by telling her that I've bought four pairs of boots since I got here. Four pairs! Goodness, the child never used to be a spendthrift. But the first pair was only $20, and I wore them through fairly quickly. Subsequent pairs were more expensive, but they too are now water compliant. One pair was fabulous- knee-length, brown leather with absurd upholstery along the calf, wedge-heeled and pointy toes. I have since learned that pointy toes wear out faster, and that is why my feet get wet in the snow. The other pair is a combination of brown leather and suede with round toes, but it still fails to keep me warm and dry. A new pair was in order. To this end, I went to the third-largest (and surely the richest) city in the country in search.

Plain black leather? You know, it's hard to find anything simple.

Rounded toe? That's true of non pointy toes, too!

Stack heel? Sweet mother, did I really spend that-

Fur lined? OW MY BANK ACCOUNT

Getting boys that I'm not dating to go boot shopping with me? Priceless.

Indeed. I went to DP, and the boys came to see me. As I may have mentioned, my training cluster was originally comprised of three men and two women. However, the other young lady missed her boyfriend and went home, deserting me with three boys. I was concerned. To my surprise, in addition to the harassment, they were fiercely protective of me and turned out to be my friends. The proof is that J and W willingly came to look at boots with me.

The nicest part, though, was going to visit W at his site. When I discovered how close to me those two would live, I had wanted to visit, but feared that spending the night would be weird. Friends though we are, we do not have very much in common. But it was just fine. Time after time, I marvel at my luck in being placed with a group of people who like me for myself, or rather, in spite of myself.

(With apologies to Victor Hugo)

British style summer pudding, with raspberries, red and black currants, and mulberries

Independence Day pie

An eerie picture of my hand holding raspberry wine. A present from a co-worker.

My first proper borsch. I tried about a year ago, only to earn scorn from my neighbor. "It looks like ragout!" I took the year to recover and observe, with this as my result.

Like trees, you can tell the age of a beet from the number of rings :)

I'll be honest- I complain about the students here a lot. Not mine, necessarily; mine are more or less pleasant to work with. Some of them are even delightful. But teaching in an educational system where there are no disciplinary measures to speak of is tiring. The harshest punishments I know of are being yelled at by the vice-principal for scholastic misbehavior, and having your name passed to the local police for the 'watch out' list for legal misbehavior. Consequently, I can't begin to count the number of times 'fuck you,' 'motherfucker,' and 'kiss my ass' have been said as I walk by (though always when my back is turned). Many of the children I teach are of gentler stock, but there are plenty in my school who think Insult the Foreigner is a sweet game. Service in Eastern Europe is rightfully called 'Posh Corps' in light of the creature comforts, but I wonder how many African volunteers get this kind of abuse from kids?

That was not what I intended to speak about, though. I wanted to tell you about what I'm doing this week. Although volunteers are given primary assignments, we are generally expected to cultivate side projects. As a TEFL volunteer, my primary assignment is teaching English in a secondary school. My side project has been creating a resource center at my school for the foreign language teachers in our town, which has gone pretty smoothly with only one or two hiccups. However, compared to the volunteers who write 3 or 4 grants before closing service, and practically attaining beatification in their towns, I look uninspired. So, to go out with a louder whimper, I decided to engage in a small project before leaving. To that end, I joined forces with the school psychologist to conduct a short seminar with various senior classes in my school on the dangers of human trafficking. Most volunteers prefer to focus on HIV/AIDS (and rightfully so, considering that Strana has the worst situation in Europe), but there is already an excellent NGO here that works with heroin addicts and that encompasses HIV/AIDS work in its procedures. So, I decided to focus on something else.

This week is "Week of Children's Protection" here in the borders (clearly the Soviet Union had no monopoly on catchy names), and to that end, the school psychologist has organized a week full of activities focusing on children's well-being. Various specialists from the city education council are leading seminars of smoking, HIV/AIDS, surely narcotics and alcoholism- and I am working with one of them to explain what is trafficking and how not to let it happen to you. I am grateful for the help because when I speak Russian in public, I often clutch due to nerves. If I know exactly what to say, I'm fine- but in a stroke of ill fortune, I forgot to put my lesson plan in my bag with the visual aids this morning. Nevertheless, I think it went over reasonably well- there weren't too many snickers about prostitution or the fact that the visibility of the men's stage make-up in the otherwise commendable special made by the International Organization for Migration. I think they got the most important point, which is there are ways to safely work abroad without becoming a slave. Plus, I'm doing it again, so I can hopefully be less tongue-tied tomorrow.

And on an entirely different note, sometimes my students crack me up. I teach 3 different seventh grade classes, and now we've all read one advice column letter in our textbook about poor little Denis, who goes to a new school where he has no friends, blushes whenever he talks to girls, and has a crush on one Tina. After we read his letter, I always ask my students to give Denis some advice. Here is some of the best:

-He should be more open

-He should make friends

-He should express his feelings about Tina

-He should not blush

-He should get in a fight, because that's how you get girls' attention

All this from 12-year-olds! I don't know if they're monstrously experienced or have no idea how hard it is to follow some of their suggestions (save, of course, the last one, because that is sheer genius).

For some unknown reason (probably the influence of Edward Decker, another volunteer), I have taken up photographing my food. What follows will be a series of pictures of things I have consumed, one time or another.

Berries in summer, parts I & II (mm mmm good)

"What possessed you to roast a duck in July?!"

The best argument I know for free-range eggs. Double the price but clearly double everything else as well.

Root vegetables I have known: parsnip, carrot, parsley, potato, beetroot.

This is my first photo ever on this blog. It is a rowan tree growing near my apartment. I particularly like it because it reminds me of one of the first poems my tutor here assigned me by Marina Tsvetaeva. Here is the first stanza.

Красною кистью

Рябина зажглась.

Падали листья.

Я родилась.

In a red cluster

The rowan tree blazed.

The leaves were falling,

I was born.

***

"Peace Corps Volunteers and Columbia are like Twizzlers®."

-Thomas McCloskey

The funny thing is, he's right. Even when returned volunteers apply for programs other than the teaching fellowship, they seem to get in. What can we surmise? Columbia likes do-gooders? So perhaps I should stop panicking.

I just applied to grad school. I can no longer edit or tinker with my statement of purpose. I paid $65 and they might not accept me. I have less than $2,000 in my checking account. My net worth is something like -$xx,xxx, even with that readjustment check I get after returning home from the Peace Corps. Merciful heavens.

I'm so poor and so screwed.

[Editor's note: Obviously this is not an accurate presentation of things. I am only freaking out. No one who is applying to grad school rather than for employment can be that screwed.]

I was chatting with one of my good friends from college who has recently relocated and is feeling like a stranger in a strange land. Without the least bit of sympathy, I began prattling on about what I have been doing here to combat loneliness (aside from the obvious step of befriending my neighbors and other local residents). Among these things, I said "I've read like a hundred books... ok, make that more like twenty." And indeed, on my list of books read, there are only about twenty.

Then I noted on the blogs of certain other volunteers (cliffgardner and ponavirginia) significantly higher counts. And I got to thinking- my count is so low only because I've been counting the respectable, I-can-tell-people-about-this books, when in fact, I've been reading much more. After brainstorming for quite a bit of time, I have come to a grand total of 88 (!) books that I have read while in the Peace Corps, and this is low-balling it because I haven't kept such good track of the less-prestigious novels. Had I in fact noted the titles of all the romance novels, I feel confident that I would top one hundred.

I suppose it is shameful that rather than reading equal parts serious novels and trash, I dedicated so much of my time to reading murder mysteries. However, the fact remains that I like potboilers and a lot of the reading I do is to relax. And so I read mysteries, romance novels, fantasy, and young adult literature. And also the occasional classic.

In the event that recent events in the CIS (Commonwealth of Independent States, made up of almost all former Soviet republics) have made you worried about my well-being, let me reassure you. Although I was greatly upset by the war in Georgia and am concerned about the "imminent" collapse of Ukraine's government, this instability has not concretely manifested itself in my life; that is, prices have remained stable, and people are not especially worried. If you're interested, drop me a line and I'll send you my opinions, and other, expert, ones as well.

I also feel like crowing about this article, because items 1, 2, 4, 5, 8, and 9 are frequent occupants of my stomach. Hooray for the health benefits of Peace Corps service!

More than any other word, 'normal' captures the split between Anglophone and Russophone mindsets. For a native speaker of English, normal means standard, ordinary, boring. This is neither a good nor a bad thing– it's simply average, free of interest. It is not a compliment, although calling something abnormal can be insulting.

By contrast, in Russian, calling something normal is praise indeed. While the denotation is the same, the secondary meaning of нормальный differs considerably, almost to the extent of being a false cognate. Even dictionaries will note that this word means not only acceptable, but also good (though it stems from the same root of norm). When the most common answer to "How are you?" is "Normal," it's evident that something else is going on. People routinely describe their possessions and property as normal in unexpectedly proud tones. However, the high value placed on standardization grows clearer the more you listen. You can hear it when vendors extol their goods as normal, and especially when teachers furiously tell their students that things would be better if they would only behave like normal people. For me, the moment of clarity came last year, while watching a show for teenagers. The hero was preventing a relationship from occurring, and trying to let the girl down easily. However, amidst his 'it's not you, it's me' speech, I distinctly heard the words, "Zhenya, you're a normal girl." In her position, I would have boxed his temple. I'm a normal girl? I hope that's not all you can say about me! But poor Zhenya just looked at him with sad eyes and accepted her fate.

Probably the oddest thing about this whole situation is the fact that the most common word for excellent (отличный) means outstanding, i.e. something that differs. Oh well- greater minds than mine have been baffled by this language wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma.

***

Some time earlier, I was suffering from a certain virus that manifests itself as a small unsightly spot. No real problem, but an irritation. My landlord, who is a med student, has two encyclopedias of folk remedies at home, and I checked them out. Eventually, I used something ultra-modern, but here are some purported remedies for your amusement.

1. Grind up garlic, mix it with rendered lard, smear it on cloth, attach it to the wart, and change the preparation every day.

2. Apply a lump of moist, fresh frog or sparrow meat to the wart, three or four nights in a row. (I am not making this up)

3. If there are a few average warts, then determine which is the biggest, bind it around the root with a silk thread or a horse hair so tightly that it pales. In two or three days, it will fall off and the other warts will spontaneously disappear.

4. Smaller young warts may shrink when smeared with dandelion sap.

There are also suggestions for 'psychotherapy,' but they are just so out there that I'd rather not translate. However, I will note that the herb that surely has the coolest Russian name is coltsfoot. In Russian, it's called Mother and Stepmother!

As I have mentioned previously, Strana is a distinctly bilingual country. Depending on where you live (Bessarabia in particular, but also out by Cis- and Transcarpathia), it can be tri- or even quadrilingual. However, due to current feelings of nationalism, it is trying to be monolingual, with varying degrees of success (one political party tries to reintroduce Russian as a second official state language, people in other parts of the country enter paroxysms, etc).

One of the lightning rods of language is the very attractive and charismatic prime minister, who insists on using Stranian at all times. As it is the only state language, this is appropriate for a person of her position. [Disclaimer: she is not loved in my town, and local sentiment may color my statements.] However, it is frequently noted that she has lived her whole life in an industrial city that is predominantly Russophone, and that she speaks Stranian with a significant Russian accent. This has surprisingly not hurt her popularity in more nationalist areas, but my students and colleagues mock her mercilessly for her inability to pronounce unstressed Os (the word for coalition, 'koalitsia,' comes out 'kahlitsia' from her).

Tonight, on a talk show that I have not previously watched, I got to see some "news of the week" clips, including a press conference of hers. An article had appeared in a Russian newspaper with her name on it, and she was asked if she had written it. Seemingly, some viewers were puzzled by her use of the tongue of oppression. She looked confused herself, and answered that she does indeed speak Russian pretty well. I almost fell out of my chair laughing.

Also, a mini-series called "Liquidation" (Ликвидация) currently is being aired over here. It is set in *city-of-Babel* in 1946 and our hero is a military officer serving under Marshal Zhukov, assigned to help eliminate organized crime (as a city that was occupied for several years and had already enjoyed a fairly raffish element, it's a serious problem). The single coolest thing about this show (aside from the sepia-toned cinematography) is the way it actually captures Stranian accents/Stranian Russian. Russian television, and linguistics in general, tend to be prescriptive- people should speak this way for purity and beauty of language. What I really enjoy about this show is the fact that the hero code-switches and really does say all of the slangy/Stranian words that NEVER appear in standard Russian or Stranian television. It makes my heart warm.

In my nearly 2 years here, I have come to love Strana. In the blistering hot summers (sometimes), and the chilling winters, I can see beauty and appreciate tradition and history that is nearly nonexistent in the US. I am comfortable with and fond of the people, in their good moments and bad, and this really does feel like a second home.

This said, I honestly cannot stand the autumn here. Due to my starry-eyes when I first got here, I said Strana was beautiful, but it was really just novelty speaking. I was in awe of Stranian spring-- it begins in late February and continues into May, something we do not have at home in New York-- but to be perfectly honest, I would trade one these springs for a good New England Fall in a heartbeat. At home, fall is brisk, not dank, and the sun doesn't disappear for days on end. Natural light illuminates the changing color of the leaves, which is what brings New Yorkers out in droves to the Hudson Valley (or to Connecticut, both are popular weekend destinations). Fall is probably my favorite season at home. Here, on the other hand, fall is a season of despondency; the aroma of autumn is the smoke of a trashfire. I think the best way to sum up my emotional response to the end of summer is a quotation from "Clouds of Witness" by Dorothy L. Sayers:

“With that instinct which prompts one, when depressed, to wallow in every circumstance of gloom, Peter leaned sadly upon the hurdles and abandoned himself to a variety of shallow considerations upon (1) The vanity of human wishes; (2) Mutability; (3) First love; (4) The decay of idealism; (5) The aftermath of the Great War; (6) Birth-control; and (7) The fallacy of free will. That was his nadir, however.”

So, as I was saying, the weather continues charming.

***

Additionally, the concert on Friday was sweet. Even without Freddie Mercury, due to his unfortunate demise, it was awesome.

My closest Stranian friend is another English teacher, and she told me the cutest story today. She and her 6th grade students were doing an exercise that asks you to correct the mistake and one sentence said "Sara don't like to eat carrots." Apparently, the students all said "It doesn't have an H! It should be 'Sarah don't like to eat carrots!'"

I realize that Peace Corps volunteers are supposed to help people with what they happen to need, but surely this is the second goal? Exposing people in other countries to some aspects of American culture? At any rate, I melted.

About 2 weeks ago, I went to visit Poland. To be honest, I had never been interested in Poland. It was just there, yet another Slavic country, but Catholic and using the Roman alphabet. True, it had a grand history of trade and free cities and the ancestors of all my Jewish friends (only

a slight exaggeration), but I wasn't biting.

Well. I judged too early. Poland is awesome. It's beautiful, the weather is nice (in summer, Strana can be unbearably hot, even if it is north of the Arctic circle), and it's a delightful place. The streetcars in Krakow are more modern than the ones in Prague (about the same as the ones in Vienna), and almost every person I spoke to had excellent English. This includes the ladies who charge you for use of the toilet. It was incredible. I'm not sure whether I want Strana to develop in the same way, or stay itself. Here is why.

What I liked about Poland/Krakow:

Ubiquitous English

Low prices

Service with a smile

Cleanliness of the streets and preservation of the hisorical area

Foreign food!

What I like about Strana:

Lower prices

The absence of loud, drunk, arrogant English-speaking tourists (admittedly, there are loud arrogant businessmen, but few can pay the price of business in my highly corrupt country of service)

***

This Friday, I heard a group of musicians sing local folk songs, which made me a little sad- Russian is enough to get by here, but the best loved folk songs are naturally Stranian, and I do not know them. Here is one, sung by a group I usually do not care for (I think their name, Via Gra, is tacky), but here I think they are adorable. The lyrics are a young man's complaint to his girl about her inconstancy. The verses are like this:

You said on Monday,

We would go pick periwinkle

I came, you didn't

You tricked me, let me down

On Tuesday, we would kiss forty times...

On Wednesday, we would gather the flock...

On Thursday, we would go to a concert...

On Friday, we would pick strawberries...

On Saturday, we would go to work...

On Sunday, we would go to a wedding...

The chorus is:

You tricked me

You let me down

You are driving me, a young man,

Out of my mind.