My new friend SAAAASHA!

Everyone is sick except for me and my roommate. 

Anna (roommate) and I started a game called Buddy Points in O'Hare and the fact that neither of us is sick means that we're awarded ten points each. 
You see, the world-famous buddy system was enforced by our professor (who, incidentally, is Anna's old man) to keep us in check during the behemoth of a flight over here. Anna and I quickly found ourselves docking and awarding points for good buddy behavior. Buddy Points is a very basic concept. We feel that we didn't even invent Buddy Points; Buddy Points was bestowed unto us. We are keepers of the sacred points, and we must grant them carefully. It's total coincidence that Anna and I are complete champions. As one might expect, our domination is a conflict of interest. We kept BP under wraps for as long as possible to avoid the inevitable jealousy our group-mates would feel when they realized they could never win, but people caught on surprisingly quickly. 
All joking aside, I assumed that the class would be mildly irritated but basically unfazed by our strange numerical outbursts. I was completely wrong. Buddy Points is a hugely inflammatory game that has spurred some fights. Two teams got downright mad when they were informed of their disqualification due to buddy abandonment. Another keeps trying to take points away from our team for insignificant reasons, which means that they get points docked themselves. There have been actual verbal arguments about this, mean-spirited ones that have ended in bruised egos. I just sit back and giggle while this happens. Occasionally, I'll make a mental note to add a point or two for wit.

I've seen two shows here. 
First was Little Misha's, and (unbiased) it was maybe the most interesting and impressive piece of theater I've ever seen. He mixed the five labors of Hercules with Soviet-era poetry, a fact that completely escaped me at the time, since I was pretty sure Don Quixote was involved. The cast was comprised of five tall, muscular, and frequently shirtless men, all of whom had attended MXT. The set was genius. The stage was lit with simple, warm light and scattered candles. It was crowded with antique colors, musty books, a fantastic black steel ladder that was creatively multi-functional, and a whole cast of fascinating forgotten objects, such as typewriters, canvas suitcases, and busted-up boom boxes. In the center of the stage, someone had constructed what I can only think to call an invention. The whole effect was one of pulsing reverence... a holy, bohemian smorgasboard. The story is difficult for me to retell, but the transitions between the stories were enthralling. Each of the five guys took a turn being the hero, and while he was leading, the other four were constantly moulding his surroundings. They seemed to be moving freely and spontaneously around the space, but then you'd realize that all four of them were in chairs and moving their legs in a very precise rhythm, or that they had somehow created what I now recognize to be a many-headed hydra. They had an almost tangible connection and washed the audience in their energy and passion. Several of my classmates and I want to go back, so if anyone wants a more detailed description, let me know. There's so much more to say. 

The ending was one of the most powerful parts. The five walked behind the beige drop curtain that was serving as the back wall, and the lights dimmed. Then, a ghost light (ghost lights are the metal poles with a single light bulb on top that are usually left on when a theater is empty. They always give me chills) came on behind the curtain, illuminating five shadow figures sitting in a semi-circle, still telling stories. The light panned around the little group, distorting and stretching their bodies on the cloth. Misha later told us that this represented the words of the poets, lying in waiting until someone finally understood them again.

The second was King Lear, and a complete contrast. While Misha's was produced in a small, independent theater, Lear was at Satiricon, one of the biggest and most famous stages in all of Moscow. If Misha's was meaningful and heartfelt, this was the opposite. The actors were tired, the show was pointlessly grotesque and showy, and the Lear was sixty and incredibly agile. His name is Reiken and he's supposed to be the best actor in the country. I personally was not blown away by him, but Russian standards seem to differ from my own, and he was COMPLETELY MISCAST. The show was very pretty to look at, but it's gratuitous use of unnecessary performance art (Edward bathing in glue and rolling on paper, Lear doing a shoulder stand during the storm monologue, the apparent sodomizing of Glouster as his eyes are gouged out) really ruined it for me.

Today, the other girls and I are going on our first solo exploration. We want to go to the Pushkin Art Museum and a beautiful monastery, which most of us have already seen because LITTLE MISHA TOOK US ON A FIELD TRIP. We're going to spend our semester working on Chekhov's Three Sisters in acting class, and since the three girls lived part of their lives in Moscow, Misha took us around to see the streets they would have walked and some old houses and estates that they might have lived in. He also showed us his favorite parks and churches for when we get too overwhelmed.  

I apologize. I'm sorry that I'm using this post to gush about how cool my cute Russian acting teacher is, but you're all going to have to deal with it.

The African-American kids here are a novelty. Today, I went to an open air market with a girl named Jackie and people wanted their picture taken with her. It was actually kind of scary. She didn't know how to feel, because no one was being mean, but they were still treating her like "the other," some weird animal from another planet. 

Also, recently heard a Frenchman's imitation of a fat American woman. I was grabbing a Russian/English phrasebook from our communal bookshelf and our darling Anton, first year MXAT student and toast of the fifth floor, yanked it out of my hands and started reading in a terribly loud, high-pitched squeak. "Leahn Russian! Leahn haw to say hyello, gootbye, and MACH MACH MAARE!" He flipped the book open and launched into an energetic reading that lasted for fifteen minutes. I was crying with laughter. He was so loud that several people down the hall popped their heads out to listen. My friend Zack yelled, "Have him read Ivanov!" And Anton yelled back, "I don WANNA read Ivanov! I wanna talk to my new friend SASHA!" Which was, for some reason, incredibly funny and is now a class motto. 

In cyrillic, the word for "restaurant" looks like "pectopah" and the word for "bar" looks like "bap." So we've been looking for a good pectopah-bap. Also, Hannah Montana looks like Xahha Mohtaha. A waaaaay better stage name, if you ask me. Other favorites include Gary Potter, Spanch Bohb, and Weenie Pooh.

Love you.