Just call me Mila.

So, Sunday.

Things are getting cramped. "Things" being healthy egos and strong personalities. We all knew this would happen eventually, but I think it's a bit sooner than most of us had hoped. The fact is, when you pile a bunch of hormonal, self-actualizing artists on top of one another, problems arise. 

So far, there seem to be two ways of dealing with homesickness/stress. One is to be with someone at all times. The other is to be as far away from anyone as often as possible. Ironically, the ones who need people seem to mostly want the company of those of us who've taken to hiding in the bathroom for twenty minutes just so we can read a few chapters in quiet. The boiling point is nearing.

So, Sunday.

We had a rescheduled Cinema History class Sunday (normally, Sundays are free), and since we were out and about, some of us decided to go to Moscow's apparently famous Underground Mall. It's a mall. It's underground. Imagine any mall you've ever been to. Now imagine it underground. Point made, I'm sure. 

My friend and I were really not in the mall-ing mood, so we snuck off after a painfully trendy forty minutes. We had unspecific dreams of visiting a Russian banya (an aggressive blend of steam bath and massage that involves hitting your pamper-partner's back with a bundle of twigs), but first we wanted to check dates for Little Misha's show so that we wouldn't miss it. Shows here may only run twice a month, so you gotta be on your organizational A-game.

During the course of our floundering linguistic foray, a young man who spoke some English came into the ticket booth. He was amused by our terrible Russian and translated for us. We left feeling love for humanity and vowing that if we ever were able to, we would translate the hell out of conversations. About a minute into our walk towards the banya, the boy caught up with us. He said he was going to see a play at eight (it was about five) and had nothing to do until then, so would we like a tour of Moscow? We enthusiastically replied in the affirmative, and our adventure began.

At first we just walked. He said his name was Phil and he was a third year acting student at another training school in Moscow. It was a very Harry Potter moment. For those of you who don't know the reference, Harry is taken aback when he finds out there are other witch/wizard academies. Also, for those of you who don't know the reference, WHO ARE YOU? How are you my friend slash family member if you haven't read Harry Potter enough to get obscure book four references? Do I even know you? My point is, it never occurred to me. Phil also studies jazz and puppetry. 

He knew a lot of trivia about Moscow WHICH I WILL NOW SHARE! SEGUEY!

Stalin was supposed to sign off on a blueprint for an apartment building that was to be built in downtown Moscow. Two blueprints were laid on his desk, and apparently he was in a hurry, because his signature was split between the two. So what did the architects do? Did they ask him which he meant to sign? No. They built half of one and half of the other.

The architects who built St. Basil's were blinded after it's completion.

Around the turn of the century, it was popular for young men to walk up to young women at parks, produce a pistol with one bullet in it, and say, "Kiss me or I'll shoot myself." The women invariably said no, and the men shot. It was a philosophical movement. If the shot didn't kill, the men walked away. Sometimes they died. When I said, "That's completely sick and stupid," Phil responded with, "No. It's poetic and beautiful. It shows that there is no god, only fate." This is a big Russian philosophy; what happens, happens. Nothing to be done, no one to blame. I kind of like it. It helps me justify why the people here are so much quieter than me.

At various points on our walk, Phil would make phone calls. I figured it had something to do with us because I kept hearing the word, "Amerikanskii," but assumed it was something along the lines of, "Sorry, I can't come to lunch with you, I'm hauling these obnoxious Americans around. They thought the changing of the guard was funny. What idiots." Instead, he was finding us tickets for the performance he was going to. 

And that's how Cara and I wound up at a Russian hip-hop opera, or hip-hopera, as one might lovingly call it.

We met up with one of Phil's friends at an unbelievably awesome underground cafe, where I wish I could live, and another at the theater. They were sweethearts. I didn't realize what a novelty we were until after the show when we were all saying goodbye and one of them said, "American girls! The American dream!!!" and insisted that we write our e-mails on his arm (even though we had paper) because that's what Americans do in the movies. 

The show was So. SO. SOOOO. Funny. 

"Cops On Fire," which is what the name translates into, was about a team of four blundering cops trying to catch the mac-daddy of drug-dealing supervillains. A perfect blend of The Sting, Starsky and Hutch, Batman, and Office Space (set to a thumping bass beat and rapped out by short, white guys), "Cops On Fire" took place in a large, American-ish city in the 70's. The lead characters were Yablonsky, Krazowski, what we SWORE was CharlieCop (until we later learned that it was ChernoyCop, which means "black cop..." guess who was the secret bad guy...), and, inexplicably, Pee-Pee. Pee-Pee was a constant source of amusement for Cara and I, for both obvious and acting-related reasons. You know the Mac commericals? If not, you know the adorably nerdy computer guys from Best Buy? That's Pee-Pee. Remember, these guys rapped the whole show. Pee-Pee was the goofy OTHER cop, who hadn't quite graduated to REAL cop status yet. The main theme of the show, which translates to, "Who is it? It is I," sounded like, "Eta kto? Eta YAH. Eta kto? Eta YAH." The characters would pop up with their names during openings and closings of scenes/the play. So we have, "Eta kto? Eta yah. Eta kto? Eta yah. Eta kto? Eta yah. Eta... YABLONSKY! Eta kto? Eta yah. Eta kto? Eta YAH. Eta kto? Eta YAH. Eta PEE PEE," whereupon Cara and I would dissolve into fits of giggles. The show was translated for us by one of the boys, who was kind of shy. His translations only made the show better. After a long, active song and dance number, he would lean over to Cara and say something like, "They said that they are very cool and very dangerous."

On the whole, the show was quite neat. The special effects were comic book-y and inventive. Like, when people got shot, a stage hand in all black would run on and hold an oversized bullet wound, framed in yellow, over the place where the character had been hit. All of the props were oversized and made of cardboard... hairbrushes, coffee mugs, steering wheels. The stage had two giant, octagonal columns on either side that spun, which was effective during car chases and neighborhood raids. The stage hands would spin them to illustrate speed and the passing of time.

After the play, we met Phil's friends from the show, one of whom was American. Everyone was so nice. As he left, one of the boys yelled back, "I'll remember you forever!" We're going to try to see them again next Sunday. Maybe vintage Soviet clothes shopping.

Closing thoughts:

The coat I bought at the Underground Mall looks like fashionable Elmer Fudd. I bought it because we're kindred spirits, me and the coat. We're just farmers pretending to be trendy.

While walking home, Phil somehow got on the topic of American Westerns. He mimed pulling guns out, swaggered a little, and threateningly said, "This city is too small for us two." Guess some things just don't translate...

Pet names are HUGE here. Not like, "pooky" or "baby," but Misha and Masha and Katya for Michael and Maria and Kathryn. According to my new friends, both Amalia and Molly shorten to Mila, which means "cute, nice and adorable." Cara, unfortunately, is a foreign name that doesn't shorten. It means, "attack." I win.

Love you.

Love you, Margie. Happy birthday. If I were there, I'd buy you something that I wanted for myself and eat a lot of your birthday candy, as tradition dictates. So proud to be your annoying little sister. Specifically for you: I have a special relationship with a sign-holder. She passes out fliers outside a high-end clothing store. One day, she (she's pretty old) looked really sad, as though no one had been taking the papers, so I took one, and she smiled soooo big. So now I take one every day and she is weirded out but I love her. I would have texted you this, but... 

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.

News from the Red Planet

This week up and flew by. The weather has slumped into the promised forecast of cold and drizzly, but I don't mind.

Last night, we went to a honey festival. I was picturing a scene out of "Pushing Daisies," with cute little cottages, honey flavored food and bee-themed souvenirs, but instead, the metro deposited us in industrial West Moscow. The festival delivered what it promised; there were about three hundred honey kiosks, but in typical Russian style, things were down to business. The honey ice cream and honey-glazed peanuts were sadly absent. Every booth had a few jars of their best honey available for testing, and you could try as much as you wanted, but you had to try it plain. As appealing as unlimited honey sounds initially, I can assure you that after booth four, it was losing it's charm. There were also honey beverages, ranging from honey vodka to honey beer to something that might have been honey water. I planned on buying a jar of actual honey, but I spent my last eighty rubles on a bottle of mead (which, by the way, will be the name of my first country/russian-folk fusion album). The mead was hands-down the best drink there. If it lasts more than a week, I'll bring some home. It tastes like liquid flowers. The beer tasted like liquid tree bark.

We performed our first scenes in acting class yesterday. 

We have two acting professors, Big Misha and Little Misha. Little Misha is twenty-five and about 6'4". Big Misha is ten inches shorter and forty years older.

Little Misha has done an impressive thing. Within one day of meeting him, five of us fell madly in love and swore that he felt the same. We were picturing our futures with him in Russia: cute little Russian flats and going to the Russian theater in our fuzzy Russian coats, holding mittened hands... and then we found out that four more people felt this way. Our hearts were broken. THEN we found out that our Russian love was already married. For the second time. The following class was icy, to say the least. 

Little Misha is the next big thing in the acting world (he and Patricia Skarbinski). He graduated from MXT at twenty-one (this isn't abnormal, since most incoming first-years are between sixteen and eighteen), but stayed on to get his masters. After THAT graduation, the MXT staff decided to keep him. He has two productions running in Moscow right now, which is truly a feat for someone so young, especially since they've been running for several years. To launch a show as a student director and have it stay afloat is hugely impressive. We may get to see one of them.

Sometimes, when he's giving us examples in class, he acts them out. It's brilliant. 

Big Misha is Russian Dumbledore. He gives me lemon candy and tells us that beauty is all he has left. When he sees me, he sometimes says, "Amaaaalia. My beautiful, my daaaarlink Amaaaalia," so... big points for Big Misha. He is a lovely, sweet child at heart. He's also a sharp acting professor. Big Misha is, of course, a legend, and has changed many acting lives for the better. He loves his students, but isn't afraid to be blunt. I truly respect both of our professors.

We just got back from a four hour bus tour of Moscow. It was supposed to be two hours. The tour guide was a future Rachel Dratch SNL skit. She spoke really slowly and seductively and kept repeating certain Russian buzzwords: "THEES? Is Lyeneens tomb. Eet is NAME? for Lyeneen. ALSO? Lyeneen square. It is NAME? for Lyeneen also." My friend Zack is preparing a skit for when we get home. As soon as we reached the dorms, he grabbed a frying pan (we all swarmed the kitchen because we hadn't expected to be gone very long and were SO HUNGRY when we got back) and goes, "THEES? Ees frying pan. It was MADE? In time of Lyeneen. It is LYENEEN? Frying pan." Other favorite quotes from the tour: "To your left, University of Moscow State. To your right, green plastic toilets. You have five minutes," and, "We come to this memorial to celebrate Day of Victory, Day of Moscow, and Day of Pancakes." Apparently, Day of Pancakes is a big holiday here. How it hasn't caught on in the states, I'll never know.

Favorite Russian wives' tales: 

If someone sneezes after your statement, это правда! It's true!

If you stumble, someone is thinking about you.

Women who sit on cold floors will become barren.

Butter is good for you.

Happy 21st to Brittney Frohn on October 5th! 

I have taken pictures. Hopefully, the next entry will be a visual one. 

Also. Little Misha has a fledgling mullet. My only love sprung from my only hate! 

Love you.

Notes from the Underground

Dear family and friends;

This is in the event of my untimely ...(COUGHCOUGHCOUGH)... excuse me, my untimely demise. I am in the middle of a dangerous love affair with the streets of M...Moscow... just a second... (HAAACKHACKHACK)... As I was saying, Lady Moscow is a cruel mistress. She is enticing and exotic, but she absolutely REFUSES TO JOIN THE TWENTY-FIRST CENTURY IN TERMS OF CIGARETTE CONTROL. MUSCOVITES: THERE ARE LESS OBNOXIOUS ADDICTIONS. I SUGGEST CAFFEINE.

Aside from the barrage of second-hand smoke I inhale daily, I am falling in love with the city. Yesterday, we took the underground to a less populous neighborhood in search of the original MXTters. The cemetery was surreal. The sky was clear and the wind could barely scratch the first autumn leaves along beside us as we walked through the rows; nothing overwhelming, just gentle breaths. 

Some background:

The founders of the Moscow Art Theater were true revolutionaries. Before their technique took to the stage, Russian theater was available in two sizes: big and bigger. It was common practice for a well-known performer to stop a scene, walk towards the house, and bow profusely while the rest of the action onstage froze. Theater was commercial and stagnant, a poisonous drug that the Russian aristocrats swallowed blindly to secure their standing as members of the elite. Konstantin Stanislavski, a handsome young actor born into a wealthy pre-revolutionary Russian family, saw this artistically empty shell as an opportunity. He dedicated his life and fortune to restoring the theater's dignity. He was joined by other well-known visionaries, such as, most importantly, Anton Chekhov, the resident playwright. While Stanislavski was fighting for truth in acting, Chekhov was writing the first honest, slice-of-life plays the stage had ever seen. Their company changed the theater forever. 

In a profoundly beautiful show of devotion to the ensemble and their ideals, the founders of MXT bought themselves a grave plot. Instead of being buried with their ancestors, they were buried together. They were a family and MXT was their posterity. 

So far, we've had every class except stage combat. Russian cinema is taught by a woman that really reminds me of my aunt Gloria. Her specialty is early Russian film, so (as those of you who know my taste already have guessed) I'm in heaven. Here's my favorite so far:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vIC0Sb6pLvI 

Our first week is over. The dust of unpacking is starting to settle and things are finding a rhythm. Soon, this will be life. 

I love the park by our building. I'll take and post pictures when I get the chance.

Closing thoughts:

Roads here are just guidelines. Parking spaces doubly so. The common practice is to drive up on the curb (as far as you need to... some cars only get two wheels up) if street-side parking isn't available. I have nearly been hit several times while walking in the middle of the sidewalk.

When making a purchase, it's impolite to hand the clerk your money. You must set it down on the register or counter. The clerk will then pick it up and replace it with your change.  Otherwise, you're a jerk.

Love you.

Beet juice to go, please.

Ba- BOOSH- ka: A traditional Russian headscarf, typically worn in bad weather.

BAH- bush-ka: A traditional Russian grandmother, typically wearing a headscarf.

We've begun our classes, the other American school has arrived, and I have stopped shouting, "Scarf!" whenever I see a cute old woman. The semester is officially underway.

The past few days have been chilly and drizzly, but I rather enjoy seeing the city dressed up in colorful umbrellas and street lamps. So far. Word in the yard is that this meteorological trend will continue until the rain turns into snow, and our nerves into paste. I must admit, I'm a bit jittery at the idea of endless gray skies. I've always maintained that bleak weather, like Emily Dickinson, is good for the soul, but this beautiful summer has made me a sunshine junkie. 

Our professors are as follows:

Movement:

Known as "Mad Vlad," Vladimir is an eccentric middle-aged Russian man who  has promised to teach us to fly (I believe him). He also tells us, "It is torture, yes? Smile!" I appreciate his honesty. I've had movement teachers who insist that the excruciating pain I'm experiencing should be pleasant and lovely, which makes me question whether or not I'm doing the exercise/stretch correctly. Vlad's class is currently my favorite. I'll let you know when the cool Russian gymnastics begin.

Singing:

Alla has been vocal director for some major commercial musicals in Russia.  Mamma Mia, Cats, the like. She's a strict woman, but very pretty and quite sweet, in her own way. She's teaching us a method of breathing that directly contradicts what I've been learning; I'm going to comply fully so's I can compare results. My first song is, "Smoke Gets In Your Eyes." I'm one of the lucky ones. Many are singing glorified ABBA songs.

Acting: 

Misha, as he is lovingly known by his students, is a smiley little man who has been teaching at MXT for forty years. His famous catch phrases are, "Streeeeetch out. Like a beeeeeeg kyet," and "I keel you! I keel you now! But not really."  I am going to hold off on acting class descriptions for now. There will be plenty later. It's the only class we have six days out of seven.

We will also take fencing, stage combat, Russian language, history of Russian theater, Rooskie cinema history, and scene design, but they'll come later in the week.

Last night, we watched a MXT showcase of the second-year students. It ranged from very intricate clockwork doll imitations (more on this later) to lip-syncing songs from Sister Act in black-face. Yikes, right? We Americans were quite squirmy during that one. On the whole, it was a lot of broad comedy. After two hours, I was finding less and less funny, but the energy was full and honest and the performers committed to their scenes with total abandon. For example, during one of the other racially charged scenes, a skinny blond girl and a skinnier Justin Beiber-haired young man performed what I'm sure was a horribly offensive re-enactment of an Indian snake charmer/street performer, complete with turban. Although it did seem mean-spirited, the two flailed around so wildly and so unattractively that I couldn't help but respect their complete lack of self-consciousness. 

Another cute little girl was a bulldog... you know that sneezing sound bulldogs make when they're excited or eating? Like, "snnnRUFF.. snnnnnnRUFF," if I had to guess phonetically. She had it DOWN. She sidled into the room, black baseball socks on her arms and panty-hose on her head, each leg knotted to look like an ear, and went AT this stick. I think she actually ate some of the bark. The rest she shredded. Then she watched some cars and sat down really heavily, finally falling asleep. It was unbelievable. Another moment that stuck with me was a scene between two muscly teen-aged boys in large, padded coats, portraying sticky-faced toddlers in the snow. I don't think I can explain it too well, but without being cheesy or fake, they depicted believable and adorable babies.

The pièce de résistance, in my opinion, came in the form of a German cuckoo clock (or maybe some sort of music box. Not sure what the assignment was). It was so poignant that it deserves a tense change, from past to present. That's how it's replaying in my mind anyway. 

It starts with a picture frame, created by the strategic arrangement of two pieces of black plywood and two wide strips of light blue cloth around a young Russian woman and man. The underscoring is simple and childish, like a wind-up toy. The two move with incredible precision. Their faces remain totally blank, eyes glazed, limbs and head jerky, undeniably mechanical. They hug (or bump torsos and arms) and the young man produces a flower that he thrusts at the girl, who smashes it into her face. The two sink beneath the blue sheet. The lights go out. A second later, the lights come back up on the same two. The woman is pregnant, the man in uniform. They kiss, he lowers his head to her stomach, they hug, she waves, then they sink again. After every segment of their lives, they roughly face the audience for a brief second before disappearing. Lights out, lights up on the woman, not so young anymore, with a black scarf around her head and a baby in her arms. She heaves the baby back and forth, then turns, as she had before, to where the man would have been. She wrenches herself back to us and sinks down. Lights out, up on the woman, old now, and a young man in uniform. The woman's face is completely blank, but her eyes are a little wider and tears are streaming down her cheeks. She hugs the young boy, kisses him, hugs him again, and raises her hands to her unchanging mouth in unmistakable horror. They turn out to the audience. Lights out for good this time.

The girl in this scene was used in many of the etudes (etude means "study" in French or something. We use it in class to describe the work we do that isn't scripted or organized). She is probably the most talented actor I've ever seen. 

This was long, huh.

Some Russian girls wear their hair in a bun on the top of their head. It's called a top-knot. It's not okay. They also (and this is both genders) wear some kind of legging/hammer-pants/diaper hybrid with a really low crotch and baggy thighs, but incredibly tight calves. Even less okay.

But red lipstick is in.

Love you.

THE SPARROW HAS LANDED. REPEAT.

Здравствуыте. я в Москва.

Oh, what? You can't read that? I'm sorry, I guess I was just so steeped in Russian culture that I forgot to translate. It says, "Hello. I am in Moscow."

Moscow is one of the most beautiful places I've ever been. It's a huge city, but quieter (in decibels, not lifestyles) than Springfield. No one here shouts. Everyone here smokes. People are like human art; their faces catch you off-guard. I think it's the bone structure... high cheekbones, huge, wide-set eyes, full jaws and lips... men and women alike. And their legs! Dios mio! Men wear their clothing fitted and women are, as my friend Zack says, "sexy, but not slutty." In other words, they don't cry for attention with heavy make-up or low-cut blouses. This is a city of handsome, classy dressers.

We've had two days of sunshine, the air is crisp, and the leaves are starting to turn. Last night, we went on what our professor refers to as "The Death March," which is the annual tour-de-Moskva our students take directly after dropping off bags, intended to counteract jet lag. We saw the main streets of the city, some key buildings, the Moscow Art Theatre from the outside (where we'll be studying), and Red Square. If you haven't been to Russia in your life, Red Square alone is reason to go. It's a ginger bread city. It's a fairytale. I cried. I stared at St. Basil's Cathedral and tried to convince myself that it was really there, that I was REALLY looking at it, but I just couldn't. We were all in awe. We kept saying, "People MADE this. People BUILT this." 

We also went to the grave of the unknown soldier, but missed the changing of the guard. Another time.

Our dorms are lovely. Today, we went to MXT (Moscow Art Theatre) and met a few professors. Tomorrow, we begin in earnest with 11:00 a.m. movement. People are actually frightened for movement class. It's got that strong of a rep. 

I'll leave you with a list of things (good and upsetting) that seem to be popular here:

Trench coats, cinched at waist, with slightly-above-knee length skirts

Bangs

Skinny jeans, high heels/heeled boots (same as America on that one)

Mullets- The MC, or Mullet Count, is at about 25. Day two, I remind you. 

And, of course, the ever popular fur vest. Real fur. Possibly a fox.

I am truly overflowing. The city is wonderful. Regardless of how the rest of my time here pans out, the emotions and images of today and yesterday have made this beyond worthwhile.

Love you.

I'm not in Russia, but I wanted you all to know...

...that I'll be arriving at the airport via stretch limo. NOT A JOKE. Through an awesome series of miscommunications, our nasty school van was not booked. Which means LIMO.

What a send-off, America. We'll send you a postcard.